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“Take me for a ride,” she says, tilting her head like she doesn’t already have her hands wrapped around every part of me that matters. And I laugh, because it’s easier than letting her see how tightly my fists curl around the marker I haven’t put down yet.

She’s not teasing—not the way I expect. No sultry glance, no baited breath. Just that damn smile that says she knows I’ll say yes. Because I always fucking do.

“You really want to climb on while he’s still sporting that?” I nod toward the veiny masterpiece proudly inked across the tank of my bike.

She barely glances at it. “I’ve ridden worse things,” she deadpans, voice dry, eyes shining.

My breath catches in my throat. Not because of the innuendo—but because she says it so dryly, so unapologetically, that it knocks the ground loose beneath me. Luna doesn’t flirt. She dares. She steps into your space and claims it like it was always hers. And the worst part is? I let her.

“You scratch the paint,” I murmur, stepping toward her, “and I’m charging you interest.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You say that like I haven’t already.”

And I really should walk away. I should tell her no. Remind her what I am—what this bond between usisn’t.But my hand’s already reaching for the helmet. I don’t hand it to her. I hold it out, just to watch her take it. Just to feel her fingers brush mine when she does.

When she swings her leg over behind me, she doesn’t cling. She settles in like she’s done this before—and she has. Like she knows exactly where to place her hands—low on my hips, where sheknowsI’ll feel it.

She leans in, breath against my ear, casual and warm. “You’re not going to pretend to be all stoic and mysterious while I’m back here, are you?”

I smirk, flipping the visor down. “Only if you pretend you’re not already thinking about what happens when we get back.”

“I’malwaysthinking about what happens when we get back,” she murmurs.

The engine roars to life between us.

And for a moment, I let her believe she’s the one in control. Let her think she’s the one deciding where we go. But the truth is, I’ll take her anywhere she asks—so long as I’m the one she comes home to.

I kill the engine and let the quiet settle around us. The poppies sway, heavy-headed and vibrant beneath the pale kiss of early twilight, and the willow—old and bent like it’s bowing to some forgotten god—sighs above us in a hush of rustling leaves.

She swings off the bike, boots crunching against the gravel path that ribbons toward the tree line. Her head tilts back, gaze trailing up the curtain of green that hangs like a veil from the willow’s limbs.

“I didn’t know this was here,” she says. Her voice is soft. Not reverent. Just… surprised. Like something about this place shifts a piece inside her she didn’t know could move.

I arch a brow. “Silas didn’t drag you out here to smoke mushrooms and skinny-dip in the pond?”

She snorts. “No. But now I’m going to ask him why the hell he didn’t.”

I step off the bike, slow, deliberate. “Because this is mine.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Her eyes meet mine, and she doesn’t smile, doesn’t quip back. Just watches me like she’s measuring how much of that I mean.

All of it. Every word.

The breeze lifts her hair, pulling it across her cheek like it’s caressing her on my behalf. She tucks it behind her ear absently and walks toward the tree, fingers grazing the low, moss-rough trunk as she circles it. She doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t tease. She’s not trying to provoke. And maybe that’s why my blood’s already starting to heat—because she’s not trying, and it’s still happening. That slow descent. That pull I can’t fucking shake.

“You bring your girls here?” she asks without looking at me.

“No.” I shove my hands in my pockets, watch her trace the wide roots with her boot. “They wouldn’t know what to do with this much quiet.”

Her lips curve, the barest smirk. “So you brought me.”

I shrug. “You make noise without talking. Figured it’d balance out.”

She laughs at that, the sound low and real, like it punches through something inside her chest before she can stop it. It’s not sweet. It’s not cute. It’s fucking dangerous—because I want to crawl inside that sound and make her do it again. Louder. Breathless. With her back pressed to bark and my hand between her thighs.

And I can have her. That’s the deal. It’s not just want. It’s permission. She gave it to me, mouth to mine, in sweat and moans and a promise that she wouldn’t run from this. Not from me. But I don’t move. Not yet.

Instead, I say, “This is where I go when I need to remember who I am.”