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“I was going to ride,” I say. Then, after a pause, “Thought you might want to come.”
Her brow arches. “Ride what, exactly?”
I blink. “A bike.”
She sips her drink. Snorts. “You want me to sit on the handlebars like we’re in some tragic coming-of-age film?”
There’s a smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth, and I hate that it does something to me. Something reckless. Something warm.
I shake my head. “Not that kind of bike.”
“Oh,” she says, dragging the word like a knife across silk. “You mean the illegal, unsafe kind that screams midlife crisis?”
I grin despite myself. “I didn’t realize you cared so much about my safety.”
“I don’t,” she says, tilting her head. “But if you crash, someone’s going to have to deal with the fallout. And that someone’s probably me.”
I step closer. Close enough that I can smell whatever she’s drinking—dark, bitter. Not tea. Not comfort. Something to keep her awake, maybe. Like she’s afraid to rest.
“Come with me,” I say.
No Golden Tongue. No power behind it. Just… me.
She studies me. Not like she’s considering the invitation. Like she’s trying to decide what kind of damage it would do to say yes.
“I don’t want to talk,” she says finally.
“Good,” I say. “I don’t want to listen.”
She sets the mug down beside her. Hops off the wall. Lands like she’s been training for war her entire life.
Maybe she has.
“You’re paying if I die,” she mutters.
I grin. “Deal.”
She steps into pace beside me.
“Where are we going?” she asks, that low drawl of suspicion already coiling beneath her words.
I don’t stop walking. “Town.”
She halts. Just for a second. Her boots scrape against the cracked stone like she’s debating whether to follow or hex me into next week. Then she sees the bike.
A slow, reluctant smile twitches at her mouth, but it’s her eyes that betray her. They light, faint but unmistakable, like she wasn’t expectingthis. Like I’ve surprised her. Again.
She bites her lip.
Not in the flirtatious way. In thethoughtfulway. Calculating. As if she’s measuring the risk of getting on a machine I rebuilt with my own hands against the kind of damage I’ve already done to her heart.
I grab the spare helmet off the handlebar. The one withglitter.Iridescent pink flecks scattered across matte finish like a child decorated it after a sugar binge.
“Silas’s,” I explain flatly, holding it out.
She snorts, not even pretending to hide it this time. “Of course it is.”
“He claims it was cursed to sparkle,” I say. “I think he just liked the shine.”