7. Winter
WINTER
T ristan holds out the helmet he bought for me the day he bought his Ducati.
It’s black with ballerina pink accents, and I love that he found the perfect one for me.
His big hands are steady even though I can see the tightness in his jaw.
I step closer, and suddenly it’s just us.
His fingers brush my throat as he fastens the strap, and the small click of the buckle makes my pulse spike like it’s something far more intimate.
His knuckles graze the sensitive skin just under my jaw, and I have to fight not to shiver.
Tristan’s big eyes lock onto mine. They feel like they’re burning into my skin.
It’s too much, too intense. I second-guess every look he gives me because of what happened between us.
Because sometimes I think he wants to pull me into his chest and never let me go, and sometimes I think he’s drowning in guilt and would be better off if he could forget me altogether.
He clears his throat. The sound is rough and kind of awkward, like it grates coming out of him. “You, uh, don’t want to ride with the girls in Hayden’s SUV, do you?” he asks me suddenly.
My chest tightens at how carefully he asks it, like he’s bracing for me to choose anyone but him.
My sweet, sad boy.
“I’d rather ride with you,” I blurt, no hesitation. Because with Tristan there never is any. I’d follow him anywhere, do anything just to be with him.
For a single second, his eyes widen, surprise cracking through his features. Then it’s gone, softened into something I can’t name but feel in every nerve ending. He looks at me now tenderly, almost reverently.
One thing is for certain. He’s never looked at anyone else that way. I know it. I feel it in my bones.
The silence between us stretches. The vibe between us is charged with downright electricity. In this moment, I decide to be braver than I’ve ever been in my life. “If given the chance,” I whisper, “I’d always choose to go with you.”
He exhales, almost a groan, like my words hit him hard.
His hand comes up, cupping the back of my head, fingers sliding over my braid.
The slow, careful stroke is too much, too intimate.
My heart hammers so hard that I feel it thundering in my ears.
I’m sure Tristan can feel it through the thin space between us, and I don’t care. I want him too.
For one terrifying, perfect moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to this magnetic pull between us.
Then the front door of our house bursts open behind me.
Hayden’s voice ricochets across the porch, and I feel like asking him if he could possibly be more obnoxious.
The answer is yes, so I don’t bother. Callum pushes him as they head toward Hayden’s SUV, and if Madi didn’t slide up and slip her hand into Hayden’s I’m fairly certain there would have been a tussle.
The spell is broken between Tristan and me, so I step back.
Tristan swings onto the bike first, broad shoulders hunched as he grips the bars.
When I climb on behind him, his hand finds my leg, cupping just above my knee.
The squeeze is firm, a signal that we’re about to move.
He could just tell me through the mic in our helmets, but he doesn’t.
He never does. Tristan always prefers touch to words, and I love that about him.
I lean forward, wrapping my arms around his torso, my palms flattening over the hard ridges of his stomach.
I give him a small pat to let him know I’m ready.
Heat radiates through my hands, and his muscles are so defined that I can feel every ridge through his sweatshirt.
I think in this moment as I press my cheek against his back, that he feels like the home I always wished for.
The engine roars and the vibration runs up my spine in the most delicious way.
Tristan twists the throttle as we take off and I catch sight of Callum jumping back at the sudden burst of sound, almost dropping Lilac’s bag as she climbs into the SUV.
I can’t hear what he’s yelling, but I see it.
His mouth working in curses, his arms flailing dramatically.
Hayden bends over with laughter, Madi swats at him with both hands, and Lilac shakes her head like she’s contemplating getting a new fiancee and a new friend group.
It plays out like a silent show, exaggerated and cartoonish, and I can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out of me.
Tristan takes a hand off the bike once we’re out on the main road and covers mine rested against his stomach.
Before I realize what he’s doing, he’s tucking my hands under his hoodie so my palms lay flat against his bare skin.
He’s so fucking warm.
I breathe deep, letting the spicy, masculine scent that clings to Tristan fill my lungs.
He’s the only boy I’ve ever loved, even if I’ve never dared put the words to it.
And now he’s not a boy anymore. He’s a man.
One I trust with everything I have. I don’t even flinch when he takes off fast, when the bike tilts into a turn, when the speed climbs.
My body just moves with his, natural and easy, like we were made to fit together in every way possible.
It isn’t long before the carnival glows ahead of us.
I’m sad that the ride is short, but excitement zips through me when I see the bright lights, hear the bursts of loud music, and smell the fried food and sugar.
We have to park in a section that’s designated for bikes.
As we walk up to the entrance to show our school identification cards, I can already tell that the night is going to be loud, chaotic, and crowded.
Tristan’s hand clamps around my wrist the second we step through the gates.
His navy sweatshirt hood is up, his shoulders seem tight again, and his green eyes flick over the crowd.
“Stay close to me,” he mutters, and I feel bad that we came here.
He doesn’t like crowds, and to be honest, never do I.
I hear a female voice say not so quietly, “That’s the Castlebrook goalie and his little rag doll.
” It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. In fact, I hear it quite often whether I’m meant to or not.
They say it like it’s pathetic. Like I should be embarrassed.
The truth? I like it. I like the way he leads me through chaos, claiming space that would otherwise make me feel like I was going to be swallowed whole.
I realize that Tristan heard it too, because he jerks to a stop, and he’s looking around for the culprit. I rub my hand over his forearm to get his attention until he glowers down at me.
“It’s not the insult they think it is,” I tell him.
“Don’t let some prissy bitch ruin our night.
” He smiles at my choice of words, just like I knew he would.
We’re walking again, and I turn my head and look straight at the two girls I know said it.
Well, one of them did, and the other laughed.
I flip them off and smile prettily before leaning my head against Tristan’s arm.
He’s so damn tall, I can’t rest my head on his shoulder.
“I don’t like them talking about you at all.
For any reason,” he finally says, but he’s looking around, scanning the area.
I know what Tristan is thinking, and I won’t pretend it’s not on my mind sometimes too.
Especially when we were dealing with Madi and Lilac’s stalkers.
In the back of my mind, every single note made me wonder if it was the lunatic who wanted me.
That the man who got away the night of the carjacking could still come back for me.
I know it bothers him that he hasn’t found him yet, and most of all that he hasn’t eliminated the threat.
I definitely understand why Tristan keeps me so close. Why he refuses to let go.
With the arm Tristan isn’t holding, I pull out my phone and text Madi because I realize that we’re just walking and have no idea where to meet everyone. Since the bikes had to park in a different lot, I have no clue which entrance they came in.
A second later, my phone buzzes. I open it expecting a location, but instead it’s a broody selfie of Hayden standing in front of a ride, arms crossed like he owns the place. I can practically hear him muttering: Don’t text my girl. Half serious, half joking. So Hayden.
Tristan glances down at the screen, then rolls his eyes, muttering something about Hayden being insufferable.
The carnival is definitely the spectacle we thought it would be.
Bright lights are strung high and literally all over the place.
The Ferris wheel is turning slow in the distance, and music is clashing from every corner.
Vendors shout over one another, and there are college kids with painted faces.
A group of girls painted like tigers pass us and Tristan frowns.
“If Callum gets that shit all over the house, I’m going to need an alibi,” Tristan says dryly.
I hold my pinky up to him, offering him a promise to be his alibi, and it makes him smile.
Performers in glittering costumes float through the crowd along with clowns who have painted on their grins.
Some are women dressed like fairies with shimmering wings, and there are some men in princely capes.
The ribbon dancers with long pieces of silk whipping and curling through the air, catching the lights are my favorite.
Their pointed feet, arched backs, their bodies bending with the fabric.
I stop walking just to watch because they’re so ethereal.
Tristan’s palm slides up to the back of my head, thumb brushing the nape of my neck. He isn’t even watching the dancers. His eyes are on me, his mouth curved in the smallest, softest smile. It makes my chest ache. Sometimes, I swear he wants to kiss me and now is one of those times.
“Winter?”