39. Secret Place
Secret Place
I’ve changed my outfit at least twenty times. Jeans, jacket, another jacket, sneakers, boots, back to sneakers. Lipstick, wipe, lip tint, wipe, lip gloss, finally I give up and go with the gloss. Casual, non-threatening, and still technically effort.
Rafe texted earlier: be ready around three. something to hike in.
Obelus inviting me hiking sounds like the setup to a joke I don’t know the punchline to.
I glance in the mirror one last time. Ripped jeans, old band tee, hair loose.
I hold up my ancient Riven Altar shirt and grin at the thought of him showing up with me in it.
Then I roll my eyes and toss it back in the drawer.
He doesn’t need his ego fed, and after what Haima said, the less I lean into that idea, the better.
I’m mid–pep talk when I hear it: the low, hungry growl of an engine pulling into the driveway.
Oh, no way.
I peek through the blinds. A motorcycle? Of course. He pulls in with maddening smoothness, movements practiced and certain. Helmet black, gloves to match, but no jacket, just a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
My eyes trace the way his forearms flex as he steadies the bike, veins rising with the motion.
There’s ink there on both, a dark forest, thin lines of Greek script, lyrics of his favorite songs curling over the muscle.
Things I used to die over in private, and now he’s here, showing them off at my front door.
Dignity. Remember dignity.
He kills the engine and glances up, catching me watching him.
He takes his helmet off and shakes away the few errant strands of hair that escaped his half-knot.
The motion catches the light, easy, careless, like he knows exactly what it does to people watching.
When he smiles, it’s bright enough to knock the air out of my lungs.
By the time I open the door, I’ve forgotten how to be a functioning human being, much less a retinal surgeon.
“Not what you were expecting?” he asks, grin tilting, voice threaded with amusement.
“Not exactly.” I manage to find my voice. “I was picturing a five-star restaurant and one of those cars that screams midlife crisis, but in Italian.”
“Oh, so you expected me to be a walking cliche? You wound me.” He adds a faux British accent to you wound me and it’s perfectly executed.
He laughs, low and unbothered, the sound warm against the daylight.
Swinging off the bike, he sets his helmet on the seat, then unhooks his backpack and pulls out a smaller helmet and a pair of gloves.
He steps close enough that I can see the faint crease of a dimple when he smiles again.
“These should fit,” he says, holding it out, fingers brushing mine as I take it. “If not, we can go swap at the shop on the way.”
I take them, pretending I’m not aware this probably costs more than my life is worth. “Flowers? You shouldn’t have.” I pause, teasing. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
I pull the gloves on easily enough but when I try to put on the helmet I fail spectacularly. He laughs, a chest-deep sound that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Here, let me help. It’s tricky the first time.”
He steps close, grabbing his glove off by his teeth so he can help get a better grip on my strap, the warmth of him cutting through the breeze as his fingers settle along my jaw, guiding the helmet down.
The brush of his knuckles beneath my chin feels like a live wire; I can smell that same clean, salt-air scent that follows him.
The one I got used to in Miami. Something oceanic, threaded with citrus and rain, the kind of cologne that feels like standing too close to the tide. My breath trips over itself.
“Relax,” he murmurs, tightening the buckle beneath my chin. “I don’t bite without permission.”
“Good,” I manage. “Because I bruise easily.”
“There.” He smooths the strap along my jaw, checking for wrinkles or loose space before letting me go. “Helmets have built-in comms.” He taps the side of mine. “We’ll be able to talk while we ride.”
Then he crouches by the bike, strapping the backpack onto the rear frame. Tight straps, efficient. There’s something about the easy way he moves that tells me he’s done this a hundred times.
I swallow. You have a medical degree. Behave like you possess a brain cell.
“Is that for musician emergencies?” I ask. “Extra picks, spare eyeliner?”
“Snacks,” he says. “To hide the ropes. So no one suspects kidnapping.”
I blink. “You practice that line, or just workshop it on your victims?”
He glances up, deadpan. “Depends how cooperative they are.” He almost keeps a straight face until the corner of his mouth betrays him.
He cracks first, and I follow. The laughter hangs between us, then he pats the back seat.
“Right, on you go.” I hesitate for half a second before climbing on.
The seat’s higher than I expected and he makes sure my feet are in the right spot before he settles back onto the bike.
“Keep your head back when we're coming to a stop so our helmets don't slam into each other.
When we're about to take off from a stop, I'll tap your leg to make sure you're holding on.” He demonstrates it and I raise an eyebrow but it doesn't deter him, “Oh, and make sure you lean into it when we turn or hit curves. Got it?” I nod.
My hands find him clumsily. He glances back, voice low through the mic.
“You’ll want to hold me here.” He takes my hands, settling them lower around his waist. “Tighter—unless you trust Seattle traffic not to try to kill us.”
“Oh, I definitely don’t.”
“Good girl. You're my backpack now, so do your best impression of one.” He winks at me and I give him a flat look. I refuse to let him know how much all of this is getting to me. As he planned, I'm sure. The engine jolts to life again, vibration running up through my thighs and into my chest.
“Convenient,” I say, “how you picked a mode of transportation that requires a tutorial on how to hold you.”
“Very.” His grin comes through the comm like static wrapped in honey. “I’m taking you to a place I go when I need to remember who I am,” he says. “You’re the first guest of honor.”
“Should I be concerned? You can blindfold me if it’s top secret.”
He looks over his shoulder, eyes glinting before he drags my visor shut with his finger, then flips his own down with a quick motion. “That’s for later.”
I laugh, but when the bike surges forward and my body presses fully against his back, the joke dies somewhere in my throat.
His warmth seeps through the thin cotton of his shirt, my palms against hard muscle, the faint give of breath beneath my hands.
The city falls away behind us, just wind, motion, and the steady rhythm of him against me.
The bike moves like it’s alive. Every curve, every shift, I can feel through him, the lean of his shoulders, the way his core tightens when he changes lanes, the subtle pull of breath that syncs with the rhythm of the road.
At first, I’m stiff, too aware of where to put my hands, how close is too close.
Then the first stretch of highway opens up, the wind slides beneath my shirt, and instinct takes over.
I melt into him, my chest against his back, fingers slipping beneath the edge of his shirt where it’s ridden up.
Even through the gloves I feel the warm skin.
Steady heat. My heart forgets its usual tempo and takes on his instead.
“Still doing okay back there?” His voice filters through the comm, low and amused.
“Define okay,” I say.
He laughs softly. “You’re not screaming. That’s a good sign.”
“Yet,” I add, and he chuckles again before the engine swells beneath us, quickening.
The city blurs into a smear of color and glass behind us.
Seattle fades to treeline, then open sky.
The air changes, cooler and cleaner, threaded with pine and rain.
I close my eyes for a moment just to feel it.
The wind stings, but it’s the good kind, the kind that makes you feel present.
Every once in a while he glances back, just enough to check on me, and every time he does, I feel that look like a pulse low in my chest.
We take a winding road upward, the asphalt narrowing, trees thickening around us.
Moss-covered branches stretch overhead like an archway.
The sound of the engine echoes through the forest, then fades as we roll to a stop near a break in the trees.
He kills the ignition. Silence floods in, full of birds and distant water.
I take off the helmet and gloves and shake my hair loose. My hands are still buzzing.
He climbs off and pulls his own helmet free. For a second, he just looks at me, sporting a half grin and smug satisfaction. “So,” I say. “This is your secret place?”
“Part of it,” he says, nodding toward the trail ahead. “There’s a view you should see. About a ten-minute walk.”
“Let me guess—no cell service, no paparazzi, no witnesses to kidnapping?”
He smirks. “Got it.”
He offers his hand, and I take it. His palm is warm, solid. The path is narrow, damp with fallen needles. Every few steps our shoulders brush, and neither of us moves away. There’s no rush, just the steady sound of our footsteps and the wind moving through the trees.
When the forest finally opens up, I stop short.
Ahead, the cliff drops to a wide stretch of water, the surface glassy and silver beneath the afternoon sun.
Light scatters across it in bright shards, so vivid it almost hurts to look.
The city’s nowhere in sight. It feels like we’ve stepped outside the world.
He stands beside me. “Better than a five-star restaurant?” he asks, though it’s more a statement than a question.
I can’t argue. I just watch the sunlight shift on the water, the wind tug at his hair. “Okay,” I admit softly. “You win this round.”