Chapter 4
FOUR
TAEGEN
The cable hums under our boots, a silver thread stretching out above the pumpkin fields like something out of a dream.
“Ready?” Dylan asks, voice low enough that I feel it more than hear it. He’s already clipped our harnesses, double-checked every buckle, tested every knot. I swear he checked mine twice.
“Define ready,” I say.
“Willing to scream in public.”
“Then yes,” I tell him, and he grins—that slow, sideways grin I’d forgotten could exist outside teenage memory.
“On three,” he says. “One, two—”
He sets me sailing.
The world drops away.
Wind rips the breath from my lungs, cold and bright and alive. The line sings. The pumpkins below blur into an orange river. For a heartbeat we’re flying side by side, the valley wide open beneath us.
Dylan’s whoop joins mine, deeper, rougher, pure joy.
When we hit the brake pad at the bottom, the jolt throws me forward into him. He catches me easily, solid arms, scent of sawdust and soap. My pulse is still screaming in my ears.
“Exhilarating, right?” he says.
“That word hardly covers it,” I say.
He unclips us and holds me steady. His touch sends another thrill through me.
Without thinking, without planning—I reach up and kiss him.
It’s supposed to be a thank-you, light and quick. It’s not.
The second our mouths touch, the world stills. He tastes like cold air and adrenaline. His hands slide around my waist, steadying, maybe pulling me closer. I can’t tell where one ends and the other starts.
Everything that was spinning a moment ago settles into one perfect, reckless point.
Then he freezes. The hand on my waist goes still. He steps back.
“We shouldn’t do that,” he says, voice rough.
I blink, breathless. “Right. Totally. Unprofessional.”
“Yeah.” His jaw flexes. “You’re writing a story. I’m a source.”
“Exactly.” My mouth is still tingling. “Strictly journalism.”
We stand there in the echo of it—awkward, electric, both pretending to be fine.
He clears his throat and points toward the trail. “This way back’s shorter.”
The path winds through the trees, gold and green and shadow.
Needles cushion our steps. The air smells like pine and damp earth. It’s quieter here, easier to forget the hum of the highway or the noise of the patch below.
“It’s still beautiful,” I say.
He glances over, the edge of a smile tugging. “You used to call it the Enchanted Forest.”
I stop walking. “I still can’t believe you remember that.”
He nods. “You made me guard the entrance with a broom handle because you said dragons respected conviction.”
A laugh slips out before I can help it. “I was very serious about world-building.”
“I remember.” His eyes soften, the weight of years tucked behind them. “You named every tree. Said the big spruce was the king, the birch by the creek was a sorcerer who could turn leaves into coins.”
“You remember all that?”
“I remember everything.” He kicks at a pinecone, quieter. “You were the first person who made this place feel bigger than chores.”
The words catch somewhere deep. I want to ask him what happened between that boy and this man who builds ziplines and walls around his heart, but I don’t. The forest is doing that thing where silence feels sacred.
“It’s still magical,” I say finally.
“It really is.” He nods, but his gaze is distant. “I guess I got so busy with the day to day, I forgot to look for the magic around.”
By the time we break from the trees, the sun’s tilting west. The patch glows bronze; laughter floats from the hayride loading zone. Dylan falls back into guide mode—polite, professional, distant—and I fall into note-taking mode because it’s safer than wondering what that kiss meant.
“Thanks for the tour,” I tell him as we reach the parking. “I got plenty of great material.”
“Glad to hear it.” He wipes a hand on his jeans, gaze fixed on the horizon. “When’s it running?”
“A week or two.” I pause. “I’ll probably need a few more details. Photos, maybe.”
“Come back whenever,” he says, still not meeting my eyes. “I’ll make sure someone’s around.”
“Someone,” I echo, smiling too brightly. “Got it.”
He nods once, all business again, and steps back as I climb into my car. Pumpkin trots up with a stick. I toss it, and the dog bounds away. Dylan watches, arms folded, unreadable.
I start the engine, roll down the window. “Thanks again, Dylan.”
He lifts a hand. “Good to see you, Taegen.”
The gravel crunches as I pull away. In the rearview mirror, he’s still standing there, the wind tugging at his shirt, the farm spread out behind him like a world he built to keep himself busy.
Halfway down the mountain road, the rush finally settles. My hands are steady on the wheel. My lips are not. Every time I blink I see that moment at the bottom of the zipline—the look on his face right before the kiss, like he’d been waiting years for me to remember something we never said.
“Unprofessional,” I mutter to the windshield. “Totally.”
The road curves. The valley opens up below, gold and green and impossibly alive. I should be thinking about headlines and photo captions. Instead, all I can think is that I might have just developed a crush on my childhood best friend, who grew up way too good-looking for my peace of mind.
And the worst part?
I can’t wait to see him again.