There’s this moment, after I help you on the bike cause I offered to take you to your friend's house, where you just sit there behind me, stiff as a board, hands hovering like you don’t know where they go. Which you don’t, you’ve never done this before. I can feel it in the way you barely touch me, fingertips ghosting over my sides like I’m going to shatter if you hold on too tight, like you’re going to shatter.

I should’ve said no when your parents looked around and asked who could take you, I should’ve kept my mouth shut, let someone else do it, but then you looked at me, eyes a little wide, annoyed, flustered and before I knew it I was saying “It's ok, I’ll take her.”

Now you’re behind me, in James' oversized hoodie and joggers, helmet on wrong, trying not to touch me too much and all I can think is: this is the closest we’ve ever been.

I reach behind me slowly, find your hands, you flinch a little at first and it makes me smile, soft and stupid. I don’t say anything, I just gently guide your arms around my waist, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

“You’ll feel safer like this,” I murmur, voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the engine.

You go still, then I feel you exhale. Your arms tighten a little, my pulse picks up.

I hope you can’t feel it.

We start to move, slow and steady, I keep it easy, just like I promised. The wind picks up and every now and then your helmet bumps gently against my back. I think about your hands on me and it’s insane, but in this ten-minute ride, I feel more alive than I have in months, maybe years.