I wait near the curb, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The engine of her motorcycle hums softly as it idles beside me. The air smells like sun-warmed asphalt and fuel. I press my fingers together and glance toward her. She’s adjusting something on the bike—checking a strap, I think. My shirt sticks to my back where the fabric parts. I should have changed, but she told me to come right away, so I did.

I watch the way she moves, steady and sure. She hasn’t looked at me yet, but I know she knows I’m watching. I always do. I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, then reach to smooth the feather in my hair. It got a bit tousled earlier—I hadn’t really slept.

The helmet is still in her hand. I thought she’d toss it to me like before, but she doesn’t. Instead, she walks over, close enough that I catch the familiar scent of oil, leather, and something warm underneath it—her skin, probably. I tilt my face up slightly. She’s taller than me in those boots.

She doesn’t say anything, just lifts the helmet and brings it down over my head. I hold still. My hands twitch at my sides. Her fingers graze my jaw as she adjusts the strap. My hair gets pushed back in an odd way, but I don’t fix it. I keep my eyes on hers, even though the helmet makes it a little awkward. She doesn’t smile, but I can see the softness in the corner of her mouth.

Her hands linger just a second too long beneath my chin, pressing the strap gently into place.

I breathe in. A little too fast.