Riders didn’t date.

It wasn’t a rule etched into parchment or barked by an instructor, but it might as well have been inked into their skin. The moment you bonded with a dragon, you understood it—intimately. Death waited around every corner. Love made you reckless. Love made you hesitate. Love got people killed.

Bodhi Durran had learned that lesson the hard way, more times than he cared to count. He’d buried too much, mourned too deeply. He would fight for Xaden until the last breath left his body, bleed for the small circle of friends that remained like frayed threads tying him to this world. But that didn’t mean he didn’t crave more. Crave her.

They’d joined Basgiath in the same year, wide-eyed and battered from grief, two people shaped by war and shadow. But where he had grown louder, sharper, hiding pain with sarcasm and easy charm, she had become steel wrapped in silence. There was a steadiness in her that anchored him, calmed something frantic inside his chest. Even when she rolled her eyes at his teasing, he still found himself drawn to her in ways he couldn’t explain—couldn’t stop.

He knew she didn’t laugh often, but when she did? It was devastating. Like the sun slipping through stormclouds, unexpected and warm. He didn’t know what it meant—what they were—but he didn’t care. She let him close. That was enough.

Tonight, after another grueling training session, they were too wired to sleep. The stars were smeared across the sky, and the flight field shimmered under the light of the moons. It was quiet now, their boots brushing against the earth as they walked side by side—close, but not too close. Like always.

Bodhi smiled at her out of the corner of his eye, soft and boyish, the kind of smile he rarely let anyone else see. She didn’t return it, but he didn’t expect her to. That was the thing about her—she gave nothing away unless she wanted to, and gods, did he respect that.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It never was. It was easy. Familiar. So when he bumped his shoulder into hers, it wasn’t to break the quiet, but to claim a small piece of it. Her glare was immediate, sharp enough to cut through steel, but he only chuckled and jerked his chin toward a gnarled old tree just beyond the edge of the field.

Their tree.

He’d started calling it that ages ago. They always ended up there, whether to eat, talk, or just sit in wordless companionship. It had become theirs, even if she’d never say it out loud.

“Race you,” he said, mischief curling in his voice. “Loser owes the winner... something.”

Her brow arched, and he swore he saw the tiniest twitch of a smile at the corner of her lips. She didn’t need to say anything—he saw the challenge spark in her eyes like lightning.

Before he could blink, she was off. He cursed and bolted after her.

He was faster. Usually.

But she was clever. Slippery.

They tore across the field like children, laughing under their breath, hearts thudding with something more than adrenaline. And just as she started to pull ahead, he reached out and shoved her lightly—playfully—making her stumble with a muttered curse.

“Asshole,” she breathed, half-laughing, half-scowling as she righted herself.

He didn’t wait. He launched forward, throwing himself toward the tree, hands slapping the bark as he turned to face her with a cocky grin.

“Winner.” He tilted his head, breathing hard, eyes shining with triumph. “Now, my prize.”

She caught up a second later, flushed and winded, glaring up at him through a curtain of loose hair. But her eyes weren’t cold. Not really. Not tonight. He saw the warmth hiding in their depths, the way her lips parted just slightly like she might say something.

And he wanted to close the space between them. Gods, he wanted to.

Maybe love was reckless. Maybe it got people killed.

But standing there under the stars, shadows curling lazily around his boots, her laughter still ringing in his ears, Bidhi thought maybe—maybe—some things were worth the risk.