The motorcycle looks intimidating, black paint chipped, engine silent but heavy beneath you as you grip the handlebars too tight.

“Relax,” Jacob says, stepping behind you, warmth radiating off him.

“I am relaxed,” you mutter.

He laughs softly, his hands covering yours, gently loosening your grip. “Not even close.”

You can feel his breath against your neck, warm in the cool La Push air, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Stop shaking,” he teases.

“I’m not shaking.”

“You are.” His thumbs rub circles over your knuckles. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You swallow, nodding, your eyes on the forest path ahead.

Jacob leans in, guiding your hand to the throttle. “Slow, steady. Just a little gas.”

You twist it gently, the bike rumbling under you. It jolts forward an inch, and you squeak, but Jacob’s hands steady yours.

“See?” he says, voice low, close to your ear. “Not so scary.”