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He covers my hands with one of his.

“You good?”

I rest my helmet against his back.

“Perfect.”

The engine rumbles to life.

And we ride.

The mountain road winds through towering pines and golden aspens, their leaves scattered across the pavement after last night’s storm.

Grayson takes every curve carefully.

No speeding. No showing off.

He keeps a generous distance from the cars ahead of us and slows whenever the road narrows.

I know what it costs him to be here.

To feel the engine beneath him.

To trust himself again.

I tighten my arms around his waist.

He reaches down and squeezes my hand.

By the time we reach the overlook, my eyes are stinging.

Gray parks beside the wooden railing and cuts the engine.

“Still in one piece?” he asks.

I climb off and remove my helmet.

“Disappointingly.”

His eyebrow rises.

“I was hoping for a dramatic rescue. Maybe some mouth-to-mouth.”

“Keep talking and I’ll push you off the mountain.”

“There’s my romantic hero.”

He takes my helmet and sets it on the seat.

Then he looks toward the valley.

The view is breathtaking.

Mountains stretch toward the horizon, their peaks dusted with the first snow of the season. Below us, Devil’s Peak looks like a miniature Christmas village, all winding roads and little rooftops tucked among the trees.

We used to come here after school.

Grayson would bring a blanket and a bag of terrible gas station snacks, and we’d sit beneath the stars talking about all the places we wanted to go.