Good. Let him stew on that.
The road narrows, pavement giving way to packed dirt. Trees close in, branches arching overhead. Sunlight dapples the dash. Racer is across me, and his head is out the window, tongue flapping.
Taron relaxes after a few miles, starts pointing out things—birds, weird-shaped clouds, a deer that darts across the track. Ianswer in grunts mostly, but I’m listening. More than I want to admit.
We park at the trailhead lot—empty this early. I shoulder my pack: water, first-aid, marking tape, binoculars, notebook of my own. Taron hops out, stretches, looks around like he’s stepped into Narnia.
“Lead the way, lumberjack.”
I snort. “Stay close. And don’t go eating your candies on the way out. You’ll need the sugar injection for the return. Got it?”
“Sure thing,” Taron answers, smiling and watching as Racer charges off.
We start down the path—narrow at first, then widening into an old logging road. Pine needles soft underfoot, air thick with resin and damp earth. Racer ranges ahead further, then back, tail high.
Taron keeps pace easily. No complaints, no whining about the distance. Just quiet wonder—head tipping back to watch the canopy, fingers brushing bark, small gasps when a woodpecker hammers overhead.
It’s…nice.
Having someone here. Not just Racer’s steady presence, but human conversation. Questions about tree species, how I spot disease, why certain cuts matter. And to give him credit, he listens.Reallylistens. Like what I do isn’t just manual labor to him.
After an hour, the trail dips toward the river. Water’s high from yesterday’s rain, running fast and clear over smooth stones. Racer bolts straight in, splashing, barking at nothing.
Taron laughs—bright, unguarded. “He’s having the time of his life.”
“Yeah. Thinks he’s part otter, I’m convinced of it.”
We stop on the bank. Sun filters through, turning the water gold. He crouches, trails fingers in the current. I watch him—profile soft, hair shiny, cheeks flushed from the walk.
Something shifts.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach down. Take his hand.
His fingers are cool from the water. Mine rough, callused. But they fit. Lock together like they’ve done it a thousand times.
He looks up, startled. Then soft. Eyes wide, lips parted.
I don’t think. I just lean down.
Our mouths meet… slow at first, testing. Then deeper. Hungrier.
He makes a small sound—half sigh, half moan—and rises on his toes. Hands slide up my chest, gripping my flannel. I cup the back of his neck, tilt his head, taste coffee and mint andhim.
It’s electric.
Sparks down my spine, heat pooling low.
My free hand finds his waist, pulls him flush against me. He melts—his buttery soft curves against hard muscle, a perfect fit.
I could kiss the boy for hours.
But reality crashes in.
Trees to scout. Work to do. And this—whatever this is—can’t go anywhere permanent.
I break the kiss, breathing hard. My forehead rests against his.
“We need to keep moving,” I rasp. “Still a long way.”