"There," he murmurs.
I don't trust my voice, so I keep quiet.
I hop on the bike and grab the seat awkwardly for balance.
"You'll fall," he warns.
"Then maybe let me fall."
I'll be damned if I'm going to be the first person to bail.
He goes back, takes my wrist gently but firmly, and puts my hand on his waist. The heat of his body penetrates right through my hoodie.
"Hold," he repeats, his voice now deeper.
I hold.
The trip to Eastmoore is quick and noisy. I hold on tight to him for every turn, my heart is pounding like it wants to fly out of my chest. He's warm, steady, effortlessly sure of himself, and I hate how natural it feels.
When we get there, there's a gawking contest because having Felix Dimitri riding into campus on his bike is already a bit much.
