Night Ride

It was supposed to be a simple late-night bike ride home. She had called him because she didn’t want to walk alone, and he arrived with that old bike of his, the one that rattled a little when he pedaled too fast.

“Hop on,” he said, patting the seat gently.

She climbed on behind him, her hands hesitating before settling lightly around his waist. The night air was cool, but his body was warm, steady, familiar.
When he started riding, she felt his shirt shift against her palms, and she tightened her hold—just a little.

He didn’t say anything, but she felt him react.
A small breath.
A small pause in his pedaling.
Then a soft laugh.

As they moved through quiet streets, his hand reached back briefly—just to adjust her grip, he claimed. But his fingers brushed her bare arm slow enough to make her wonder if it was really an accident.

Every turn he took made her lean closer. Every bump in the road made her grip him tighter. And every time her chest pressed against his back, he inhaled sharply, pretending it was the cold.

“Comfortable back there?” he asked, voice low.

“Too comfortable,” she replied without thinking.

He chuckled. “Good.”

They rode like that—two people pretending the touches were small, pretending the silence wasn’t full, pretending the night wasn’t holding a question neither wanted to ask yet.

By the time they reached her gate, she didn’t want to get down.

And he didn’t rush her.

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