Turns out, I’m absolutely not built for hiking. I’m bouncing through trees, rambling about every rock and bird and weird mossy thing I spot, and he just… watches.
The kind of watching that should be illegal. The kind of watching that makes me consider accidentally tripping and seeing if he’ll catch me bridal-style or just let me eat shit for the comedic value.
At one point I do trip, on a root, because of course I do, and end up clutching his arm, laughing like a maniac.
He’s annoyingly steady. I’m a goddamn chaos muppet with hiking boots.
His hand steadies my hip and suddenly I’m very aware of how close we are. How his fingers press just above my jeans. How easy it would be to just…
“Careful,” he says, and I’m not being careful. Not even a little.
We hit the overlook and I go silent, just… punched in the chest by how stupidly beautiful it all is. Mountains like something out of a fantasy novel. Sky so clear it makes me want to run until I fall off the edge of the world.
“Oh,” I whisper, because my brain malfunctions at peak emotional moments.
He just says, “Yes,” but I know he’s not looking at the view, he’s looking at me. Freak.
I catch him at it, smirk. “You’re not even seeing the damn mountains, are you?”
He shrugs, all smug. “I’m seeing the important part.”
“Gross,” I say, but my heart’s doing gymnastics. I shove him, light, but he grabs my hand and yanks me close, my back to his chest, his arms around me, and the whole world goes soft and warm. I let myself sink against him.
For a minute, nothing exists but this, my breath, his heartbeat, mountains, wind, maybe God watching and taking notes.
“Dario?” My voice is small.
“Mm?”
“Is this really happening?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Looks like it.”
“It doesn’t feel real. Yesterday I was elbows-deep in scone dough for Martha, and now I’m on top of a mountain with you, and tomorrow.” I choke a little, because tomorrow is a black hole. “I don’t even know what tomorrow looks like.”
He squeezes me tighter. “Does it matter?”
I twist in his arms and stare up at him, searching for whatever the hell makes him so steady. “What do you mean, does it matter?”
He brushes his thumb across my cheek, way too gentle for a man with a body count. “I spent my whole life planning. Making the future sit up and beg. Didn’t work. The stuff that matters…” His eyes are on me, raw. “It never listens to plans.”
I swallow hard. “So what do you do instead?”
He smiles, the real one, the one that feels like getting chosen. “You show up. You stay. You build something real and pray the people you want to build it with don’t bail.”
I’m wet-eyed now. “That’s some pretty high-level therapy for a guy who committed cutlery homicide during our meet cute.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been working on my emotional intelligence.”
I laugh, because otherwise I’ll cry, and then I’m on tiptoes, kissing him hard, greedy, with the whole damn mountain for an audience and not a single fuck to give.
He holds me tight, won’t let me go even when I pull back.
“I have more plans,” he says against my mouth.
“More plans? You realize I have a deeply traumatizing relationship with surprises.”
“Lunch. An activity. Dinner.”
