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His jaw tightens.

“Autumn.”

“What?”

“You know what happened.”

“I do.”

“And you’re still willing to get on that bike?”

I take his hand.

“Gray, I trust you.”

He looks down at our joined fingers.

For a long moment, he says nothing.

Then he lifts my hand and presses his mouth against my knuckles.

“All right, Pumpkin.”

He helps me into a riding jacket and checks the helmet strap twice.

“Too tight?”

“No.”

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, Dad.”

He gives me a look.

“Keep talking and you’re walking.”

“Bossy.”

“Alive.”

I smile.

“Fair point.”

He climbs onto the motorcycle and holds out his hand.

I swing my leg over the seat behind him.

The moment I settle against his back, something in my chest twists.

It’s so familiar.

The broad shoulders beneath my palms. The scent of leather and soap. The warmth of his body.

Ten years disappear.

I wrap my arms around his waist.