Page 44 of Heart of Stone
Hawk helps me off his bike, then turns us until he’s half-seated, half leaning against it, with me wrapped in his arms, my back to his front.
We sit there for a while, neither of us speaking. The night wraps around us like a blanket—crickets chirping in the underbrush, a distant owl calling, the soft whisper of wind through pine needles. The rest of the world feels very far away.
Slowly, his warmth seeps into me, grounding and overwhelming.
I’m not used to this—the weight of someone else’s care. It’s terrifying how easy it would be to sink into him, to let him shoulder just a little of the burden I carry.
But that isn’t fair, is it? To expect a man I’ve known for less than a week to wade into my chaos when I can barely keep my own head above water?
His hands rest lightly on my arms, his touch warm and steady.
“You overthinking again?” he murmurs, his voice low enough to blend with the whisper of the wind through the trees.
I swallow hard. “No.”
“Liar.” His tone teases, but his hold tightens just enough to make me feel anchored.
Safe.
That’s the problem. The safety he offers is a mirage. Nothing about Hawk is safe. Not the way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing in his world that matters. Not the way he touches me, like he can’t help himself. And certainly not the way he makes me feel—seen in a way I’m not sure I want to be.
I should pull away. Tell him this is a mistake. Put distance between us before I let myself believe, even for a second, that this can be anything other than a fleeting distraction.
But I don’t.
Instead, I let myself relax into him, just for a beat. I let myself feel the solid strength of him at my back, the rise and fall of his breath matching mine. I let myself believe, if only for tonight, that I’m not alone.
The stars stretch endlessly above us, their cold light a stark contrast to the warmth between us. The moment feels fragile, like a bubble that might burst if I move too quickly or say the wrong thing.
“You ever just stop and look at the stars?” he asks, his voice breaking the silence but not the spell.
I tilt my head back, letting my eyes follow the trail of his gaze.
“Not really,” I admit. “Too much to do. Too many things to worry about.”
“You should.” His hand shifts, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle on my arm. “They remind you how small your problems really are.”
I turn my head slightly, catching his profile in the moonlight. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Depends. Does it?”
I think about it—the overwhelming list of responsibilities waiting for me back home. The bills, the kids, the ache of trying to hold it all together. But here, wrapped in Hawk’s arms with the stars above us and the world below, it all seems just a little more manageable. A little less crushing.
“Maybe,” I admit.
I feel his breath against my neck, warm and teasing. His lips graze my skin, crawling up to my ear.
“Guess we’ll have to take another ride and do some more stargazing,” he says, his voice rough with something I can’t quite name.
And just like that, the bubble bursts. Because it’s too much—too intense, too real. And I’m a stupid girl for even considering putting my trust in a biker.
I can feel him watching me, like he can read what’s going through my mind–all the thoughts and arguments as to why this is a terrible idea.
I pull away, stepping out of his embrace, and turn toward the bike.
“We should head back,” I say, my voice cool.
Hawk doesn’t argue, doesn’t push. But as he starts the engine and I climb back on behind him, I know something has shifted between us.
