Page 22 of Boiling Point
“Shall we walk a bit?” I asked, savoring her delight as she nodded. “Stretch our legs?”
We left our helmets on the bike and set off along a narrow trail through the quiet woods. The path, dusted with frost in shaded patches, crunched beneath our boots. Winter had stripped the landscape bare, but in that bareness was something unguarded, exposed—like the silence between words unsaid.
Gabrielle walked beside me, closer than usual, the space between us thinning with every step.
“You seem different out here,” she said, dipping her head. “In a good way. More relaxed. Free.” She met my gaze again.
“And which version do you prefer?”
She smiled. “Don’t get me wrong. I like you as you are. But it’s nice seeing this side of you. Feels like a peek behind the curtain.”
“And what do you see behind the curtain?” I asked, catching the glint of mischief in her eyes.
She stopped walking and turned to face me, the corners of her mouth tilting upward. “I think there’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said, playful but earnest. “You hide it well.”
“So you’re saying I’m dull?” I countered, feigning offense—or trying to. Her laughter undid me.
“Not at all. Just…reserved.” She hesitated, then added, softer, “I like knowing there’s more to you.”
“I could say the same about you.”
The space between us thrummed with tension. I had to keep moving, or else I’d succumb to the temptation to close it entirely.
We continued down the path, our strides slower, as if we had all the time in the world. Of course, we didn’t—just a few stolen hours.
The path drew us deeper beneath a lattice of pale limbs and evergreen. The air was crisp and clean, a sanctuary broken only by the soft rush of the creek and our footfalls on the dormant ground. Gabrielle hiked beside me, her cheeks still flushed, her breath misting in delicate curls.
The trail curved toward a secluded spot where the creek widened into a crystalline pool, fed by a small waterfall spilling over limestone terraces. The turquoise water, impossibly clear, was cradled by smooth outcroppings that rose like petrified waves. I guided Gabrielle to a weathered wooden bench overlooking the view. We sat in silence, absorbing the wild serenity of the place.
“This is incredible,” Gabrielle said softly, her eyes alight as she took in the view. In the hush, the waterfall’s rhythm was almost musical. She absorbed the landscape, or perhaps it absorbed her, the way it mirrored her clarity and depth. “You look like you have something on your mind,” she mused, turning toward me with an inquisitive smile. “What could possibly pull you away from this?”
For a moment, I considered deflecting with humor. But the raw openness of this place demanded honesty. I kept my gaze on the tumbling water. “A thousand thoughts I shouldn’t be having,” I confessed, my voice nearly lost in the rush of the falls. “Things I’ve no right to think.”
She didn’t answer right away, instead shifting beside me. “That makes two of us,” she said at last, her words threading into the crisp air with quiet intimacy.
I turned to face her. The tension between us hung sharp in the cold, biting air, thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. If I were a better man, I’d have ended this now—a clean severing before the attachment dug any deeper.
But she was here, and the moment was here.
And I wasn’t a better man.
I leaned toward her, drawn by a force as certain as gravity. She didn’t flinch or look away, and for a breathless moment, I imagined closing the distance, feeling the warmth of her mouth against mine, letting this reckless impulse take hold. But Ihesitated, the weight of it crashing into me all at once. I pulled back, my pulse roaring like the waterfall.
“This place,” I said at last, grappling for composure. “It’s where I can escape everything—real life, responsibility…the bloody employee handbook.” Her eyes widened slightly at that last confession. “I thought you might need an escape too.”
Her expression softened, her gaze tender, making my restraint feel both noble and absurd. “I knew you were a rebel,” she teased, though a quiet seriousness lingered beneath it.
I exhaled, my breath dissolving into the cold. “Out here, I can be free in ways I can never be on campus.” I looked at her directly, letting every conflicting emotion hang like unfinished notes.
“I want to be free too,” she said softly, sliding her hand along the bench until her fingers brushed mine. The touch landed like a spark.
The sun slipped behind a cloud, muting the light, but the colors around us—pewter sky, white limestone, green cedars—were still vivid and arresting.
I turned fully toward her, the ache of wanting so fierce it drowned out every protest and consequence. She shivered slightly, the cold pressing in as the sun slipped away, and without thinking—without rationalizing—I caught her hand and pulled her toward me. She came willingly, eyes bright with wonder and resolve, her breath uneven as our faces drew close.
For an agonizing heartbeat, I expected her to recoil, to remind me of all we stood to lose with a single word or movement. Her silence was deafening, and my own fear roared over it, threatening to consume everything.
But she did neither.
