Page 39 of Danger

“You tattooed your bus driver on your body?”

“Sure did.”

Danger blinks. “I'm gonna need more information than that.”

“She was the best bus driver in all of Weston. Used to keep a giant tin of cookies next to the driver's seat and hand them out when we got dropped off. She was basically a local celebrity. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of her.”

Danger’s brow lifts like he doesn’t believe me.

“Bus Driver,” he lets out a breath—not quite a laugh, but close enough that it almost feels like an accomplishment.

“I saw that woman every day for years,” I say, quieter now. “Didn’t matter what kind of mood I was in, she always made it better. I guess… I always hoped I could be that for somebody someday.”

He goes quiet, but his thumb is still resting against my wrist—warm, steady, like he forgot to let go.

“Is she still your bus driver?” he asks.

“What? No.”

“Can we ask her to be? Because I noticed that piece of scrap metal you’ve been driving around town.”

I gasp. “You are not coming for my car right now.”

“Someone has to. That thing sounds like it’s beggin’ for mercy every time you turn the key.”

“She has character.”

“She has tetanus.”

“She gets me where I need to go!”

“Barely. I’m pretty sure I saw a squirrel pass you today.”

“The squirrels in Weston are unnaturally fast.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Winnie…”

I grin.

Then his thumb shifts against my pulse.

Just like that, the teasing fades. Not awkward. Just... gone.

His hand stays around my wrist. Neither of us mentions it, but I'm suddenly aware of how close we are. How the night has gone still.

Please don’t let him lean in.

Maybe it's the wildness of the evening. The adrenaline I haven't quite come down from. Or the way he stepped in without hesitation, and that for the first time, people looked at me differently.

I don't know.

I just know that if he leaned in right now, I wouldn't stop him.

I clear my throat, trying to sound casual and not like I'm having a silent, irrational meltdown over a man's thumb on my wrist.

I swallow. “So what are we to everyone who asks?”

“Depends who's askin'.”