The old pickup truck rumbled beneath her, the familiar hum of the engine a counterpoint to the nervous flutter in her stomach. Sunlight filtered through the trees lining the winding back road, painting fleeting patterns on the dashboard. She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, her deep brown eyes fixed on the road ahead. Every mile brought her closer to him, closer to a decision she'd made in a moment of reckless abandon, a choice that still startled her with its audacity.
She was meeting him in a clearing, a spot he’d described with casual ease, as if inviting women into the depths of the woods was just another Saturday afternoon chore. But for her, it felt like stepping off a cliff. The whole thing was her doing, a spark she’d ignited that had rapidly become an inferno.
It had started subtly, weeks ago, amidst the clatter and fluorescent hum of the store. Their flirtation was an established rhythm—his knowing glances, her flushed cheeks, the easy banter that always carried a double meaning. He’d always been the one to push the boundaries, just a little, with a low remark or a lingering look. She was the one who pulled back, maintaining the polite distance, the careful control. She liked the control. She liked her life neat, uncomplicated, routine.
But then came the dull ache, a quiet dissatisfaction that had been growing, a sense of something missing. Life had become predictable, safe. It was comfortable, yes, but it wasn't alive. And then she'd look up, and there he'd be, filling the doorway of her cashier booth, his burly frame and bristly beard a stark contrast to her tidy world. A primal spark. A dangerous thought.
One Tuesday, after he'd paid for a mountain of lumber and given her a particularly potent, lingering stare as he left, something inside her snapped. On a whim, a wild impulse she hadn't known she possessed, she pulled out her phone. His number was already there; he’d given it to her weeks ago for "delivery inquiries," a thinly veiled excuse she'd accepted with a knowing smile.
She typed, her fingers surprisingly steady. "Rough day at work? Heard you rumbling over in lumber."
She’d almost thrown the phone across the room after hitting send, instantly regretting the uncharacteristic forwardness. What was she doing?
His reply came almost immediately. "Always a rough day without seeing you, little bird. What’re you doing later?"
That single text, her first bold move, had set everything in motion. And now, here she was, driving into the woods, towards the unknown, towards him, feeling a strange mix of terror and exhilarating anticipation. She was the one who had opened this door, the one who had invited the wild in.
