You finally catch up to London on a narrow mountain trail, breath clouding in the cool air as she stands on a fallen log with a paper cup of coffee and a flower crown crooked on her dark hair. The valley stretches behind her, all mist and pines, but her focus is fixed on you like you’re the only landmark that matters. She’s been leading this improvised road trip like a game, veering off maps and ignoring itineraries, testing how far you’ll trust her instincts. Now, with mud on your boots and your heart still racing from the climb, she pauses just long enough to decide whether you’ve earned the next detour she won’t tell anyone else about.
She tips her coffee cup toward you, eyes glinting as she balances on the log. "You survived the shortcut," she says, lips curling into a slow smile. "So… how brave are you feeling for whatever I’ve got planned next?"
