I didn’t think much of the local car accident, only skimming through the article for a moment before closing the browser tab.  They hadn’t released the name of the biker who had been hit, so I shrugged it off and went about my day.

                He didn’t show for seventeen days.

                I continued to visit the park, to wait under the willow tree, expecting to hear him say, “You’re sitting in my spot,” and whip out his sketchbook.  I napped in the shade, stretched until splits were almost comfortable, ditched dance practice, studied my textbooks until nightfall, but still no Chanyeol.  Thanks to my own stupidity—or lack of nerve, I suppose—I had never gotten his phone number, and I mentally punched myself for only having the ability to worry uselessly, wondering where he could possibly be.

                On the eighteenth day, I fell asleep more quickly than usual, dozing off in the embrace of the warm breeze.  I woke to the sound of a voice whispering my name repeatedly, as if it were a chant, but I didn’t fully stir until I felt something whack me in the head.  I jolted, in full consciousness, and saw an apple core to my left.

                “That’s litter—”  I froze at the familiarity of the situation.

                “Well that woke you up.”

                He was hurt.  That was all that would register for the first few moments before I scrambled up to him.  “What happened to you?” I barely whispered.

                His breath caught as I touched my fingers to his bandaged temple, tracing across a scratched cheek to his wrapped shoulder.  He limped to the edge of the tree and sat himself down gingerly, unable to keep himself from wincing when his body met the earth.  “I had a little accident.”

                I stared at him, scanning through my mind to somehow recall something I had no memory of.  But it came all at once—the news from the morning after our first date, the minor who had been hit in the nighttime shadows.  “The biker.”  He nodded.  “You’re the biker.”

                “I’m sorry I didn’t come out earlier.  I just got released a couple hours ago.”  He smiled, almost sheepishly, as if he were at fault for the crash.

                I shook my head rapidly, crouching down beside him.  “Are you okay?  Why did they release you already?  You still look a little beat up.”

                I had never been so glad to hear someone laugh in my life.  “I’m good.  They can’t nurse me back to health until every scratch is healed when there are other people to take care of.  I’m totally fine.  Don’t even worry about it.”

                “Don’t worry about it?  How can I not worry about it?  You got hit by a car.  How are you even alive?  Are you, like, immortal or something, I mean—”

                He came at me quite quickly for an injured person, his mouth on mine before I could react, our soft breaths drifting in the late spring air.  Suddenly, I felt him smile into the kiss, and I pulled away, tilting my head when his smile grew.

                “Let’s go.”

                “Go where?  The hospital?  Because I think you need some more physical therapy or bandages or something.”

                He chuckled, intertwining our fingers together.  “Let’s go on our second date.”

                “I’m not taking you anywhere while you’re limping like that.  We’re going to stay right here and you’re not going to move until you’re better.”

               Sighing, he adjusted into a more comfortable position against the willow, crossing his arms as best as he could.  “Fine.  Dance for me.”

                I felt a tingle in my veins, a clench in my throat.  “Come again?”

                “Dance for me.  You’re a dancer, aren’t you?  If I can’t go anywhere, you’ll have to entertain me.”

                I had never danced for anyone in my life, save for my dance teacher.  I refused to participate in dance showcases my entire life, always too embarrassed to be a head taller than all the others, to be long in the limbs, ungraceful in the fingers and toes.  I had perfected myself, of course, but I had only told Chanyeol I was a dancer to impress him.  It had never occurred to me that this statement would backfire on me.

                “I can’t.  It’s—We’re on grass, and I’m not even stretched out.  I mean, I would, I just—”

                “Don’t make excuses, Oh Gentle One.  I’m sure there are moves you can do on grass, and since I’ve got to stay here until I’m better, I’ve got all the time in the world for you to stretch first.”  He grinned up at me cheekily, a playful sparkle in his eye.  “Come on, Kris.  Dance for me.”

                So I stretched, his eyes on me all the while, the beginnings of sweat already forming on my chest when I finished.

                “There’s no music though.”

                He shrugged.  “Dance without it.”

                “O—Okay.  What do you want to see?”

                He tapped on his upper lip, running his gaze over my body.  “Everything.”

                And with a breath, I began, the point of my toes slicing through the breeze, my core tightening as I inhaled, a rush flowing in my fingertips as I tossed myself into the air.  I had never danced so well, had never been so aware of myself, of the set of eyes that watched me with every motion.

                My trance was broken when he clapped softly, whooping excitedly.  “Wow, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

                “I didn’t either.”

                “I ought to hurry up and improve my weeping willows.”

                “Why?”

                “Because,” he leaned forward, “I want to draw you instead.”