Carys had always jumped feet first, with little care for ‘plans’ or ‘having any idea what she was doing’. It usually worked out alright. Sometimes she came out worse for the wear, with bruised ribs or ego. She hadn’t died yet; she had to at least be doing [i]something[/i] right, despite her near pathological recklessness.

Trying something new and actually having a primer beforehand was like being spoiled. Carys listened, suppressing her own impatient need to [i]act[/i] as Chase ran through basics, borrowed helmet in her small hands. She could practically feel her blood surging through her veins, desperate to follow this mad impulse through.  

It sounded simple enough—not unlike sailing, really. Don’t overthink, find the rhythm in the pitch, trust the craft. Carys knew how to sink into rhythms like she knew how to breathe. Her lips curved into a wide grin, eyes bright at the prospect. 

“Don’t get in the way, got it,” she summarized airily. That’s what it boiled down to, really. 

Carys was very pleased that placing the (adorable) helmet on her head went off without a hitch. The bike was obnoxiously tall, as was everything else in life, but Carys was surprisingly nimble. Focus, it seemed, was the key. 

Settling in behind Chase, her feet found the aforementioned pegs. She hesitated for only a breath before her hands settled at his waist. Because, well, she wasn’t going to waste such a perfectly acceptable opportunity to indulge in physical contact with someone this attractive. Carys was practical like that.