Steve takes the bridge at what any reasonable person would probably call "unreasonably fast" and what he almost definitely thinks of as "not fast enough," dodging groups with the kind of artful weaving anyone would consider impossible from a guy his size. Half of her expects to see tourists getting pushed to either side, parting like the wake of a boat, but he just sidesteps them and keeps going, skipping boards and crossing in what seems like no time at all.
She opts for a more careful route, takes the bridge at a jog, breathless notifications to passersby as she picks a path through them. Not as reckless as Steve, but fast enough that she catches more than one called careful! after she passes.
It makes other people nervous, she knows. Especially when Steve is catapulting down the slope like a landslide, barely hitting the ground with each shoe before he's moving on, on the edge of losing his balance and tumbling head over ass down the rest of the stairs.
Except he's not on that edge. The lack of control is an illusion; all it means is that he has such precise conviction in his body that he can allow it to just work, trusts his reaction time and reflexes to save him from a stumble.
And she does, too. Once over the bridge, she bends into it, gives up control into gravity, into steps that stop short, jarring every inch of muscle and bone before it's another and another. The world falling away, wind whistling as speed picks up. It's easy, letting it happen. Just running, loose hips and pumping arms, the precarious, persistent balance needed, almost losing it, gaining it again and shoving it forward, down the hill like a rock come loose and rumbling to the sea.
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She opts for a more careful route, takes the bridge at a jog, breathless notifications to passersby as she picks a path through them. Not as reckless as Steve, but fast enough that she catches more than one called careful! after she passes.
It makes other people nervous, she knows. Especially when Steve is catapulting down the slope like a landslide, barely hitting the ground with each shoe before he's moving on, on the edge of losing his balance and tumbling head over ass down the rest of the stairs.
Except he's not on that edge. The lack of control is an illusion; all it means is that he has such precise conviction in his body that he can allow it to just work, trusts his reaction time and reflexes to save him from a stumble.
And she does, too. Once over the bridge, she bends into it, gives up control into gravity, into steps that stop short, jarring every inch of muscle and bone before it's another and another. The world falling away, wind whistling as speed picks up. It's easy, letting it happen. Just running, loose hips and pumping arms, the precarious, persistent balance needed, almost losing it, gaining it again and shoving it forward, down the hill like a rock come loose and rumbling to the sea.