Dust & Lime Taquería

[Reputation]

Street tacos done right—crispy edges, bright acid, salt on your fingers. Worth the line.

[Phoebe Ashcroft]

Phoebe heard the word food and felt her entire body agree.

Not in a dramatic way—more like a practical, pleased little click in her brain. A plan forming instantly. She glanced ahead and saw the cluster of food trucks glittering in the heat haze like a mirage that actually delivered.

“Snacks,” she repeated, delighted, as if he’d just offered her a love language. “Yes. See? This is why you’re my favorite person.”

She tugged him toward the food truck row before the Indie Tent could fully lure them in, weaving them into the flow of bodies with the easy confidence of someone who knew how to move through crowds without losing herself—or him. The festival smell hit harder here: fried dough, grilled meat, citrus, beer, sunscreen, dust warmed by sun.

The trucks were lined up like a bright, chaotic buffet—neon menus, hand-painted signs, little strings of lights that would look ridiculous anywhere else but somehow worked even in full daylight. Phoebe slowed, letting them drift along the row at a casual pace, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, hands still linked.

“Okay,” she said, scanning, tone all business now in the most charming way. “We’re getting set up. Food, drinks, something cold, something that makes you feel like you’re not going to evaporate.”

She looked up at him with a grin. “Hydration, but make it fun.”

They strolled past a truck advertising towering lemonade slushes. Another promised spicy noodles. Another had burgers with ridiculous names. Phoebe made small appreciative sounds as she read, eyes bouncing from menu to menu, genuinely enjoying the little ritual of choosing.

She could feel him beside her—steady, warm, quietly amused. The way he tracked space. The way he stayed close without crowding her. The way his grip tightened slightly when people brushed past, not panicked, just protective.

Phoebe let her shoulder bump his on purpose.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured, playful. “No mirrors in the food truck row. Worst case scenario, you walk into a churro sign. And honestly? That’s a better headline.”

She kept moving, boots crunching faintly in the sand-dusted ground, until she spotted it.

Tacos.

Not just tacos—that taco truck. The one with the sizzling grill visible through the side window, the smell curling out into the air like an invitation. A line had formed already, snaking out into the path, people fanning themselves with folded maps and wristbands.

Phoebe’s face lit up with immediate certainty.

“Oh. Okay. We’re doing tacos,” she announced, like it was a decision made by a higher power.

She turned to him, eyes bright, confidence unwavering. “I’m not open to negotiation.”

Then she tugged him toward the line, guiding him into place with a soft little press of her hand at his side, like she was tucking him safely into the plan.

“What do you want?” she asked, already half-laughing, like she was expecting him to say something absurd. “And don’t you dare say ‘whatever you’re having’—I’m making you pick.”

She glanced up at the menu board, squinting slightly against the sun.

“I’m thinking…” she murmured, more to herself now, “two tacos, something spicy, lime, maybe a margarita if they have them—”

Her voice softened as she leaned closer to him, playful and affectionate.

“Fuel us up,” she added, giving his hand a squeeze. “Then Indie Tent. Then you can be sweaty and happy and pretend you didn’t have a near-death experience with modern art.”

She smiled, satisfied, as the line shuffled forward and the smell of grilled meat and cilantro grew stronger—like the festival was finally starting to feel manageable, one taco at a time.

[Jackson Hawthorne]

Jax smiled the second she said snacks like it was a sacred concept.

Not big. Not showy. Just that easy, satisfied curve that sat on his mouth when something felt right instead of loud. He let her tug him toward the food trucks without resistance, stride adjusting to hers automatically, shoulders loosening as the chaos shifted into something he could actually enjoy.

“See?” he said, amused, voice low. “This is you listenin’.”

He took in the row of trucks as they approached—the heat shimmering off metal panels, bright paint half-faded by sun, menus scrawled in marker and neon chalk. The smell hit him full-force and his stomach answered immediately, loud enough that he huffed a laugh under his breath.

“Yeah,” he added. “This I understand.”

He stayed close as they moved through the crowd, body angled just enough to block shoulders and elbows without ever making a thing of it. People brushed past, dust kicked up, laughter bounced around them—but he kept his attention where it belonged. On her. On the way she navigated it all so easily. On how she never once dragged him somewhere just to keep momentum going.

When she bumped his shoulder on purpose, he glanced down at her, eyes warm.

“Appreciate you thinkin’ of my safety,” he said dryly. “Churro signs are ruthless.”

When she spotted the taco truck, he didn’t even argue. He didn’t need to. The decision was written all over her face, and honestly? He respected it.

“Tacos,” he repeated, nodding once. “Strong choice.”

She pressed him gently into the line and he let himself be placed, hands sliding into his pockets for a second as he read the menu board, squinting slightly.

“Alright,” he said when she demanded he pick. “No ‘whatever you’re having.’ Got it.”

He leaned closer to the window, scanning.

“Two tacos,” he decided. “One spicy. One not, just in case you’re lyin’ about sharin’.” A pause. “And whatever’s coldest. If it’s frozen, even better.”

He glanced at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And yeah,” he added quietly, more honest than teasing now. “I’m good with this.”

She leaned in closer, squeezed his hand, talked about fueling up and indie tents and pretending the maze hadn’t tried to take him out, and he felt it settle in his chest—steady, real, unbothered.

He’d followed her through art installations and mirrors and crowds and moments that weren’t built for people like him. He’d seen more, felt more, stepped into more worlds than he ever would have on his own.

And there wasn’t a shred of resentment in it.

“I did all that ‘cause I wanted to,” he said simply, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Not keepin’ score. Not bankin’ it for later.”

He looked around—the food trucks, the noise, the sun, the way the festival finally felt approachable instead of overwhelming.

“I’ve seen a lot,” he continued, softer. “Stuff I never would’ve if I wasn’t with you.”

Then, with a small grin—

“And somehow we still ended up at tacos.”

The line shuffled forward. The grill sizzled. He squeezed her hand again, content.

“Worth it.”

[Phoebe Ashcroft]

Phoebe loved lines like this.

Not because they were efficient—because they weren’t—but because they slowed everything down just enough to make the moment stretch. A few inches forward every minute or so. Heat rising off the asphalt. Music bleeding in from three directions at once. Time loosening its grip.

She stayed tucked into his side as they shuffled, her shoulder brushing his ribs, his presence solid and warm like an anchor she could lean into without thinking. The line crept forward. Someone laughed too loudly behind them. Somewhere ahead, metal clanged and meat hissed against a grill.

She scanned the crowd openly, unabashed. A girl in glitter boots arguing with her friend about sunscreen. A couple sharing a single agua fresca like it was a sacred ritual. A guy in a band tee already sweating through it, eyes closed like he’d accepted his fate.

Her mouth curved.

“This is my favorite part,” she said lightly, more to him than the air. “Everyone looks like they’ve temporarily forgotten who they usually are.”

She tipped her head toward a pair of girls in matching sunglasses who were aggressively fanning each other with a folded program. Then toward a guy trying—and failing—to balance three tacos and a beer.

“Bold choices everywhere,” she added. “Very inspiring.”

The line nudged forward again. She took half a step with him, automatic, her hand slipping around his waist. She could feel his attention on her without him doing anything at all—no rush, no impatience, just there.

It made something warm bloom low in her chest.

She turned into him suddenly and hugged him, arms sliding around his middle, cheek pressing briefly into his chest. Just because she could. Just because she wanted to.

“Thanks for doing all this with me,” she said softly, the words tucked between them where they didn’t need to be big. “I know I drag you into chaos.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright, unapologetic. Then—very deliberately—she slipped her hand into his back pocket.

He probably expected one thing.

Instead, she gave his ass a slow, teasing squeeze.

Her smile turned wicked immediately.

“Oh relax,” she said sweetly. “That was appreciation.”

She let her hand linger for half a second longer than necessary before withdrawing, fingers brushing his hip as if nothing scandalous had just occurred. Innocent. Angelic.

The line crept forward again. The smell of lime cut through the smoke, sharp and mouthwatering.

She leaned back into him, eyes flicking up at the menu board, already decided. No debate. No wavering.

“Okay,” she said, decisive and pleased with herself. “Four tacos. Two spicy for me—extra lime. One spicy, one not spicy for you. And two cold drinks.” A beat, grin deepening. “Hopefully frozen.”

She tipped her head back just enough to look at him, brows lifting.

“And before you accuse me of crimes,” she added lightly, “I would never lie about sharing with you.”

Another shuffle forward. Another moment claimed.

She smiled to herself, already grateful all over again.

[Jackson Hawthorne]

Jax shifted his weight as the line barely crept forward, boots scraping against the warm asphalt. The sun pressed down heavy, sweat gathering at his temples, shirt sticking faintly to his back. He liked the pace, though—slow, unhurried. It forced him to be here instead of thinking three steps ahead like he usually did.

He glanced down at her tucked into his side, her shoulder brushing his ribs, and his arm slid naturally around her. Anchoring. Easy.

“Yeah,” he murmured when she said it was her favorite part. “I get it.”

He followed her gaze as she people-watched, eyes tracking exactly who she pointed out—the glitter boots, the desperate sunscreen debate, the taco-balancing tragedy.

“Festival survival instincts,” he said quietly. “Some better than others.”

When she called the chaos inspiring, he huffed a soft laugh.

“That guy with three tacos?” he nodded. “That’s courage. Poor judgment. But courage.”

The line nudged again and he moved with her automatically, her hand finding his waist. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t check his phone. Just stayed there with her, feeling the heat, the noise, the moment stretching exactly like she liked.

Then she turned and hugged him.

He froze for half a second—surprised in the best way—before his arms came up around her, pulling her closer, cheek brushing the top of her head. He breathed her in: sunscreen, dust, citrus.

“Hey,” he said softly when she thanked him. “You don’t drag me.”

He tipped his forehead to hers for a beat.

“I choose it. Every time.”

When she slipped her hand into his back pocket, he tensed—already expecting her to steal his phone or do something chaotic—

Then she squeezed.

He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening before he laughed, low and disbelieving.

“Jesus, Phoebe,” he muttered, half scandalized, half impressed.

When she called it appreciation, his mouth curved slow.

“Bold way to show it,” he said. “But I’ll allow it.”

Her fingers brushed his hip and he shook his head, still smiling, one hand squeezing her waist in retaliation—firm but affectionate.

The smell of lime cut through the air and his stomach growled audibly.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Now I’m starving.”

When she laid out the order like a commander, he listened, nodding along, eyes flicking up to the menu.

“Four tacos,” he repeated. “Two spicy for you, one spicy, one not for me… yeah. That tracks.”

Then his eyes lit up.

“And I want a margarita,” he added immediately. “Frozen. Big. Dangerous.”

He pointed at the board.

“Something with salt on the rim. I earned it.”

When she teased about lying, he scoffed.

“Please,” he said. “You’d never betray me like that.”

Another shuffle forward. They were close now—the grill hissing, smoke curling, a cook flipping meat with fast, practiced hands.

Jax leaned down near her ear, voice low and warm.

“You know,” he added quietly, “I smile through all of this ‘cause I want to. Not keepin’ score. Not gonna resent it later.”

He glanced around—the crowd, the noise, the chaos—and then back at her.

“I’ve seen more with you than I ever would’ve on my own.” A small smile. “Worth every second.”

The line moved again.

He squeezed her hand.

“Tacos. Margaritas. Loud music.”

He exhaled, content.

“Perfect day.”

[Phoebe Ashcroft]

Phoebe felt the shift before it actually happened—the subtle change in the air when waiting turned into doing. The line tightened. The menu stopped being theoretical. The grill heat pressed closer, sharper now, smoke curling up in lazy, delicious ribbons.

She leaned into him as they inched forward, chin tipped up just enough to keep people-watching. A girl in a metallic skirt nearly took out a man holding three drinks. Someone else was already dancing to music only they could hear. A couple argued quietly over cilantro like it was a moral stance.

She loved this part. The in-between. The human soup of it all.

“Everyone’s feral,” she said fondly, eyes bright as she tracked a guy confidently ordering in Spanish and immediately panicking when the cook replied too fast. “But in a charming way.”

They moved again, close enough now that she could see the grease splatter on the metal, the quick hands, the practiced rhythm. Jax shifted in front of her without thinking, a half-step that put him between her and the counter, solid and unshowy. She watched him from just behind his shoulder, content to let him take the lead here.

When it was their turn, he ordered easily—pointing, nodding, confirming—no fuss, no hesitation. He paid just as smoothly, card out and back into his wallet like muscle memory. Done. Handled.

She smiled to herself. Of course he did.

They stepped aside together, the line swallowing the space they’d vacated almost immediately. Phoebe stayed close, one hand still at his waist, the other already busy—her eyes scanning the area with intent.

Okay. Options.

Shade versus sun. Proximity to foot traffic. A table close enough to feel alive but not so close someone would knock into her elbow mid-bite. Visual interest mattered—string lights, painted panels, a pop of color behind them. She clocked a low concrete wall with faded murals. A cluster of picnic tables half in shade. A patch of grass near a palm where people were sitting cross-legged like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She narrowed it down quickly.

Too crowded. Too flat. Too much trash in the background. Oh—maybe that one.

Her mouth tilted, already imagining it: tacos in hand, salt on the rims of sweating cups, dust on boots, music bleeding in from somewhere just out of frame. Comfortable. Real. Good light.

She tugged gently at his hand, excitement humming just under her skin.

“Okay,” she said, decisive but soft, eyes still tracking the space she’d chosen. “I think I see it.”

She leaned in close, voice lower now, playful and conspiratorial.

“Trust me,” she added, smiling. “This is a good spot.”

And then she waited—patient for once—while the air filled with the sound of sizzling meat and her anticipation settled into something warm and satisfied in her chest.

Phoebe stayed where she was, shoulder still angled toward him, eyes tracking the cook as the order came together—tortillas warming, meat hitting the grill again, lime wedges getting tossed onto a tray. The smells layered until it was almost cruel.

When their food was ready, Jax stepped forward to collect it, moving with that same quiet efficiency—four tacos wrapped in paper, two sweating cups clinking together, salt already melting at the rims. He balanced everything easily, like this was nothing new.

She watched him for half a second longer than necessary.
God, she was lucky.

They walked the few steps to the spot she’d clocked earlier—the low wall with the faded mural and just enough shade to make sitting feel like a choice instead of a punishment. He set everything down carefully, making space for her first without being asked.

Phoebe smiled, pleased. Vindicated.

“Perfect,” she said, slipping in close again, hip brushing his as she leaned down to look at the tacos like they were art. She inhaled once, deeply, then finally looked up at him.

“Okay,” she added, sweet and casual, holding out her hand.
“Phone, please.”

Not rushed. Not distracted. Just a gentle request—like everything else she did with him.

Her eyes flicked from his face to the food and back again, grin already forming.

“I promise,” she said lightly, “this is strictly tacos first.”

[Jackson Hawthorne]

Jax felt the shift too—the moment waiting tipped into action. The air got thicker, hotter, closer. Grill smoke rolled toward them in slow curls, carrying the sharp bite of lime and fat and fire. He shifted his stance, grounding himself, one hand settling instinctively at her waist as they edged forward.

When she said everyone was feral, he huffed a low laugh, eyes tracking the same guy she was watching—the confident Spanish dissolving into panic in real time.

“Yeah,” he murmured, fond. “This is what happens when people get hungry and optimistic at the same time.”

They moved closer, heat pressing in, metal clanging. Without thinking, he stepped half a pace forward, putting himself between her and the counter—no drama, no show. Just space management. He felt her behind his shoulder and liked it there.

Ordering came easy. Point. Nod. Confirm. He asked for extra lime, checked spice levels, added drinks. Card out. Tap. Wallet away. Done. When they stepped aside and the line swallowed their spot, he glanced down at her smile and shook his head, amused.

“Handled,” he said quietly, like it was nothing—because it was.

He let her keep her hand at his waist while she scoped the area, eyes sharp, cataloging angles and light and foot traffic. He followed her gaze as she assessed shade versus sun, murals versus picnic tables, people sitting cross-legged like the ground was a friend.

When she tugged his hand and said she saw it, he leaned in a touch, trusting her without needing to see it yet.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m in.”

At her conspiratorial trust me, his mouth curved.

“I do,” he replied simply.

They waited, the sizzle turning louder as tortillas warmed and meat hit the grill again. His stomach growled; he ignored it, content to watch her anticipation bloom. When the cook called their order, he stepped forward, took the tray—four tacos wrapped tight, paper warm through his fingers, two cold cups clinking with a wet, promising sound. Salt already melting at the rims. Margarita sweat beading and running.

He balanced it all without thinking, turned back to her, caught her watching him. He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary.

“Lucky’s mutual,” he said softly.

At the low wall with the faded mural, he set everything down carefully, clearing space first—tacos centered, drinks to the side, napkins tucked where they wouldn’t blow away. He waited until she was settled before pulling one taco toward himself.

When she said perfect, he nodded, pleased.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You nailed it.”

He lifted his taco, inhaled once—citrus, spice, smoke—then took a solid first bite. Tortilla gave, meat hot and juicy. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and reached for the margarita, salt catching on his lip as he took a long pull. Cold. Sharp. Relief.

At phone, please, he paused mid-reach for taco number two. Looked at her. Then smiled.

“Okay,” he said, easy.

He slipped the phone from his pocket and placed it gently into her open palm, deliberate. No rush. No hesitation.

When she promised tacos first, he chuckled, lifted his drink in a small toast.

“Good,” he said. “Because this”—he gestured with his taco, then took another bite, chewed, swallowed—“is exactly where my attention is.”

He leaned in beside her, hip brushing hers, content and sun-warm and fed.

“Tacos first,” he repeated. “Everything else can wait.”

spice settle before he swallowed. He wiped his thumb against a napkin, then leaned his hip back against the low wall, angling his body toward her so he wasn’t blocking the light or the space she’d so carefully chosen.

He took a sip of the margarita—longer than necessary—salt catching again, cold cutting through the heat. When he set it down, he glanced at her, eyes thoughtful now, less amused and more… present.

“Hey,” he said, easy, not heavy. Just opening a door.
“Can I ask you somethin’?”

He waited a beat—not because he needed permission, but because he liked giving her room. The crowd noise ebbed and surged behind them; someone laughed nearby, a guitar riff floated in from the Indie Tent like a promise.

He gestured vaguely with his taco, then took another bite, chewed, swallowed.

“When we’re out like this,” he continued, voice calm, grounded, “do you ever feel overwhelmed?”

He wasn’t accusing. He wasn’t testing. Just curious.

“I mean—people, moments, light, choices, finding the perfect place to record,” he added, glancing around, then back to her. “You see everything. You feel everything. Even when you’re relaxed, you’re still… aware.”

He wiped his mouth again, thoughtful, then shrugged one shoulder.

“I’m not sayin’ it like it’s bad,” he said quickly. “Just wonderin’ what it’s like inside your head when you finally stop movin’.”

He took another sip, eyes on her now, fully.

“And if the answer is ‘I don’t,’” he added with a faint smile, “that’s okay too. I just figured—tacos, shade, no mirrors—seemed like a good time to talk.”

[Phoebe Ashcroft]

Phoebe took the phone like it was nothing—like she hadn’t just been handed a loaded weapon of temptation.

And then she looked at him.

Just… looked.

Jax, leaning there sun-warm and solid, one hand around a taco like it was the simplest pleasure on earth, salt catching at the corner of his mouth when he drank. He was so quietly capable it almost made her laugh. The way he moved through things that stressed other people out—lines, crowds, logistics—like he’d been built for steadiness.

Her smile softened without permission.

God, she loved him.

She dropped her gaze before it turned too obvious, thumb brushing the edge of the phone, and then—quick as a thought—she lifted it and stole a photo.

Not of the food. Not of the mural. Not of the festival.

Of him.

Mid-bite, eyes half-lidded like he was actually enjoying himself, shoulders loose, jaw working slowly. The kind of candid she would never post. The kind that belonged in the private vault of her life—proof for herself that this was real, and sweet, and theirs.

She lowered the phone immediately, satisfied, like she’d just tucked something precious into her pocket.

Then she got to work.

Phoebe shifted angles with quiet efficiency, scooting a little, leaning forward, adjusting the cups so the condensation caught the light. She framed the tacos first—paper crinkled, lime wedges bright, salsa cups like little jewels. Then she captured the drinks, the salt rim sparkling, the coldness of it practically visible.

Jax’s plate and drink wandered into the frame sometimes on purpose, sometimes because she liked the idea of him there—an accidental background truth. A shoulder. A hand. The edge of his cup. The faint blur of his dark shirt behind her perfectly styled chaos.

Not staged. Not forced.

Just enough to say, if anyone ever wondered, she wasn’t doing this alone.

She didn’t edit. She didn’t post. She didn’t even linger.

When she’d gotten what she wanted—clean, bright, satisfying—she turned and held the phone out to him again like it was a baton being passed back.

“Okay,” she said lightly, settling the moment with a grin. “I’m done. I clocked it. I captured it. I’m present again.”

Then she sat down properly, picking up one of her spicy tacos like it was a reward. She squeezed fresh lime over it with decisive enthusiasm, the scent popping sharp in the heat, and took her first bite.

It was perfect—spicy and smoky and bright.

She chewed, swallowed, then looked up at him, eyes warm, mouth still curved from the taste and the moment.

His question sat between them, gentle and real.

Phoebe tilted her head, considering, still playful even as she answered honestly.

“Do I ever feel overwhelmed?” she echoed, like she was tasting the word.

She took another bite, slower this time, then wiped her fingers neatly on a napkin.

“Yeah,” she admitted, meeting his eyes. “Sometimes.”

Her smile flickered—soft, self-aware.

“My brain is basically a… constant slideshow,” she said, voice light enough to keep it from turning heavy. “Angles, light, what looks good, what feels good, what matters, what people will love, what I’ll love later. It’s like I’m experiencing the moment and narrating it at the same time.”

She leaned in a little, elbow on her knee, shoulders relaxed.

“But it’s not always bad,” she added quickly, because she meant it. “I love it. I love noticing things. I love making something out of it. I love telling stories.”

Then her gaze softened again, and she reached out—just briefly—touching his forearm like punctuation.

“But when I finally stop moving,” she continued, quieter now, “it’s usually because I’ve found something I don’t want to translate.”

She smiled, small and certain.

“Like this,” she said. “Shade. Tacos. You. No mirrors. No sprinting. Just… being.”

She took another bite, then lifted her brows at him, playful again.

“So yes, I get overwhelmed,” she finished. “But you make it feel… manageable. Like I can put the noise down for a second without losing who I am.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“And also,” she added, because she couldn’t resist, “tacos help. Immensely.”

[Jackson Hawthorne]

Jax watched her take the phone like it was nothing—and then watched her look at him.

Really look.

He felt it immediately. That quiet weight of attention that wasn’t performative, wasn’t rushed. Just her eyes on him while he leaned there with grease on his fingers and salt at the corner of his mouth, mid-bite, unguarded. He slowed without realizing it, chewing more deliberately, swallowing as her gaze lingered.

When she lifted the phone, he clocked it—but he didn’t tense. Didn’t straighten. Didn’t play to it. He stayed exactly where he was, back against the wall, taco in hand, eyes half-lidded from sun and spice and margarita cold. He took another bite while she snapped the photo, jaw working slowly, a muscle jumping once at his cheek.

He knew that kind of photo.

The private kind.

When she lowered the phone, satisfied, he took a drink—long, slow—letting the salt sting his lip before he wiped it with his thumb and glanced back at her, amused.

“You done stealin’ my soul?” he asked lightly, voice warm, no edge.

He stayed still while she rearranged the food, watching the way she moved—efficient but unhurried, instinctive about light and placement. He shifted just enough to give her space when she leaned in, but didn’t move out of frame when his shoulder or hand landed where she wanted it.

He liked being there. Liked being part of it without being the point.

When she handed the phone back, he took it and slid it into his pocket without even looking at the screen. Trust, plain and simple.

“Welcome back,” he said softly.

He picked up his other taco as she finally sat and took her first bite, watching the way her shoulders loosened as she chewed. He mirrored her without thinking—biting in, heat blooming, swallowing slow. The taco dripped; he caught it with the paper, wiped his fingers, took another sip of margarita.

Cold. Perfect.

He listened to her answer without interrupting. Didn’t rush her. Just stayed angled toward her, elbow resting on his knee now, body open. When she talked about the slideshow in her head, he nodded once—small, understanding.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That makes sense.”

When she touched his forearm, he covered her fingers with his hand, thumb brushing once over her knuckles, grounding both of them.

At something I don’t want to translate, his expression softened completely. No joke this time. No deflection.

“Hey,” he said, low. “That means a lot.”

He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, then set the taco down so he could look at her properly.

“I don’t ever want you feelin’ like you gotta shut that part of you off,” he added. “It’s not noise to me. It’s… how you see.”

He shrugged one shoulder, easy.

“But I’m glad I can be a place you don’t gotta explain.”

He picked his taco back up, took a decisive bite, nodded like the food had earned his respect.

“And you’re right,” he added, mouth curving as he swallowed. “Tacos are doin’ some heavy liftin’ here.”

He leaned back against the wall again, sun on his shoulders, crowd noise humming around them, and looked at her like he wasn’t anywhere else.

“You don’t lose who you are when you slow down,” he said. “You just let someone keep pace with you.”

He raised his cup slightly in a lazy toast.

“To shade. To tacos. To not runnin’.”

Then, softer—meant only for her—

“And to moments that don’t need proof.”

Jax let the toast linger for half a second longer than necessary before setting the cup down carefully beside them. Condensation slid down the plastic and darkened the concrete; he absently nudged it away with his knuckle so it wouldn’t drip onto her knee.

He looked at her again—really looked this time.

The way the spice had warmed her cheeks. The way she was relaxed now, shoulders loose, taco half-wrapped in paper like she had nowhere else to be. The way her eyes stayed on him, open and present, no hurry behind them.

Something in his chest eased. Settled.

He reached up, slow and unannounced, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth where a dot of salsa had escaped. Not wiping it away immediately—just touching, grounding himself in the fact that she was right here.

“C’mere,” he murmured, low and unassuming.

He leaned in and kissed her.

Not rushed. Not performative. Just warm and steady, like everything else he did. His hand slid to her jaw, thumb resting gentle at her cheek as the kiss lingered—uncomplicated, sure, meant only for the two of them. The kind of kiss that didn’t interrupt the moment so much as seal it.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, breath warm, smile soft.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This is it.”

Then, because he was still himself, he pressed another quick kiss to her lips—lighter this time—and nodded toward the tacos.

“Finish your food,” he added fondly. “I’m not carryin’ you if you get weak from neglectin’ tacos.”

He picked his own back up, took another bite, and stayed right there beside her—content, full, and exactly where he wanted to be.

[Phoebe Ashcroft]

Phoebe lifted her cup when he did, the plastic cool and slick in her fingers, salt already clinging to her skin. She clinked it lightly against his—soft, just for them—and took a long drink.

Cold hit first. Then citrus. Then the slow bloom of alcohol that settled warm in her chest.

“Mmm,” she hummed, pleased, before setting it down carefully and reaching back for her taco like she’d been instructed. Obedient, technically. Smiling about it.

She leaned into his kiss without hesitation—always did. She loved his kisses. Loved how unhurried they were, how he kissed like he had nowhere else to be and nothing to prove. She let herself melt into it, lips soft, shoulders loosening further, the world narrowing to the press of his mouth and the warmth of his hand at her jaw.

When he pulled back and told her to finish her food, she laughed quietly against his lips.

“Yes, sir,” she teased, already biting back into her taco.

She ate deliberately now—another bite, then another—spice blooming across her tongue, lime sharp enough to make her eyes brighten. She chewed, swallowed, glanced sideways at him with a grin that said she was very much enjoying being right where she was.

“You know,” she said casually, like the thought had just occurred to her, “I feel like tacos are the most honest food.”

She gestured with it slightly, careful not to spill.

“No pretending. No elegance. Just… you commit or you don’t.”

She took another bite to prove her point.

When she finished the first taco, she didn’t hesitate. She reached for the second, took one decisive bite—claiming it—and then, just as naturally, held the plate out toward him.

“Here,” she said simply, meeting his eyes. “I told you I’d share.”

Her smile was soft but sure. Not performative. Not teasing this time.

She waited for him to take it, content, sun-warm, completely present—already knowing she’d keep her word every time that mattered.

[Jackson Hawthorne]

Jax lifted his cup to meet hers, the plastic tapping soft when she clinked it against his. He watched her take that long drink—saw the way her shoulders eased when the cold hit, the tiny pleased hum that slipped out of her.

He smiled into his own sip, the margarita biting sharp and salty before smoothing out in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “That’s the good stuff.”

He set his cup down beside hers, close enough that the condensation rings almost touched, and watched her reach for her taco like she’d been ordered to duty. The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Look at you,” he teased. “Followin’ instructions.”

When she leaned into his kiss again, he met her halfway, easy and unhurried. His thumb rested warm at her jaw, his other hand steady at her side. He kissed her like he always did—no rush, no show—just present. When she laughed and called him sir, he huffed a quiet laugh against her mouth.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re gonna make it weird.”

He leaned back just enough to watch her take another bite, the spice making her eyes brighten. He picked up his own taco, took a solid bite, chewed slow, swallowed. A drip of salsa slid toward his knuckle; he caught it with the wrapper and wiped his fingers on a napkin.

At her taco philosophy, he snorted softly.

“Honest food,” he repeated. “I like that.”

He nodded toward her taco.

“You’re right, though. No posturin’. You show up or you don’t.”

He took another bite to demonstrate, chewing, swallowing, then lifting his brows at her like case in point.

When she finished the first taco and immediately claimed the second, he laughed.

“Damn,” he said. “No recovery time. Respect.”

Then she held the plate out to him.

He paused for half a second—met her eyes, saw the sincerity there—and his smile softened.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You did.”

He took the plate from her hand, fingers brushing hers on purpose, and tore off a careful bite from the edge. The tortilla gave, meat hot and smoky. He chewed slow, swallowed, nodded like he was acknowledging a promise kept.

“Good,” he added, handing the plate back. “Still spicy.”

He took a sip of his drink, wiped his mouth with his thumb, then glanced at her, sun catching in his eyes.

“See?” he said. “You’re reliable.”

Then, softer—

“That’s my favorite kind.”

Jax took another bite from his own taco, slower now that the edge of hunger had eased. He chewed, swallowed, then leaned his shoulder back into the mural, one boot braced against the concrete like he had all the time in the world.

He glanced at her, eyes warm, a little amused, a little thoughtful.

“You know,” he said casually, wiping his fingers on a napkin, “you ever think about what you’d be doin’ if you weren’t… all this?”

He gestured loosely with the napkin—at the festival, the food, the way she curated moments without even trying.

“Like if none of this existed,” he continued, voice easy. “No feeds. No cameras. No people waitin’ to see what you see.”

He picked up his drink, took a small sip, then set it down again, attention back on her.

“What do you think you’d chase instead?”

[Phoebe Ashcroft]

Phoebe watched him take that careful bite like it mattered—because it did. Not the taco itself, but the way he accepted it. The pause. The brush of fingers. The quiet acknowledgment that she’d meant what she said.

Her smile lingered as she took the plate back, warmth spreading in her chest that had nothing to do with the margarita. She leaned her shoulder into his, easy and familiar, reclaiming her second taco like it had been patiently waiting for her.

“Reliable,” she repeated, amused. “I’ll add it to my résumé.”

She took another bite, slower now, savoring it. The spice still hit, but it was comfortable—expected. She chewed, swallowed, then tilted her head to look at him properly when he asked the question.

It wasn’t a loaded question. That’s what made her pause.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she lifted her drink again and took a smaller sip this time, eyes drifting briefly to the crowd beyond them. People moving in loose clusters. Laughter. Music bleeding in from somewhere distant. Life happening without any obligation to be documented.

She swallowed, thoughtful.

“I think about it sometimes,” she admitted finally, voice light but honest. “Not in a regret way. Just a… curiosity way.”

She wiped her fingers neatly on a napkin, then shrugged one shoulder, relaxed.

“I think I’d still chase moments,” she said. “Just quieter ones. I’d still notice things. Probably annoy people by pointing them out.”

She glanced back at him, smile curling.

“I’d be that girl who drags her friends to weird little spots because the light’s good or the energy feels right, even if there’s no reason to explain it.”

She took another bite, then added, softer—

“I don’t think the instinct goes away. I just wouldn’t be packaging it.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to their feet, then lifted again, playful warmth returning.

“Honestly?” she said. “I’d probably still end up doing something creative. Maybe not public. Maybe just… for me. For whoever was close enough to see it.”

She nudged his knee gently with hers.

“And I’d still want someone around who doesn’t need the translation,” she added, eyes bright. “Someone who lets things be what they are.”

She leaned in, bumping his shoulder again, teasing the seriousness away.

“So don’t worry,” she finished lightly. “Even if all the feeds disappeared tomorrow, I’d still find something to chase.”

Her smile softened, certain.

“I’d just do it barefoot more.”

[Jackson Hawthorne]

Jax listened without interrupting.

He leaned there against the wall, one shoulder pressed into the faded mural, taco cooling slightly in his hand as her words landed one by one. He nodded as she spoke—not exaggerated, just small movements, like each thought clicked into place exactly where he expected it to.

When she said reliable, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It fits.”

He took another bite while she talked, slower now, chewing thoughtfully, swallowing before she finished her sentence—like he didn’t want the distraction of food when she got to the part that mattered. He wiped his fingers on the napkin and folded it once, twice, listening.

At quieter moments, he nodded again.

“Makes sense,” he said. “You don’t chase noise. You chase feelin’.”

When she described dragging friends to places with good light or energy, he huffed a quiet laugh.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I can picture that exactly. And I don’t think anyone would complain. Even if they pretended to.”

He watched her eyes flick back to him, that soft certainty there, and something in his chest settled deeper.

When she said she wouldn’t package it, just be, he exhaled slowly through his nose.

“That part?” he said. “That’s the real you.”

She nudged his knee and he bumped it back, easy, grounding.

“And for the record,” he added, voice low and sure, “you’re right. The instinct doesn’t go away. It’s just… who you are.”

He reached for his drink, took a measured sip, then set it down again, attention never leaving her.

At someone who doesn’t need the translation, he nodded once more—firmer this time.

“I like that job,” he said simply. “Not askin’ questions. Not explainin’ it to death. Just showin’ up.”

He shifted closer, forearm brushing hers, the crowd noise fading into background hum.

“And barefoot?” he added, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “I can work with that.”

He glanced around—sun, dust, music, half-eaten tacos—and then back at her.

“Whatever you’re chasin’,” he said, calm and steady, “I don’t see you runnin’ alone.”

Then, softer—meant only for her—

“And I’m good keepin’ pace.”

[Phoebe Ashcroft]

Phoebe felt the I’m good keepin’ pace settle on her skin like warmth.

For half a second, she let it.

She held his gaze, taco in hand, eyes bright with that quiet, pleased kind of affection—like she’d just won something without having to fight for it. She took a bite, chewed slowly, and let herself enjoy the fact that he meant what he said.

Then her mouth curved.

“Oh?” she said, tone dangerously sweet. “You’re good keeping pace.”

She swallowed, dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder into his again—an affectionate little shove that said brace yourself.

“Okay,” she continued, eyes sparkling. “Prove it.”

And then she changed lanes so hard it should’ve come with a warning sign.

She sat up straighter, like she’d just remembered something urgent, and pointed her taco at him like it was a microphone.

“Important question,” she announced. “If you were a festival food truck menu item, what would you be?”

She didn’t even let him answer—she never did when she was feeling playful and fully fed.

“Actually no, wait. Don’t answer yet,” she said quickly, holding up her napkin like a stop sign. “Because I need you to understand that there are only two acceptable categories: hot and intimidating or surprisingly sweet.”

She took another bite, eyes never leaving his.

“You’re not allowed to be boring,” she added, dead serious in the most unserious way. “Like, you can’t be ‘plain fries.’ I refuse.”

Phoebe chewed thoughtfully, then kept going as if this was the most reasonable conversation in the world.

“Also,” she said, as if she’d just reached the main point, “if someone offered me fifty dollars to switch outfits with a stranger right now, would you stop me?”

Her brows lifted. Her tone was pure mischief.

“Because I’m not saying I would,” she lied immediately, “I’m just saying… it’s an interesting moral experiment.”

She leaned back against the wall beside him, hip angled into his, and took a sip of her margarita like she wasn’t actively testing his ability to keep up.

Then she looked at his taco, then at him, then back at his taco.

“And another thing,” she added, voice dropping like she was sharing a secret. “If I challenge you to a slow-motion race across the grass later, are you going to pretend you’re too cool for it or are you going to actually commit?”

She smiled, shameless.

“Because I need to know if I’m dating a man with range.”

Phoebe took one more bite of her taco, then held her napkin out in a tiny flourish like she was presenting a stage.

“Okay,” she said, eyes bright, fully amused. “Your turn.”

And she watched him, pleased as anything, waiting to see if he could keep pace with her chaos—because deep down, she already knew he could.

[Jackson Hawthorne]

Jax watched the shift happen in real time.

The way her eyes lit. The way the warmth flipped into challenge. He didn’t move away when she bumped his shoulder—just absorbed it, steady as ever, a low laugh already sitting in his chest.

“Oh, I knew there was a catch,” he said, nodding slowly. “Anytime you say somethin’ sweet, there’s a test right behind it.”

He took another bite of his taco while she started in, chewing deliberately, eyes never leaving her face. He swallowed just as she pointed her taco at him like a mic, brows lifting in mock attention.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m listenin’.”

When she laid out the food-truck rules, he leaned back against the wall beside her, one boot crossing over the other, posture loose but engaged. He wiped his fingers on the napkin, thinking—not stalling, just enjoying the game.

“First of all,” he said, holding up a finger, “I appreciate the categories. Very fair. Very curated.”

He glanced down at himself, then back up at her.

“I’m not plain fries,” he agreed. “That’s disrespectful.”

He took a breath, decided.

“I’m… spicy chicken sandwich,” he said finally. “Looks intimidatin’. Comes with heat warnings. But there’s honey on it and nobody expects that.”

His mouth curved.

“Surprisingly sweet,” he added. “Still dangerous.”

When she hit him with the outfit-switch hypothetical, he snorted, shaking his head.

“Fifty dollars?” he repeated. “Absolutely not enough money for whatever chaos you’re plannin’.”

He leaned closer, voice lower, amused.

“I wouldn’t stop you,” he admitted. “But I would stand there with my arms crossed and say ‘this is a terrible idea’ while fully supportin’ it.”

He watched her sip her margarita like she wasn’t actively trying to derail him, eyes tracking the way the salt caught the light.

At the slow-motion race question, he laughed—real, unguarded.

“Oh, I’m commitin’,” he said immediately. “No hesitation. Full send. Arms flailin’. Sound effects if necessary.”

He nudged her hip with his.

“I’m not cool,” he added. “I’m competitive and dramatic.”

When she looked at his taco like it was the next target, he raised it slightly out of reach, protective.

“Hey,” he warned. “You already shared. Don’t get greedy.”

She presented the napkin like a stage and he straightened a fraction, like he was stepping into the spotlight.

“Okay,” he said, meeting her eyes, grin slow and sure. “My turn.”

He leaned in, close enough that his shoulder pressed into hers, voice warm.

“If I win the slow-motion race,” he continued, “you gotta admit—out loud—that I kept pace.”

A beat.

“And if you win,” he added, “I’ll buy whatever ridiculous festival thing you point at next. No questions. No complaints.”

He lifted his margarita in a small salute.

“Range,” he said. “Confirmed.”

Then, softer—just for her—

“And yeah,” he finished. “I can keep up with your chaos. Long as you promise not to sprint away from the good parts.”

He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, eyes still on her.

“Your move.”

[Phoebe Ashcroft]

Phoebe didn’t interrupt him once.

Not because she couldn’t—because she didn’t need to.

She watched.

Really watched.

The way he thought before answering, not to stall but because he liked getting it right. The way his posture stayed loose even when he leaned in, like none of this rattled him. The way his mouth curved when he landed on an answer he knew she’d appreciate.

Spicy chicken sandwich.

Her lips pressed together, eyes narrowing in exaggerated assessment. She nodded slowly, conceding the point.

“Okay,” she said, impressed despite herself. “That’s… annoyingly accurate.”

Honey. Heat warnings. Still dangerous.

She hummed, pleased, and took another bite of her taco like punctuation.

When he talked about the outfit-switch chaos, she laughed into her drink, shaking her head. Arms crossed. Full support. Mild verbal disapproval.

“Exactly the correct response,” she said. “Ten out of ten boyfriending.”

At the slow-motion race, her grin went feral.

Sound effects?

“Oh, you’re done,” she told him lightly. “You just guaranteed I’m winning because you’ll be too committed to the performance.”

Then he lifted his taco away from her like she was a threat and called her greedy.

Greedy.

Phoebe stared at the taco. Then at him.

She blinked once. Slowly.

“Greedy?” she repeated, incredulous and amused. “I shared my taco with you. Generously. Spiritually.”

She leaned closer, eyes flicking pointedly to his plate, then back up to his face.

“You, on the other hand,” she continued, faux-thoughtful, “have shared nothing.”

She didn’t reach for it. Didn’t actually want it. This wasn’t about theft.

This was reconnaissance.

She assessed the remaining taco in his hand, the one on his plate, the pace of his bites. The way he chewed. The way hunger was already easing from his shoulders.

She nodded to herself, satisfied.

“Okay,” she said, like she’d reached a conclusion only she understood. “Good. You’ll have room.”

When he laid out the race terms, she listened—head tilted, eyes bright, absorbing it all without interrupting.

Admit he kept pace.

Buy whatever ridiculous festival thing she pointed at.

Her smile softened—not because of the deal, but because of the confidence underneath it. He wasn’t worried about proving anything. He just liked playing with her.

She lifted her margarita in response to his toast, clinking it gently against his.

“Range confirmed,” she echoed.

Then he said it—about not sprinting away from the good parts—and something warm and knowing settled in her chest.

Phoebe leaned in, pressing a brief kiss to his shoulder, affectionate and unshowy. She didn’t linger. Didn’t make it a moment.

Just acknowledgment.

“I’m not running,” she said easily, certain. “I was just checking your stride.”

She took one last bite of her taco, content, then glanced at the rest of it on her plate. Without ceremony, she lifted it and held it out toward him.

“Here,” she added simply. “You can finish it.”

Her grin turned soft, fond—no teasing now, just ease.

She gestured between them with her napkin, playful and sure.

“And don’t worry,” she finished. “You haven’t lost it.”

Still right there.

[Jackson Hawthorne]

Jax stayed quiet while she watched him.

Not because he felt put on the spot—because he didn’t. He just let her look. Let her take him in the way she did when she was cataloging something she liked. He took another bite while she assessed the spicy chicken sandwich verdict, chewed slow, swallowed, eyes on her the whole time.

When she finally nodded and called it annoyingly accurate, his mouth tipped into a satisfied half-smile.

“Yeah,” he said calmly. “I knew you’d get there.”

At the ten out of ten boyfriending comment, he snorted under his breath and lifted his drink for a small, lazy sip.

“I do my best,” he replied. “Low expectations. High follow-through.”

When she declared him done because of sound effects, he laughed—full, unguarded—shoulders shaking once before he caught himself.

“Worth it,” he said immediately. “I’ll lose with dignity and jazz hands.”

Then she said greedy back to him like it was a personal accusation.

He paused mid-bite.

Slowly lowered the taco.

Looked at her.

“Spiritually?” he repeated, deadpan. “Wow. Didn’t realize I was dealin’ with taco ethics.”

He followed her gaze as she inspected his remaining food like she was running numbers in her head, clocking his bite rhythm, the fact that he’d slowed down. He let her do it, amused, patient, absolutely unbothered.

When she announced you’ll have room, he nodded once.

“Always do,” he said. “Good logistics.”

He listened to her react to the deal—really listened. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush the moment. When she clinked her cup to his and echoed range confirmed, he met it easily, glass tapping soft.

“Confirmed,” he agreed.

When she kissed his shoulder, brief and unshowy, his expression softened without him trying to stop it. He shifted slightly closer, like his body answered before his words did.

“I know,” he said quietly when she said she wasn’t running. “I can tell.”

Then she held out the rest of her taco.

He blinked once—surprised, but not hesitant.

He took it from her carefully, fingers brushing hers, respectful of the offer. Took a smaller bite this time, chewed, swallowed, nodded like he was acknowledging something bigger than food.

“Thanks,” he said simply. “That’s good.”

He finished it without rushing, wiped his hands on the napkin, then leaned back against the wall again, relaxed, fed, present.

At you haven’t lost it, he looked at her directly.

“Didn’t think I had,” he replied, steady. “But I appreciate the check-in.”

He nudged her knee gently with his own.

“So,” he continued, picking up the thread like it was the most natural thing in the world, “we’ve got a slow-motion race to schedule, loud guitars waitin’, and at least one ridiculous festival purchase with your name on it.”

His mouth curved, warm and certain.

“What’s next on the agenda, Ashcroft?”

[Phoebe Ashcroft]

Phoebe loved him most in moments like this—when he wasn’t trying to be anything except exactly what he was.

Steady. Present. Unbothered by her chaos, but fluent in it anyway.

She watched him take the taco from her hands like it was an offering instead of a joke. The way his fingers brushed hers—careful, grateful. The way he took a smaller bite than he needed to, like he understood it wasn’t about hunger. It was about her. About sharing because she meant it. About letting him have room in the moment the same way she’d already decided he’d have room in his stomach.

When he ate the rest without rushing, something soft pulled at the center of her chest.

She pretended she didn’t feel it.

She let him finish, let him wipe his hands, let him lean back against the mural like he had nowhere else to be. Like he hadn’t spent the last hour letting her lead, letting her test him, letting her be loud without making her feel like too much.

When he looked at her and said he didn’t think he’d lost it, Phoebe’s grin turned slow and satisfied.

“I know you didn’t,” she said, tone easy. “But I’ve been known to do routine maintenance.”

She took a sip of her margarita, eyes never leaving his, then set it down with deliberate care. Her knee bumped his when he nudged her, and she angled her body a little closer without thinking—hip to hip, the kind of closeness that didn’t ask for permission because it was already theirs.

Then he said her last name.

Ashcroft.

Like a challenge. Like a tease. Like he enjoyed the way it sounded on his tongue when he wasn’t in a room full of people who expected him to be made of stone.

Phoebe lifted her brows, mock-considering the “agenda” like she had a clipboard somewhere.

“Okay,” she said, thoughtful in the most unserious way. “Agenda review.”

She ticked points off on her fingers.

“Slow-motion race: yes. Loud guitars: yes. Ridiculous festival purchase: absolutely yes—because you said no questions, and I will be exploiting that clause.”

Her eyes sparkled, but her voice softened a notch when she looked at him again—warm underneath the mischief.

“And food truck recovery,” she added. “Successful. No casualties. Minor emotional damage to your ego courtesy of a mirror.”

She leaned in and kissed him quickly—light, easy, like a checkmark on the list. Not to perform it. Just because she wanted to.

Then she pulled back, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“What’s next,” she echoed, and let the pause stretch just long enough to be dramatic.

Phoebe tipped her head toward the direction of the Indie Tent, where the sound of a guitar riff floated faintly on the air like an invitation.

“Next,” she decided, “we go find the loud guitars.”

Her hand slid into his, fingers lacing like it was automatic.

“And after that,” she added, eyes bright with promise, “I’m making you race me in slow motion in public. In full daylight. In front of strangers.”

She gave his hand a squeeze, delighted.

“Because if you’re keeping pace,” she said, playful and sure, “I’m gonna give you something worth keeping up with.”

And with that, she tugged him up off the wall—already moving, already leading—sun on their shoulders and salt still on their lips, like the whole festival was just a backdrop to the fact that he always followed.

[Jackson Hawthorne]

Jax let her watch him without rushing to fill the space.

He finished wiping his hands, folded the napkin once out of habit, then glanced at her when she talked about routine maintenance. His mouth curved, slow and knowing.

“Good,” he said. “I could use the tune-ups. Keeps me sharp.”

He noticed the way she stayed close—hip to hip, knee brushing his—and he shifted just enough to meet her there instead of pulling away. Comfortable. Claimed. When she took that careful sip and set the cup down like it mattered, he tracked it, amused by how intentional she was even in the smallest things.

When she reacted to him using her last name, he tipped his head, eyes warm.

“Yeah,” he said lightly. “I like sayin’ it. Feels… solid.”

At her very serious agenda review, he nodded along like she really did have a clipboard somewhere.

“Slow-motion race?” he confirmed.
“Loud guitars?” another nod.
“Ridiculous purchase with no questions?” He sighed once, dramatic but willing. “That one’s on me. I said what I said.”

When she assessed the food truck recovery and mentioned his ego, he scoffed quietly.

“Hey,” he said. “My ego’s fine. Just lightly bruised. Spiritually.”

Her quick kiss caught him off guard in the best way. He smiled after it, lingering in the moment even when she pulled back, like he didn’t need more to know it counted.

When she echoed what’s next and let the pause stretch, he waited—patient, entertained, already certain he wasn’t going to argue with whatever she picked.

At loud guitars, he nodded once, decisive.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the right call.”

Her hand slid into his and his fingers laced back immediately, grip steady, familiar. When she promised the slow-motion race in public, daylight, strangers and all, he laughed—low, genuine.

“In front of people?” he asked. “You really don’t care.”

But there was no hesitation in him. Just acceptance. Just readiness.

When she said something worth keeping up with, he looked at her—really looked—sunlight catching the salt still at the edge of her mouth, mischief and warmth balanced perfectly.

“I know,” he said quietly. “You always do.”

He let her tug him up, feet finding the ground without resistance, body turning naturally in the direction she’d chosen. Before they took more than a step, he squeezed her hand once and leaned in just enough that only she could hear him.

“For the record,” he said, calm and sure, “I’d follow you anywhere.”

A beat. A small, crooked smile.

“Even off a cliff.”

Then he nodded—once, final—and went with her toward the music like there was never any other option.