Ben stared at her, his mouth hanging open in a caricature of shock. He slowly lowered his water glass to the table.

"Thirty?" he repeated, his voice rising in pitch. "Did you just drop the big three-oh on me? That is ageism. That is a hate crime. You are hate-criming me in my own rental cabin while eating my butter-pasta."

He shook his head, looking deeply, theatrically wounded.

"For your information, thirty is the prime of a man's life. My reflexes are razor sharp. My wisdom is boundless. And my knees only click sometimes when it rains. You should be intimidated."

He pointed a finger at her when she brought up Toad.

"And do not come for Toad. Toad is an icon. He drives a shoe. He screams constantly. He is small, chaotic, and vaguely shaped like a fungus. He is my spirit animal, and I will not hear a word of slander against him."

He watched her finish her water, loving the way the firelight caught the mischief in her eyes. She was roasting him, and he was eating it up. She looked comfortable. She looked happy. She looked like she belonged here, sitting across from him in oversized knitwear, threatening to destroy him at video games.

When she mentioned the "spiritual win," he scoffed, grabbing his napkin and tossing it onto the table like a gauntlet.

"Manifestation isn't going to save you from a Red Shell, babe," he warned, standing up. "You can’t 'vibes' your way into first place. I’m going to destroy you. It’s going to be ugly. I might make you cry."

He walked around the table, but instead of heading for the kitchen, he stopped behind her chair. He leaned down, wrapping his arms loosely around her shoulders from behind, burying his nose in the crook of her neck for a brief, warm second.

"But I love that you have hope," he murmured against her skin, pressing a kiss to her pulse point. "It’s cute. Misguided, but cute."

He pulled back, swiping her empty bowl before she could protest.

"Go," he ordered, jerking his chin toward the living room. "Pick the movie. Set up the laptop. Fire up the console. I’ll handle the dishes."

He started stacking the bowls, balancing the forks on top with practiced ease.

"If I let you help clean up, you’ll try to make a mosaic out of the leftover noodles, and I want to be watching Frozen—or whatever snowman propaganda you choose—within the next ten minutes. Chop chop."

Cleo burst out laughing at his dramatic outrage, nearly snorting as she pushed her chair back.

“Thirty,” she repeated sweetly, batting her lashes at him. “Ancient. Fossilized. Practically a museum exhibit. I’m shocked you’re still allowed to operate heavy machinery.”

She pointed her fork at him when he went off about Toad, trying not to laugh.

“I’m not slandering him,” she defended, grinning. “I’m just saying… if your spirit animal drives a shoe and screams for a living, that explains so much about you.”

When he stood and started issuing threats about Red Shells, she rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Manifestation absolutely works,” she shot back. “You’re just afraid of my spiritual alignment with Mario Kart destiny.”

Then he leaned down behind her, arms around her shoulders, and her whole body softened despite herself. She closed her eyes for a second, smiling when he buried his face into her neck.

“Rude,” she murmured when he called her hope misguided. “But noted.”

She made a face when he stole her bowl.

“Hey! I was emotionally attached to that pasta,” she protested, laughing. “Fine, fine. Domestic king, go do your dishes.”

She stood, stretching her arms over her head.

“Don’t flood the kitchen,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m trusting you.”

She padded down the short hallway to the bedroom and dug through one of her suitcases, unzipping pockets until she found her laptop tucked inside a soft sleeve. She grabbed it, then hesitated, scanning the room before scooping up her charger too—because she knew better.

Back in the living room, she dropped onto her knees in front of the coffee table and carefully set the laptop down, flipping it open and plugging it in. The fire crackled behind her, throwing warm light across the screen as it booted up.

She glanced at the leather couch and immediately wrinkled her nose.

“Nope,” she muttered.

She grabbed two pillows from the corner, fluffing them dramatically, then dragged the thick knit blanket off the armrest and spread it carefully across the cushions like she was preparing a sacred nest.

“I hate leather,” she said aloud to no one, smoothing it out. “It sticks. It squeaks. It judges you.”

Once the couch was sufficiently fortified, she climbed up, tucking her legs under herself and arranging the pillows behind her back. She pulled the blanket over her lap, instantly more relaxed.

From the living room, she called toward the kitchen,
“Okay! Tech setup is happening! You have approximately eight minutes before I choose something aggressively sad or animated.”

She clicked through streaming apps, already smiling to herself.

“Also,” she added, glancing toward the doorway, “I am winning Mario Kart tonight. Start emotionally preparing.”

Ben scrubbed the last bit of orange sauce from the pot with a speed and efficiency that honestly deserved an award.

"Domestic King?" he muttered to the faucet, rinsing the suds away. "I prefer Domestic Deity, thank you very much. I am a god of sanitation."

He dried his hands on the dish towel, tossing it onto the counter, and turned off the kitchen light, plunging the room into shadow and leaving only the warm, flickering glow from the living room fireplace.

He walked in just as she announced the eight-minute warning.

He paused, taking in the scene. She had effectively declared war on the leather couch, burying it under a mountain of knitwear and fluff until it looked less like furniture and more like a soft, fortified bunker.

"I heard 'aggressively sad,'" he announced, stepping over the back of the couch to drop down onto the cushion beside her, purposely collapsing onto the nest she’d built. "And I am issuing a preemptive veto. If I hear the opening notes of Up, I am leaving. I cannot handle the balloon house tonight. My heart is too fragile."

He wiggled into the space next to her, nudging her hip with his own until she made room.
"And you’re right about the leather," he agreed, settling back and stretching his arm out along the top of the pillows behind her head. "Leather couches are narcs. You move one inch and they make a noise that sounds like a fart, and then you have to spend the next ten minutes explaining physics to your guests. It’s humiliating."

He glanced at the laptop screen, then down at her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"As for Mario Kart," he said, reaching out to pluck the controller from the coffee table and weighing it in his hand like a weapon. "I admire your confidence. Truly. It’s inspiring to see someone so wrong be so loud about it."

He raised an eyebrow, challenging her.

"But here’s the deal. If I win—which I will—you have to wear the 'I Lost' crown. Which is just a paper plate I’m going to draw a sad face on. And you have to wear it for the duration of the movie."

He leaned in, eyes dancing with mischief.

"But if you win... I’ll admit that thirty is ancient. I’ll start walking with a cane. I’ll yell at kids to get off my lawn. I’ll start listening to talk radio."

He nudged her shoulder.

"Deal?"

Cleo didn’t answer him right away.

She just turned her head—slowly, deliberately—until she was looking at him in full. Firelight flickered across her face, catching in her eyes, warming the curve of her cheek. For a half second she looked genuinely stunned, like she was trying to confirm she’d heard him correctly.

“The I Lost crown?” she repeated, very quietly.

Her hand lifted to her chest in reflex, fingers splaying dramatically over the space where pearls absolutely were not—but should have been, frankly, for a moment of this magnitude.

She stared at him like he’d just insulted her entire bloodline.

“A paper plate,” she went on, voice hushed with disbelief. “With a sad face. In a rented cabin. Surrounded by pine trees and rustic dignity.”

She inhaled once. Sharply.

“No.”

Flat. Clean. Immediate.

She shook her head—once, firm and unmistakable. Then again, smaller, like she was sealing the decision shut.

“No crown. No labeling. No humiliation rituals while I’m trying to enjoy nature-adjacent healing.”

She turned away from him without ceremony, leaning forward to reclaim the laptop sitting on the coffee table. The wood creaked softly beneath her as she shifted, the cabin settling around them—the low crackle of the fire, the faint wind brushing the windows, the deep quiet that only came from being far away from everything.

Her fingers skimmed the trackpad. Scroll. Click.

The screen filled with dense green jungle and ominous drums.

Anaconda.

Jennifer Lopez appeared, glossy and determined and deeply serious about a very unserious situation.

Cleo let out a soft chuckle as she leaned back into the blanket bunker, tugging a thick knit throw up around her waist. The leather couch sighed beneath them, muffled by layers of wool and fleece.

“This one’s a guilty pleasure,” she admitted, unashamed, eyes fixed on the screen. “I know it’s ridiculous. I know the snake is basically a cryptid. But it’s comforting.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, a small smile playing at her mouth.

“There’s something very soothing about bad CGI, rainforest chaos, and Jennifer Lopez refusing to die.”

She settled in deeper, shoulder brushing his, the warmth of the fire and the cabin closing in around them like a held breath.

“And for the record,” she added lightly, as the jungle rain began to fall onscreen, “I will not be wearing any crown that announces failure.”

A beat.

“But you’re welcome to keep dreaming about it,” she said, smug and cozy, already fully committed to the snake movie and the night unfolding exactly the way she wanted it to.

Ben stared at the screen, then at her, his eyebrows climbing so high they were in danger of disappearing into his hairline.

"Cowardice," he whispered, shaking his head with mock solemnity. "I am sensing fear, Cleo. I am sensing that you know, deep down, that you would look terrible in a paper plate crown, and you aren't willing to take the risk. It’s okay. Not everyone is built for the high-stakes world of cabin gambling."

He didn't let the challenge die there, though. He reached over and deliberately set the controllers down on the coffee table, right next to the laptop, lining them up with military precision. He tapped the red one—his controller—twice.

"I’m leaving this right here," he warned, flashing her a look. "Consider it a threat. The console is on standby. The kart engines are idling. The second the snake is dead, we race. You are not escaping your destiny."

He let out a sharp, incredulous laugh as the opening credits rolled and the ominous jungle drums kicked in.

"Anaconda?" he asked, his voice cracking with delight. "You find a movie about a snake with a personal vendetta against Ice Cube soothing? Babe, your definition of comfort is terrifying. I love it."

He maneuvered himself fully onto the couch, ignoring the boundaries she had set with the pillows and simply invading her space. He lifted the edge of the thick knit blanket she’d claimed and slid underneath it.

"Scooch," he murmured, nudging her thigh with his knee until she shifted enough for him to fit.

He settled in, extending his arm along the back of the couch again, but this time he dropped it, curling his hand around her shoulder and pulling her into the side of his chest. He wanted her weight against him. He wanted to feel her laugh when the snake inevitably defied the laws of physics.

"Okay," he said, staring at the screen as Jennifer Lopez appeared, looking far too glamorous for the Amazon. "I’m in. But I have questions. Mostly about the snake’s agent. Do you think the snake did his own stunts? Or was there a stunt noodle?"

He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly against her arm, the warmth of the fire and the blanket creating a cocoon that felt dangerously sleepy.

"And for the record," he mumbled, leaning his cheek against the top of her head as the dialogue started. "You not wearing the crown is fine. But if you lose... you owe me a back rub. A real one. With the fancy lotion. That’s the new deal. No take-backs."

He tightened his hold on her, eyes drifting from the screen to the firelight dancing on the wall, and felt a profound sense of peace settle over him.

Bad movie. Good girl.

Yeah. He could do this forever.

Cleo laughed softly as he went on, the sound warm and breathy, muffled by the blanket and the low hiss of the fire. She shifted just enough to get more comfortable against him, her shoulder tucked under his arm, her knee brushing his thigh.

When he started in again—about cowardice, destiny, stunt noodles—she lifted her hand and gently pressed it over his mouth.

A strategic hush.

Her palm was warm from the blanket, fingers splayed across his lips and part of his cheek, thumb grazing the corner of his smile.

“Shhh,” she murmured, trying and failing not to grin. “I’m trying to emotionally prepare for the cinematic masterpiece that is Anaconda, okay?”

She peeked up at him, eyes bright, mischief dancing in them.

“And first of all,” she added, lowering her hand just enough so he could breathe properly, “this has nothing to do with cowardice.”

She shifted, turning slightly toward him so she could see his face better, still tucked into his side.

“It has everything to do with self-respect,” she declared solemnly. “I will not be bullied into wearing a paper plate crown like some medieval jester just because you’re emotionally attached to Mario Kart.”

Her lips twitched.

“That crown is a choice, Benjamin. And I am choosing dignity.”

She settled back into him, tugging the blanket higher around both of them, her head resting against his chest again. Her fingers traced lazy shapes on his hoodie, absentminded and affectionate.

“But,” she admitted quietly, eyes flicking back to the screen as the snake slithered into frame, “if I lose… fine. Fancy lotion. Back rub. Full spa experience.”

She tilted her head, looking up at him again.

“Just know I’ll be doing it while silently judging your controller technique.”

Then she nudged his ribs gently with her elbow.

“Now be quiet. The snake is about to commit a crime.”

He grinned against her palm, the warmth of her hand seeping into his lips, before reaching up to gently peel her fingers away. He didn't let go, though. He just laced his fingers through hers, resting their joined hands on his chest, right over the steady thump of his heart.

"You choose dignity?" he whispered back, his voice thick with amusement. "Babe, that is your first mistake. Dignity is the enemy of fun. And honestly? I have absolutely none left."
He shifted his head, his cheek brushing against her hair as he looked at the ceiling for a split second, confessing his sins.

"Here’s the truth: win or lose, I am absolutely making that crown. I can’t stop the creative juices. The vision is already there. A paper plate, a Sharpie, maybe some glitter if I can find it. I plan on wearing it regardless of the outcome. I’ll look like a sad Burger King monarch, and I will wear it with pride."

He squeezed her hand, bringing his attention back to her face, his expression dropping into a smug, lazy confidence.

"But I accept the terms. I am already mentally spending that massage. I can feel the knots dissolving just thinking about my inevitable victory."

When she mentioned judging his controller technique, he let out a short, scoffing laugh—the sound of a man whose ego was bulletproof in this specific arena.

"Judge away," he murmured, leaning in close to her ear, his voice dropping to a low, teasing rumble. "But just remember... before I ever picked up a guitar, and long before I learned how to use my fingers for... other recreational activities that you seem to enjoy... I mastered the N64 controller."

He pulled back just enough to wink at her, cheeky and unrepentant.

"The dexterity required for Rainbow Road is the foundation of everything I am, Cleo. Show some respect to the claw grip."

He kissed her temple, lingering there for a second, breathing in the scent of her and the fire smoke. He felt settled. He felt good. The anxiety about the future, about the "five days," was quiet for the first time in forever.

"Alright," he whispered, settling back against the cushions and pulling the blanket up to his chin. "I’ll shut up. I’ll let you watch J-Lo fight a rubber tube. I’m just going to lie here and visualize my trophy ceremony."

Cleo huffed a soft laugh into his shoulder, the sound more breath than noise, and let her hand stay where he’d put it—spread over his chest, feeling the steady, reassuring beat underneath. It grounded her more than she wanted to admit.

“Mm,” she murmured, voice low and lazy, “I didn’t choose dignity. I just… tolerate it occasionally. As a character flaw.”

She shifted slightly so she could look at him, eyes half-lidded and warm, listening as he spiraled happily about paper plates and glitter. Her mouth curved into a fond, helpless smile. Of course he already had a vision. Of course it involved commitment to the bit far past what was reasonable.

“A sad Burger King monarch is still a monarch,” she said quietly, indulgent. “I respect the dedication. I do not respect the Sharpie budget.”

When he talked about already spending the massage, she rolled her eyes, but her thumb brushed a slow, absent circle over his sternum—betraying her.
“You are exhausting,” she told him softly. “And wildly confident for someone who hasn’t even raced yet.”

His voice dropping near her ear made her shiver despite herself, and she tilted her head just enough to give him space, a quiet warning smile tugging at her lips.
“Careful,” she murmured. “You keep talking about your hands like that and I’m going to revoke movie privileges.”

At the mention of Rainbow Road, she snorted—actually snorted—and shook her head, settling back against him.
“Show respect,” she echoed. “Right. I’ll notify the academy.”

When he kissed her temple, she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing him in—fire smoke, clean laundry, something unmistakably him. The quiet afterward felt earned. Safe.

As he settled back and announced his trophy visualization, she finally moved her hand—lifting it just enough to give his chest a gentle, affectionate pat.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, dry but fond. “I’m sure you’ll announce yourself MVP, too. Probably give a speech. Thank your controller. Cry a little.”

She adjusted the blanket, tugging it higher over both of them, then tucked herself closer without another word—her shoulder under his chin, her cheek against his chest. The movie played on, ridiculous and loud, but she didn’t comment on it.

"Oh, absolutely," Ben whispered back, his voice vibrating against her hair. "Tears are guaranteed. I’m going to thank my parents, my agent, and the fungi kingdom for their tireless support. It’s going to be a tearjerker. You should bring tissues."

He grinned when she snorted—a real, unladylike sound that he mentally filed away as one of his top five favorite noises she made, right up there with her sleep-breathing and that little hum she did when she ate pasta.

He tightened his arm around her, securing her against his side like he was strapping her into a roller coaster seat, though the only ride they were currently on involved Jon Voight’s ponytail and some questionable animatronics.

"And for the record," he murmured, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, "revoking movie privileges just means we have to find other ways to entertain ourselves. And considering I’m currently trapped under a weighted blanket and a very comfortable woman... I like my odds."

He let the silence settle then, or as much silence as Anaconda allowed.

For the next twenty minutes, he mostly watched the reflection of the fire dancing in the window, occasionally glancing down at the screen to witness a giant rubber snake defy gravity. He watched Cleo watch the movie. He watched the way her eyelashes fluttered when something jumped out, the way her hand absentmindedly traced the seam of his hoodie.

It was boring. It was stupid. It was perfect.

"Question," he whispered loudly during a tense jungle scene, breaking the mood entirely. "Do you think the snake has a backstory? Like... did he get rejected from art school? Is he acting out because his dad didn't hug him enough? I feel like we're jumping straight to villainy without understanding his trauma."

He poked her side gently.

"Also, is Jon Voight doing an accent, or is he just speaking in cursive? I need subtitles for his face."

He felt her shake with silent laughter against his ribs, and the knot that had been in his chest since he woke up—the fear that he’d push too hard, that she’d pull away, that the "five days" would act like a guillotine—fully dissolved.

He rested his chin on her head, closing his eyes for a second.

"Hey," he said, softer this time, dropping the bit. "This is a good movie choice. Aggressively sad would have killed the vibe. Chaos snake was the right call."

Cleo smiled into his chest at the whole speech, the corner of her mouth lifting first before the rest of it followed. She didn’t move right away—just let him talk, let the warmth and the ridiculousness settle around them like another layer of the blanket.

When he said it was a good movie choice, her head tipped back.

She looked up at him properly then, chin resting on his chest, eyes soft in the firelight. For a second she just watched his face—relaxed, amused, present in a way that felt rare and fragile and worth protecting.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I really wasn’t in the mood to cry.”

Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his hoodie, grounding herself there.

“I think I’m… done crying for a bit,” she admitted, voice gentle but sure. “I’ve had my fill. No sad montages. No emotional breakthroughs. I just wanted something loud and dumb and impossible.”

Her gaze dropped to his hand where it rested against her shoulder, thumb warm and steady. She traced the line of his knuckles once, then shifted closer, pressing into him until there was no space left to overthink.

She smiled again—small, real—and then leaned up, finding his lips without ceremony. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. Just a soft, certain kiss. The kind that said I’m here without asking anything back.

She pulled away after a beat, forehead brushing his, breath warm between them.

“No more tears,” she murmured, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth. “No more overthinking.”

Her hand slid back to his chest, palm flat over his heart.

“Just us.”