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 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.”

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 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.

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 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.

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 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.

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.