Afternoon on Main Street
 

The inside of the truck smelled like vanilla, burnt caramel, and panic.

Ellie swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, smearing a little powdered sugar onto her temple and maybe her soul. “Okay, if one more person asks if the red velvet is gluten-free, I’m throwing myself into the cooling rack.”

She turned just in time to see Tyler — her Tyler, human golden retriever with too-long lashes and that infuriatingly calm face — reaching for the icing bag without hesitation.

“Do not,” she warned him under her breath. “You touch that piping bag like you know what you’re doing, and suddenly everyone’s gonna expect you to frost things on purpose.”

He didn’t say anything, just offered her a cupcake with suspiciously decent swirl work and that soft, stupid smirk that meant she was losing this round.

God, she was in trouble.

Ellie glanced at the line still forming outside the truck window and sighed. The speakers crackled with someone’s country cover of a Springsteen song, and the air smelled like kettle corn and charcoal smoke from the grills a few tents over.

It was hot. It was loud. It was perfect.

“You know,” she said, reaching past him to snag a fresh tray of lemon shortcakes, “there was a time I swore I’d never let anyone touch the frosting station. And here you are. Just casually… being helpful. Like that’s a normal thing boyfriends do.”

She paused.

Then, quieter: “It’s annoying how good you are at this.”

When one of her employees poked their head in — cheeks flushed, bandana slipping — to say the rush was finally slowing down, Ellie wiped her hands on a dish towel and gave Tyler a sideways glance.

“Wanna sneak off for a bit? I think the tent section finally opened up. Could be cute. Could be terrible. Could result in me buying a handmade soap shaped like a bald eagle again.”

She was already tugging off her apron, stuffing it beneath the counter and grabbing her sunglasses from the dash. She bumped her shoulder into his as she passed.

“C’mon,” she said, slipping her hand into his without a second thought. “Let’s go pretend I don’t own 400 cupcakes in a truck for the next twenty minutes.”

And just like that — hand in his, breeze catching the hem of her sundress, glitter still stuck to her wrist from the morning prep — she stepped out into the chaos of the festival. Free for a little while. Or at least trying to be.

Because maybe today wasn’t about proving anything.

Maybe today was just about sugar and sunlight.

And the boy who made both a little sweeter.

He didn’t know what to do with the way she laced her fingers through his like it was instinct.
Like it was something that had always belonged there.
Like he had always belonged there.

Tyler let himself be pulled through the crowd, one hand in hers, the other still holding the ghost of her cupcake truck in his chest.

The sunlight was merciless — warm and golden, cutting through the movement like slow honey — but he didn’t mind. Not when she looked like that. Hair kissed by powdered sugar and stubbornness. Sundress swinging. Glitter clinging to her wrist like it was lucky to be there.

She didn’t even look back to make sure he was following.

Of course he was following.

They wandered the side street slowly, letting the festival wrap around them: booths spilling over with hand-stitched tea towels, pickled things in glass jars, enamel pins with puns, cowboy hats that definitely didn’t belong to cowboys. Somewhere nearby, someone was whittling wood and offering root beer samples in tiny paper cups.

Tyler took one. It tasted like childhood and carbonation. He didn’t say anything about it. Just handed her one too without breaking stride.

He barely heard the music over the buzz of everything else, but his head was already nodding along. Not to the beat, really. Just to the rhythm of her — of this — of being out in the open like this was normal. Like they were something the sunlight was allowed to touch.

A little girl with butterfly wings ran past them holding a snow cone the size of her face, and Tyler smiled without realizing it. It was that kind of day.

When they passed a booth covered in vintage records and old radios, he slowed.

“I used to have one like that,” he said absently, nodding at a dusty Walkman half buried under a stack of Fleetwood Mac vinyls. “Didn’t work. But I carried it around anyway. Thought it made me cooler.”

He didn’t wait for her reaction. Just smiled at the memory, thumb rubbing gently across her knuckles.

They kept walking.

A table of air plants.
A stack of books with hand-painted covers.
A woman offering matcha soap that looked like mint fudge and smelled like summer laundry.

Tyler glanced at her sideways, grinning. “You buying anything today, or are we just here to flirt and emotionally devastate every small business owner with your smile?”

And then she was tugging him left — a sudden shift, like a secret only she knew. She didn’t say where they were going, but he saw it a few seconds later.

The face painting booth.

Bright colors. Spilled glitter. Kids with tigers on their cheeks and adults pretending they were only watching. A hand-painted sign above the table read: "Face Paint, Body Glitter, or Both — Choose Your Fighter."

Tyler blinked.

Then smiled slow.

“Oh no,” he murmured, completely smitten. “You’re about to ruin me, aren’t you?”

He said it like it was a promise.
Like it would be the best thing that ever happened to him.

Ellie didn’t look back when she tugged him toward the booth.

She didn’t have to.

She could feel him — solid and warm and a little stunned, like he still hadn’t caught up to the fact that yes, this was happening. Yes, they were holding hands in broad daylight. Yes, he was hers and she was his and she was going to get a glittery ass fairy painted on her face about it.

And maybe that was why her smile kept curling, even as she pretended to examine the hand-lettered sign.

Face Paint, Body Glitter, or Both — Choose Your Fighter.

God, she loved this stupid town.

She stopped just short of the folding table, pretending to consider the little photo menu propped up beside the tip jar. It was all there — stars, swirls, fire-breathing dragons, rainbow mermaids, a shark that looked oddly judgmental. And right in the middle?

A full-face fairy — soft green and lilac wings sweeping out from the cheekbones, tiny gold stars scattered at the temples, a shimmer of silver up the nose bridge like a dust trail left behind mid-flight.

Ellie pointed at it without hesitation.

“This one,” she said, glancing at the teenage artist with a practiced smile. “But make it extra. Like, allergic to subtle.”

The girl snorted. “Say less.”

Ellie sank into the folding chair, eyes flicking toward Tyler as he leaned against the booth frame like he wasn’t the most beautiful distraction on the planet. Hair up in a man bun, arms crossed loose over his chest, eyes doing that thing they always did when he was trying not to smile too wide.

She rolled her eyes. “Stop looking at me like that.”

He raised an eyebrow, innocent.

She huffed. “You’re embarrassing me with your face.”

(But she didn’t mean it. Not even a little.)

She held still as the first brush touched her temple — cool, soft, precise. Glitter drifted through the air like confetti on a breeze. A few people passed behind him, but Ellie barely noticed.

Her eyes stayed on Tyler.

On the way the sunlight lit the curve of his neck.

On the way he tilted his head when he caught her watching, like he wasn’t used to being adored but he’d take it if it was from her.

She smiled slow.

“After this, I want kettle corn,” she said quietly. “And a lemonade. And possibly to kiss you behind the caramel apple stand, depending on how this turns out.”

The artist made a pleased noise. “God, I want what you have.”

Ellie laughed. Soft. Real.

Because yeah.

She had it.

And maybe it was painted in glitter now, maybe it was sticky with sugar and slow-burn summer air — but it was hers. Him. This. All of it.

And she was gonna sparkle like hell through every second of it.

He didn’t say anything when she picked the glitter-bomb fairy option. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke.

He just watched her sit down like she ruled the entire damn booth and maybe the sun itself — like powdered sugar royalty getting bedazzled for a coronation.

And yeah, okay. Maybe he leaned against the tent pole like he didn’t care, arms crossed all chill and nonchalant.

But he cared.

So much it almost hurt.

She looked up at him like she knew, too. Told him to stop looking at her like that.

But how else was he supposed to look? When she was literally getting a magical woodland creature painted across her face with the kind of unapologetic confidence that made his ribs ache?

Tyler smirked a little, but didn’t fire back. He just stayed where he was, letting her eyes drag over him like he was something worth pausing for. Like maybe he’d done something right in a past life to deserve this moment — this girl, this booth, this neon-colored chaos masquerading as a summer day.

The brush swept across her cheek. Silver shimmer caught in her lashes. The artist dabbed stars like punctuation.

And Tyler just… stood there. In it. Let it happen.

When she said the thing about kettle corn and lemonade and maybe kissing him behind the caramel apple stand, he had to look down. Just for a second. Just to steady himself.

His jaw ticked. His fingers itched to reach for hers again.

“Yeah?” he said, quiet and a little rough around the edges. “That a bribe, or a threat?”

He looked back up, slow. Let her see it — all of it — the way she undid him without even trying.

Then: “Because either way, I’m in.”

He nodded toward the artist, voice dipping slightly. “Make it good, yeah? She’s got plans for us to make out near produce.”

That earned a laugh. Maybe two. But Tyler didn’t flinch from it.

Because the truth was? He wanted to be the boy she kissed behind the caramel apples. The one she grabbed kettle corn with and ruined with glitter and made ridiculous in public.

He wanted to be hers.

Even covered in fairy dust.

Especially then.

She could feel him watching her.

Not the casual kind of watching — not the “oh cute, you picked the fairy one” kind of teasing she expected — but the kind that made her skin warm in places the sun hadn’t even touched yet. The kind that told her he saw her.

Really saw her.

Ellie kept her eyes shut as the brush traced along her cheekbone, but her mouth twitched at the corners. Because she knew exactly what kind of look he was giving her.

And God help her, she liked it.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she said quietly, head tilted slightly for the artist. “Where you look like you’ve never seen a woman get bedazzled in public before.”

She peeked one eye open — just enough to catch him leaning all nonchalant and insufferably hot against the tent pole like he wasn’t completely coming apart inside.

Liar.

He didn’t say anything — just smirked. Which was worse somehow. Because she knew that smirk. It meant his thoughts were anything but pure.

Ellie fought a smile. Lost.

The brush moved again — soft strokes, silver shimmer right between her brows — and she had the audacity to feel regal about it. Like fairy dust counted as war paint and she was preparing to devastate Tyler behind the caramel apple stand.

Which, frankly, she was.

When she mentioned kettle corn and lemonade and maybe kissing him behind the tent, she did it like a joke. Like it didn’t already taste sweet in her mouth.

But then he said that — low and rough and too honest for the middle of a street fair:

“That a bribe, or a threat?”

And just like that, her heart skipped. Tripped, even.

She opened her eyes fully this time. Met his gaze. Let him see that she saw him too — not just the flirty version, not just the one leaning back like he wasn’t melting under her spell, but the boy who came out here to help her sell cupcakes and ended up choosing her again in every stolen second.

“All three,” she said softly, lips curved. “Bribe, threat, and promise.”

The brush paused. The artist giggled.

Ellie didn’t break eye contact.

“And you better kiss me like you mean it, babe,” she added, cheek tilted back toward the final swish of glitter. “Because I plan on being the most magical thing you see all day.”

And she was.

She knew it.

Not because of the wings on her cheeks or the tiny stars at her temples.

But because he looked at her like that — like she was stardust and sunbeam and trouble all wrapped into one — and he didn’t care who saw it.

And God, neither did she.

She said it like a dare.

Bribe, threat, and promise — and God help him, she meant it. Every word dipped in honey and mischief, her eyes holding his like she already knew how this story ended.

Tyler didn’t move.

Didn’t shift or blink or breathe too loud.

He just stood there — heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to get to her first — watching as the artist dusted the last sweep of shimmer across her cheekbone and Ellie tipped her chin like she was already a constellation, waiting to be named.

Most magical thing I’ll see all day, she said.

He believed her.

Not because of the glitter, though she wore it better than anyone had a right to. Not because of the lilac swirls or the gold stars catching the light like a secret message.

But because she said it. And because when she looked at him like that — bold and soft and wildly sure of herself — he felt like he was standing in the middle of something holy.

She didn’t look away when she said it either.

And that wrecked him.

He pushed off the pole, slow, deliberate. Like every step was stitched to a bigger gravity — one only she could pull.

Then, voice low:
“Better hope the apple stand’s got shade, El. ’Cause if I kiss you the way I mean it…”

He stopped just short. Let the silence stretch between them like a held breath.

“…we’re gonna start a fire.”

And he didn’t say it with swagger. He said it like confession. Like awe. Like he couldn’t believe his luck, getting to want her out loud in the middle of a crowd like this. Getting to say we and mean this — sticky and hot and perfect in all the right ways.

His hand drifted toward hers again — gentle, open, like a note left under her pillow.

Because she was magic.

And he was already burning.

“Babe,” she said, nose wrinkling slightly as the artist dabbed something suspiciously sparkly near her temple, “if you think this is the part where things get flammable, wait ‘til you see what happens when I pass out from glitter inhalation behind the kettle corn tent.”

She shot him a sideways glance. God, he looked ridiculous. Not actually—he was beautiful, obviously, all sun-kissed and smug with his arms crossed like he wasn’t two seconds from melting into a puddle. But ridiculous in the way he was pretending not to be completely gone for her.

“Seriously,” she added, squinting at him as the brush tickled under her eye, “you’re gonna give yourself a hernia leaning on that pole all smoldery like it’s your job.”

The little girl in line behind her giggled.

Ellie grinned and tipped her chin higher, letting the artist do one last sweep of lilac across her cheekbone. “Can you add a warning label somewhere on my forehead? Like—‘Caution: contents may cause spontaneous combustion in emotionally repressed men.’”

The artist snorted. “You want that in script or block letters?”

Tyler was still just standing there, blinking at her like she’d invented gravity and then dared him to fall.

Ellie gave him a look. “You’re gonna have to stop looking at me like that or I’m gonna start a fire. You trying to get me arrested for public incandescence?”

Finally done, the artist handed her a mirror, and Ellie turned her head to inspect both sides—green wings, lilac swirls, gold stars twinkling like she’d swallowed a constellation.

She gave a nod. “Yeah. Okay. I look like a Lisa Frank villain and I’m obsessed.”

Sliding off the chair, she brushed her fingers down the front of her dress like she wasn’t glowing.

Then to Tyler, loud enough for the kid in line to hear:
“So. You comin’ with me, or do I need to find some poor unsuspecting firefighter to make out with behind the caramel apples instead?”

She was already grabbing his hand again before he could answer. Her thumb swept across his knuckles, slow and sure.

And then—leaning in, glitter catching in her lashes, voice low like a conspiracy:

“I’m serious about that lemonade, by the way. You’re not getting kissed on an empty sugar tank. I have standards.”

She said babe and it should’ve been illegal.

The way her nose crinkled. The way she talked about spontaneous glitter death like it was just another part of their date. The way she turned to him — face half-painted, eyes half-lit — like she knew what she was doing and did it anyway.

Tyler tried to breathe normally.

Failed.

She was dazzling. And not just because she was now functionally a high-voltage hazard with sparkles near her temple. No — it was her. The way she teased like a weapon, flung jokes like spells, and looked at him like she already owned the whole damn sky and just maybe wanted to share it with him for a little while.

He didn’t even bother responding to the hernia comment. Just blinked at her, dazed, one slow breath behind her pacing. Because yeah, she was right — he probably was two seconds from collapsing into a puddle of feelings and sun.

Then came the warning label line. The artist’s snort. The kid giggling behind them.

Tyler stared.

He could’ve dropped to one knee right then and there.

He didn’t, obviously — his knees had too much self-respect — but internally? He folded.

She got the mirror. Turned her head. Admired the masterpiece she now wore like a badge of riotous honor. Lisa Frank villain, she called herself, and he had never wanted anything more than to be ruined by her in every shade of pastel vengeance.

Then she stood.

Spoke loud, like she wanted the town to hear.

And his brain flatlined.

You comin’ with me, or do I need to find some poor unsuspecting firefighter to make out with behind the caramel apples instead?

He should’ve answered. Should’ve quipped back. Should’ve made a joke about emergency services and burning bush metaphors.

But then her fingers slid through his again — thumb warm, sure, possessive in the gentlest way — and all he could do was follow.

And when she leaned in, lashes dusted with starlight, voice low and lethal:

“I’m serious about that lemonade, by the way. You’re not getting kissed on an empty sugar tank. I have standards.”

Tyler grinned. Slow. Real.

Then: “Lemonade. Got it. Rehydration before devastation.”

And just like that — hand in hers, face full of wonder, still hopelessly behind but loving every step — he let her lead him straight into the chaos of the fair, winding past booths and laughing volunteers until they found the kettle corn stand tucked beside a lemonade cart that smelled like lemons and sugar and summer about to happen.

He didn’t need to ask what she wanted. He just got both. One for each hand.

And when he passed her the lemonade, he said it soft—just for her, just loud enough:

“For the record? I was already ruined.”

And she hadn’t even kissed him yet.

She was beaming.

Not just because she had glitter on her temples and three tiny gold stars still drying above her left eyebrow — though, obviously, that helped — but because she knew she’d wrecked him.

Tyler hadn’t said much. Hadn’t needed to. He looked at her like she’d personally rearranged his neural pathways using nothing but face paint and attitude, and that? That was exactly the energy she wanted for the day.

And maybe the rest of her life.

“You sure you’re okay?” she teased, nudging his arm with her shoulder as they walked. “You’ve been real quiet for someone allegedly unaffected by full-face fairy glam. Just say the word and I’ll call the med tent. Tell ‘em it’s a sparkle-induced identity crisis.”

But he just squeezed her hand like she was gravity itself, like he’d rather get pulled into her orbit than escape it.

God, she loved this boy.

Especially when he played it cool and still looked like someone had dropkicked him directly into his own heart.

By the time they reached the lemonade stand, she was buzzing. From the paint. The crowd. Him. He handed her the lemonade like it was sacred — his other hand still holding kettle corn like a man on a mission — and when he said:

“For the record? I was already ruined.”

Ellie almost choked on her sip.

She turned, fully facing him now, eyes bright. “Oh my God. Who taught you how to flirt like this? Is there a class? Do I tip your instructor?”

She laughed, full-bodied and delighted, then added in a low, conspiratorial whisper:

“’Cause if this is you before the kiss… babe, you better hydrate too.”

She took a long, dramatic drink of her lemonade, then offered it up to him like a toast.

“To spontaneous combustion. And me still not kissing you until we find a shady spot and I’m sure you won’t faint from pretty-girl heatstroke.”

Then, eyes dancing:

“But when I do?”

She leaned in just enough to let her glitter catch the light — just enough to feel the way his breath caught.

“I plan to ruin you just a little bit more.”

And then she was gone — turning, sundress swishing, hand tugging his again as she led them deeper into the fair, a girl on a mission and a boy completely, utterly doomed.

In the best way.

He was trying to speak.

He really was.

But his throat was tight and his brain was jelly and there was a girl with gold stars on her face holding his hand like it was the axis of her whole goddamn world, and it was just—a lot.

Not in a bad way. Not even close.

Just in the kind of way that made words feel too small for what he was carrying inside his chest.

Because how was he supposed to answer when she looked at him like that? When she said she was going to ruin him and then did, just by laughing? Just by swishing away like the sun had personally signed off on her? Just by calling him babe and holding her lemonade like a toast to his destruction?

He tried to say something cool.

Tried to lean in, maybe fire off a one-liner, something cocky and flirty and halfway composed.

Instead, what came out was a breath. Quiet. Shaky.

And then, finally:

“…I haven’t been talking because I don’t trust myself to.”

He looked at her — or rather, at the space just behind her shoulder, because looking at her directly was still dangerous, still too much. Then he made himself look anyway. Made himself say it.

“I keep thinking if I open my mouth, I’ll say something dumb. Or worse, I’ll say everything.”

A pause. Kettle corn bag shifting in his grip. Thumb brushing along the edge of her hand like he was grounding himself.

“I’ve never really loved someone like this,” he admitted, voice low and almost reverent. “So much it makes my tongue forget how to work.”

He huffed a half-laugh, eyes dropping to where her glitter caught the sunlight on his sleeve. She’d leaned in so close, and all he’d done was breathe.

“That lemonade line? That took all my brain cells. Every last one.”

He smiled. Not wide. Not loud.

Just real.

Because this was what she did to him. She razed him and rebuilt him. Took his silence and filled it with joy. Took his quiet and called it hers.

And he’d give it to her. Every time.

So yeah. Maybe he was quiet.

Maybe he had been wrecked.

But in this moment — following her through the heart of the fair, sun on his neck and sugar in his palm and stars on her skin — Tyler Harrison had never felt more like himself.

Or more in love.

And he didn’t need to say it yet.

She already knew.

He said it like it hurt.

Not in a bad way, but in that kind of cracked-open, chest-bare, look-at-me-anyway kind of way. And God, Ellie felt it.

Felt him.

Right down to the way his voice dropped on the word everything. Like it was a secret he hadn’t meant to say out loud. Like her hand in his was the only thing keeping him from unraveling right there in the dirt beside the lemonade stand.

She didn’t tease him. Not right away.

Just watched him.

Soft. Open. Letting her thumb drag lazy circles across the back of his wrist like it was a promise and a grounding cord all at once.

“You know,” she said finally, voice quiet but laced with a smile, “if I’d known glitter face paint was gonna bring all this out of you, I would’ve done it months ago.”

A pause. She leaned in again, tilting her head just slightly so he’d meet her eyes.

“Babe,” she added gently, “you could say everything and it still wouldn’t be too much. Not to me.”

She meant it. Every word. Even the dumb ones he was scared of. Especially those.

She shifted closer, brushing her shoulder into his like they weren’t in the middle of a summer fair with a kid screaming about balloon animals behind them and kettle corn grease warming her fingers. Like the world had narrowed down to just this — him and her and the gravity between them that made everything else feel far away.

“You think I don’t get quiet sometimes too?” she murmured, her voice lower now. “You think I’m always this shiny?”

Then, lighter again: “Please. I’ve had entire days where my only form of communication was throwing cupcakes at a wall and crying to Gracie Abrams.”

Her eyes sparkled, full of mischief and something deeper.

“But you? You make me wanna talk. Wanna try. Even when my tongue forgets how to work too.”

She reached up, brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth that probably wasn’t even there.

Then: “So if you wanna be quiet? That’s okay. I’ll just be here. Holding your hand. Looking like a Lisa Frank cult leader.”

She grinned — full wattage this time — then raised her lemonade again like a toast.

“To brain cell shortages. And saying the dumb stuff anyway.”

And God, the way she was looking at him?

Yeah.

She already knew.

But she still wanted to hear it when he was ready. Just like he’d earned every part of her — glitter, grief, cupcakes, chaos and all — she’d wait for his everything too.

No pressure.

Just truth.

She said it like it was simple.

Like he was simple.

Like the mess of everything inside him—his silences, his fears, the way he kept words locked in his chest like they might do damage if let loose—was something she’d already opened, sorted, and gently folded into the laundry of her life.

And God, what was he supposed to do with that?

Tyler stood there, still clutching the lemonade cup like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. She was brushing some imaginary crumb from his mouth and looking at him like she knew—not just the boy in front of her, but the ones he’d been. The ones who’d tried too hard. The ones who’d stayed quiet because they didn’t know how to be safe and seen at the same time.

He swallowed, hard.

She made it sound easy.
Like he could say everything and still be wanted.
Like nothing he gave her would ever be too much.

And that scared the shit out of him.

But it also made something quiet inside him unclench.
Made the weight he didn’t realize he was carrying shift just enough to let in light.

“You,” he said, blinking once, slow, like her smile had just knocked the wind out of him, “are terrifying.”

He meant it as the highest compliment.

Because she was. Terrifying in the way falling felt. Terrifying in the way truth felt when it was finally offered somewhere safe.

He looked down at their hands again. Hers still wrapped around his like it was second nature. Like he hadn’t almost let himself believe people like her didn’t exist.

“I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to say the right thing,” he admitted, voice low, barely above the hum of the fair. “Or not say anything at all if I couldn’t figure out how to make it sound… manageable.”

He looked back up. Let her see it—raw edges and all.

“But you don’t make me want to manage it. You just make me wanna tell you. All of it.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:
“Even the dumb stuff.”

He shifted closer, letting their shoulders touch again, like she was gravity and he was finally done resisting it.

“Even the scary stuff.”

Then he smiled, barely. “Especially the cupcake stuff.”

And when she raised her lemonade like a toast, he bumped his cup against hers, eyes never leaving her face.

“To dumb stuff,” he murmured.

And everything that wasn’t dumb at all.

Because the truth was?
He’d already started saying everything the moment he let her in.

And she hadn’t run.

Not once.

She saw it.

Not just the smile. Not just the joke. But the way he gripped that lemonade like it might keep him from falling apart. The way he looked at her — then looked away — like the weight of being seen was still something he hadn’t decided was safe.

And yeah, maybe it stung a little. That flicker of fear in his eyes. But it didn’t scare her off.

Not even close.

She tilted her head. Smiled just a little. Not the big showy kind — not festival Ellie, not cupcake truck Ellie. Just her.

“You don’t have to be okay with all of it yet,” she said quietly. “I’m not asking you to come up with a ten-year plan or, I don’t know, write me sonnets about kettle corn.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. Light. Deliberate. Her version of saying I’m still here.

“I know this is a lot.”

Then, with a smirk:

“I mean, look at me. I’m wearing seven dollars’ worth of face glitter and trying to emotionally seduce you with carnival snacks. That’s objectively alarming.”

But her voice didn’t waver.

Not once.

“And I know it’s scary, babe. Not just me. The meaning of it. The way everything changes when it’s not just some crush you can ignore or some feeling you can walk away from.”

She looked at him then — full-on. No flinch. No fear.

“I get it.”

A beat passed. Her thumb found the inside of his wrist, just a brush. Just enough.

“But you don’t have to protect me from the parts of you that are still catching up.”

Another beat.

“I’d rather have your messy honesty than your silence. Always.”

And when she leaned in, it wasn’t for drama. It wasn’t even for reassurance.

It was just because she meant it.

“You can be scared,” she whispered. “I’ll still be here.”

Then — because she was Ellie — she grinned.

“But if you ever do want to write me kettle corn sonnets, just know I’m open to that, too.”

And with that, she raised her lemonade again.

“To terrifying meanings and boys who try really hard not to bolt.”

She didn’t need him to say anything back.

Because she already knew.

He should’ve said something smooth.

Should’ve cracked a grin, made a joke about sonnets or glitter, played it off like the version of himself that used to charm his way through bad decisions and even worse apologies.

But he didn’t.

Because Ellie was standing there, eyes soft and unflinching, looking at him like she saw him—even the parts that didn’t know what the hell to do with real love. With being chosen. With staying still and staying good.

And that wrecked him more than anything else ever had.

He tightened his grip on the lemonade, fingers flexing slightly, like if he didn’t hold onto something, he might unravel right there on the fairground asphalt.

“I don’t really have a blueprint for this,” he said quietly. “Not the showing up. Not the saying shit that matters. I was a ‘screw it, we’ll see what happens’ guy for a long time, and it worked—until it didn’t.”

He looked over at her then, really looked, like he was afraid she might disappear if he blinked too long.

“You were always the one thing I didn’t want to screw up,” he admitted, voice raw at the edges. “So naturally, I did.”

A beat passed. He let out a small, shaky laugh—less ha-ha, more don’t-look-at-how-much-this-costs-me.

“Over and over, if we’re keeping score. Which I know you are.”

And yeah, maybe the old version of him would’ve left it there. Let the charm do the patchwork. Flashed a grin, tugged on her hand, made her forget how many times he’d fumbled the pass.

But this wasn’t then.

And she wasn’t a girl you played games with.

So he shifted a little closer, shoulder grazing hers again, grounding himself in the heat of her and the sugar-thick air around them.

“But you being here? Still giving a shit?” He exhaled. “I’m trying. Not just to be better. But to be the kind of guy who doesn’t make you question whether you matter.”

He paused.

Then, with a flicker of that old grin — crooked, smug, but quieter now, like it’d been through something real:

“Still got the charm though. Just in case the whole emotionally available boyfriend thing gets too intense.”

He nudged her cup with his. Leaned in just slightly, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Ellie,” he said, soft now. “If I ever write you a kettle corn sonnet, it’s over. I’m officially done for.”

A breath. His voice dropped an octave, smirking even as something honest shone beneath it.

“...But I will. If you ask.”

Then he looked at her like a promise, no performance.

“To showing up late. To getting it wrong a lot before I get it right. To you still being here anyway.”

And he bumped his shoulder into hers again, just to feel her. Just to make sure this was real.

Because yeah, maybe he used to be the guy who ran.

But today? He stayed.

Ellie just stared at him for a second.

Not because she didn’t believe him — God, she did, more than he probably knew — but because he said it like it might undo something. Like honesty was dangerous in his mouth and she was the fuse.

She let the moment hang there. Let him squirm just a little. Then she tilted her lemonade toward him and deadpanned:

“Okay. First of all… if you ever write me a kettle corn sonnet, I’m framing it and hanging it in the truck.”

Her mouth twitched.

“Second — you’re right. You don’t have a blueprint. You’ve got vibes. Panic. Occasional bursts of romantic brilliance. And weirdly excellent forearms.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers, eyes still locked on his.

“But here’s the thing, babe — I don’t need you to have a map. Just a compass that points to me.”

Her voice dipped softer now, not dramatic, not sugary — just real.

“I know you’re scared. I know this feels like a lot. But I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m asking you to stay. To keep showing up. Even when you think you’re messing it up.”

She paused, then glanced down at their hands, still twined like muscle memory.

“You haven’t scared me off yet,” she added, smiling now. “Which is honestly a miracle, because I’ve dated less complicated houseplants.”

She looked back up. Eyes warm, steady.

“So yeah. You mess up. You ramble. You clutch lemonade like it’s your emotional support beverage.”

She bumped his cup lightly with hers, grin tugging at her lips.

“But you’re here. And that counts for more than you think.”

Then she leaned in, whispering against his jaw:

“You start that sonnet though? I expect iambic pentameter. And a rhyme for ‘kettle corn’ that doesn’t make me laugh.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth — quick, electric.

And just like that, she pulled him back toward the crowd. Toward the apple stand. Toward whatever came next.

Because he didn’t need to have the words.

She already knew.

She kissed him.

Not a showy kiss. Not a look at us kiss. Just one of those quick, searing, blink-and-you’re-ruined kisses right at the corner of his mouth that somehow made his spine feel like static and his knees threaten to file for early retirement.

Tyler blinked once.

Twice.

And just like that, something in him clicked back into place.

Like all that cracked-open honesty, all that vulnerability he barely knew how to wield, had finally fused with the part of him that used to live for a locker room smirk and a stupid one-liner. He wasn’t that guy anymore — not fully — but the bones of him were still there. Still a little reckless. Still a little dangerous, if you looked too long. Still ready to charm the hell out of a girl who kissed him like that and then walked away like she hadn’t just set fire to his entire nervous system.

He let himself be tugged toward the apple stand, hand still laced with hers, grin tugging slow and crooked across his mouth like a secret he’d been waiting to use.

“Okay,” he said, letting the words stretch, drawl warm and lazy as he leaned slightly closer. “So let me get this straight.”

He waited just long enough for her to glance back at him, then gave her that look — the one that used to get him into trouble, the one that made girls blush and coaches groan.

“You’re saying all I’ve gotta do to keep the girl is clutch lemonade, try real hard, and occasionally weaponize my forearms?”

He looked down at their hands. Flexed his grip slightly, just to feel the slide of her skin against his. Just to make her feel it too.

“Babe, I’m built for this role.”

And there it was — that cocky little glint that used to get him out of detention and into late-night mistakes — only now it had something softer behind it. Something earned.

They passed a balloon cart, two kids screaming about caramel sauce, and still he couldn’t stop looking at her. Like she was the plot twist he never saw coming and now couldn’t live without.

“I mean, I was planning on rhyming ‘kettle corn’ with ‘worn and torn’ and pretending it was edgy,” he added, brows raised. “But if you’re demanding iambic pentameter, I guess I’ll have to call in the big guns. Really activate the tragic poet part of my brain. Dig deep. Feel things.”

He dropped his voice, mock-serious.

“Hope you’re ready for heartbreak and existential snack metaphors.”

Then, softer now — not a punchline, just truth with a grin still hanging off it:

“I don’t have a compass. Not really. But if I did, Ellie?”

He stopped walking just long enough for her to turn toward him.

“It’d point to you. Every time.”

And this time?

He kissed her.

Quick. Electric. Right on the mouth.

And then he kept walking — hand still in hers, grin fully alive now — like he hadn’t just rewritten his whole damn future in a single sentence.

Because yeah. He used to be a fuck-up.

But now? He was a fuck-up in love.

And that changed everything.

She didn’t stop walking.

Not right away.

She let it hang there — that kiss, that line, that dumb little compass metaphor that would haunt her in the best way until the end of time — and just kept walking like her brain wasn’t currently screaming girl, turn around and handle that.

But then he said every time.

And yeah, no. That was it. That was the moment.

She pivoted.

Didn’t tug him. Didn’t announce it.

Just turned and wrapped her arms around the back of his neck — not dramatic, not rushed, just sure. Like it was a foregone conclusion. Like of course this was happening.

And then she kissed him.

Really kissed him.

Slow, full, exactly centered. Like she meant it — and holy hell, did she mean it. Every word, every heartbeat, every tiny tremor of what had just landed in her chest like a meteor dressed in a lemonade cup and an inside-out heart.

Her fingers stayed at the nape of his neck. Gentle. Warm.

No fireworks, no crowd watching. Just them.

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

“You cannot,” she said, breath still catching somewhere between laugh and disbelief, “say shit like that and expect me to function.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t soften.

“I am literally one sentence away from dragging you behind this apple stand and ruining your entire afternoon in the name of poetic justice.”

A beat.

Then — light, dry, devastating:
“Worn and torn, Harrison? Really? I’m embarrassed for you.”

And just as fast as the heat landed, she kissed him again — quick, defiant, like a punctuation mark at the end of a very dramatic paragraph.

“C’mon,” she muttered, turning back toward the fair with his hand still tangled in hers. “You’ve got existential metaphors to workshop, and I need kettle corn or someone’s getting throat-punched.”

But her smile?

That stayed.

Because he was still holding on.

And so was she.

She kissed him.

And for a second — just a second — Tyler Harrison forgot how to be cool.

Not because it was unexpected (he’d kind of been dreaming about it since the face paint stand) but because fuck, the way she meant it. The way her hands curled around his neck like she already knew he’d follow her anywhere. Like she wasn’t scared of what they were anymore — just what they could be.

It knocked the wind out of him.

In the best way.

So when she pulled back and hit him with “You cannot say shit like that and expect me to function,” all he could do was blink and hope his grin didn’t give away how completely undone he was.

But then she kept going.

Talking about ruining his afternoon. Poetic justice. Worn and torn, Harrison (okay, that one hurt, but he was gonna take it like a man).

And then she kissed him again.

Short. Sharp. Like a dare with her lip print still on it.

By the time she turned and started walking — hand still in his — Tyler was officially no longer a functioning member of society. His brain was a puddle of lemonade and glitter and the terrifying realization that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need to protect himself so much from the girl who already saw him.

So, yeah.

He followed.

And then he tugged her back just a little. Not enough to stop her — just enough to lean in close as they walked, voice low and dangerous at her ear.

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, “you kiss me like that behind an apple stand and you’re not expecting me to ruin your afternoon?”

His lips brushed her cheek, not quite a kiss, not quite innocent.

“Sweetheart, I might not know what iambic pentameter is, but I do know what you sound like when you’re trying really hard not to drag me into a hay bale and make poor life choices.”

He grinned. Wide. Wicked.

“And for the record? That sentence wasn’t for function. That was for effect.”

Then, with the same casual confidence that had once made him the most frustrating flirt in a five-mile radius, he stole her lemonade, took a long sip, and handed it back like nothing happened.

“C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the kettle corn stand. “If I’m gonna get throat-punched for anything today, I’d rather it be for flirting too hard than for letting you get hangry.”

But his fingers?

Still laced in hers.

And the way he looked at her — sideways, slightly smug, totally smitten?

Yeah.

He was definitely still thinking about that apple stand.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Mostly because her brain had short-circuited somewhere around sweetheart and hadn’t fully recovered from the hay bale imagery or the fact that he just took her lemonade like it belonged to him now.

Which — okay, rude. But also, maybe a little hot. Whatever. She was dealing with a lot.

She just looked at him. Stared at that smug, stupid grin like it was the eighth wonder of the world and she was about to launch a very public expedition to knock it off his face.

“You know,” she said slowly, the words dragging out like silk laced with threat, “for someone who claims not to know what iambic pentameter is, you sure do love the sound of your own voice.”

She took the lemonade back. Didn’t sip it. Just held it. Like a weapon. Or a prize.

Then, just loud enough for him to hear:

“You brush my cheek like a Victorian ghost and call me sweetheart like it’s 1952 and I won’t deck you with a caramel apple.”

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

Didn’t pull away.

Because yeah, she was annoyed. And maybe a little flustered. And definitely still tasting that kiss and the one before it and the one he didn’t fully commit to but still meant.

But she was also happy.

Like, deep in the bones, still grinning while mad about it happy.

Because Tyler Harrison wasn’t just showing up — he was staying. And not with armor or half-jokes or exit plans tucked behind his teeth.

With her.

Fully.

And that? That earned him another ten minutes of smugness. Maybe fifteen.

“You wanna ruin my afternoon?” she said finally, raising her brows as they reached the kettle corn line. “You better pace yourself.”

Then, drier:
“I’m not out here planning my romantic downfall around a hay bale, my dude. At least spring for the Ferris wheel. I have standards.”

She bumped his shoulder. Slid the lemonade under his arm like she’d forgiven him without ever saying it.

And when she looked up at him again — lips still curved, eyes still sharp — there was nothing left to hide.

“You’re trouble,” she whispered.

Then softer, like a secret:

“Lucky for you, I don’t scare easy.”

Tyler opened his mouth — probably to fire back something devastatingly charming and totally illegal in a public setting — but she was already tugging him forward again. Past the kettle corn. Past the balloon artist who definitely clocked their hand-holding. Past the spinning teacups and the booth where a very serious toddler was attempting to beat his dad at ring toss with a vengeance that deserved its own parade.

Ellie didn’t slow down.

Didn’t even pretend to play coy.

Because she could feel him behind her — warm, amused, a half-step behind but entirely in step — and every part of her was suddenly lit up like the fairground lights were wired straight into her bloodstream.

“You know,” she said, glancing sideways at him like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing she’d ever done, “for a guy who likes to tease, you’ve been awfully quiet since I kissed you.”

Then, mock-thoughtful:
“Maybe I should drag you into a hay bale. Just to restore the balance.”

He made a sound — somewhere between a laugh and a groan — and she grinned like it was a personal victory. Which, to be fair, it was.

They rounded a corner.

And that’s when she saw it.

The hotdog stand.

A little weathered. Slightly off-center. Smelled like grease and freedom.

Ellie stopped walking.

Turned to face him, full tilt.

And then — devilish, no other word for it — she looked him dead in the eye and said:

“I want a hotdog.”

Beat.

She watched the way his expression shifted — the twitch of his mouth, the glint in his eyes, the way his whole soul visibly braced itself like it knew whatever came next would be the end of him.

Ellie just smiled.

All teeth and mischief and something slower burning behind her gaze.

“Now, are you gonna be a gentleman and get it for me…” — she stepped a little closer, fingers tugging slightly on his hand — “or do I need to go flirt with the guy in the ketchup hat and make you jealous again?”

She tilted her head. Raised a brow. Let the full weight of her look land where it always did — somewhere between challenge and invitation.

And then, sweet as sin:

“Don’t worry. I’ll still share my fries.”

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t break.

Because this time?

She wanted him ruined.

She’d kissed him like a promise and then strutted off like she hadn’t just short-circuited his entire nervous system.

Now she was throwing caramel apple threats, hotdog ultimatums, and kissing accusations like confetti, and he was expected to speak?

God, this girl was going to be the death of him.

Tyler didn’t say anything right away.
Mostly because his brain was still catching up.
Partly because she did just accuse him of loving the sound of his own voice and then promptly complained he wasn’t using it. Which was it? Did she want poetic declarations or silent devotion?

Actually, knowing Ellie—it was probably both. At once. While on fire.

And he couldn’t even be mad about it.

Not when she looked at him like that. Not when her hand was still tangled in his. Not when her voice got soft in the middle of all that sass and said things like you’re trouble and I don’t scare easy.

Not when every step she took lit up some old part of him he didn’t even realize had gone dark.

So yeah. He stayed quiet for a beat longer. Let her tug him forward through kettle corn smells and laughter and the buzz of a fairground that didn’t quite compare to the buzz in his chest.

Because he didn’t need to talk to know what this was. He felt it—in the way her shoulder bumped his, in the lemonade she shoved back under his arm like an apology shaped like citrus, in the way she paused just long enough to make him feel chosen.

He didn’t need a hay bale. He didn’t need a Ferris wheel.

He just needed her.

Then she hit him with I want a hotdog like it was a threat to national security.

He blinked.

She stepped closer.

Tugged on his hand.

Flirt with the guy in the ketchup hat—

“God,” he muttered finally, voice low and full of disbelief, “you’re the one who’s a menace.”

His eyes raked over her — all glowing skin and devilish grin and that look — like he was trying to memorize the moment before it set fire to the next one.

Then, smoothly, casually, like his heart wasn’t doing cartwheels behind his ribs:

“You want a hotdog? I’ll get you a hotdog.”

A beat. Then he leaned in close, voice pitched low enough to curl under her skin:

“But if you think some guy in a condiment hat stands a chance in hell against me, Ellie Rae, you’re delusional.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth like punctuation.

Then added, grinning as he walked backward toward the hotdog stand:

“Also—dibs on the fries.”

Ellie just stared at him for a second.

Not because she didn’t have a comeback (please—she was built for this), but because, honestly? She needed a full moment of silence to recover from being called Ellie Rae like it was both a declaration and a goddamn challenge.

And that kiss?

That kiss was rude.

Not “how dare you” rude.

More like “how very dare you, now I have to rethink my whole personality because apparently I’m soft for you now” rude.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Like her brain was buffering.

Then she let out a breath that was mostly a laugh wrapped in a sigh wrapped in the exact kind of high-grade fondness she’d previously sworn to weaponize against him.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she called after him, loud enough for the lady in line ahead of them to raise an eyebrow.

Then, under her breath:
“Menace. Please. He flinches when bees get too close.”

Still — she followed. Because of course she did.

And when she reached him at the stand, she leaned in just enough to skim her fingers against the back of his neck — featherlight, casual, like it wasn’t the exact spot she knew short-circuited him.

“Make it two,” she murmured, all syrup and sin. “I’ve got a lot of cardio to recover from after chasing you around the fair with my emotional maturity.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just turned to grab napkins like she hadn’t just annihilated his will to live in public.

Then—smirk fully engaged—she added over her shoulder:

“And dibs on your last bite. Because I’m cute and a menace.”

A pause.

“…Also because you kissed me like you meant it, so now I legally get half your food.”

And when he looked at her like she’d just set his entire worldview on fire?

She just winked.

God help them both.

Tyler Harrison had no defense for that voice.

Not the teasing one she used when she was up to something. Not the smug one she used when she knew she was winning. And definitely not the syrup-and-sin one she’d just dropped on him like it wasn’t the verbal equivalent of licking sugar off his spine.

He froze.

Half because she’d just ghosted her fingers across the back of his neck—his neck—like she was trying to make sure his soul evacuated his body in broad daylight. And half because she was now casually claiming half his hotdog rights like it was a constitutional amendment.

She didn’t even look at him.

Just turned with a smirk and napkin confidence, like she hadn’t just publicly detonated every brain cell he had left.

And Tyler? Tyler was reeling.

Not in the obvious way—he still managed to nod like a functioning human when the hotdog vendor asked if he wanted onions—but in the quiet, internal apocalypse kind of way. The “this girl is going to be the death of me and I will thank her for it” kind of way.

He handed over the cash. Took the food. Handed her one hotdog without comment. Kept the other.

Then waited until she looked back up at him before saying, deadpan:

“I swear to god, if you touch my last bite, I’m putting you on the Ferris wheel and walking away.”

A beat.

Then softer, eyes crinkling, voice dipping into something warm:

“But yeah. I meant it.”

He didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t have to.

Because she’d kissed him like trouble and smiled like forgiveness and walked through the fair like she was building a future one snarky threat at a time. And Tyler? Tyler had never wanted anything more than to keep up.

So when they found a quiet patch of grass near the edge of the fairgrounds—just out of reach of the cotton candy machines and the chaos—he dropped down beside her without fanfare. Handed her the lemonade again. Took a bite of his hotdog. Let the grease and the sweetness and the presence of her settle everything inside him that used to spin out.

And then—completely, unapologetically, irrevocably gone—he nudged her knee with his.

Not to start something.

Just to say: I’m here. I’m staying. You’re not alone in this.

And then—because he was Tyler, and it was Ellie—he added:

“…Still not over the ketchup hat thing, by the way. That was low. Even for you.”

His voice was dry. His eyes? Not even a little.

Because she didn’t scare easy.

And he wasn’t running anymore.

Ellie didn’t answer right away.

Mostly because she was busy pretending not to melt.

He’d done nothing—just nudged her knee and said “I meant it” like it wasn’t the most devastating sentence ever spoken by a man holding a hotdog. Like it didn’t land in her chest and rearrange every carefully compartmentalized feeling she’d spent the last year pretending wasn’t there.

So yeah. She took a beat. Took a sip of lemonade like it could cool down the wildfire he’d just casually dropped in her ribcage. (It couldn’t.)

Then, without looking at him, she said:

“Okay, but be honest. Was it the ketchup hat or the hotdog dominance that did you in?”

A pause. Sip.

“Because you looked a little shaken when he asked if you wanted ‘extra relish, champ.’”

She finally turned to face him then—grin easy, eyes bright, one leg tucked under her and the other nudging his right back. Like they hadn’t just declared feelings in the form of snack-sharing and fairground insults. Like this was normal. Like they were normal.

(They weren’t. They were them. And that was better.)

Ellie reached for her hotdog, took a bite with comically exaggerated satisfaction, then glanced sideways at him—smug as hell, cheeks full.

“You really gonna threaten to abandon me on the Ferris wheel, Harrison? After everything we’ve been through? After kettle corn sonnets and emotional confessions and soul-touching neck strokes?”

She wiggled her fingers vaguely at his shoulder.

“I was gentle. Don’t be dramatic.”

But then, quieter—still teasing, but with that softness she only pulled out when she meant something real:

“I’m not gonna steal your last bite.”

She looked down at her lap, lips twitching.

“Not unless it looks better than mine.”

Another beat. Another nudge of her knee against his.

“But hey,” she added, mouth tilting into something sideways and warm, “for the record? I meant it too.”

Then—because she was Ellie and this was Tyler—she smirked, leaned over, and took an unapologetically enormous bite of his hotdog anyway.

Mouth full, absolutely unfazed, she looked him dead in the eyes and said:

“Now you have to put me on the Ferris wheel. That’s just science.”

And somehow, despite the snack theft, the sarcasm, and the kiss still buzzing in the space between them—everything felt like exactly where it was supposed to be.

Tyler didn’t speak.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

Just turned and stared at her—long, slow, and devastatingly calm—as if she hadn’t just violated every sacred agreement of fairground food etiquette by stealing the last bite of his hotdog.

She didn’t apologize. Of course she didn’t.

She chewed.

Smugly. Unrepentantly. Like the smug little menace she was.
Like she didn’t know exactly what kind of fire she’d just lit in him.

Tyler let the silence stretch just long enough for her to glance sideways, halfway smug, halfway cautious—testing how far she could push before he snapped.

Bad idea.

He didn’t snap.

He smirked.

Leaned in, close enough for his breath to ghost across her ear, and murmured—low and lazy, like a promise dressed in sin:

“Oh, baby girl.”

A pause. His voice dipped lower.

“You steal my food, you flirt with condiment hat guys, and you still think I’m letting you off the hook?”

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, that dangerous, slow-burn grin taking over his whole face.

“Ellie Rae, you need to be punished.”

Another beat. Then—

“Ferris wheel. Five minutes. And no, you’re not going alone.”

His knee nudged hers right back—firmer now. Confident. Possessive.

“You’re sittin’ in my lap, sweetheart. And I hope you’re scared of heights,” he added, wickedly, “because I plan on making sure you hold on to something.”

He stood before she could hit him with a comeback—smooth, easy, that old cocky swagger slipping into his step like it had never left. But it was different now. Grounded. Intentional. Like every confident flick of his smile was meant just for her.

As he tossed the empty tray and turned back, he crooked two fingers in her direction.

“C’mon, trouble,” he called with a grin. “Time to see if I still make you weak in the knees at forty feet in the air.”

And the worst part?

He already knew the answer.

Ellie stared after him.

Mouth parted. Brain officially fried. Hotdog grease on her fingers and sin in her bloodstream.

Because what the hell was that.

She’d stolen one (1) bite. One. And somehow that had earned her the full weight of Tyler Harrison going full-throttle boyfriend menace mode — all slow grins, lap threats, and a voice so low it should’ve come with a warning label and a cold shower.

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then she laughed. Quietly, at first — a single disbelieving huff — before it turned into something helpless and wild and a little unhinged as she scrubbed a hand over her face and muttered to herself:

“Oh my god, what have I done.”

Because she knew that look. Knew that walk. Knew that grin like it had once made a game of her heart and a home of her bad decisions.

Only now?

Now it had intent.

Now it had feelings.

Now it came with full sentences like you need to be punished and sit in my lap and I hope you’re scared of heights while she was still out here trying to recover from a flirtation about onions.

She stood slowly.

Swallowed what was left of her dignity.

And followed — not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Because she was pretty sure she’d follow that boy straight into a corn maze or a church or a life with way too many dogs and exactly one kitchen with terrible wallpaper if he kept looking at her like that.

When she caught up, he was already leaning against the Ferris wheel gate, all long limbs and smug perfection, like the actual devil had borrowed a flannel and a fair ticket.

So she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and smiled — sweet and dangerous.

“You know, for a guy who just lost a food fight, you talk a big game.”

She stepped close.

Too close.

Pressed up on her toes and brushed a kiss to his jaw — slow, hot, and maddeningly close to his mouth without giving in — then whispered, right against his skin:

“Forty feet in the air, huh?”

A pause. Her voice dropped.

“Hope you’re the one who’s scared of heights, Harrison.”

Then she turned on her heel, stepped into the cart like it was a battlefield, and sat back — arms crossed, eyes glittering, every inch of her practically humming.

Because if he was gonna raise the stakes?

She’d match him.

And win.

Tyler watched her walk toward the cart like it was a dare she planned to win.

And God help him—he loved her like this.

Defiant. Dangerous. A little unhinged with hotdog confidence and eyes that sparkled like she was already planning his downfall and her victory speech at the same time.

He bit back a grin.

Or tried to.

But the second she kissed his jaw — barely missed his mouth — and whispered that line?

“Hope you’re the one who’s scared of heights, Harrison.”

Yeah. No. That was it.

That was the match dropped into the gasoline.

His head tilted. His grin turned lethal. And his hand curled around the edge of the Ferris wheel cart like he was holding himself back from committing something that would absolutely get them kicked out of the fair.

But she’d already climbed in, arms crossed like a smug little queen on her throne, and he?

He climbed in after her like a man walking to his favorite kind of death.

Slow. Sure. Dangerous.

The cart dipped with his weight, creaking slightly as it steadied — just enough motion for him to lean in close and let the ride operator lock them in with a casual “keep your hands and lips to yourselves, kids.”

Tyler didn’t even pretend to agree.

He turned toward Ellie, slow and deliberate, and settled beside her in the narrow seat — thigh pressed to hers, arm stretched along the back, like he owned the space.

Then he leaned in, mouth near her ear, voice low enough to ruin her entire goddamn afternoon.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You think I lost that food fight?”

A pause. His lips brushed the edge of her jaw — barely there.

“I got your mouth on mine, your breath in my ear, and a two-person death trap where you can’t escape me for the next ten minutes.”

He sat back just enough to look at her — eyes warm, cocky, in love — and then?

Then he grinned.

“All I’m scared of,” he said, “is how many times I’m gonna have to kiss you before you admit this ride’s the best bad idea we’ve ever had.”

The Ferris wheel groaned to life.

And Tyler?

He didn’t look at the view.

He only looked at her.

Ellie didn’t blink.

Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t sass.

Not this time.

Because something about the way he said it — the look in his eyes, the confidence wrapped in affection, the way his arm stretched across the back of the cart like he was claiming her and the moment all at once — made her stomach twist in that particular way it only did for Tyler Harrison and very bad decisions disguised as very good ideas.

So she didn’t say a word.

She just shifted in her seat — slow, deliberate — and turned to face him fully.

And then she kissed him.

Not a flirt. Not a challenge. Not even a win.

It was possession.

Fingertips grazing the back of his neck, her other hand finding his and guiding it — gently but without question — down to rest on her bare knee.

Because she was done pretending.
Because if this was a death trap, she planned to go out making damn sure he never forgot what it felt like to be wanted this way.

When she pulled back, she didn’t sit far.
Just enough to speak.

Just enough to look him in the eye, breath warm on his mouth, and whisper:

“You’ve got ten minutes, Harrison.”

A beat.

Then a smile. Wicked. Unapologetic.

“Use them wisely.”

Tyler froze.

Not like fear. Not like shock.

Like reverence.

Like every cell in his body just stood at attention because Ellie fucking Tate had kissed him like she meant it — like he was hers, like this wasn’t a game, like maybe he hadn’t just imagined all those late nights wondering if he’d ever get another shot to do it right.

His hand curled slightly on her knee, grounding himself in the feel of her skin — warm, electric, real.

And then she said it.

You’ve got ten minutes, Harrison.
Use them wisely.

His jaw flexed. His breath caught.

And his smile?

Slow. Dangerous. Worshipful.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he murmured, voice wrecked velvet, “and I’m gonna need extra tickets.”

Then — no hesitation, no space — he kissed her back.

Deeper. Dirtier. With all the pent-up affection and lust and relief of a boy who once lost her and wasn’t planning on doing it again.

His hand slid up her thigh, thumb stroking lightly just above where her dress met her skin — not pushing, not taking. Just being there.

Because she’d put it there.

Because she’d let him.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers. Breath uneven. Eyes full of something too big to say.

“Fair warning,” he rasped. “I’m not gonna waste a second.”

And he didn’t.