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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phoebe let her shoulder bump his on purpose.

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

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

Tacos.

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

Phoebe’s face lit up with immediate certainty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leaned closer to the window, scanning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, with a small grin—

“And somehow we still ended up at tacos.”

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

“Worth it.”

Phoebe loved lines like this.

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

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

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

Her mouth curved.

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

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

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

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

It made something warm bloom low in her chest.

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

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

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

He probably expected one thing.

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

Her smile turned wicked immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another shuffle forward. Another moment claimed.

She smiled to herself, already grateful all over again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she turned and hugged him.

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

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

He tipped his forehead to hers for a beat.

“I choose it. Every time.”

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

Then she squeezed.

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

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

When she called it appreciation, his mouth curved slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then his eyes lit up.

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

He pointed at the board.

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

When she teased about lying, he scoffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The line moved again.

He squeezed her hand.

“Tacos. Margaritas. Loud music.”

He exhaled, content.

“Perfect day.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled to herself. Of course he did.

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

Okay. Options.

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

She narrowed it down quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phoebe smiled, pleased. Vindicated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright,” he said. “I’m in.”

At her conspiratorial trust me, his mouth curved.

“I do,” he replied simply.

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

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

“Lucky’s mutual,” he said softly.

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

When she said perfect, he nodded, pleased.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You nailed it.”

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

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

“Okay,” he said, easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she looked at him.

Just… looked.

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

Her smile softened without permission.

God, she loved him.

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

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

Of him.

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

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

Then she got to work.

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

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

Not staged. Not forced.

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

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

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

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

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

It was perfect—spicy and smoky and bright.

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

His question sat between them, gentle and real.

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

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

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

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

Her smile flickered—soft, self-aware.

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled, small and certain.

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

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

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

Her eyes sparkled.

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

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

Really look.

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

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

He knew that kind of photo.

The private kind.

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

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

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

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

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

“Welcome back,” he said softly.

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

Cold. Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged one shoulder, easy.

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

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

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

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

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

He raised his cup slightly in a lazy toast.

“To shade. To tacos. To not runnin’.”

Then, softer—meant only for her—

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

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

He looked at her again—really looked this time.

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

Something in his chest eased. Settled.

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

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

He leaned in and kissed her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gestured with it slightly, careful not to spill.

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

She took another bite to prove her point.

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

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

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

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