Jax huffed a quiet laugh when she warned him not to get used to it, rolling his eyes in exaggerated patience even as his hand tightened around hers.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, dry but amused. “Limited edition. I’ll cherish it appropriately.”

When she slowed just enough for him to bump into her, he caught himself on instinct, hands sliding back to her waist without even thinking about it. The mirrors forced them close again and he took a second to take it in—her laugh, the way she tipped her head back to look at him, the way the glass kept telling the same truth from every angle.

“You narrate later,” he agreed, mouth curving. “I’ll survive.”

At the comment about his looks in mirrors, he scoffed lightly, shaking his head.

“Devastatingly good-lookin’,” he repeated. “Bold claim. Questionable science.”

But his eyes were warm, and when her fingers slid up his arm, he didn’t move an inch.

When she said all of me, something in his expression shifted—softened. He leaned in just enough that their noses brushed, voice low.

“Trust me,” he said. “I know when I’m bein’ spoiled.”

She slipped past him before he could say anything else, laughter trailing, and he turned easily, following without missing a step. He rolled his eyes again as she tugged him forward.

“I am keeping up,” he called after her, mock-offended. “You just walk like you’re bein’ chased by ideas.”

He caught her hand again, grip steady, stride matching hers as they moved deeper into the maze. Reflections blurred past—versions of them laughing, touching, belonging—but his focus stayed locked on the real one just ahead of him.

“Go on,” he added, squeezing her hand back. “Lead.”

And he followed, easy and sure, right where he wanted to be.

Jax took exactly three confident steps before the maze reminded him it didn’t care about confidence.

He turned when he thought the corridor opened—already mid-stride, already half-smiling to himself—and thunk.

Forehead. Glass.

Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to be deeply offensive.

He froze for half a second, palm coming up to brace against the mirror he absolutely should have seen, jaw tightening as he leaned in close like the glass might apologize if he stared it down hard enough.

“—shit,” he muttered under his breath. Then, quieter, more specific, “goddamn mirrors.”

He rubbed his forehead once, knuckles dragging through his hair, then straightened like nothing had happened. Like this was all part of the plan.

“Didn’t even feel that,” he added immediately, lying poorly.

He glanced at Phoebe, caught her reaction already forming, and shot her a look that was half warning, half resignation.

“Not a word,” he said, pointing at her with two fingers. “You didn’t see it. None of my reflections saw it. This is a private moment.”

He stepped carefully this time, one hand reaching out automatically until he found her again, fingers lacing with hers like a reset.

“…Okay,” he conceded, dry. “Yeah, you lead. I’ll just—” he waved his free hand vaguely in front of his face “—stop trustin’ my depth perception.”

Then, softer, amused despite himself—

“Maze got a free shot,” he added. “That’s all it gets.”

Phoebe saw it happen in slow motion.

The confidence. The turn. The absolute betrayal of depth perception.

Her breath hitched—half shock, half concern—and then the sound lodged in her throat, laughter trying to escape at the worst possible time. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, watching him square up to the mirror like it had personally wronged him.

She was still fighting it when he straightened and said, Not a word.

She swallowed the laugh. Actually swallowed it. Bit down on it like it was contraband.

Her other hand came up and she twisted her fingers lightly at her lips, pantomiming a little lock-and-key motion, solemn as a vow. Sealed. Buried. Gone forever. She nodded once, very serious.

Then he reached for her again, conceding the lead, and whatever teasing she’d been about to unleash softened instantly.

“Oh—hey,” she said, all playful concern melting into something doting and warm as she stepped back into him. She tipped his chin gently, inspecting the spot with exaggerated care. “You okay? Tell me the maze didn’t win on the first round.”

She kissed his forehead before he could answer—quick, affectionate, a little protective—then smoothed her thumb there like it was a benediction. “You’re very brave,” she added, solemn as a doctor delivering a diagnosis. “Heroic, even.”

She turned, lacing her fingers with his again, and started leading them carefully this time—slower, more deliberate—her shoulder brushing his chest as if to say I’ve got you. The mirrors slid by, reflections laughing at them in duplicate, but she stayed focused on the feel of his hand in hers.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Her mouth twitched.

“Oh,” she said lightly, eyes forward, innocent as anything. “Just so you know.”

He could probably feel the smile before he heard it.

“I am absolutely telling Ben about that.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, grin unapologetic now. “I’ll be kind, obviously. I’ll embellish. Say you were distracted. Completely undone. Too busy staring at my ass to notice the mirror.”

She squeezed his hand, delighted.

“Which,” she added sweetly, “is a much better story than ‘walked straight into glass on his own.’ Don’t you think?”

She turned forward again before he could protest, laughter soft and bright as she led him deeper into the maze—protective now, playful always—already crafting the version of the story that kept his pride intact and her joy intact too.

And if she leaned just a little closer as they walked, like she was guarding him from the walls?

Well.

Some secrets were meant to be kept.

Others were just meant to be told well.

Jax didn’t even let her finish the sentence.

He stopped so abruptly she almost stumbled back into him, his hand tightening around hers like a brake.

“No,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No humor. Just instinctive refusal. “Absolutely not.”

He turned her to face him, eyes wide in mock horror, one hand lifting like he was physically blocking the idea from existing.

“You are not telling Ben Wilder,” he repeated, slower this time, like she hadn’t heard him properly. “That man is a musician. Do you understand what that means? He will immortalize it. I will wake up one day and there will be a bridge about me headbutting glass.”

His jaw set as he shook his head, boots shifting in the sand.

“Nope. Not happening. That story dies in this maze. It never leaves. It becomes folklore. Lost to time.”

When she tried to spin it—ass-distracted hero narrative and all—he scoffed, but there was a laugh in his chest he couldn’t fully kill.

“Okay, first of all,” he said, glancing down her body before meeting her eyes again, “that part is… statistically possible.”

Then he pointed at her, serious again.

“But you do not get to weaponize my attraction to you in front of Ben.”

He leaned closer, voice low, dramatic.

“Your sister already roasts me enough by association. If Ben finds out about this, it’s over. I’m done. Family dinners? Ruined. Studio sessions? Unbearable. He’ll look at me and hear glass noises.”

She squeezed his hand again, delighted, and he groaned softly.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he accused. “This is betrayal.”

They started moving again, mirrors sliding past, their reflections laughing at his expense in a hundred angles. He stayed close now, shoulder almost brushing hers, one hand hovering near the glass like he was personally offended by its existence.

“Listen,” he said quietly, softer. “I love Ben. He’s a good guy. Great guy. But he is not safe with information.”

He glanced at her, eyes warm despite the mock panic.

“So we keep this ours,” he finished. “Maze incident. Locked vault. You, me, and every reflection that promises not to snitch.”

He squeezed her hand.

“And if you tell him anyway,” he added, smirking, “I’m telling Cleo you still call your mom when you can’t decide what to wear.”

He ducked his head to avoid another mirror edge, grinning.

“Mutually assured destruction, babe.”

Phoebe bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Not because she was taking him seriously—oh, no—but because watching him spiral in real time was deeply satisfying. The abrupt stop, the wide eyes, the genuine fear at the thought of Ben Wilder with material? Delicious.

She let him go on. The bridge. The folklore. The glass noises.

Her face arranged itself into something appropriately shocked—eyes widening, mouth parting just a little, hand lifting to her chest like she’d been accused of a crime she absolutely did not commit.

“Jax,” she said, breathless, scandalized. “How dare you.”

Then she lost it.

The laugh burst out of her, bright and uncontained, echoing off the mirrors around them. She bent forward slightly, free hand braced on her thigh, shoulders shaking as she tried—and failed—to rein it back in.

“Oh my god,” she managed, straightening and wiping at the corner of her eye. “A bridge? You think Ben would give you a bridge?”

She shook her head, still laughing, and stepped back into him, letting his hand stay locked around hers like she might bolt otherwise.

“Relax,” she added, still amused. “I’m not actually telling him. I just wanted to see how fast you’d panic.”

Which, it turned out, was immediate.

She squeezed his hand, pleased with herself in a way she didn’t bother hiding. Watching her steady, grounded man go a little feral at the idea of a crowd singing about him walking into a mirror? Worth it. Absolutely worth it.

“As for Cleo,” she continued lightly, waving that off. “Please. She already knows I call our mom when I’m stuck between outfits. She also knows I once cried over the wrong shade of red lipstick.”

She leaned in conspiratorially.

“She has way worse dirt on me than that. I’m bulletproof.”

His talk of vaults and reflections swearing secrecy made her grin again, softer now. She turned in his hold, backing him carefully away from the nearest panel, hands still warm in his.

“I promise,” she said, mock solemn, “the maze incident is safe. Locked away. Buried under layers of embellishment that will never see the light of day.”

She tilted her head, eyes sparkling.

“But just so we’re clear,” she added sweetly, “the threat of telling Ben? I’m keeping that. For leverage.”

She tugged him gently forward again, laughter lingering in her voice as she resumed leading them through the maze, extra careful now—one hand guiding, the other occasionally hovering near his chest like she was personally responsible for his safety.

“Come on,” she said, amused and affectionate all at once. “Try not to assault any more reflective surfaces. I’d hate to have to invent a whole second legend.”

Jax watched her laugh like it was a physical thing.

The way it shook her shoulders. The way it bounced off the mirrors and came back at them in echoes. He couldn’t even pretend to be mad—his mouth betrayed him, curling into a grin no matter how hard he tried to hold onto the dramatics.

“Oh, you’re evil,” he said, pointing at her. “You live for chaos.”

When she admitted she wasn’t actually telling Ben, he exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face.

“Thank god,” he muttered. “I felt my soul leave my body for a second.”

Then she said leverage.

He groaned.

“Of course you are,” he said. “You’re gonna keep that in your back pocket forever. Next time I don’t wanna go to brunch—bam. Mirror incident.”

He let her tug him forward again, walking carefully now, one shoulder angled away from the glass like it had personally offended him. Her hand hovering near his chest made him laugh quietly.

“I appreciate the personal bodyguard energy,” he teased. “Very reassuring.”

Then he stopped and turned her toward him, expression suddenly earnest—still amused, but real.

“Listen,” he said. “Ben wrote a whole song about his friend’s garden.”

He let that sink in.

“A garden,” he repeated. “Tomatoes. Soil. Emotional metaphor. Three minutes and a bridge.”

He pointed between them, eyes wide.

“Me running face-first into a mirror in a desert art maze with my hot girlfriend?” He shook his head slowly. “That would absolutely make an album.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“Track three. ‘Reflections.’ Acoustic version. Crowd favorite.”

Then he smirked.

“So yeah,” he added. “I stand by my panic.”

He squeezed her hand and let her lead again, moving slower, trusting her completely now.

“And for the record,” he murmured, “if that ever does become a song…”

He glanced down at her, eyes warm.

“…I better get songwriting credit.”

Jax followed her without argument now—easy, amused, fully surrendered to the fact that she was right and the maze had already claimed its one victory.

But that didn’t mean he trusted it.

He kept his hand laced with hers, step matching step, and stretched his free arm out in front of him, palm open, fingers splayed like he was feeling his way through a dark room.

“Okay,” he said, half to her, half to the glass. “New system.”

They turned a corner and his hand brushed air instead of mirror. He nodded to himself, satisfied.

“See? Safety protocol.”

He extended the other arm too, briefly letting go of her hand so he could walk like some kind of cautious scarecrow, arms out wide, moving with exaggerated care.

“This is how you survive abstract art,” he explained. “You respect it. You give it space.”

He glanced back at her, catching her expression, and grinned.

“Laugh all you want. I’m not givin’ the maze a rematch.”

They passed another narrow corridor and he brought one arm back around her waist, keeping the other out like a buffer, gently steering them away from the glass when the reflections bent strangely.

“Left,” he muttered, testing the space with his palm. “No—wait. Right. Yeah. Right’s good.”

Sunlight flashed across the mirrors again, scattering them into fragments, and he shook his head, amused despite himself.

“You know,” he added, “I ride a bike at stupid speeds and don’t flinch. But one invisible wall and suddenly I’m rethinking my life choices.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly with his.

“Don’t get any ideas.”

They moved deeper into the maze, his posture relaxed but vigilant, arms still out like he was personally responsible for their safe passage.

“And if I make it outta here without another head-on collision,” he said, dry, “I’m countin’ it as a win.”

Then, softer, fond—

“Thanks for leadin’, by the way.”

Phoebe bit back another laugh, eyes bright, chest warm, thoroughly pleased with herself.

“Evil?” she repeated, affronted, hand flying to her heart. “That’s harsh.”

She tilted her head, considering him with exaggerated seriousness before her mouth curved again—soft, delighted, unmistakably her.

“I prefer whimsically creative,” she corrected. “It sounds more intentional. Less… villain origin story.”

She watched him with open fondness as he tested the air like the maze might strike again at any moment, arms out, posture careful in a way that was somehow both ridiculous and deeply endearing. The world saw him as steady. Solid. The kind of man you stood behind without question. The kind who took hits and didn’t flinch.

But this version?
The cautious scarecrow version?
The one who laughed at himself and let her lead?

This was hers.

She stepped closer and slipped her hand back into his the second his arm came down, squeezing once like she was claiming the privilege. “I like this side of you,” she said lightly. “Very brave. Very… learning from experience.”

When he went on about albums and bridges and acoustic crowd favorites, she nodded along, eyes wide, playing it up.

“Oh, absolutely,” she agreed. “Track three is always where the emotional damage lives.”

Then she leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “But if—hypothetically—Ben ever wrote that song?”

She paused for effect, then grinned.

“I’d bully him into giving you writing credit,” she said without hesitation. “Full split. No questions. You lived it. You earned it.”

She bumped her shoulder into his, affectionate and teasing. “I don’t care how catchy the chorus is. You walk into a mirror in the name of art? That’s lived experience.”

As he stretched his arm back out again, palm open, testing the space, she laughed—this time openly, freely—then softened, sliding closer so her hip brushed his.

“Hey,” she said, gentle now, playful but sincere. “For what it’s worth, the stoic protector thing?” She waved vaguely. “Very hot. Very effective.”

She looked up at him, eyes warm.

“But this?” She nodded at his outstretched arm, his careful steps, the way he kept glancing back to make sure she was still there. “This is my favorite.”

She tugged him forward again, confident, guiding them around another bend, her hand firm in his. The mirrors bent and warped, light flashing, reflections multiplying—but she stayed steady, smiling, enjoying every second of it.

“And don’t worry,” she added, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “I’ll keep you safe. I’m very invested in your continued lack of concussions.”

She slowed just enough to let him close the distance, leaning back into him as they walked, laughter humming under her words.

“Besides,” she said brightly, “you’re doing great. No collisions. Excellent form.”

Then, softer—still teasing, but unmistakably fond—

“Keep up, scarecrow. We’re almost out.”

Jax shook his head, smiling so hard his jaw actually started to ache.

“Whimsically creative,” he repeated, testing the words like they might bite. “Yeah. That checks out. That’s exactly the kind of thing a menace would call herself.”

He let her slip her hand back into his without comment, fingers curling around hers automatically, grounding. When she squeezed, he squeezed back—once, deliberate—like he was sealing a quiet agreement.

“I am learnin’,” he said, mock-defensive. “Growth. Development. Character arc.”

He kept one arm half-extended as they moved, palm open, brushing the air before them. Every time it found nothing but space, his shoulders loosened a fraction more. The mirrors kept sliding past—catching them at odd angles, stretching his frame, fracturing her laughter—but he stayed focused on the real version of her beside him.

When she promised she’d bully Ben into giving him writing credit, he scoffed, but his eyes warmed.

“See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he said. “That’s loyalty.”

He bumped her shoulder back, easy and familiar.

“And yeah,” he added, dry. “Track three is always where they get you. That’s where the lies stop.”

She laughed openly then, and he glanced at her, caught by how free it sounded. He shifted closer without thinking, hip brushing hers, the arm that wasn’t on mirror duty sliding back around her waist.

“Hey,” he murmured when she complimented the stoic thing, mouth tilting. “Don’t let me hear you say that too loud. I got a reputation.”

Then she said this is my favorite, and something in him softened in a way that didn’t need words.

He glanced down at his outstretched arm, then back at her.

“Glad my near-death experience could be charming,” he teased. “Really boosts the ego.”

They rounded another bend and the light changed—brighter now, reflections thinning, the maze starting to give them back to the world. He relaxed a little more, arm lowering fully this time, trusting it.

“Appreciate the protection,” he said, quietly sincere. “Didn’t know I needed a concussion guardian, but here we are.”

When she leaned back into him, he matched her pace, chest to her shoulder, steps easy now.

“Almost out, huh?” he said. “Good. I was startin’ to think this thing had beef with me personally.”

He squeezed her hand again, fond and steady.

“And for the record,” he added, eyes on the narrowing corridor ahead, “if this is what keepin’ up looks like…”

He leaned in, voice low and warm.

“…I’m right where I wanna be.”

Phoebe felt that last line land right in her chest and stay there.

She didn’t look back at him right away—not because she didn’t want to, but because she liked holding it for a second. Letting it settle. Letting him think she hadn’t noticed the way his voice dipped, the way the words weren’t for show or teasing or timing. Just truth, offered quietly.

She smiled to herself, pleased. Soft. A little smug, if she was honest.

“Careful,” she said lightly, still leading them forward, fingers firmly laced with his. “You keep saying things like that and I’m going to start thinking I’ve got you figured out.”

She finally glanced back over her shoulder then, eyes bright, playful warmth cutting through the glassy light. “And that would be devastating for your whole stoic protector brand.”

The maze opened wider ahead of them, reflections thinning, sunlight spilling in more generously now. Phoebe slowed, not because she needed to—but because she wanted to. Wanted to savor the last stretch where it was just them and their laughter and the echo of footsteps that belonged only to them.

She shifted closer, deliberately nudging her hip into his as they walked, the motion easy and familiar. “For the record,” she added, voice all faux-official now, “you handled your brush with abstract art very bravely.”

She lifted his hand and inspected it with exaggerated seriousness, turning it palm-up, then palm-down, as if checking for injuries. “Excellent recovery. Strong resilience. Ten out of ten would trust you again in a maze—eventually.”

Then she grinned, unable to help it.

“I do love watching you be all calm and steady until something unexpected happens,” she admitted. “It’s very… human of you. Don’t worry. I’ll protect that side, too.”

They reached the edge of the maze, the exit framing the desert beyond—noise and color and motion waiting to rush back in. Phoebe stopped just before crossing it and turned fully this time, stepping into him without hesitation, hands settling at his sides.

She looked up at him, playful still, but something softer underneath it.

“And just so we’re clear,” she said, tilting her head, “this was fun. Not because of the mirrors. Or the near-death experience.”

She leaned in, brushing a quick kiss against his cheek—light, affectionate, unmistakably hers.

“But because you’re right,” she finished, smiling. “You’re exactly where you want to be.”

Then she took his hand again, tugged him gently toward the light, and stepped out of the maze with him—already thinking about what came next, already certain she’d lead him there too.

Jax felt her pause before he saw it.

That quiet beat where she held the words instead of tossing them back at him right away. He knew that pause. It meant something had landed. It meant she was choosing how to keep it. He didn’t rush her—just stayed in step behind her, fingers still laced, letting the moment breathe.

When she finally teased him about having him figured out, he huffed a low laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he said. “God forbid.”

He leaned in a little as she glanced back, voice warm and unbothered.

“And don’t worry,” he added. “My ‘stoic protector brand’ can take the hit.”

The light ahead widened, mirrors thinning, and he slowed with her—not because he had to, but because he wanted that last stretch too. The quiet. The private rhythm of their steps. Her hip nudging into his made his arm slide more securely around her waist, natural as breathing.

“Abstract art definitely tried me,” he admitted dryly. “I survived. Barely.”

When she lifted his hand to inspect it, he let her, mouth tilted in amusement, eyes never leaving her face.

“Doctor says I’m resilient,” he said. “Emotionally scarred. Physically intact.”

Her confession about liking the unexpected side of him softened his expression. He nodded once, slow.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess I’m human sometimes.”

They reached the edge of the maze and when she stopped, he stopped too, giving the world outside another second to wait. When she stepped into him, his hands settled at her sides, grounding, familiar. He looked down at her, the playfulness in his eyes easing into something steadier when she spoke again.

Her kiss to his cheek made him smile—not big, just real.

“Hey,” he said quietly, forehead dipping closer to hers. “I always mean it. Every word.”

He squeezed her hand once, firm and sure.

“My mama raised no fool,” he added, a hint of pride in his voice. “If I say somethin’, it’s because I’ve already decided it’s true.”

He glanced past her at the open desert, then back to her.

“And yeah,” he said softly. “I know exactly where I wanna be.”

He let her tug him forward, stepping out of the maze with her, sunlight washing over them, noise rushing back in—but he stayed focused on her hand in his, ready for wherever she decided to lead next.

Jax stepped out of the maze and didn’t even try to hide it.

The second the open sun hit his face, he let go of her hand just long enough to stretch—arms lifting over his head, shoulders rolling back, chest opening like he’d just surfaced from underwater. He tipped his head back, eyes closing for a beat, letting the heat sink in.

“Ahh,” he exhaled, satisfied and unashamed. “Sweet freedom.”

He rolled his neck once, loose and easy now, then shook his arms out like he was shedding the last of the maze’s bad energy.

“Man,” he added, glancing back at the mirrored entrance with a crooked grin, “I respect art. I really do. But that thing? That thing was personal.”

He dropped his arms and immediately reached for her again, fingers finding hers like they’d been magnetized back together. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding, affectionate.

“Sun feels good,” he said, softer now. “Like a reset.”

He looked around—dust kicked up by passing boots, music thumping faint but steady, color and movement returning all at once—and then back down at her, eyes warm.

“Thanks for gettin’ me through that,” he added. “Only maze I ever trusted was a road.”

His mouth curved as he leaned a little closer.

“And next time,” he teased, “we’re doin’ somethin’ with less invisible walls.”

Phoebe watched him stretch like he’d just escaped something mythic and absolutely lethal, and her smile turned knowing.

Confident. Fond. Fully entertained.

She let him have his sweet freedom moment—arms up, chest out, sun on his face—like a victory lap he’d earned by surviving reflective betrayal. When he shook it off and declared the maze personal, she laughed under her breath, stepping closer until his shadow fell over her.

“Bold of you,” she said lightly, eyes flicking back to the mirrored entrance, “to antagonize abstract art so publicly. It might hear you.”

She slid her hand up his arm and, without ceremony, touched his forehead right where the maze had attacked. Gentle. Deliberate. Her thumb brushed there once, like she was checking a bruise that didn’t exist.

“Mm,” she murmured, mock-concerned. “Yeah. Definitely took a hit.”

She tipped her head, studying him with exaggerated seriousness. “We could stop by the wellness tent,” she went on, playful but persuasive. “Just to make sure you don’t have a concussion. Or emotional whiplash. Or a delayed reaction to being humbled by mirrors.”

Her mouth curved, teasing.

“Unless,” she added, letting her hand slide back down to lace their fingers together again, “you’re feeling brave enough to keep going.”

She squeezed his hand once, affectionate and sure, then tugged him a half-step closer so she could look up at him properly—sunlight in her hair, confidence in every line of her posture.

“Because,” she continued, voice bright and warm, “now that you’ve survived your brush with conceptual danger, I was thinking we hit the Indie Tent next.”

Her eyes lit up, excited and inviting. “There’s supposed to be a band playing I think you’ll actually like. Guitars. Sweat. No mirrors. Very you.”

She grinned, unmistakably pleased with herself.

“And if at any point you need me to shield you from another unexpected art experience,” she added sweetly, “I am available. On-call. Very devoted.”

She leaned in, brushing a quick kiss to his jaw—easy, loving, unshowy—then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Come on,” she said, already turning, already leading. “Let’s go somewhere loud enough that glass can’t sneak up on you.”

And she took his hand and headed toward the thrum of music and bodies and the next place she knew—without question—he’d follow.