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.