Ben adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with the solemnity of a professor grading a thesis on the physics of panic.

"Stealth anxiety," he repeated, trying the phrase out and finding it wanting. He shook his head. "Babe, I hate to break it to you, but you weren't operating in stealth mode. You were broadcasting on a frequency that only dogs and extremely attuned boyfriends can hear. It wasn't a whisper. It was a foghorn."

He grinned then, the expression softening the call-out into something that felt more like a confession. He liked that he knew her tells. In a life that often felt like it was moving at 120 frames per second—missing birthdays, misinterpreting texts, forgetting what city he was in—knowing exactly how her breathing hitched or how her fingers curled into his shirt when the world got too loud felt like a victory. It felt like proof he was actually present.

"And regarding the sneeze," he added, finishing the last bite of his churro with significantly more caution than the first, savoring the sugar grit. "Sneezing is for amateurs. It lacks narrative tension. The burned mouth? That’s commitment. That’s pathos. That’s cinema."

He wiped the cinnamon sugar from his hands onto his jeans—because the guy in the beige bucket hat definitely didn't carry wet wipes—and considered her proposal.

Alien moons. Sci-fi movie. Spiritual experience.

It was perfect. It was exactly the kind of weird, aimless, visually overstimulating side quest he needed to scrub the last of the setlist’s adrenaline from his brain. He didn't want to go back to the artist compound and network. He didn't want to talk about pedal boards or streaming numbers. He wanted to look at big, glowing shapes with the only person who treated him like a normal human being.

"Orbs," he said, nodding slowly as if she had just suggested they go dismantle the capitalist establishment. "Yes. I am ready to commune with the spheres. Take me to the mothership."

He reached out, grabbing her hand again, but this time he didn't pull her into a protective clinch. He swung their arms loosely between them, a gesture that felt lighter, younger—less like a bodyguard escorting a VIP and more like two kids cutting class.

"But I have conditions," he warned as he led her out of the shadows of the road cases and back toward the open field. The crowd had thinned out slightly here, the frantic energy of the main stage replaced by the wandering, dazed vibe of the art installations. The air smelled cooler, stripped of the fryer grease, replaced by dust and night-blooming jasmine and vape smoke.

He tugged her closer as they walked, his shoulder bumping hers with every other step.
"If we get abducted," he said, keeping his voice low and serious under the ambient hum of the festival, "I’m not fighting them. I’m going willingly. I feel like aliens would have excellent acoustics on their ship. And probably better catering."

He glanced down at her, catching the way the distant lights reflected in her glasses, turning the lenses into twin moons.

"Think about it," he mused, leaning in. "Just us and some gray guys with big eyes, drifting through the cosmos. No soundchecks. No interviews. Just... space."

He squeezed her hand, a solid, grounding pressure.

"Plus, I bet they’d appreciate the hat. It’s got a very intergalactic-tourist vibe. They’d think I was an ambassador."