Ben’s first reaction was a full-body effort not to laugh.

He failed.

It started as a sharp exhale through his nose, shoulders bouncing once, then it turned into that low, helpless laugh he always got when she was being deadpan in the face of something undeniably humiliating—like gravity or hunger or the earth itself conspiring.

He kept their hands tucked in his pocket, fingers laced, and glanced down at her with exaggerated seriousness.

“Geological activity,” he repeated, nodding like a scientist. “Yeah. I heard it. Pretty sure the lava field just tried to communicate with you.”

He leaned in a fraction, voice dropping like he was sharing classified information with a very important coworker.

“It’s either that… or you’re secretly a dinosaur.”

He let that hang for half a beat, then added, “Which honestly would explain a lot. The dramatic survival instincts. The intolerance for hostile flooring.”

When she admitted the green juice situation and called it poor planning, he made a face like he was personally offended on her behalf.

“Green juice is a scam,” he said. “It’s lawn clippings in a cup and then everyone acts surprised when you’re starving an hour later. Like—wow—who could’ve predicted.”

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze inside the pocket, the thumb-circles returning like muscle memory.

Then, without breaking stride, his other hand slipped into the inside pocket of his coat—slow and deliberate. Like this was not his first time smuggling supplies into an expedition.

He pulled something out and held it up between them with a smug little flourish:

A granola bar. Peanut butter. Dark chocolate. The kind that looked vaguely healthy but was absolutely, unapologetically built for survival.

He didn’t offer it right away.

He just stared at it for a second like it was evidence.

Then he looked at her, eyebrows lifted.

“Okay,” he said softly, “first of all—this is why I’m essential infrastructure.”

He nudged it toward her mouth with ridiculous gentleness, like he was feeding a wild animal he didn’t want to startle.

“Second—this is my private snack,” he added, eyes glinting. “The one I haven’t been sharing. Because I knew. I knew you were gonna pretend you were fine until your stomach did… whatever that was.”

He tipped his head toward her with mock severity.

“Take it. Before you collapse and I have to carry you like a Victorian heroine and then you write a think piece about it.”

He paused, then corrected himself with a grin.

“Actually—no—please collapse. Just a little. Let me live out my tragic romance fantasy. I’ll say something dramatic like, ‘She’s fading…’ and then you’ll punch me back to life.”

He held the granola bar closer, finally letting it be an actual offering instead of a performance.

“Eat,” he said, voice warm but firm in that playful way that still felt like care. “I’m not losing you to the combination of oat milk wars and a brisk walk across ancient volcanic terrain.”

As they kept moving, he glanced ahead at the boardwalk with exaggerated suspicion.

“And if the bridge tries you again,” he added, “I’m filing a formal complaint with the Icelandic Boardwalk Council. I’ll be ruthless.”

His eyes slid back to her, softer under the humor.

“Also,” he said lightly, “if you pass out, I’m carrying you. But I’m narrating it like a nature documentary.”

He bumped her shoulder with his, gentle and familiar.

“‘Here we observe the rare lava-field girlfriend in her natural habitat… refusing snacks until it’s almost too late.’”

Cleo stopped walking.

Not dramatically—just enough that the steady creak of the wooden planks beneath their boots paused and the wind swept past them without the rhythm of their steps to interrupt it. The boardwalk curved through the lava field ahead like a narrow ribbon, black rock rising on either side in jagged humps softened by glowing moss.

Her eyes dropped slowly to the granola bar in his hand.

Then they lifted back up to his face.

There was a long, quiet beat where the wind slid through the fissures in the rock and tugged at the ends of her hair.

“…your private snack?” she repeated carefully.

Her brows rose.

One hand came up to press against her chest like she’d just received deeply upsetting personal news.

“Benjamin Wilder,” she said softly, almost reverently, “I thought you loved me.”

Her gaze drifted down again to the granola bar, then back to him, narrowing slightly as if she were reassessing the entire relationship.

“My body,” she continued, tapping two fingers lightly against her stomach through the thick knit of her sweater, “is currently attempting to assemble a human being from scratch.”

The wind lifted the hem of her coat and she shifted closer to him without even thinking about it, still staring at him with quiet accusation.

“And you’ve been walking around Iceland,” she said slowly, “with hidden snacks.”

Another beat.

Cleo lifted her hand between them.

Palm out.

“Nope.”

She shook her head once.

“Mad at you.”

The seriousness lasted approximately two seconds.

Because the moment he nudged the granola bar closer—peanut butter and dark chocolate catching the soft gray daylight—something in her expression cracked instantly.

Her eyes brightened.

“Oh wait—no—give me that.”

She grabbed it out of his hand with surprising speed.

The movement made the boardwalk creak again beneath them, and the moss-covered lava ridges beyond the railing looked almost neon against the dark volcanic stone.

But she wasn’t looking at the landscape anymore.

She was looking directly at the pocket his hand had come out of.

Her eyes narrowed slowly.

“…is there more in there?”

She stepped closer to him immediately, free hand diving into the inside pocket of his coat before he could even respond.

“Benjamin.”

Her fingers brushed fabric, wrappers.

Rustle.

“Benjamin.”

Another rustle.

Her head tilted with focused determination as she dug deeper into the pocket like someone conducting a search.

Then she pulled something out.

Another granola bar.

Her face changed instantly.

“Oh my god.”

She reached back in.

A second one appeared.

“You’ve been hoarding.”

The wind pushed across the boardwalk again, lifting strands of her hair across her cheek while she stared at the small collection of snacks now in her hands like she’d discovered buried treasure.

“You’ve been walking across a frozen lava field,” she continued, incredulous and delighted all at once, “like some kind of foraging woodland creature with emergency provisions.”

Without hesitation, she tucked the first bar into her coat pocket.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Each one slid safely into the deep wool pocket like she was stocking a vault.

She patted the pocket twice, satisfied.

“These are mine now.”

Then she held up her hand again between them, finger raised with mock severity.

“Still mad.”

A tiny pause.

“Very mad.”

She immediately started opening one of the bars.

The wrapper crinkled loudly in the cold air, and the smell of peanut butter drifted faintly between them.

Cleo took a bite.

The relief was immediate and obvious.

Her shoulders dropped a little as she chewed, the cold wind suddenly much less offensive now that food existed.

They started walking again slowly along the boardwalk, the planks curving between low ridges of black volcanic rock where the moss glowed bright green like velvet against the ancient stone.

She leaned lightly into his side again without thinking, chewing thoughtfully.

Her shoulder bumped his.

“Okay,” she said after swallowing, voice noticeably brighter. “But if I pass out later it’s your fault for delaying snack deployment.”

Another bite.

She looked out across the lava field for a moment—the land stretching wide and dark and quiet under the pale sky—before glancing sideways at him again.

“…also,” she added casually, “if you narrate my life like a nature documentary…”

She nudged his arm with her elbow.

“…I’m pushing you into the moss.”

A small grin tugged at the corner of her mouth as they continued down the winding bridge, her pocket now suspiciously full of emergency rations.

Ben froze in place for exactly half a second—the exact half second where her hand disappeared into his coat pocket and his entire soul left his body to go file a complaint.

Not because he was actually mad.

Because he was caught.

And being caught by Cleo was always a full-contact sport.

His eyes widened as she dug deeper, the wrapper-rustle sounding absurdly loud out here in the open, wind-whipped nothingness. He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a plea.

“Okay—okay, hold on—” he started, but it was too late. She was already pulling contraband out like she’d just raided a bunker.

When the second bar surfaced, his mouth fell open.

When the third did, he actually looked over his shoulder as if someone might arrest him for snack crimes.

“Alright,” he said, voice cracking into laughter despite himself, “first of all—this is a gross mischaracterization of what’s happening.”

He gestured vaguely at his coat, at her hands full of loot, at the entire lava field like the setting itself was conspiring.

“I am not hoarding,” he insisted, dead serious. “I am prepared. There’s a difference. One is morally corrupt and selfish. The other is… hot.”

He shot her a look—pure, wounded dignity.

“And you’re acting like I’m some kind of woodland creature—like I’m not a grown man who simply respects… logistics.”

The corner of his mouth twitched when she tucked the bars into her pocket like she was stocking a safe. He watched her pat the pocket twice and swear ownership like she’d just annexed his entire supply chain.

His jaw flexed, working hard to look offended.

“You can’t just—” he began, then stopped because she held up her finger and said she was still mad while actively eating his emergency provisions, and that combination nearly took him out.

He tried again.

“I would like to point out,” he said, walking again as she leaned back into his side, “that I offered you the snack with reverence. I presented it like an artifact. I didn’t delay snack deployment—I curated the moment.”

He glanced down at her, cheeks pink, eyes brighter already, wrapper crinkling like proof of life.

“And yes,” he added, mock stern, “I did have more.”

A beat.

“I always have more.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping like he was confessing something dangerous.

“I have trust issues with breakfast. I never believe it. Breakfast is a liar. Breakfast tells you you’re fine and then abandons you on a bridge.”

He watched her take another bite and couldn’t help smiling, because she looked so instantly better it was almost ridiculous. Like the human body was just a complicated machine that ran on peanut butter and spite.

When she threatened to push him into the moss, he gasped, offended on principle.

“You wouldn’t,” he said, then paused, reconsidered, and corrected himself immediately: “Actually you would. You absolutely would. You’d do it with a calm face and then tell everyone it was geological activity.”

He bumped her shoulder back with his, gentle.

“And for the record,” he continued, “if you shove me into the moss, I’m going to dramatically sink into it like I’m being absorbed by the earth. I’m going to haunt this boardwalk forever. Tourists will come and I’ll whisper, ‘Snack crimes…’ in their ears.”

He tipped his head toward her pocket, now suspiciously full.

“You do realize,” he said, eyes narrowing with playful accusation, “you just stole enough snacks to survive a minor apocalypse. If the silica gods strike again, you’re basically the pantry.”

He glanced at her profile as the wind cut across them again, her face framed by loose strands of hair, mouth still working thoughtfully through a bite.

And he got distracted, because of course he did.

Because she looked soft and fierce and alive in the middle of all this black rock and neon moss, and he loved her so much it made his chest feel too small to hold it.

He cleared his throat like he could physically shake the feeling off.

“Okay,” he said, trying for normal and failing in a way that probably showed on his face. “Truce.”

He lifted their joined hands slightly in his pocket like a peace offering.

“You keep the snacks,” he said generously. “I’ll keep you upright. We’ll both pretend this is an equal exchange.”

Then, with a grin that was pure trouble:

“But if you’re ‘very mad,’ you’re gonna have to punish me later.”

A beat.

He added quickly, deadpan, “Emotionally. With a strongly worded complaint. Maybe in writing. Possibly illustrated.”

Cleo slowed a little as they walked, not enough to break the rhythm of their steps but enough that she could turn her head and look at him properly.

The boardwalk curved ahead through a shallow valley of lava rock, the planks pale and slightly frosted where the cold had settled overnight. On either side, the ground was a chaotic field of black volcanic formations—jagged ridges, hollow pockets, and long cooled ripples where ancient lava had hardened mid-flow. Between all of it, the moss glowed bright, almost neon green, spreading like velvet over the stone.

The wind skimmed across the open landscape and tugged at the loose strands of her hair again. Cleo lifted her hand to tuck them behind her ear while she finished chewing her bite of the granola bar, the wrapper crinkling faintly in the quiet.

She swallowed, then turned her head slightly to study him.

“Punish you,” she repeated slowly.

Her tone wasn’t scandalized.

It was curious.

One eyebrow lifted.

“Interesting choice of words, Benjamin.”

Their boots stepped over a slightly uneven plank in the bridge, the wood creaking softly beneath them. The railing beside them rattled faintly when another gust of wind slipped through the open lava field.

Cleo took another bite of the granola bar, chewing thoughtfully while she watched him out of the corner of her eye like she was evaluating new information.

“Because earlier,” she continued casually, brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth with her thumb, “you were claiming moral superiority for your emergency snack preparedness.”

Her hand dipped into the deep pocket of her coat again, adjusting the newly acquired stash with a small, satisfied pat. The faint shape of the bars pressed against the wool like hidden treasure.

“And now,” she said, glancing up at him again, “you’re suggesting I… punish you.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

“That feels like a strategic pivot.”

They walked a few more careful steps along the boardwalk. Ahead of them the path rose slightly, disappearing between taller formations of lava rock where the moss was thicker and brighter, catching what little light filtered through the cloud cover.

Cleo leaned a little closer into his side as another gust of wind slid across the open field, the warmth of him beside her cutting the edge of the cold.

She chewed slowly, still thinking.

“So what exactly does this punishment entail?” she asked, tilting her head toward him.

“Because you mentioned a strongly worded complaint.”

Her mouth curved faintly at the corner.

“And illustrations.”

She took another bite, chewing slowly as she studied him, the wrapper rustling softly in the quiet between the wind.

“I’m just trying to understand the scope of this disciplinary action.”

Her tone remained perfectly reasonable.

“But if I’m going to commit to being ‘very mad,’” she said thoughtfully, “I feel like I should know what my options are.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly with hers as they continued down the bridge, their joined hands still tucked together inside his coat pocket where the warmth pooled between their fingers.

“For example,” she added, glancing up at him again, eyes glinting with curiosity, “is this more of a formal grievance process?”

Another step.

The boards creaked beneath their boots, the lava field stretching endlessly on either side of them.

“Or are we talking about… creative consequences.”

Her gaze flicked down briefly to the pocket where she’d confiscated the snacks, then back to his face.

“Because right now,” she said, lifting the half-eaten granola bar slightly like evidence, “the only crime I see is snack concealment.”

A beat passed as the wind swept across the moss again, making it ripple faintly against the dark stone.

“And I’m still deciding,” she added quietly, her smile growing just a little, “how serious that offense actually is.”

Ben’s first instinct was to laugh.

His second instinct—stronger, more dangerous—was to look at her the way she was looking at him right now and promptly forget how language worked.

Because she had that tone. The one that sounded perfectly reasonable while she was absolutely, unmistakably, winding a knife in slow motion.

He cleared his throat like that might reset his brain.

It didn’t.

“Well,” he said, drawing the word out with a casualness he did not deserve, “when you put it like that, it sounds like I’m trying to get myself in trouble.”

He glanced sideways at her, mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin. He didn’t pull his hand out of the pocket. If anything, he tucked their joined hands deeper, like he was protecting himself from his own stupidity.

“I’m not,” he added quickly. “I mean—” a beat, then he shrugged, helplessly honest in the most annoying way. “Not on purpose.”

The wind hit them again and she leaned into him, and Ben’s entire face did that thing where it softened without his permission.

He looked away, like he could hide it.

He couldn’t.

“Okay,” he said, suddenly very serious about this nonsense, “the scope of disciplinary action is… flexible. It’s a living document. It evolves based on the severity of the offense and how intimidating you look while eating stolen snacks.”

He nodded toward the granola bar in her hand like it was Exhibit A in a court case.

“Snack concealment,” he echoed. “Yes. A crime. Technically.”

His voice dipped like he was offering sworn testimony.

“But also? A public service. Because if I hadn’t concealed them, you would’ve eaten them yesterday. And then we’d be right back here with your stomach committing acts of terrorism.”

He paused, then added with a small, smug lift of his brows—

“So really, I saved your life.”

A beat.

“And now I’m being threatened with… creative consequences.”

He said it like he was trying to sound worried, but his eyes were betraying him. He looked delighted. Like she’d just offered him his favorite kind of trouble: the kind that came with her smile and her attention and the warmth of her shoulder pressed against his arm.

He turned his head slightly toward her, lowering his voice as if the lava field might gossip.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “Let’s define terms.”

He lifted his free hand—palm up—like he was laying out options on an invisible menu.

“Option one: formal grievance process. Strongly worded complaint. Delivered ieally in front of the fire. I will sit there and take it like a man.”

He nodded once, solemn.

“You may cite sources. You may reference my prior statements about moral superiority. You may call me ‘Benjamin Wilder’ again if you want maximum emotional damage.”

His mouth twitched.

“Option two: illustrated addendum.” He glanced down at her, eyes warm, mischievous. “You draw me a political cartoon. Something humiliating but fair. Like… me as a woodland squirrel hoarding granola bars in my coat.”

He let that hang a beat, then shrugged like he’d accept his fate.

“Option three—” he hesitated just enough to make it annoying, then continued with a straight face, “creative consequences.”

He leaned closer, the edge of his coat brushing her sleeve.

“Which could mean… you confiscate all snacks permanently and I have to earn them back through acts of service. Chopping wood. Making soup. Carrying you over any surface that looks even mildly suspicious.”

His eyes flicked down to the frosted boards beneath their feet.

“I’ll be honest,” he added, “I’m already in a committed relationship with the idea of carrying you. So that’s not really punishment. That’s just… Tuesday.”

He held her gaze then, the grin finally breaking through—boyish and wicked and soft all at once.

“But,” he said, lowering his voice, “if you’re asking whether I’m strategically pivoting because I like the idea of you being in charge of my consequences…”

He shrugged, like he couldn’t help it.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Then, as if to save himself from the direction his own mouth was taking this, he pointed at her coat pocket with mock accusation.

“Also, I’d like to file my own grievance,” he said. “You’ve stolen three bars and you’re acting like you’re the victim here.”

He bumped her shoulder gently.

“That’s not discipline, Cleo. That’s a hostile takeover.”

A beat.

His smile softened, quieter now, like the joke had opened the door for something real to slip through.

“But whatever you decide,” he added, thumb brushing her knuckles inside the pocket, “I’ll accept my punishment with dignity.”

Then he glanced at the half-eaten bar again and muttered, deadpan:

“Unless you make me share that last bite. Then we’re going to war.”

Cleo listened to him with that same slow, thoughtful expression she got whenever Ben started explaining something that was very obviously nonsense but delivered with such sincere conviction it almost sounded legitimate.

Almost.

She didn’t interrupt.

That would’ve been too easy.

Instead, she let him talk through the entire presentation—the menu of punishments, the snack-related legal defense, the heroic claim that he had personally saved her life through strategic granola bar concealment—while she walked beside him with her hand still threaded through his inside his coat pocket, warm against the cold air whipping across the lava field.

By the time he finished, Cleo had that look.

The one that meant she’d been thinking.

Which, historically, was never good news for Ben Wilder.

She tilted her head slightly, considering him, eyes drifting over his face like she was evaluating the seriousness of his case.

“Mm,” she murmured thoughtfully.

Then she reached into her coat pocket and broke off the last small bite of the granola bar he’d been so concerned about, popping it into her mouth with deliberate calm.

Her brows lifted faintly as she chewed.

“You’re right,” she said after a moment. “This is complicated.”

The wind tugged loose strands of her hair across her cheek, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand before glancing up at him again.

“Because on one hand,” she continued, “you did conceal snacks from a woman whose body is currently attempting to grow an entire human.”

She gestured faintly toward her stomach.

“That feels… ethically questionable.”

A beat.

“But on the other hand,” she added, nodding slightly, “your argument about preventative snack management is… annoyingly logical.”

Her mouth curved just a little.

“So I suppose the disciplinary process needs to be… thorough.”

Cleo squeezed his hand once inside the pocket, the gesture absentminded but grounding.

They took a few slow steps along the boardwalk, the planks creaking faintly under their boots as the path curved between black ridges of cooled lava and bright, stubborn moss.

When she spoke again, her tone had shifted—still light, but edged with something quieter.

“Obviously,” she said, “this can’t be resolved out here.”

She tipped her chin toward the open lava field like it was an inappropriate courtroom venue.

“Too many environmental distractions.”

Her eyes flicked back to him, calm but unmistakably amused.

“So I think the only fair option,” she went on, “is to postpone judgment until later.”

Ben’s thumb brushed across her knuckles again.

Cleo didn’t look down at their hands.

She looked at him.

“After dinner,” she said.

A small pause.

“Back at the hotel.”

Another step along the boardwalk.

“And then,” she continued evenly, “you can begin the process of earning back your reputation.”

Her expression stayed composed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

“Through acts of service.”

She shrugged one shoulder lightly, like the details were still under review.

“You mentioned soup,” she said. “But I’m not sure that’s going to be sufficient.”

Another glance up at him—longer this time.

“We might need a more… hands-on demonstration of remorse.”

Then she slipped her hand out of his coat pocket briefly just to pat the one holding the stolen snacks.

“For now,” she added sweetly, “I’m confiscating the evidence.”

She stepped forward again, falling back into stride beside him.

“And Benjamin Wilder?”

Her voice softened just slightly as she nudged his arm with her shoulder.

“If you behave yourself through dinner…”

She let the rest of the sentence trail off, her smile doing the rest of the work.

“…we’ll see how convincing your apology is later.”

Ben’s face did that thing it always did when she was being calm on purpose—eyes narrowing slightly, mouth twitching like he was trying to decide whether to be offended, turned on, or impressed.

It landed somewhere in the middle.

He kept walking, kept their shoulders aligned, kept their hands where they belonged inside his pocket like a shared secret, but his mind was absolutely sprinting.

Because in his defense—in his very reasonable, morally righteous defense—he had revealed the snack the second she so much as blinked wrong.

He hadn’t hoarded for sport. He hadn’t concealed for power.

He’d concealed for… logistics. For love. For operational stability.

And somehow, somewhere between “here, please don’t pass out” and “I am essential infrastructure,” he’d ended up sentenced to a lifetime of “acts of service” like he was a disgraced butler.

Which—annoyingly—he would probably excel at.

He glanced sideways at her, eyes warm, voice slipping into that playful, aggrieved cadence he used when he was trying to make her laugh without breaking the tenderness.

“Okay,” he said, “I’d like to state for the record that I revealed the snack the moment you showed signs of distress.”

He raised his brows. “Immediate deployment. Rapid response. Heroic.”

A beat.

“And now you’re confiscating evidence and talking about remorse demonstrations like I committed international crimes.”

His mouth curved into a grin, helpless and charmed by her.

“You’re having fun,” he accused lightly. “This is… this is a little power trip.”

He leaned closer for a second, not stopping, just letting his shoulder brush hers with more intention.

“Which I support,” he added, quieter, “for the record.”

He let that hang just long enough to see if it landed the way he meant it to—because it did. It always did with her. Then he rescued himself with humor before he got too honest and accidentally started talking about feelings like a man who owned a journal.

He nodded toward her pocket, where the snacks now lived like stolen treasure.

“Also, you can’t call it ‘confiscation’ when you’re stealing from the guy who literally saved you from starvation,” he said. “That’s not justice. That’s piracy.”

He made a thoughtful face.

“I’m pretty sure this makes you a pirate queen.”

Another gust of wind came through and she tucked closer, and Ben’s thumb resumed its slow circles over her knuckles, steady and instinctive. His tone softened without him meaning to.

“Behave through dinner,” he repeated, like he was tasting the words. “You say that like I’m not going to be on my absolute best behavior.”

He glanced at her again, eyes bright with mischief.

“I’m going to pull your chair out. I’m going to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ I’m going to pretend I’m not staring at you every time you talk.”

A beat.

“I’m going to be insufferable,” he concluded. “Like… scandalously polite.”

He paused, then added, deadpan, “Do you want me to hold your coat too, or is that too submissive?”

He squeezed her hand once in the pocket—an answer to everything she wasn’t saying out loud. Loving. Present. Right here.

“Okay,” he said, letting out a breath like he was resigning himself to a fate he secretly enjoyed. “I accept the terms of your very biased legal system.”

Then his smile turned softer at the edges, fond in a way that made his throat feel tight.

“But just so you know,” he added, voice warm, “I’ll do the acts of service thing. I’ll cook. I’ll behave. I’ll apologize with my whole body if that’s what you’re implying—”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting.

“—because watching you be pleased with me is, unfortunately, one of my favorite hobbies.”

He let her shoulder bump his again and pretended to stagger, like she’d pushed him.

“Now,” he said brightly, “lead the way, Your Honor. I will be a model citizen.”

And as they walked on—hands still tucked together, her pocket full of his “evidence,” moss glowing beside them like neon velvet—Ben decided that if this was what being in trouble with her felt like…

He might start committing snack crimes on purpose.

Cleo listened to him make his case like he was standing before some invisible council of snack-related justice, the wind pushing gently at their coats as the boardwalk carried them farther across the black, rippled lava field. The moss beside the path glowed stubbornly green against the stone, and somewhere far off a raven called, the sound swallowed quickly by the open air.

She kept her hand tucked inside his pocket the entire time, fingers warm around his, letting him finish every single dramatic defense before she said a word.

By the time he reached pirate queen, her mouth had already started to betray her.

A quiet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.

“Okay,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “First of all—if I’m a pirate queen, that means you sailed directly into my territory carrying valuable cargo. That’s not my fault. That’s poor planning on your part.”

She glanced down toward the pocket holding the stolen bars and patted it once, thoughtfully.

“Strategic acquisition.”

Then she looked back up at him, the wind tugging a loose strand of blonde hair across her cheek.

His whole heroic deployment argument earned a small, conceding nod.

“I will admit,” she said, “the response time was impressive. Very efficient. Extremely heroic.”

Her lips curved faintly.

“But you’re forgetting something important in your little courtroom drama.”

Cleo slowed half a step, turning her head just enough to look at him properly.

“Acts of service,” she said evenly, “are not a lifetime sentence.”

Her thumb brushed lightly over the back of his hand where their fingers were intertwined.

“They go both ways.”

She said it calmly, but there was a quiet warmth behind it now.

“Which means if you’re planning on cooking and behaving and being scandalously polite,” she added, “you should probably prepare yourself for… reciprocation.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“Because I’m not above returning the favor.”

The boardwalk creaked softly beneath their boots as they kept moving, the path rising gently between two ridges of dark volcanic rock.

When he accused her of the power trip, she sighed—dramatic but not entirely insincere.

“…Okay, yes,” she admitted.

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug.

“It might be a tiny power trip.”

She glanced up at him again, expression softening.

“And I’m sorry.”

The apology came easily, even if the hint of amusement stayed in her eyes.

“Turns out confiscating snacks and making dramatic legal declarations in the middle of a lava field does something to a person.”

Another gust of wind swept across them, and she leaned slightly closer to him again without thinking.

“But for the record,” she added after a moment, voice quieter now, “I’m not actually sentencing you to anything.”

Her fingers squeezed his once.

“I like taking care of you too.”

Then she tilted her head, studying him again with that same thoughtful expression.

“And if you’re planning on apologizing with your whole body later,” she said lightly, “you should probably remember that sometimes the acts of service… involve teamwork.”

Her mouth curved faintly at the edges.

“But we’ll figure that out after dinner.”

She nudged his shoulder gently with hers, bringing the moment back to the rhythm of their walk.

“Until then,” she added, glancing ahead at the winding boardwalk, “I expect flawless behavior from my model citizen.”

A small pause.

“And Benjamin?”

Her eyes flicked toward him again, amused.

“If you start committing snack crimes on purpose…”

Her smile widened slightly.

“…I will absolutely raise the penalties.”

Ben felt the laugh in her before he heard it—the way her fingers warmed around his inside the pocket, the way her shoulders loosened as if the whole lava field had finally gotten the memo to stop trying to kill her. It hit him right in the chest, that quiet, unstoppable little sound, and his mouth curved without permission.

He looked over at her, eyes bright, like he’d just won something he hadn’t even known he was competing for.

“Poor planning,” he repeated, scoffing softly. “That’s insane. I planned perfectly. I brought snacks. I saved your life. I endured public humiliation.”

He glanced down at her pocket with theatrical offense.

“And then you robbed me.”

But when she said acts of service went both ways—when her thumb brushed the back of his hand and she said reciprocation like it was the most reasonable thing in the world—Ben’s face did that thing again. The one where the joke almost slipped, where the softness tried to show.

He blinked once, like he needed to reboot.

“Okay,” he said, voice careful but playful, “I want to be very clear: I support equality in all things. Especially… acts of service.”

He dragged his eyes back to her face, brows lifting.

“But you saying ‘reciprocation’ like that? On this bridge? In this wind? That’s actually… wildly threatening.”

He bumped her shoulder lightly, keeping their pace slow, their boots landing in sync like they’d practiced. The boardwalk creaked. The moss glowed. The world felt huge and small at the same time.

When she admitted the power trip and then apologized—I’m sorry—Ben reacted like he always did when she offered him something soft: he tried to joke first, so he wouldn’t accidentally get too earnest and start looking like a man who wrote sad songs in his Notes app.

He made a long, exaggerated sigh, as if he were a saint being tested.

“I accept your apology,” he said solemnly. “As the injured party. As the victim. As a brave man who was simply trying to provide nutritional stability.”

A beat.

Then his eyes flicked to her again, warm.

“Also,” he added, quieter, “I’m not mad. I like you when you’re a little power-drunk. It’s… cute. In a terrifying way.”

Her squeeze tightened around his fingers, and he squeezed back without thinking. Just reflex. Just yeah, I’m here.

When she said she liked taking care of him too, something inside him eased—like the world didn’t just take from him. Like he wasn’t always the one trying to prove he could carry things without dropping them.

He didn’t say that part out loud.

Instead, he let his grin return—boyish, bright, like the conversation hadn’t just turned holy for a second.

“Teamwork,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was dangerous. “Okay. Great. Love that. Big fan of collaboration.”

He nodded toward the ridge ahead where the boardwalk rose, mock serious.

“We’re gonna need to set some parameters. A plan. Maybe a schedule. A color-coded chart.”

He glanced at her, eyes glinting.

“Because if you think I’m going to survive you being ‘not above returning the favor’ without some kind of safety briefing, you’re underestimating my ability to completely fall apart.”

When she demanded flawless behavior from her model citizen, Ben straightened a fraction, posture suddenly impeccable.

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said, ridiculously polite. “I will be on my best behavior.”

He paused, then added, deadpan:

“Unless you look at me like that again. Then I can’t guarantee anything.”

The wind swept through the fissures and he angled his body slightly to block it from her, almost unconscious, keeping her close as if the cold had to go through him first.

At her warning about raising penalties, he gasped, scandalized.

“You can’t just ‘raise the penalties,’” he protested. “That’s entrapment. That’s corruption. That’s—”

He cut himself off, smile breaking through again.

“Okay,” he conceded, leaning a little closer, voice dropping like a secret. “Fine.”

He swung their joined hands lightly inside the pocket, the warmth there undeniable.

“I won’t commit snack crimes on purpose,” he promised.

A beat.

“…I’ll just keep being accidentally heroic.”

He looked down at her then—soft-eyed, amused, alive—and added with pure, affectionate sincerity tucked inside the joke:

“And if you want to take care of me too…”

He shrugged, like he wasn’t trying to make it heavy. Like it was just another fact.

“I’m not gonna fight you on that.”

Then he tipped his chin toward the rest of the boardwalk, grinning.

“Now come on, pirate queen,” he said lightly. “Let’s get back to the retreat before you start drafting the official snack crime constitution in my pocket.”

Cleo listened to the entire speech like it was a closing argument in the very dramatic trial of Benjamin Wilder vs. The Pirate Queen.

Her expression stayed suspiciously composed the whole time, even when he accused her of robbery, even when he called himself the victim of nutritional injustice, even when he accepted her apology like some long-suffering saint.

But the warmth of his hand around hers inside his pocket gave her away.

By the time he finished promising not to commit snack crimes—on purpose—the corner of her mouth had already curved into that quiet, knowing smile.

She slowed her steps just slightly.

The lava field stretched around them in rippling black waves of cooled stone, moss glowing bright and soft against it like velvet. Ahead, the wooden boardwalk dipped gently toward the end of the trail where the buildings of the retreat finally came into view—glass, warm lights, steam rising faintly into the cold air.

Cleo reached into her coat pocket.

For a moment it looked like she was just adjusting something—until she started pulling things out.

First one granola bar.

Then another.

Then the third.

She stacked them neatly in her palm like a very official return of stolen property before placing the entire pile into his hand.

“There,” she said simply.

“Full restitution.”

Her fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary before slipping away, letting his hand go as she stepped slightly ahead of him on the boardwalk.

The wind caught her hair again as she turned back toward him over her shoulder.

That same calm expression.

That same tone.

“You know,” she said lightly, “this whole conversation about reciprocation?”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the bars now sitting in his hand, then lifted back to his face.

“That wasn’t about snacks.”

A beat.

“Or household duties.”

Her mouth curved just slightly as she held his gaze.

Then she winked.

Just once.

The path widened as they reached the end of the boardwalk, the volcanic rock giving way to gravel and the soft glow of the retreat’s entrance ahead. Warm light spilled through the large glass doors, steam from the nearby lagoon drifting lazily into the cold evening air.

Cleo turned forward again and walked the last few steps toward the entrance.

“Come on,” she called back over her shoulder, her voice bright now.

“Let’s go eat.”

And before he could answer, she pushed through the doors and disappeared inside the hotel.