He nods without blinking, bravery constructed on the spot. “I know that sounds backward,” he rushes on, “given what we did first.” His ears go pink in a way that makes me want to kiss the heat away. “And I don’t mean, like, acapital-Ddate where we accidentally wander into paparazzi traps and accidentally trip into an interview where I accidentally confess my undyingdevotion. More like… two idiots who like each other go outside and buy overpriced street food.”
I let him dangle a second longer than necessary. He squirms, then composes his face intoI don’t care either wayand grips his cup to hide his hands.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask.
Relief cracks his grin in half. “There’s a street fair down by the warehouses. Food trucks, live music, some guy who makes leather bracelets and keeps trying to charge me extra for ‘fireman wrists.’”
“Do you have fireman wrists?”
“I have wrists,” he says, spreading his hands like a debater who knows he’s lost on a technicality. “Also a vintage arcade in the next block. I will dominate you at skee-ball.”
“You do realize I’m a professional athlete with terrifying hand-eye coordination.”
“You do realize I grew up hustling middle-aged dads at Chuck E. Cheese.”
I hide a smile behind my cup. “So you want to crush me at skee-ball and feed me questionable street meat.”
“That’s… the dream, yes.” His voice softens. “And to walk next to you while being completely normal humans. No drama. No arenas. Just us and a funnel cake that will live in our arteries forever.”
The softness gets me. It gets me stupid. “Okay,” I say.
He blinks, like he had several alternate plans for rejection and none for success. “Okay?”
“Yes, Magnus.”
He tips his head back and groans like he just scored in overtime. Then he stops, worry tilting his mouth. “We can keep it low-key. We wear caps. No holding hands if that makes you want to break into hives.”
I meet his eyes. “It doesn’t.”
His breath hitches the tiniest bit. “Right.”
We stand there trying not to grin like teenagers who just got away with something; it lasts about four seconds before he caves first. “You’re really saying yes.”
“I’m really saying yes,” I echo. “Try to survive the thrill.”
He steps closer until his hip meets mine again and leans in like he can’t help it. The kiss is careful, morning-slow, coffee-sweet. He’s smiling into it. So am I, traitor that I am.
? ? ?
It’s ridiculous how normal it feels walking next to him.
We’re both in sunglasses, Magnus hiding under a faded band hoodie with the drawstring cinched so tight he looks like a toddler bundled for snow. I’ve got a baseball cap pulled low. The disguise might work on civilians, but any hockey fan with eyes would spot us in ten seconds flat—two six-foot players built like sin, trying to pretend we’re tourists.
The street fair stretches down three blocks: booths, the smell of kettle corn, and a band covering 80s songs badly enough to be charming. We walk close, shoulders brushing. Every few steps our hands bump—by accident at first, then less so. Neither of us says anything about it. We don’t need to.
He’s different like this. Still loud, still Magnus, but softer around the edges. He buys us lemonade from a stand, pretends to make a toast.
“To anonymity,” he says, lifting his cup.
“To terrible disguises,” I counter.
We wander through booths selling leather bracelets, glass candles, ridiculous vintage tees. Magnus keeps up a running commentary, half jokes, half flirtation.
“Think this shirt saysI’m subtle?” he asks, holding up one that readsWolves Bite Harder.
“You wear that, you’re asking for trouble.”
“I like trouble.”
