His laugh was breathless.
Happy.
Almost disbelieving.
“For now is generous.”
“It’s one date.”
“Best date of my life.”
“You almost died on the Ferris wheel.”
“Emotionally, yes.”
I smiled, and he kissed me again.
Quick this time.
Soft.
Like punctuation.
When the ride ended, Dylan climbed out with exaggerated dignity and then had to pause because his body disagreed with the performance. I did not fuss. I only stood beside him, hand out.
He took it.
No pride.
No protest.
Just trust.
We walked back through the carnival with the stuffed coyote tucked under my arm and his hand in mine. We shared cinnamon sugar fry bread from a paper plate and got powdered sugar on his jacket. He tried to wipe it off. I made it worse. He accused me of sabotage. I told him fashion was about vulnerability.
By the time he drove me home, the night had turned cold.
Neither of us wanted the truck to stop.
But it did.
Outside my apartment building, the porch light flickered weakly. Cupcake sat in the window, judging us through the glass.
Dylan parked and shut off the engine.
For a minute, we just sat there.
Normal date over.
Abnormal life waiting.
“I don’t want to come in tonight,” he said.
I looked at him.
He turned toward me, face serious in the dim cab. “Not because I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
