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“Yes.”

She faced forward again. “This truck is prepared to adopt a family during a natural disaster.”

“I told you I carried supplies.”

“You undersold it.”

The local park followed the river through several acres of open grass and old trees. The sun had dropped behind the hills, leaving strips of orange and pink above the water.

We took the flattest route possible. Neither of us had the physical capacity for speed or hills right now.

“This is romantic,” Sloane said. “Two people wandering at sunset, both fighting for digestive survival.”

“I’m doing fine.”

She glanced at me. “You loosened your belt in the truck.”

“It was a preventative measure.”

Laughing, she slipped her hand into mine. The contact surprised me enough that I looked down. Her fingers fit between mine like they were made to be there.

Sloane kept her attention on the path, though color flushed her cheeks again.

I closed my hand around hers.

Neither of us commented on it as we walked.

The park was nearly empty. A couple pushed a stroller. Two teenagers sat on the riverbank sharing earbuds. Farther ahead, a man threw a tennis ball for a dog that had no intention of returning it.

Sloane looked out at the water. “Does your family really throw a birthday dinner every month? Isn’t that what Grandma Ruth said at some point in the group chat?”

“Yep. Once a month.”

“For everyone?”

“Anyone with a birthday that month.”

“How many people attend?”

I shrugged. “Depends. Usually twenty to forty.”

“What does it entail?” she asked.

“Food. Cake. Gifts. Stories intended to embarrass whoever is celebrating. Grandma Ruth gives a speech whether she knows the person well or not.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“She once described a cousin’s water birth in enough detail that he left the room.”

Sloane laughed. “And the next one’s tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

Her hand shifted slightly in mine.

I tried to keep the invitation casual when I said, “You should come.”

“Really?” She seemed surprised.