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He gasps, pulls both sticks back against his chest like I’ve robbed a museum, and stares at me. “Are you taking a bite or the whole damn thing?!”

I chew slowly, smiling.

“Your big mouth is a problem.”

“I don’t hear you complaining when it’s fitting your cock in it.”

The color goes straight up his face. He doesn’t scowl or dignify it with the entrance-level insult I was expecting. He completely ignores me and starts walking away.

From there, it only gets worse. Or better, depending on how much one enjoys watching a sharp-mouthed little menace unravel into delight under the influence of sweets.

He runs ahead of me twice in the span of ten minutes.

The first time, it’s because he spots a stand with handmade chocolates shaped like tiny weapons, which feels aggressively on brand. The second time, it’s because he sees cotton candy in all colors and stops so abruptly that I nearly laugh when he turns back to me.

“Pink?” I ask mildly, handing it over.

“I’m not eating pink.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s… not for me.”

“Sure it is.”

I hand him the pink one.

He takes it with a look that somehow manages to be grateful. He tears off a piece and sticks it in his mouth. I watch the sugar melt on his tongue and the brief shine that enters his eyes again. I think I could buy him this entire park and still feel like I came away with the better bargain.

The games are even better because Ilya is competitive.

The first booth is ring toss. He misses twice, curses enough to make the teenage booth worker flinch, and then narrows his eyes at the bottles.

“It’s crooked,” he declares.

The worker says, “It’s not—”

Ilya cuts him off. “It absolutely is.”

I step in, place money on the counter, and say, “Give him another round before he burns this stand down.”

Ilya glares at me. “I was not going to burn it down.”

“No?”

“No.” A beat. “Not immediately.”

The second round goes slightly better. He wins a tiny yellow stuffed cat that he pretends to hate and then refuses to put down for the next hour.

“It’s ugly,” he says, tucking it under one arm anyway.

“It’s not. It reminds me of you.”

He looks scandalized and tries to hit me with it.

Then comes the shooting gallery, and this is where his real joy shows. His whole face changes the second someone puts something competitive in his hand and tells him to aim. He straightens, focused in that way I suspect most people find a little frightening if they don’t know him well.

I find it gorgeous.