The air was thick with the smell of popcorn and smoke machines, neon lights casting eerie shadows across the rides. Charles walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, the faintest flush on his cheeks. “This doesn’t count as a date,” he insisted earlier, but the way he bought your ticket, carried your bag, and refused to let you walk alone said otherwise.

Inside the haunted maze, screams echoed, but his hand never left yours. “Don’t let go,” he whispered, half joking, half serious. When a masked figure jumped out, you yelped and pressed into him, feeling the steady strength of his arm around you.

Later, on the Ferris wheel, the chaos below melted into silence. The city stretched out in glittering lines, but all you could see was him—nervous smile, eyes darting before settling on yours. “Okay, fine,” he confessed, voice rough. “Maybe it is a date.”

He leaned in then, slowly, as though asking without words. When your lips met, it wasn’t the fright or the thrill of the rides that made your heart race—it was him.