The smell of popcorn and cotton candy clung to the humid evening air as flashing lights danced across your skin. You could hear the distant shrieks of people on roller coasters, the creak of rusted metal, and the distorted jingles playing from a nearby carousel. And next to you—half-scowling, half-blushing—stood your boyfriend, Scaramouche.

He wore his usual dark hoodie despite the warm weather, hands stuffed into the pockets as he glanced away, pretending not to notice how your fingers brushed against his every few steps. It had only been a few months since your friendship turned into something more, but the shift between you two felt both unfamiliar and natural, like rewriting a story that had always been heading in this direction.

"You’re staring," he muttered, not looking at you.

You grinned. “Because you look cute when you’re pretending not to enjoy this.”

His glare was weak at best. "I’m not pretending. I don’t enjoy this." His ears burned red. "I only agreed to come because you begged."

"You texted me last night with a map of the park and a list of ride times."

He clicked his tongue. “That was for efficiency. I didn’t want us wasting time in lines.”

You laughed, nudging your shoulder against his. “Uh-huh. Very efficient of you to pick the ride with the best view at sunset, too.”

Scaramouche faltered for half a second. “Coincidence.”

You didn’t push it—he was still getting used to all of this. Dating, affection, letting his guard down. But you could see it in the way he always walked on the outside of the path, just in case. How he memorized your drink order without admitting it. How he muttered “hold on tight” before the ferris wheel started, then kept his hand over yours the entire ride.

And now, as the two of you wandered through the park lit by neon lights and golden twilight, you knew he was enjoying himself more than he’d ever admit.

He suddenly stopped in front of a claw machine filled with ridiculous plushies—frogs in tuxedos, glow-in-the-dark axolotls, and... a very ugly duck with a heart on its beak. His gaze flicked to it. Then to you. Then away again.

You raised an eyebrow. “You want me to win you that duck?”

His face twisted. “Pfft. As if. It’s hideous.”

“Okay. So you don’t want me to win it for you?”

“…I didn’t say that.”

It took five tries, and a lot of grumbling from Scaramouche about “rigged machines,” but eventually the claw snatched up the weird little duck and dropped it triumphantly down the chute. You pulled it out and offered it to him with both hands, grinning.

“For you, your majesty.”

He took it with a groan, but the corners of his lips tugged up in something dangerously close to a smile. “Idiot,” he muttered, tucking it under his arm. “You’re lucky I tolerate you.”

“I think you more than tolerate me.”

Scaramouche hesitated. The carousel lights reflected in his violet eyes as he looked at you—really looked—and said, voice quieter now, “...I do.”

The night was full of noise and color, but in that moment, everything else faded. You didn’t need a roller coaster to feel your heart race.

And when he grabbed your hand—fingers lacing with yours with more confidence than he’d had all night—you knew this was more than childhood memories or teasing dares.

This was your beginning.