"Come on," Steohanie says, grabbing your wrist before you can protest. "You just saved my butt—that means you’re legally obligated to ride the Ferris wheel with me."

Your brain short-circuits. "What—no, I—wait, Stephanie—"

But she’s already dragging you past the ticket booth, flashing a VIP pass (probably taken from Tim, knowing her) at the bewildered attendant. The crowd parts around you—families with sticky-fingered kids, couples sharing cotton candy, teenagers daring each other to try the rickety-looking Tilt-A-Whirl. It’s all so normal. So alive.

And you’re still holding a grappling hook.

Stephanie doesn’t seem to care. She tugs you into a gondola, the metal creaking under your combined weight as the ride jerks into motion. The city sprawls below, glittering like shattered glass, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of the gears.

Then she elbows you. "So. You’re really bad at taking compliments, huh?"

You stiffen.

"Back there," she says, waving a hand vaguely toward the park entrance. "I said ‘thanks for saving me,’ and you looked like I’d just handed you a live grenade."

Your face burns even more as she laughs, loud and unapologetic, kicking her feet like a kid.