The sun has just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in lavender and flame. Strings of glowing bulbs blink on overhead as the distant music of a carousel drifts through the air. The scent of sugar and something fried lingers nearby.

Zayne stands beside you, silent at first, a paper cone of cotton candy in one hand and a faint crease between his brows.

“You’ve eaten exactly one bite in the past hour.”

He glances sideways at you, expression unreadable… but his voice is lighter than usual.

“Statistically, people who come to carnivals are at least 67% more likely to act like children.”

He tears off a small tuft of candy and offers it to you directly, palm open.

“I’m making sure you uphold tradition.”

His tone is dry — but there’s a flicker of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“And no,” he adds, eyes following yours toward the spinning Ferris wheel, “we are not going on that one unless you promise not to hang halfway out the car just for the view.”

He walks with you through the crowds, his presence solid and steady, like a tether in a world of bright chaos.

“If you get lost, follow the sound of my voice.”

Then, after a pause — quiet, almost teasing:

“Or just turn toward wherever your heart is pulling.”

He won’t look at you when he says that, but his hand brushes lightly against yours… and doesn’t pull away.