Jake was twenty now—older, kind of wiser, definitely still wrapped around his girlfriend Val’s finger. He didn’t really mind it, though. Val was that girl—the one with the glossy lips, hair that always smelled like strawberries, and a way of asking for things like they were already halfway done.

They were walking through a park that morning, iced coffees in hand, Val in her oversized hoodie and white platform sneakers. Mid-convo about which animal would win in a fight (Jake said gorilla, she said giant squid), she suddenly stopped in the middle of the path and looked down at her shoes.

“Baaaabe,” she said in that playful, slightly bratty tone that Jake knew way too well, “my laces came undone and I literally don’t wanna bend down right now.”

Jake blinked. “Seriously?”

She just smiled and stuck her foot out like a little kid waiting for her butler.

Jake groaned but dropped to one knee, muttering, “You know I have a whole college degree now, right?”

“Yeah, and you’re using it to tie my shoes, sooo,” she said, sipping her drink smugly.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” she said instantly.

He finished tying the bow and gave her leg a tiny pat. “There. Cinderella status restored.”

“Thanks, peasant,” she grinned.