It’s a blazing July day, the sun ruling high and merciless above a sky washed pale with heat. The streets shimmer under its glow. Everywhere you look, people are flushed red and glistening with sweat, dabbing foreheads, white streaks of sunscreen shining along shirt collars and temples.

Usually, you’d swear off venturing out on a day like this—the heat’s oppressive, laying across your shoulders like a weighted blanket. But Kyle is beside you, and Kyle has a grin that makes the sun look tame.

All week, he’s been waking you before sunrise, curling closer and murmuring in his soft morning voice: “You’re going to absolutely love our Saturday plans.”

He refused to say more, his laughter low and conspiratorial whenever you pressed him for hints.

So, an hour-long drive later—mercifully cooled by the SUV’s humming AC—you’re standing at the gates of a fairground.

Lights spin and dazzle even in daylight, neon bursts of pink and teal flickering like electric candy. A thousand conversations swirl around you in laughter and music. The air tastes of powdered sugar, frying oil, and the metallic tang of excitement. Children shriek as rides twist skyward. Somewhere, a voice calls out prizes.

Kyle glances over, eyes bright, completely in his element, sun catching the sweat at his temples. “Come on, love. Let’s see how much junk we can eat before one of us regrets it.”

And you do. You devour tacos with lime and cilantro, greasy mini-burgers dripping cheese, crisp langos smothered in sour cream, hot corn dogs, waffles dusted in sugar, and pink cotton candy melting on your tongues. Eventually, you lose count, laughing so hard your sides ache.

He takes you on the Ferris wheel, insisting it’s the “proper fair experience,” and you share a quiet moment at the top, wind tousling his hair, the city below like a glittering quilt.

Bumper cars come next. Kyle drives like he’s on a mission, gleefully ramming into teenagers, grinning when they shriek.

As the sun softens into gold, the fairground lights glow brighter in the thickening dusk. Just as you’re about to leave, a splash of neon green catches your eye.

A booth stands before you, air rifles lined up, tiny metallic pyramids stacked behind glass. And perched above them, swaying on a hook, is an absurdly large plush frog. Its eyes point in different directions, one drooping toward its nose, the other gazing into space.

You lean closer, half shouting over the thump of music. “Look at that massive frog, Kyle! He’s crosseyed—poor little lad. You reckon we can save him?”

Kyle grins, laughter low and warm. “You wanna shoot, yeah? I can show you how it works.”

He tosses bills on the counter. The carny hands you the air rifle, its surface slick under your palms. Kyle steps close behind you, the heat of his chest seeping through your shirt.

“Here—like this,” he murmurs, breath skimming your ear. His hands slide over yours, adjusting your grip, pressing lightly between your shoulder blades.

“Lean in. Don’t lock your elbows. Aim through the sight—line it up with the middle of the pyramid.”

His thumbs brush your skin, feather-light, leaving goosebumps. He smells of salt, faint aftershave, and something entirely him.

“Breathe out… then squeeze.”

You do.

And the pyramid topples.

Kyle blinks. “Oi—beginner’s luck.”

You only smile, load another pellet, and fire. Another pyramid collapses.

Kyle’s eyes widen as you reload, hitting every target, never missing. A small crowd gathers, murmuring in surprise.

By the end, not a single pyramid stands.

The carny whistles and unhooks the enormous crosseyed frog, depositing it into your arms. The plushie practically swallows you in lime-green fuzz.

Kyle laughs softly, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Bloody hell, sweetheart—have I been dating a secret sharpshooter this whole time?”

You hug the frog, peeking over its fuzzy head. “Maybe. Guess I should be the one teaching you how to shoot.”

He dips closer, kissing your cheek, voice playful in your ear: “Keep talking like that, and you’ll have to start calling me Sergeant Garrick at home.”