Tyler grinned.

Not the usual cocky half-smirk he wore like armor—but something deeper. Softer. Like her words had landed somewhere he wasn’t ready to admit he’d left open.

He let the bear dangle between them for a second, eyeing it like it had betrayed him somehow by outing his effort. Then he looked at her—really looked—sunlight catching the curve of her jaw and the wild edges of her hair now free from its ribbon. And God, she was stunning. Not just in the way that made his stomach flip, but in the way that made him want to be better. Stay longer. Try harder.

He stepped in, close enough that the air changed between them.

Close enough that her breath hitched just a little.

“I’d fight a hundred rigged ring toss games for you,” he said, voice low, laced with that particular brand of confidence that didn’t need to shout to be heard. “Hell, I’d sweet talk the raffle guy and risk losing a thumb to that bull ride if it meant seeing you smile like that again.”

His hand slid from hers and rose to her cheek, thumb brushing lightly just beneath her eye.

“But if you think for one second that bear’s getting more effort than you—”

A pause. A tilt of his head, curls catching the wind like some kind of poetic rebellion.

“—then you haven’t been paying attention.”

There was no smirk now.

No punchline.

Just Tyler—steady, present, unguarded in a way that made the moment hum between them.

He leaned in, not to kiss her—but to rest his forehead lightly against hers, their noses brushing again, the kind of intimacy that didn’t ask for anything more than this. This stillness. This truth.

“I mean it, El.”

He whispered it like a promise wrapped in gravel—rough around the edges but real all the way through.

“I’m still figuring it out. How to stay. How to show up. How to love you the way you deserve.”

A beat.

“But I want to.”

His hand dropped to hers again, fingers intertwining like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like maybe it always had been.

“So yeah,” he added with a breath of a grin, pulling her just a little closer, “this bear’s ugly as sin—but I’d win a thousand of ’em if it kept you looking at me like that.”

He kissed her then.

Slow.

Certain.

Not rushed or reckless, but like he’d finally figured out the rhythm of a song he used to mess up every time. And this time?

He didn’t miss a beat.

The fairground sounds faded behind them—the laughter, the music, the shimmer of golden-hour joy—and for a moment, it was just them.

Tyler and Ellie.

Hands tangled.

Hearts cracked open.

And not running.

The kiss tasted like everything she hadn’t let herself want.

Powdered sugar. Salted air. A maybe finally turning into a yes.

And when he pulled back just enough to say it—I want to—Ellie felt something ease in her chest that had been tight for far too long.

She could’ve laughed. Could’ve made a joke about the bear or the bull ride or how she absolutely would be making him go near the raffle guy later. But her throat felt full. Her fingers didn’t let go of his.

Instead, she leaned in again, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t tell me that unless you mean it.”

Her thumb brushed his knuckles, soft. Steady.

“Because I’ll believe you.”

That was the thing—she still did. Not blindly. Not like before. But here, now, under golden light and fairground noise and a boy who kissed her like he was trying to learn her language from scratch… she believed him.

And maybe that made her foolish.

But it also made her brave.

She looked down at the bear—floppy, lopsided, ridiculous—and smiled.

Then she looked up at him.

And smiled wider.

“You’re lucky I’m sentimental,” she murmured, “because I’m keeping this thing forever.”

She rose to her toes and kissed him again—deeper this time, slower, like she was learning him back. Like she remembered every good thing and forgave just enough of the rest.

When she pulled away, she rested her forehead against his, her smile all sunshine and certainty.

“Let’s go make fun of the pie contest,” she whispered, “before I decide to kiss you again and forget we’re in public.”

And just like that, she tugged his hand and started walking—bear under one arm, ribbon slipping loose, heart a little lighter than it had been in a long, long time.

Tyler let her tug him forward, but his steps were slow, deliberate—like he was dragging the moment out just a little longer before it passed. Because damn, he felt it. That kiss. That whisper. That ridiculous bear she clutched like it was worth something more than stuffing and fabric.

He hadn’t expected the ache in his chest when she said she’d believe him.

But it hit. Clean. Deep.

Because she would. That was the difference. That was always the difference.

Ellie didn’t hand out second chances like candy. Didn’t pretend not to feel. She meant everything. Even her jokes. Especially her silences.

So when she looked up at him like that—eyes full of sunlight and softness and stubborn trust—he felt the weight of it settle in his ribs in the best kind of way.

As she pulled him toward the pie contest, Tyler’s grin stretched slow across his face. Lopsided. Honest.

“I mean,” he called out behind her, just loud enough to earn a glance over her shoulder, “you could kiss me again. It’d make the judging a lot more bearable.”

She rolled her eyes.

He jogged two steps to catch up, matching her pace again, shoulder brushing hers as they passed under a string of drooping fair lights.

“But hey,” he added, leaning just slightly toward her, voice dipping low like a shared secret, “if you’re keeping the bear, I’m keeping the ribbon.”

She blinked at him.

Then glanced back at the pink silk hanging from her undone hair.

Before she could reply, he plucked it gently from her hair, tied it loosely around his wrist without breaking stride, and shot her a look that managed to be both smug and unbearably sincere.

“A reminder,” he said simply.

And it wasn’t a joke.

It wasn’t nothing.

It was Tyler Harrison—confident and steady, curls ruffled by the breeze, lips still tasting like fairground sugar and something that felt dangerously like hope—walking beside her like he finally wanted to stay.

He tied it around his wrist.

Her ribbon.

Just—took it. Slipped it off like it was his right, like he knew exactly what he was doing, like he knew she’d let him. And she had.

That stupid pink scrap of silk had been falling out of her hair all day. She hadn’t even realized how much she’d been fixing it, retying it, fussing with the ends every time her nerves crept in. But now it was his.

And somehow, it felt safer there.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him—really looked—heart thudding traitorously in her chest like it hadn’t learned a damn thing.

He was impossible.

Impossible and infuriating and so stupidly charming when he wasn’t even trying. But then he’d go and do something like that—something small, something weirdly intimate—and she’d remember why she hadn’t stopped loving him in the first place.

A reminder, he said.

She smiled, quiet and crooked, cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the sun.

“A reminder of what?” she asked, voice soft as cotton candy, the kind that caught in your throat if you weren’t careful. “That you survived one rigged ring toss?”

But she didn’t wait for him to answer.

She reached over—gently, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed—and traced her fingers along the edge of the ribbon now looped around his wrist. Her gaze flicked from it to his face, the way his smile didn’t falter, didn’t turn smug.

It stayed.

So did he.

And maybe that was what scared her most—how easy it felt, walking beside him again. How natural it was to lean into the warmth of his arm as they passed the booths, laughter echoing around them like background music in a movie she hadn’t realized they were starring in.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured. But it wasn’t mean. It was barely even teasing. It was full of affection, full of everything she hadn’t known how to say during all those nights she’d stayed up wondering if he even thought of her.

She bumped his shoulder lightly with hers, then gestured toward the pie table ahead.

“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s go pretend we’re expert pastry judges before I let you steal anything else that used to be mine.”

But her fingers didn’t leave his.

Not when they reached the contest.

Not when someone handed her a fork and told her to pick a winner.

Not even when he leaned in to whisper something stupid in her ear that made her roll her eyes and laugh like maybe she wasn’t scared anymore.

Because maybe—for right now—he was hers again.

And maybe that was enough.

Tyler stood just behind her as they reached the table, hands still linked, the frayed edge of her ribbon brushing his wrist with every shift of movement. It looked ridiculous on him—pink and delicate and so far from the version of him most people remembered.

But it didn’t feel ridiculous.

It felt like a line in the sand.

Like he’d marked something.

Her.

This.

Them.

He didn’t reach for a fork right away. Didn’t pretend to care about the crusts or the latticework or which slice was oozing berries in the most photogenic way. He just watched her—watched the way she bit her lip like she was trying not to laugh at the overzealous woman describing her rhubarb reduction, watched the way her lashes fluttered when she leaned over a peach tart.

Watched her be.

And when she elbowed him—light, familiar, daring—he leaned in. Close. Close enough that her shoulder bumped his chest. Close enough to smell strawberries and sugar and the faintest trace of her skin, warm from the sun.

He dipped his head to her ear, voice low and casual, but meant just for her.

“Think I already won,” he murmured, gaze flicking toward her mouth, “but I’ll eat some pie just to make it official.”

She huffed a laugh, cheeks pink, but didn’t move away.

Didn’t let go.

And neither did he.

Not even when she muttered something about him being “unbelievable” and tried to focus on scoring criteria. Not even when she gave him that look—the one that meant don’t make me like you more than I already do.

He just squeezed her hand under the table.

Then, quieter, ribbon brushing against her wrist as he leaned in again:

“I tied it on so I wouldn’t forget,” he said. “Not what it means.”

A beat.

“Who it belongs to.”

And then he kissed her temple. Quick. Soft. Like a promise that didn’t need any more words.

Because she was right there.

And for the first time, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Her heart did a slow, aching somersault.

Not from the kiss. Not from the way he leaned in like the world had gone quiet just for them. But from the ribbon—her ribbon—looped loose around his wrist like a secret he wasn’t trying to keep anymore.

It should’ve looked out of place.

It didn’t.

Because somehow, on him, it meant something.

And when he said it—not what it means, who it belongs to—Ellie didn’t breathe for a second. Just felt her fingers curl a little tighter in his. Felt the weight of those words land soft and seismic all at once.

She glanced at him, her lashes catching sunlight, her voice low.

“I know.”

That was all she gave him. All she could give without unraveling completely.

But he didn’t need more.

Because she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t hide.

Instead, she let the silence bloom between them like something fragile but honest—her knee brushing his under the table, her hand still resting in his like it had found its place and didn’t want to leave.

The pie contest faded into static. The noise, the chatter, the peach tart in front of her—it all blurred into the background.

He was the only thing in focus.

So when the next plate arrived and the woman behind the table began describing the texture of her crust with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for The Great British Bake Off, Ellie just smiled—wry, but warm—and picked up a fork.

She sliced a bite clean in two.

Held out his half on the end of her fork like it was a truce.

“You’re still judging,” she said, tone soft but teasing. “But don’t expect extra points unless you earn them.”

And when his lips brushed the back of her hand as he leaned in to take it?

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t laugh.

She just looked at him like maybe—for the first time in a long time—he’d actually shown her who he wanted to be.

And she believed him.

Tyler took the offered bite with a grin far too pleased with itself, letting it linger a beat too long before chewing like he was auditioning for a cooking show she’d never let him host.

He smacked his lips once. Tilted his head. Narrowed his eyes.

“Flaky,” he declared, tapping two fingers against the table with all the mock gravity of a food critic at a five-star tasting. “Unexpectedly good. Might surprise you if you’re not paying attention.”

Then he glanced at her—eyebrows lifted like get it?—before adding with a sly grin, “Bit of a show-off. Kinda sweet. Could ruin your life if you’re not careful.”

He took another bite, this one straight from the plate, not bothering with manners anymore. Just messy and completely himself.

“And definitely trying to steal the spotlight,” he added, a flake of crust clinging to the corner of his mouth.

Ellie reached over, wiped it away with the corner of a napkin before he could smirk too hard.

Tyler caught her wrist before she could pull back—gentle, warm—and kissed the inside of it, right near where her pulse beat steady under the skin. Then he grinned like he hadn’t just knocked the wind out of her.

“Ten outta ten,” he said. “Would fall stupid in love with again.”

The words weren’t loud. Weren’t boastful.

Just tossed out like truth.

Like sunlight.

Like it wasn’t even a question anymore.

And when he leaned back, ribbon slipping slightly down his wrist, he laced their fingers again—no fanfare, no performance. Just there.

“Alright,” he said, nodding toward the next plate, “but only if you swear to let me judge the next one like Paul Hollywood possessed me.”

A pause. A sparkle in his eyes.

“…Ellie, I will wink.”

Ellie tried—truly tried—not to melt on the spot.

Not when he looked at her like that. Not when he said that. Not when her name slipped from his mouth wrapped in all that crooked mischief and something softer underneath, something dangerously close to love.

And definitely not when he kissed her wrist like it meant something.

Because, God help her—it did.

She’d offered him pie, not a personal essay. And yet somehow, here he was, casually assigning personality traits to dessert like he wasn’t very clearly talking about her. Like he wasn’t peeling her open with metaphors and grins and a flake of crust on his lip she had no business wanting to kiss off.

So yeah. She flushed.

All the way up to her ears.

She ducked her head, lips twitching at the edges, and focused very intently on the next plate of pie in front of them. “You’re insufferable,” she muttered, though there was zero heat behind it—only affection. Only awe. Only that stupid fluttery feeling that always showed up when he did something like this. Something real.

She didn’t pull her hand away when he laced their fingers again. Didn’t say a word when the ribbon slipped lower down his wrist, brushing hers like a reminder. She just looked at him—eyes bright, cheeks warm—and tried not to smile too hard when he said I will wink with all the faux-seriousness of a man on a mission.

“You better wink,” she whispered back, nudging his knee with hers beneath the table. “But if you do it wrong, I’m disqualifying you. Immediately. With prejudice.”

But her thumb stroked over his hand once. Just once.

Because even if she never said it out loud, not yet—she was already gone for him.

Again. Still. Maybe always.

Tyler didn’t say anything after that.

He just leaned back like he hadn’t just knocked her equilibrium clean off its axis, like her pulse wasn’t absolutely sprinting from the way his thumb kept sweeping over her knuckles like a song only he could hear.

Ellie stared down at the pie, but her eyes kept flicking toward his hand—his hand holding hers like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it belonged there.

And maybe it did.

The bear sat in her lap now, squished awkwardly between her knees and the edge of the judging table. Ridiculous. Lopsided. Precious. She ran her free hand absentmindedly over the bow, trying not to look too far ahead. Trying not to think about what any of this meant outside this booth, this table, this soft slice of day carved out just for them.

He was trying. That was the part that kept hitting her. Not in big ways, not in declarations—but in the way he hadn’t let go of her hand since the carousel. In the way he said her name like it tasted like summer. In the way he hadn’t made fun of the pie contest once—not really.

She hadn’t been ready for that.

Hadn’t been ready for the way it cracked something open inside her, tender and quiet and terrifying. She wasn’t used to being loved like that. Soft. Without conditions.

Without running.

She swallowed around it, let her shoulder lean just barely into his for balance.

“You know,” she murmured eventually, eyes still on the pie but voice gentler now, “you’re gonna have to keep showing up like this if you keep saying things like that.”

A glance sideways. A hint of a smirk she didn’t bother to hide.

“Because ten-out-of-ten is a pretty bold score.”

But her voice caught a little at the end. Not enough to scare him. Just enough to let it be real.

Because it was.

And the way he was looking at her now—like the sunshine might be worth staying in for a while longer—made her believe it wasn’t just real for her. It was real for him, too.

Tyler’s smile was slow, a little crooked, but sure in that easy, I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing kind of way that only made her pulse stumble harder.

He didn’t rush to answer her.

Just tilted his head, eyes lingering on the curve of her mouth like he was cataloguing it for later, like he wanted to tuck the sound of her voice into his back pocket and take it home.

“I’ll keep showing up,” he said softly—low enough that no one else could hear, rich with sincerity even under the tease.

Then—because he couldn’t help himself—he leaned in just enough for his shoulder to press back into hers, his grin all golden boy charm wrapped around something more dangerous: intention.

“But I’m not taking back the ten-out-of-ten. If anything, I was being modest.”

He laced their fingers tighter and lifted their joined hands to brush the back of hers against his lips—lazy, affectionate, the kind of romantic that would’ve felt ridiculous from anyone else.

But from him?

It felt like sunlight.

“I’d eat a dozen pies if it meant sittin’ next to you like this,” he murmured, glancing at her through his lashes. “Even the weird ones. You know someone out there made a cornflake crust. I’ll risk it.”

Then, just as the next plate landed in front of them, he straightened a little, cleared his throat dramatically, and lowered his voice into a faux-British accent that barely held together.

“Ah, yes. A fine bake. Crumb structure looks… emotionally repressed. Likely needs therapy.”

He paused.

Turned to Ellie.

Winked.

But it wasn’t exaggerated. Wasn’t played up.

It was soft. Barely there. Just for her.

And that—that—was the moment.

Because beneath all the jokes, beneath the charm and the powdered sugar and the ruined ribbon on his wrist, Tyler Harrison had stopped performing.

And started meaning it.

Every grin. Every touch. Every damn bite of pie.

Was for her.

And he didn’t look away as he whispered, just for her again—his voice warm, steady, and impossibly certain:

“You’re the only one I’d want to keep showing up for.”

Then he took a bite of pie like he hadn’t just wrecked her whole heart on a fold-out chair in front of half the town.

Ellie didn’t move.

Didn’t laugh. Didn’t blush. Didn’t lean in or pull away or do any of the things she might’ve done if this were just Tyler being Tyler—charming and infuriating and too good at making her heart skip.

Instead, she looked at him.

Really looked.

At the ribbon still tied around his wrist, faded and fraying at the edges like it had been through something. At the way he cradled the fork like he was afraid to break the moment. At the curve of his mouth, still holding that soft, private smile like he didn’t care who else saw it.

And for a second—just a breath—she let herself believe it.

That this wasn’t a game.

That he meant it.

All of it.

The wink. The hand kiss. The ridiculous cornflake pie joke. The I’ll keep showing up.

Her fingers squeezed his under the table, quiet but deliberate.

“You’re lucky I like emotionally repressed desserts,” she murmured, voice low and teasing, but her gaze didn’t waver.

Neither did the way her thumb traced over the back of his hand—slow, absent, like muscle memory.

“And you’re lucky I’m letting that ten-out-of-ten stand,” she added, tilting her head. “Because I was gonna dock points for flirting during judging. Very unprofessional of you.”

But her smile gave her away—lopsided and hopelessly smitten, the kind she only wore when she forgot to be careful.

She nudged her shoulder into his, softer this time. Familiar.

“Next time,” she said, lips barely moving, “bring your own ribbon.”

A beat.

Then, quietly—

“So I know where to kiss when I wreck your whole heart back.”

And just like that, Ellie turned back to the table, picked up her fork, and took a bite of pie like she hadn’t just said the most dangerous thing in the world.

But her hand never left his. Not once.

Ellie didn’t say anything at first.

Because how could she, really?

There he was—still holding her hand like it mattered, still wearing her ribbon like a promise, still saying things that made her chest ache in that unbearable, fluttery way that only happened when someone meant it. Really meant it.

The pie in front of her had completely blurred. Maybe it was apple. Maybe peach. She didn’t know. She didn’t care.

Because Tyler Harrison had just looked at her like she was the only thing worth steadying for. And he’d said it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quietly, like the truth it was.

You’re the only one I’d want to keep showing up for.

Ellie swallowed hard, cheeks flushed, heart doing its own thing entirely as she reached for her fork and missed the plate completely.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath, half to herself, half to him, “no more pie. I’m gonna melt into a folding chair if you keep talking like that.”

She pushed her chair back and stood up, the movement easy but charged, like electricity in a cotton dress.

The fair had shifted around them—music floating in from the square, the scent of kettle corn on the breeze, kids shrieking somewhere near the petting zoo. But it all felt a little hazy now, like the kind of golden-hour dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

Ellie turned to him—one hand still holding the bear by its floppy paw, the other reaching for his with the kind of quiet confidence that came from falling for someone on purpose.

“Come on,” she said, soft but steady, “I want to see the lights by the fountain before it gets crowded.”

She didn’t ask.

She didn’t have to.

Because he was already standing.

Already following.

And as they walked side by side through the wide-open stretch of the fairgrounds, their hands stayed knotted and warm, and her ribbon trailed loose from his wrist like it belonged there.

Like maybe she did too.