Time: 10:00AM–1:00PM
Location: Crescent Green, just off Main


The town wakes up to sunshine, syrup, and sidewalk chalk. Picnic tables are piled with pancakes, the mayor’s trying to get through his opening speech without another mic malfunction, and kids are running wild between booths with sticky fingers and powdered sugar faces.

There’s laughter, camera flashes, and a chalk art contest already underway near the bandstand. Someone’s dog is wearing a stars-and-stripes vest. The local radio crew’s doing interviews under the pancake tent — and you just got caught mid-bite.

So, where are you in the crowd?

Helping at a booth? Scoping out the art competition? Trying to sneak in one more cup of coffee before the parade starts?

Josie did not wake up today intending to babysit lost sunglasses and rogue stuffed animals. She had been promised “light promo presence” — smile once or twice, wear the custom shop shirt, and hand out discount cards for oil changes. That was it.

But the minute she pulled up and stepped out of her Charger — black denim cutoffs, heavy boots, and the Evergreen Auto & Repair 4th of July shirt knotted at her waist (navy blue with a distressed red-and-white logo shaped like a spark plug) — she knew she'd been set up. Roy, one of the older mechanics who still called her “kid,” gave her a grin too wide to trust and shoved a fold-out chair into her hands.

“You’re on Lost & Found for a bit. Don’t argue — you’re good with kids. Or at least better than Randy.”

And that was how she ended up in a folding chair beneath a red-white-and-blue canopy, surrounded by a plastic tub of forgotten sippy cups, three unmatched Crocs, and a patriotic teddy bear that smelled vaguely of funnel cake.

Crescent Green buzzed around her. The chalk contest was in full swing near the bandstand. Somewhere, the mayor was trying to start a speech over a faulty PA system, and someone else had already lit a smoke bomb that made three toddlers cry. A folding table across from her advertised “Stars & Stripes Temporary Tattoos,” and next to that, a girl was crying because someone smeared her glitter eagle.

Josie leaned back in the shade and watched it all like a movie she wasn’t in.

It was hot, but not unbearable. Her iced coffee was already sweating through the cup. A strand of hair stuck to her cheek, and she didn’t bother to fix it. This was her version of peace — sitting out of the way, no expectations, no eyes on her except the occasional sticky child trying to figure out if the sunglasses in the bin were theirs.

She was halfway through ripping a paper fan from one of the sponsor flyers when she heard footsteps approach—heavy, familiar.

She didn’t look up right away.

She knew that gait.

Of course it would be him.

Of course it’d be her.

Asher clocked the Charger before he even hit the edge of Crescent Green—low-slung, unapologetic, catching the sun like it knew it belonged to someone who didn’t beg for permission. He followed the sound of the PA screeching into the abyss, wove through sticky toddlers, and dodged a rogue wagon before finally catching sight of her.

There she was.

A folding chair. A box of crap no one wanted. A plastic bin of war crime-level sunglasses and a bear that had clearly seen things. And right in the middle of it—Josie Rhodes, legs kicked out, shop shirt knotted like rebellion, and hair clinging to her cheek like it had personally declared war on the humidity.

And God, she looked annoyed. Comfortable. A little dangerous.

He stopped a few feet away.

Didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her for a second—the way she flicked her fan like it owed her money, the way she didn’t look at him, even though he knew she clocked him before he hit the pavement.

Because she always did.

“Didn’t realize ‘light promo presence’ meant presiding over the Kingdom of Lost Shit,” he said finally, voice casual but laced with a grin he couldn’t kill.

He leaned on the side of the canopy like he belonged there. Like maybe he was considering tossing his dignity in the bin with the single Croc and glitter eagle corpse.

His eyes dragged over her once—slow, deliberate.

The boots.
The shirt.
The sun on her collarbones.

Yeah. She looked like a bad idea wrapped in a holiday postcard. And he was a fool for still wanting it.

“You stealing hearts or just sippy cups today, Rhodes?” he asked, nodding at the plastic bin. “Because I think I saw a kid wandering around crying about their ‘patriotic bear’ and if that’s the thing that smells like funnel cake, you might have a riot on your hands.”

He paused, then smirked.

“I’ll cover your escape if it gets violent. I brought snacks.”

And yeah—he had snacks. But mostly?

He just wanted her to look at him again.

Of course it’d be him.

Josie didn’t even bother looking up right away. She heard the swagger in his footsteps before she saw the shadow fall across the folding table. Heard the smirk in his voice before he said a single word. And felt that stupid spark crackle through her anyway, right under her skin like it didn’t care she was sweaty, annoyed, and halfway ready to melt into the sidewalk.

She flicked her fan once, sharp and deliberate. Didn’t stop fanning. Didn’t look at him.

“Pretty sure you have to be invited to lean there, golden boy,” she muttered, voice dry enough to start a brushfire.

Her eyes scanned the field—not because she cared, but because if she looked at him directly, it was over. Game, set, Asher. And she wasn’t about to hand him that win while she was babysitting other people’s forgotten chaos.

Still, she could feel him looking at her. That infuriating once-over that made her stomach do something traitorous and inconvenient.

And of course—of course—he was acting like she hadn’t ghosted him. Like she hadn’t snapped at him, pushed him away, and basically vanished without a damn explanation. Like she hadn’t been a complete bitch about the whole thing. It was so him—just waltzing in like it didn’t faze him. Like he could charm his way back into her good graces with snacks and stupid nicknames and that face.

She nodded once toward the bin. “If I’m presiding over the Kingdom of Lost Shit, then congratulations—guess that makes you my court jester.”

Then—because she was tired, and hot, and already losing the war she wasn’t admitting was happening—she risked a glance. Just a small one.

He had snacks. Of course he did. Like that would fix anything.

Her mouth twitched before she could stop it. Barely.

“If that bear starts a riot, I’m blaming you,” she added, finally meeting his eyes. “You’ve got the face of someone who’d incite chaos and then pretend he was just here to help.”

It wasn’t nice. But it wasn’t mean, either.

She could’ve told him to get lost. Could’ve rolled her eyes and gone full defensive. But the truth?

She didn’t want him to leave.

Not yet.

Even if he was the human version of a heatstroke.

Even if his stupid smile still made her ribs feel like they were vibrating.

She just shifted in her seat, slow and pointed. Let her boot nudge the empty chair next to her.

Didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t have to.

He’d get the message.

He grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

Because that? That dry-ass firecracker of a greeting, the one-liner laced in barbed wire and honey?

That was an invitation.

Not to lean. Not officially. But to stay. To keep pushing. To sit right there in the eye of the storm and wait for her to stop pretending she didn’t want him to.

Asher gave a low, dramatic sigh like she’d wounded him, then tipped his head toward the sky as if asking forgiveness from the gods of bad timing and beautiful girls who didn’t want to admit they liked you.

“Court jester?” he echoed, hand to his chest in mock betrayal. “Rhodes, I brought you Pop-Tarts. I demand a higher rank.”

He reached into the brown paper bag, pulled out the slightly-squashed silver packet, and held it up like it was an offering to a very unimpressed deity.

“And not just any Pop-Tarts. Frosted strawberry. Cold. From the cooler. That’s friendship-level devotion, right there.”

Then she looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And shit—he nearly lost his footing.

Because yeah, her mouth twitched. And yeah, the insult was still sharp. But her eyes?

Her eyes said she hadn’t actually stopped thinking about him either.

“You’ve got the face of someone who’d incite chaos and then pretend he was just here to help.”

He gave a slow, one-shouldered shrug. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t try to charm it away. Just looked at her the way he always did—like she was the only part of this festival that didn’t blur at the edges.

“Only if the chaos starts with you.”

Then she nudged the chair.

Quiet. Deliberate.

Didn’t say sit, didn’t offer a truce—but didn’t need to.

So he did.

Dropped down beside her with that stupid Pop-Tart offering still in hand, elbows on knees, watching the little festival world spin out around them like it didn’t matter what came next.

He sat there in her quiet.

Didn’t push.

Didn’t ask.

Just gave her what she needed—space to smirk, shade to breathe in, and the promise of something real just sitting next to her, unspoken but steady.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice low, not quite teasing, “you can keep pretending you don’t miss me. But you’re still sitting closer to me than that bear.”

A pause.

“And he smells like funnel cake.”

Then—because he couldn’t help it—he tilted the Pop-Tart toward her again, hopeful.

“Peace offering?”

Josie stared at the silver wrapper like it had personally offended her.

A Pop-Tart. Strawberry. Of course it was strawberry. Predictable in the most Asher way possible—bright, sweet, a little basic, trying too damn hard to be liked.

She took it anyway.

Snatched the packet from his hand with a dramatic roll of her eyes and a mutter that sounded suspiciously like “idiot.” Then she tore it open with her teeth, flipped the flap like it owed her rent, and held one of the two pastries out without looking.

"Fine," she said, deadpan. "But for the record, I’m more of a wild berry girl."

The corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

She still didn’t look at him.

Instead, she studied the pastry like it might reveal the secrets of the universe. Like she hadn’t already spent the last two weeks trying not to picture that exact stupid smirk, or the way he’d looked at her that night in the garage—eyes soft, voice too careful, like he already knew she’d bolt.

Because she had. Bolted. Shoved him away hard enough to leave bruises she couldn’t even see.

Not because he deserved it.

Because she did.

Because she knew how this ended. How she ended things. She wasn’t built for the long haul. Not when every good thing she'd ever touched eventually got tired of holding the mess.

And Asher?

He deserved someone who didn’t instinctively self-destruct.

So she gave him the Pop-Tart. Let their fingers brush like it didn’t mean anything. Like her pulse hadn’t just kicked against her ribs.

She took a bite of hers and kept her eyes forward.

When he said it—“You can keep pretending you don’t miss me…”—she didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just chewed.

And then?

She turned. Slowly. Like a snake sizing up prey. Then tilted her head, eyes narrowing just enough to be dangerous.

"Miss you?" she repeated, dry as dust. "Babe, if I missed you, I’d be dramatically chain-smoking on top of your truck, quoting Springsteen, and making your life hell in stereo."

She gave him a once-over, teeth sinking into the pastry again.

"Instead, I’m here. Peaceful. Minding my business. Eating your Pop-Tart."

She let the sentence trail off, lifting a shoulder like it didn’t matter. Like the truth hadn’t just slipped out sideways when she wasn’t looking.

But her knee nudged his again—barely.

And she didn’t move away.

Didn’t deny it when the silence settled back in, soft and stubborn, with powdered sugar clinging to her fingers and too much emotion tucked into the spaces between insults.

She didn’t want to be like this.

But it was safer. Safer to sass. Safer to tease. Safer to pretend she didn’t want him to reach for her again.

Because if he did?

And she let him?

She wouldn’t know how to let go.

He took the Pop-Tart like it didn’t mean everything.

Like the fact that she accepted the offer—and then handed one back—wasn’t the most grounded kind of miracle he’d seen all week.

Because yeah, he noticed.

The way she tore it open with her teeth like it pissed her off to need comfort. The way her fingers brushed his like they were both pretending it didn’t count. The way she claimed wild berry like it was a personal threat—then took a bite anyway.

He didn’t call her out on it.

Didn’t say a word.

Just let her talk. Let her snark. Let her dig that little trench between them lined with jokes and fire and barely-contained affection she was trying like hell not to name.

“Babe, if I missed you, I’d be dramatically chain-smoking on top of your truck, quoting Springsteen, and making your life hell in stereo.”

God.

He grinned at that. Couldn’t stop himself.

Because only Josie could turn emotional repression into a Springsteen reference and still make it sound like a damn love song in disguise.

He bumped her knee back.

Not hard.

Not teasing.

Just solid.

Like I see you.

Like you’re not pushing me away this time, even if you think you are.

He let the silence sit between them for a second. Long enough for the joke to fade. Long enough for the sugar dust to settle and the truth to press soft against his ribs.

Then, voice low:

“You always talk this much when you’re trying not to say what you mean?”

He didn’t look at her right away.

Just peeled a corner off his half of the Pop-Tart and popped it into his mouth like this was the most casual moment of his day. Like he wasn’t holding a thousand things behind his teeth he hadn’t dared say since she ghosted him.

“‘Cause if that’s the case, Rhodes…” he murmured, leaning just slightly closer now, elbow brushing the edge of her chair, voice dipping to that smooth, dangerous tone he only ever used on her—

“…you must miss the hell outta me.”

He didn’t smile when he said it.

Didn’t smirk.

Just looked at her. Really looked.

Because it wasn’t a line.

Not this time.

It was a lifeline.

A door, cracked open.

Letting her know he hadn’t walked away. Not really. Not yet.

And if she wanted to close the distance—

All she had to do was say so.

She hated that her breath caught.

Just a flicker. A tiny, traitorous stutter in her chest she hoped to hell he didn’t notice. Because God, he was a pain in the ass. The most infuriating kind—the kind who knew he was charming, knew it worked, and still had the audacity to aim it straight at her like it wasn’t loaded.

He leaned in.

Elbow brushing hers.

Voice low. Steady. Real.

And for a second—for one impossibly reckless second—Josie almost leaned back.

Almost.

She let her eyes drag over him, slow and unimpressed. Let the corner of her mouth curl just slightly, like maybe, maybe the charm was landing. Let the space between them shrink down to inches. Let him think he was winning.

Then she shoved him.

Not hard. Just enough to jolt him sideways in his chair and knock the edge off the moment like she hadn’t just considered closing it.

“Easy, Romeo,” she said, biting into the Pop-Tart again. “You try that smooth shit on someone less emotionally damaged next time, yeah?”

But her voice wasn’t mean.

And her eyes didn’t leave him.

She leaned back in her chair, smug now, like she’d regained the upper hand—but the truth buzzed just beneath her skin.

She had missed him. Of course she had. In that quiet, stupid way you miss things you told yourself you didn’t need. She missed the way he looked at her like she wasn’t too much. Like she was supposed to take up space. Like he wanted her here, sharp edges and all.

And now that they were talking again?

She didn’t want to lose it.

Didn’t want to drive him off. But she also couldn’t let him think this meant more than it did. Not yet. Not until she figured out how not to screw it up again.

So she offered him the last bite of her Pop-Tart.

A peace treaty.

A boundary.

A maybe.

“Here,” she said, hand outstretched. “You keep pulling that wounded puppy face, I’m gonna start thinking you’re actually sensitive.”

A beat. Then, grinning:

“And you’re already short enough without losing dignity too.”

He laughed.

Couldn’t help it.

Not the loud kind. Not the performative kind. Just the real, hit-dead-center kind that started low in his chest and worked its way up until his mouth betrayed him and curved all the way into grin territory.

Because Josie Rhodes had just fed him a Pop-Tart and called him short in the same breath.

And God, if that wasn’t the most her thing she could possibly do.

He took the last bite like it was sacred.

Held her gaze the whole damn time, slow and smug and unbothered, like this moment meant something even if she kept pretending it didn’t. Like yeah, sure, maybe she shoved him out of the emotional gravity well again—but she also gave him sugar and didn’t flinch when their knees touched, so… call it even.

He chewed. Swallowed. Brushed fake crumbs off his shirt with obscene dramatic flair.

Then leaned back in his chair and arched a brow.

“You say emotionally damaged like it’s not my exact type.”

His voice was casual, but his eyes never left hers—steady and unblinking, the way they got when he wasn’t playing around. When he meant it. Even if he let the jokes soften the edges.

A beat.

Then, because he knew her—knew what she did when it got too close, too quiet, too real—he leaned just a little closer. Not enough to trap her. Just enough to tease the line.

“You missed me,” he said again, low. “I don’t need you to say it. I already know.”

He let the silence stretch for just a second.

Then—light again, grin crooked, shoulders loose:

“But don’t worry. I missed you more. And I’m way better at pretending I didn’t.”

He tipped his chair back on two legs, hands folded behind his head now, sun catching in the curl of his hair like the universe was helping him show off.

“And for the record, if we’re handing out titles—I’d rather be your court jester than your ex any day. Guy gets better wardrobe. Less trauma.”

His eyes flicked sideways, that spark coming back full force now.

“…Though I do draw the line at glitter eagles.”

And just like that, it was easy again.

Because yeah, maybe she’d pulled away.

Maybe she’d ghosted him and made it clear she didn’t believe in any of this.

But she was here.

Talking.

Offering pastries like confessions.

Letting her eyes linger like maybe—just maybe—she still wanted him to stay.

And he would.

He always would.

Josie tilted her head.

Not all the way—just enough to let her hair fall over one shoulder and make it clear she was assessing him, like some rare, irritating species she hadn’t decided whether to keep or swat.

God, he was such a cocky little shit.

Chair tipped back like he owned the sunlight. Smug grin like he hadn’t been ghosted for two straight weeks. Talking about missing her like it was cute. Like it didn’t gut her a little just to hear him say it out loud.

Worse?

He wasn’t wrong.

And he knew it.

She shifted in her seat, crossed one leg over the other with slow, deliberate flair, then rested her elbow on the back of her chair—just enough to mirror his posture, to meet him on his level like she wasn’t secretly five seconds away from combusting.

“I mean,” she said, tapping her lower lip with one finger like she was thinking real hard, “you do have the wardrobe for it. Loud. Slightly tragic. Feels like a man who owns multiple jackets and zero emotional boundaries.”

She grinned, sharp and slow.

“And if emotionally damaged really is your type…” Her gaze dropped to his mouth for half a beat. Just long enough. “You’re welcome.”

Then she popped the last crumb of her Pop-Tart into her mouth like it was punctuation. Sat back like her point had been made.

But she didn’t stop there.

Because if he was gonna flirt like it didn’t matter—like they hadn’t left things cracked and raw in the garage—then she was gonna do it better.

She leaned in again, elbow brushing his this time. Close enough to make him sit up, maybe. Close enough to smell the sunscreen on his neck and feel the warmth bleeding off his smug little jester body.

“You missed me?” she echoed, voice velvet and full of trouble. “That’s sweet. You want a medal? A parade? Or just me saying ‘congrats on surviving without this’?”

She gestured to herself—vague, lazy, devastating.

Then gave him a wink that was all teeth and fire.

"But sure," she added, sitting back again, cool as the drink she wished someone would hand her, "you can keep pretending you’re the one who got away.”

A beat passed.

Then, low and dry, just for good measure:

“…Glitter eagle still has more game than you, though.”

And yet—she was still smiling.

Still here.

Still sitting close enough to count his breaths if she wanted to.

Because maybe he was a pain in the ass.

But he was hers. Whether she admitted it or not.