Tyler didn’t care about pie contests.

Didn’t care about folding chairs or paper plates or whatever that last slice even was—probably blueberry, definitely overhyped. He didn’t care about the music crackling through busted speakers or the string lights hanging crooked between tents.

He cared about her.

Ellie.

The way she looked at him just then—like she wasn’t sure whether to kiss him or kill him, and he might’ve earned both. The way her hand stayed in his like it belonged there. Like he hadn’t spent months screwing things up, drifting too far out just to see if she’d pull him back.

She hadn’t.

And she shouldn’t have.

But here she was anyway—soft dress brushing his arm, cheeks pink from the sun or him or both, smiling like maybe she hadn’t completely written him off. Like maybe he still had a shot.

So no—he didn’t care about the carnival.

He cared about not letting her down again.

Tyler let her tug him up from the table without resistance, the bear swinging between them like some ridiculous chaperone. Her fingers were smaller than his, but they held on with a kind of conviction that made something settle in his chest.

She didn’t look back. Just walked, steady and certain, toward the edge of the fairgrounds where the light thinned and the crowd softened.

He followed.

God, he followed.

Because the truth was, he’d never really stopped. Not since that first time she smiled at him like he wasn’t just another sweet-talking boy with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.

They didn’t talk as they walked. Didn’t need to.

The grass crunched under their feet. The air smelled like sun-warmed lemonade and hay and Ellie’s perfume—light, clean, with something just a little wild underneath.

When the fountain came into view, lit up with blue and gold lights that flickered like fireflies, she slowed. Her hand slipped from his—not all the way, just enough to give him room. A question, not a retreat.

Tyler didn’t hesitate.

He stepped in behind her, close but not crowding, and gently reached for the ribbon around his wrist.

“It’s not just a reminder,” he said, voice low in her ear. “It’s a map.”

She tilted her head, not looking at him yet, but he could feel the smile threatening her lips.

“So I don’t lose you again,” he added.

And then—because he was Tyler Harrison and he had absolutely no chill—he reached down and gently tied the tail end of the ribbon to one of her fingers.

“Temporary,” he said, grinning. “Until I earn the permanent version.”

He meant it. God help him, he did.

Not perfectly. Not with a checklist or a timeline.

But in the only way he knew how.

By staying.

By meaning it.

By showing up for the girl who once loved him enough to break, and who maybe—just maybe—was letting him find his way back again.

They stood like that for a moment, soft and golden and silent.

Then he kissed her temple, slow and sure.

And whispered against her skin—

“You’ve always been the only part I wanted to get right.”

She didn’t speak at first.

Couldn’t.

Because he’d just done it again—said something simple that felt like everything. And this time, it wasn’t dressed up in sarcasm or softened by some wink meant to save face. It was just him. Raw and open and impossibly earnest in the glow of a fountain that didn’t feel nearly as magical as the boy standing beside it.

The ribbon around her finger wasn’t tight. It didn’t bind.

But it held.

And that—that undone little bow trembling between them—somehow felt steadier than anything he’d ever promised out loud.

She stared at it for a long moment. Let the quiet fill her chest. Let the idea of him—this version of him, who showed up and meant it—take up space she hadn’t let him have in months.

Then she looked at him.

Really looked.

At the boy who’d broken her heart, yes—but also the boy who was learning how to hold it better now. Who didn’t try to fill the silence with apologies or noise. Who just stood there and let her decide.

Her voice was soft when it came.

“I’m not a map,” she said, glancing down at the ribbon. “I’m not some prize at the end of a chase.”

She lifted her hand, untied the bow gently, fingers brushing his. But she didn’t drop it. She re-tied it. Tighter. Neater.

And slipped it back onto his wrist.

“I’m not asking you to find me,” she added, lifting her chin. “I’m asking you to walk beside me.”

A pause.

Then her lips curved—small and certain, like the beginning of a promise.

“You get that right, Harrison, and you won’t need a map.”

Her fingers slipped into his again, instinctive. Willing.

And then—because he’d earned it—she kissed him.

Not quick. Not coy.

A real kiss.

The kind that told the truth.

And when she pulled back, breath warm against his cheek, her smile widened just enough to wreck him all over again.

“You’re not the only one trying,” she whispered.

Then, with her hand still in his, she turned toward the glow of the fair behind them.

“You coming?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

And this time, when they walked?

They walked as equals.

Not chasing.

Just choosing. Together.