Churros, milkshakes, waffles, ice cream. Sticky hands and sugar highs everywhere.

Cleo took his hand as they stepped out of Artist Village, fingers curling around his like it was the most natural thing in the world. The transition was subtle at first—one step past the guarded quiet, past the familiar faces and laminated passes—and then the space opened up.

Sound widened. Light shifted. The air felt less contained.

She didn’t stop walking. She didn’t tighten her grip. If anything, she leaned into him a little more, her shoulder brushing his arm as they merged into the slow-moving current of people drifting between food stalls and stages. From the outside, it read as affectionate. Easy. Post-show glow.

Inside, something thin and sharp brushed the edge of her awareness.

Not panic. Not yet. Just… exposure.

She adjusted her beanie without thinking, tugging it lower, the glasses suddenly feeling less like a playful accessory and more like a necessity. Her free hand slid briefly to the hem of her crop top, smoothing fabric that didn’t need smoothing, then returned to his wrist like it belonged there.

“Okay,” she said lightly, scanning the row of lights ahead where a churro stand glowed like a beacon. “Rule number one of Operation Incognito: no stopping to look around like you’re lost. That’s how tourists get clocked.”

She smiled up at him, casual, teasing—nothing in her voice giving anything away.

The crowd thickened. Not crushing, just dense enough that bodies brushed as they passed. Laughter burst nearby. Someone yelled a name that wasn’t his, and her shoulders relaxed a fraction without her realizing they’d tensed at all.

She stayed close. Close enough to feel the solid reassurance of him beside her, the steady pace of his steps, the ridiculous bucket hat doing its job far better than it had any right to. No one was looking twice. No phones lifted. No sudden shifts in energy.

Still, her awareness sharpened.

She angled her body just slightly, a subconscious move that put herself half a step in front of him when the path narrowed, like she could block the world with muscle memory alone. Her thumb traced a small, absent circle against the inside of his wrist—grounding, habitual.

“Churros first,” she continued, conversational. “Then we reassess. Because if this turns into a corn dog situation, I need time to emotionally prepare.”

She laughed softly, the sound easy, blending into the night. She didn’t look over her shoulder. She didn’t scan faces. She kept her gaze forward, fixed on the warm lights and the smell of sugar and fried dough drifting toward them.

It hadn’t fully hit her yet.

But it was there—quiet, creeping, the awareness that outside the bubble, nothing was controlled. That she wasn’t just protecting her own anonymity, but his. That being unseen suddenly mattered in a way it hadn’t inside the fences.

So she stayed close.
Kept talking.
Kept walking.

And trusted that, for now, that would be enough.

Ben was having the time of his life.

It was bizarre, really. An hour ago, he was commanding a sea of people, feeding off their energy, his face projected onto screens three stories high. Now, he was Greg. Greg liked beige hats. Greg walked with a slight slouch. And Greg was currently being shoved by a girl in neon butterfly wings who didn’t even glance at him as she rushed toward the main stage.

It was glorious.

He felt invisible in the best possible way—like a ghost drifting through a party he used to host. He watched a group of guys argue about whether to see the EDM set or the indie band, listening to them dissect his own genre without having to offer an opinion. He saw a couple making out against a fence, completely oblivious to the world.

But mostly, he watched Cleo.

She was good. Scarily good.

He felt the subtle tension in her hand before he saw it in her shoulders. She wasn’t just walking; she was navigating. She was cutting a path through the density like an icebreaker, her body angling slightly to shield his left side, her head on a constant, imperceptible swivel.

He saw her deftly sidestep a guy filming a TikTok, steering Ben wide with a gentle pressure on his wrist that looked casual but felt precise. He saw her glare—briefly, terrifyingly—at a drunk guy who stumbled too close to Ben’s back, effectively telepathically shoving him away before he could make contact.

She was bodyguarding him.

The realization hit him in the chest, warm and sharp. She wasn’t just the girlfriend tagging along; she was actively managing the perimeter. She was taking on the weight of his visibility so he could pretend, for twenty minutes, that he didn't have any.

He hated that she felt she had to do it. And he loved her so much for it that he wanted to stop right there in the middle of the trampled grass and kiss her until she forgot to scan for threats.

He quickened his pace slightly, closing the half-step distance she’d put between them, and slid his arm around her waist, pulling her firmly back to his side. He didn't let go. He tucked her right into the curve of his body, making them a single, clumsy unit rather than a VIP and his detail.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice low under the thumping bass. “Stand down, soldier. The perimeter is secure.”

He felt her stiffen for a microsecond, then soften as his thumb rubbed a slow, calming circle into her hip bone.

“Greg is invisible,” he promised, a smile evident in his voice. “I swear. That guy back there looked right through me. I think he thought I was a hallucination caused by dehydration.
”
He nodded toward the glowing oasis of the churro stand just ahead, the smell of cinnamon sugar now overpowering the scent of vape smoke and sunscreen.

“Look at that,” he whispered reverently. “The promised land. If you keep body-checking teenagers, we’re going to get kicked out before we secure the goods.”

He squeezed her waist, grounding her, reminding her that this was supposed to be fun, not a covert op.

“Relax, Cleo,” he said, softer now, pressed against her temple. “Just be with me. I’ve got the hat. The hat protects all.”

Cleo shot him a look first.

It was the kind of look that said I absolutely was not body-checking teenagers, mixed with okay maybe a little, mixed with don’t call me out in public, Greg. Her brows lifted, mouth twitching like she was fighting a smile, and she tilted her head just slightly, considering him through the lenses of her glasses.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said dryly. “Should I stop using my highly refined survival instincts? My bad. I forgot you’ve got the sacred fisherman hat now. Obviously we’re invincible.”

But then his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her back into him, and the noise of the crowd blurred just a little. The steady heat of his body grounded her in a way nothing else could. His thumb kept tracing that slow circle at her hip, like he was smoothing out wrinkles she hadn’t realized were there.

She let herself melt into it.

Instead of firing back another joke, she turned and buried her face straight into his chest, pressing her cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt. The smell of soap from his shower still clung to him, clean and warm beneath the festival air, and she inhaled it like she’d been holding her breath without knowing.

“Okay,” she muttered into him, voice muffled. “But if someone asks for an autograph, I’m pushing you into the nearest corn dog stand and running.”

Her arms slid fully around his waist now, hugging him closer, her forehead resting just under his collarbone. From the outside it probably looked like she was just being affectionate—post-show glow, couple stuff, nothing suspicious.

Inside, she just wanted the quiet pocket he created around her. The way the world narrowed when she tucked herself into him. The way his chest rose and fell steadily against her cheek, reminding her that right now, he wasn’t a headliner or a face on a screen.

He was just Ben.
Her Ben.
And Greg, apparently.

She finally lifted her head just enough to peek up at him, eyes soft behind her glasses.

“Fine,” she conceded. “I’ll stand down. But only because I trust the power of beige despair.”

Cleo stayed tucked into him for a few more steps, letting the line inch forward, letting the noise wash past them like a river she didn’t have to step into if she stayed exactly here.

But then it crept in anyway.

It started as a tightness behind her ribs, a shallow hitch in her breathing she had to consciously smooth out. The crowd pressed closer as they neared the churro stand—bodies shoulder to shoulder, laughter sharp and sudden, someone yelling behind them—and her awareness sharpened in a way she didn’t ask for.

Too many angles.
Too many phones.
Too many chances for someone to look twice.

She kept her face against his chest, but her fingers flexed once at his back, then stilled, like she’d caught herself fidgeting. Her heartbeat had picked up, fast and skittery, out of sync with his. She focused on counting his breaths instead—one, two, three—matching her inhale to his exhale like she’d done a hundred times before in grocery stores and airports and sidewalks that suddenly felt too open.

She lifted her head just enough to talk, keeping her tone light, normal, like everything was fine.

“So,” she said, casual, conversational. “What’s the plan when we get these? Immediate consumption or strategic retreat to somewhere with fewer… elbows?”

She adjusted her grip around his waist, not tighter exactly—just more deliberate—her thumb rubbing a small circle through the fabric of his shirt without thinking. Grounding. Muscle memory.

A group of people surged past them, jostling the line, and she instinctively angled her body again, a half-step closer to him, placing herself between his side and the flow. She caught herself doing it, forced her shoulders to relax, forced her jaw to unclench.

It’s fine, she told herself.
You’re fine. He’s fine. You’re just waiting for churros.

She tilted her head back to look at him, giving him a small smile that was real—but thinner than the one from a moment ago.

“Greg,” she added softly, teasing, steadying herself with humor. “If this turns into a full-contact sport, I’m calling it. I did not sign up for mosh pit pastry night.”

She leaned back into his chest again, breathing him in, hoping the panic would crest and pass the way it sometimes did—quietly, without making a scene—if she just stayed right here a little longer.

Ben felt it. He felt the way her breathing hitched, a tiny, jagged rhythm against his ribs. He felt the way her hand tightened on his shirt, the knuckles pressing in just a little too hard, and the way her body went rigid, turning into a shield when that group of guys stumbled past.

She was vibrating. Not the good, post-show buzz, but that sharp, static frequency of too much.

He knew that feeling. He lived in that feeling. But right now, acknowledging it would only make it louder. If he asked her if she was okay, the dam would break. If he told her to breathe, she’d remember she was struggling to.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he tightened his arm around her, grounding her not with comfort, but with weight—letting himself be heavy against her, an anchor in the tide.

“Mosh Pit Pastry Night,” he repeated, testing the words with a thoughtful, serious nod. “That’s actually a solid album title. A little niche, maybe. But I think the critics would respect the honesty.”

He nudged her gently with his hip, steering her attention away from the rowdy group behind them and toward the glowing, greasy altar of the churro stand.

“And to answer your question regarding strategy,” he continued, keeping his voice light, conversational, right against her ear. “There is no retreat. We consume the assets immediately. Churros have a shelf life of approximately forty-five seconds before the structural integrity is compromised. We have to be ruthless.”

He moved his hand from her waist to her shoulder, kneading the tension there casually, like he was just bored and fidgety, while pointing with his other hand at the vat of bubbling oil ahead.

“Look at that,” he whispered, sounding genuinely mesmerized. “Look at the extrusion process, Cleo. It’s hypnotic. It’s a ribbon of pure joy entering a hot oil bath. Don't look at the people. People are disappointing. Look at the dough.”

He leaned down, resting his chin briefly on top of her beanie, effectively blocking her view of the chaotic walkway behind them. He created a blinkered world where the only things that existed were him, her, and the promise of cinnamon sugar.

“I bet Greg could make those,” he mused, completely fabricating a backstory. “Greg seems like a guy who appreciates the culinary arts. He probably has a sourdough starter named ‘Yeasty Boys’ that he neglects.”

He squeezed her shoulder, a silent I’ve got you, while his voice stayed firmly in the realm of the absurd.

“Twenty bucks says I can eat mine without using my hands. No, wait—fifty bucks says I burn my mouth immediately and cry about it. You can take the under on that.”

Cleo didn’t answer right away.

She felt it—the shift. The way his arm tightened, not in alarm, not in question, but in certainty. The way his body went deliberately heavy against hers, like he was saying stay right here without ever putting words to it. He hadn’t called it out. He hadn’t asked. He’d just… adjusted. Met her where she was without dragging her into it.

That realization hit harder than the panic itself.

She tilted her head back, letting it rest against his chest, the brim of his ridiculous hat brushing her forehead. From here, all she could see was the line of his jaw, the shadow under the sunglasses, the steady rise and fall of him. The noise blurred. The crowd became texture instead of threat.

“Yeah,” she murmured finally, soft, her voice pressed into him. “Okay. Immediate consumption. Ruthless. No mercy for the churro.”

Her hands slid a little higher on his back, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, not gripping now—anchoring. She let her breathing fall into his rhythm, matching it without thinking, like she’d done a thousand times before when the world got sharp at the edges.

She huffed a quiet laugh when he started narrating the churro process, the sound more breath than humor, but real.

“You would absolutely burn your mouth,” she said, still not lifting her head. “Immediately. And then insist you’re fine while your eyes water.”

She shifted just enough to tuck herself more securely into him, her chin still tipped up against his chest, her gaze fixed on the small, familiar details—the place where his collarbone dipped, the warmth of him through cotton.

“Greg definitely has a sourdough starter,” she added, playing along, because playing along was easier than thinking. “Greg also forgets to feed it and then acts shocked when it smells like betrayal.”

The fryer hissed. Cinnamon sugar hit the air. Someone laughed too loudly nearby.

She didn’t look.

Instead, she pressed a kiss—small, grounding—into the center of his chest, right through the shirt, like a quiet thank you he didn’t need spoken.

And she stayed there.
Focused on him.
Her person.

The kiss through his shirt felt like a seal of approval. It was quiet, it was hidden, and it told him that the worst of the wave had crested. She was still holding on, but she wasn’t drowning.

He rested his chin on the top of her beanie for one more second, breathing in the scent of her hair mixed with the fryer grease, before he nudged her gently.

"Yeasty Boys," he whispered back, shaking his head with mock solemnity. "That is a tragic narrative. Greg sounds like a complex figure. I feel like we’re really fleshing him out."
The line shuffled forward, and suddenly they were at the altar.

The guy behind the counter looked like he had been awake for three days straight. He had a piercing in his eyebrow and an expression that suggested he had seen the face of God and found it wanting. He didn't look at Ben's hat. He didn't look at Cleo's hidden face. He looked at the cash register.

"Two," Ben said, leaning on the counter with a breezy, tourist-dad confidence. "And listen, man. I know you have regulations. I know there are rules. But if you could accidentally spill extra sugar on these? I would consider it a personal favor."

The guy stared at him flatly, grabbed two long, golden sticks of dough, rolled them aggressively in the cinnamon tray until they were coated in a thick, sandy layer, and shoved them into paper sleeves.

"Twelve bucks," the guy said.

Ben paid with a flourish, grabbing the goods like he’d just been handed a Grammy.
"You’re a gentleman and a scholar," Ben told him earnestly.

He turned back to Cleo, holding the steaming prizes aloft like torches.

"Go, go, go," he muttered out of the side of his mouth, channeling a heist movie again. "Asset secured. We need an extraction point."

He steered her away from the main thoroughfare, guiding her with a hand on the small of her back toward a stack of unused road cases near a lighting rig. It was darker here, the shadows long and deep, the noise of the crowd dampened by the distance.

He handed her a churro with the gravity of a knight presenting a sword.

"Careful," he warned, his eyes dancing behind the cheap aviators. "It is molten. It is lava. Do not be a hero."

Then, completely ignoring his own advice, he brought his own churro to his lips and took a massive bite.

The regret was instantaneous.

He froze. His eyes went wide behind the sunglasses. He let out a strangled, high-pitched noise that was definitely not rock and roll, fanning his open mouth with one hand while he chewed frantically, trying to mitigate the thermal damage.

"Hhahh," he panted, swallowing the fire with difficulty. "Hhohh my ghhhd."

He leaned back against the road case, eyes watering, pointing an accusing finger at the pastry.

"You were right," he wheezed, wiping a tear from under his sunglasses. "I burned it immediately. Greg is in pain. Greg is suffering."

He took a jagged breath, shaking his head as the throbbing in his palate subsided slightly. But then he stopped. He blinked, his brain suddenly latching onto the comment she’d made in line, the logic of it finally piercing through the sugar haze.

He lowered the churro slowly. The joke vanished from his face, replaced by genuine, unadulterated confusion.

"Wait," he said, his voice dropping the 'Greg' affect completely. "Back up."
He looked at her, dead serious.

"You said... feed it."

He gestured vaguely with the half-eaten churro, his eyebrows knitting together above the rim of the aviators.

"Do you have to feed bread? Is that a real thing? Like... with food? Is it alive?"
He looked horrified.

"Is sourdough sentient, Cleo? Have I been eating something that had a heartbeat? Because I can't handle that kind of guilt right now."

She took the churro from him like it was sacred, hands careful, shoulders finally loosening now that they were tucked into shadow instead of foot traffic. The heat from it warmed her palms, real and grounding, and she leaned into his side without thinking, her shoulder fitting under his arm like muscle memory.

“Asset secured,” she whispered back, playing along, lips brushing his sleeve. “Successful extraction. No casualties. Yet.”

She watched him take that bite with a kind of resigned fondness, already knowing exactly how this was going to go. The second he made that awful strangled noise, she startled—then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“Oh my god,” she hissed, half concerned, half delighted. “You didn’t even wait. You never wait.”

She pressed into his side more fully as he fanned his mouth, her forehead knocking lightly into his shoulder as she shook with quiet laughter.

She lifted her churro, inspecting it with exaggerated seriousness.
“I told you you’d burn your mouth.”

When he suddenly went serious—serious serious—she blinked, then looked up at him, trying to read his face under the sunglasses and the hat and the post-burn trauma.

“Feed it,” she repeated, then paused.

And then she laughed again, softer this time, shaking her head as she nudged her hip against his.

“Yes,” she said gently. “You feed it. Sourdough starter. Flour and water. It’s… alive-ish. But not, like, sentient.”

She held up a finger, already anticipating the spiral.

“No thoughts. No feelings. No dreams of becoming a loaf. It’s basically vibes and bacteria.”

She tilted her head, studying him with mock concern.

“You have not been committing bread murder,” she assured him. “You’re fine. Greg is morally in the clear.”

She finally took a careful bite of her own churro, chewing slowly, then glanced back at him.

“Although,” she added lightly, “Greg did just assault himself with molten sugar. So maybe we keep an eye on him.”

She stayed tucked into his side, shoulder pressed to his ribs, the world narrowed down to the heat of the churro and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. For a few seconds she didn’t say anything—she just let herself exist there, in the shadow, in the quiet pocket he’d carved out for them with bad jokes and sugar and deliberate calm.

Then she shifted, just enough to look up at him.

Not teasing this time. Not deflecting.

Her free hand slid into the hem of his shirt, fingers curling lightly at his waist like she needed the contact to finish convincing her nervous system that she was safe. That the ground was still under her feet.

“…You know you did that on purpose, right?” she said softly.

When he looked at her—really looked—she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“You pulled me back,” she added, just as quietly. “Back there. In line. Before I even realized I was halfway gone.”

Her thumb traced a slow, absent circle against his side, grounding herself again in the motion.

“You didn’t ask. You didn’t point it out. You just—” she shrugged slightly, searching for the right word, “—made it smaller. Made it funny. Made it here.”

She leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder, a small, private gesture.

“So… thank you,” she said, voice steady now. “For catching me before I jumped.”

Then, because she was still Cleo, because she refused to let it get too heavy all at once, she nudged him with her hip.

“But also,” she added, lifting her churro toward him in warning, “next time you try to ground me by injuring yourself with dessert, we’re setting some rules.”

A pause.

“…You can still do the jokes though,” she admitted, lips curving into a soft smile.

Ben considered the "vibes and bacteria" explanation with the gravity of a man receiving a medical diagnosis. He nodded slowly, chewing (carefully, on the non-burnt side of his mouth) as he processed the information.

"Vibes and bacteria," he repeated, pointing a sugar-dusted finger at her. "That is literally the description of every afterparty I have ever been to. So, fine. I accept the bread's lack of a soul. Greg can sleep at night."

But then the conversation shifted. The air between them changed, heavy and sweet, settling into the space where the jokes usually lived.

When she slid her hand under the hem of his shirt, he stopped chewing. He felt the cool touch of her fingers against his skin, anchoring him just as much as he was anchoring her. And when she called him out—softly, knowingly—for the distraction, for the tactical self-injury, he didn't try to deflect with another bit about the sourdough.

He swallowed the bite of churro, letting the silence stretch for a heartbeat, just long enough to let the truth sit there with them in the shadows.

He reached up with his free hand, sliding the cheap plastic aviators down the bridge of his nose so he could look at her properly. No tint. No filter. Just him.

"You have a tell," he said quietly, his voice dropping below the hum of the distant crowd.
He shifted his weight, leaning back against the road case so he could pull her more firmly between his legs, creating a physical barrier against the rest of the festival.

"You do this thing," he murmured, demonstrating by tapping his own thumb against his side, mimicking her fidget. "And your breathing gets... shallow. Like you're trying to take up less space."

He shook his head, a fierce, protective glint in his eyes that had nothing to do with the "Greg" persona.

"I hate that," he admitted, raw honesty cutting through the banter. "I hate that this world makes you feel like you have to shrink. So... yeah. If I have to sear my tastebuds off to get you to look at me instead of the crowd? I’m gonna do it. Every single time."

He smirked then, a crooked, boyish expression that softened the intensity.

"Tactical scorched earth policy. Literally."

He pushed the glasses back up his nose, re-engaging the disguise, but his hand lingered on her waist, squeezing gently.

"You don't have to thank me for that, Cleo. You catch me every time I trip over my own ego. The least I can do is catch you when the world gets too loud."

He nudged her shoulder with his, breaking the heavy moment before it could swallow them whole, but keeping the warmth of it.

"But noted on the rules," he added, taking another, much more cautious bite of his churro. "Next time, I’ll try a less painful distraction. Maybe I’ll just start a interpretive dance circle. Or trip over nothing. I contain multitudes."

He chewed, swallowed, and grinned at her.

"Now, are we going to finish these and find a spot to watch the headliner from the cheap seats? Or are we going to hunt for corn dogs and complete the cardiovascular gauntlet?"

She huffed a quiet laugh, the sound pressed into his chest before she tipped her head back to look at him properly.

“Vibes and bacteria,” she repeated, nodding solemnly. “So basically… festival culture in a sentence. I feel like that should be printed on wristbands.”

She watched him with soft eyes as he slid his glasses down, the humor draining just enough to let the real him peek through. When he started listing her tells, she rolled her lips inward, a half-smile, half-you-caught-me expression tugging at her mouth.

“Wow,” she said gently, “rude of you to know me that well.”

Her hand stayed under his shirt, palm warm now against his skin. “I swear I thought I’d gotten sneakier. Like… stealth anxiety. Ninja-level.”

When he mimicked her fidget, she laughed again, softer this time. “Okay, okay. Guilty. But for the record, I do that when I’m thinking too hard too. So congratulations, you’ve hacked my operating system.”

His honesty hit her square in the chest. She went quiet for a second, thumb brushing slow circles on his side.

“You didn’t have to burn your mouth,” she murmured. “I mean… points for commitment. Truly. Very heroic. But you could’ve just… sneezed dramatically or something.”

Then she smiled, knowing.

“…but I get it. And yeah. It worked.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his for a beat. “You caught me. Right before the spiral. That’s… kind of your thing, apparently.”

When he mentioned interpretive dance, she snorted. “Absolutely not. That’s how we get TikTok famous. ‘Mysterious fisherman man commits to full-body expression.’ Hard pass.”

She took another careful bite of her churro, chewing thoughtfully before answering his big question.

“Okay,” she said, eyes drifting toward the glowing art installations in the distance. “Hear me out.”

She pointed with her churro. “Floating orbs. The big glowing ones. They look like alien moons and I want to stand under them and pretend we’re in a sci-fi movie.”

She glanced back at him, smile crooked. “Cheap seats later. Corn dogs later. But first? Orbs.”

She nudged his hip. “Come on, Greg. Let’s go have a spiritual experience with some light-up balloons.”