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"You're really leaning into the Italian theme."

"When I commit to a concept, I go all in." He squeezes my hand. "Subway okay? It's a bit of a journey."

An hour later, we're standing outside Tony's Italian Ice, a humble storefront that looks exactly as I remember from twenty years ago—down to the hand-painted sign and faded awning. It's the antithesis of the carefully designed, Instagram-worthy establishments I usually frequent. No artisanal ingredients, no minimalist aesthetic, just simple, authentic neighborhood charm.

"It's exactly the same," I whisper, unexpected emotion tightening my throat. "My grandfather would bring me here after we visited the park. I always got lemon."

"Still a lemon girl?" Max asks as we join the short line of locals.

"Always." I take in the surroundings—families with children, teenagers hanging out, elderly couples enjoying an evening treat. Not an influencer or ring light in sight. "It's strange being somewhere so..."

"Normal?" Max suggests when I trail off.

"Real," I correct. "Somewhere that exists for its own sake, not as a backdrop or content opportunity."

He studies me with surprising intensity. "You've changed, you know."

"How so?"

"When we first met, you assessed every location for its Instagram potential. You'd position yourself for optimal lighting without even realizing you were doing it."

I feel heat rising to my cheeks. "Was I that obvious?"

"Not obvious. Just…always performing, even when you thought you weren't." His voice holds no judgment, just observation. "Now you're just…here. Present."

The insight strikes me with its accuracy. I am more present lately, more engaged with experiences rather than how they might be perceived. The constant internal narrator—the one composing captions, considering angles, evaluating aesthetic value—has grown quieter, sometimes disappearing altogether.

We reach the counter, and I order my childhood favorite while Max opts for cherry. The elderly man serving us hands over paper cups filled with vibrantly colored ice, taking Max's cash with a nod of thanks.

"Let's sit," Max suggests, nodding toward a small table outside the shop.

As we settle in, I take my first taste—the tartness of lemon immediately transporting me back to summers with my grandfather, to a time before filters and followers, before my worthiness became tied to engagement rates and sponsorship deals.

"Good?" Max asks, watching my expression.

"Better than I remembered," I admit, taking another spoonful. "Though that could be the nostalgia factor."

"Nostalgia is a legitimate flavor enhancer. Scientifically proven."

"By which scientific body exactly?"

"The Donovan Institute for Subjective Taste Experiences," he replies without missing a beat. "Very prestigious."

I laugh, genuinely amused by his absurdity. This is what I've missed most during our separation—not the physical intimacy, though I've certainly missed that too, but this easy exchange, this feeling that I can be silly and imperfect and still worthy of attention.

As I reach for a napkin, my elbow knocks against my cup, sending it tipping toward the edge of the small table. Max lunges to catch it, but in the process knocks over his own cup, sending bright red cherry ice cascading into his lap.

"Shit!" he exclaims, jumping up as the cold treat soaks through his jeans. "That's…bracing."

I clap a hand over my mouth, torn between horror and amusement as he stands there, red ice dripping down his pants in a pattern that looks unfortunately like a catastrophic injury.

"Are you okay?" I manage, already reaching for napkins.

"Fine, just…very cold in very specific areas." He grimaces, accepting the handful of napkins I offer. "And apparently now wearing cherry-scented pants."

The absurdity of the situation—Max frantically dabbing at his crotch with thin paper napkins, the horrified looks from nearby parents, the sticky red mess spreading across the table—finally breaks my composure. Laughter bubbles up, uncontrollable and genuine.

"I'm sorry," I gasp between giggles. "You just look so?—"