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When we pull apart after what feels like ages, we’re both breathing harshly.

Our eyes silently communicate we have something more between us.

Something that happens once in a lifetime to a few lucky souls.

“I’m not going to make it easy for you to leave me, Twinkle,” he vows in a voice dark like red wine. A dangerous intensity seems to pour from every inch of his six-foot-five frame, something I haven’t witnessed before. “Nor will I allowyou to walk away from us, even if I have to chase you halfway across the world.”

“I know,” I whisper, unafraid, sinking into his arms. “I also know I’ll let you catch me every time.”

“I’ll keep doing it until you stop running.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Kissing my forehead affectionately, he tugs me toward the rides. I told him on our way here that I love riding the Ferris wheel, so I smile when he takes me straight to it. But something mouthwatering catches my eye.

“Wait.”

He slows his pace, glancing down at me. “What?”

“I want to get cotton candy.”

“Come on.” We reach the stall and Kingston nods at me encouragingly. “Go on.”

All evening, he’s been teaching me little phrases in German. I butchered the sentence the first time, which made him and the other man smile. However, I think I’ve got the hang of it now. I’m past the point of being embarrassed. Approaching the shopkeeper, I wait until he notices me and slowly ask,“Kann ich… zuckerwatte haben?”

He smiles and counters,“Wie viele?”

I blink in confusion and look over at Kingston for help. He cages me from behind with his arms circling my waist. I lean on him as he answers,“Zwei, bitte.”

It dawns on me that the man was asking for how many I’d like, and I inwardly roll my eyes. I got too excited about asking the question correctly that I didn’t think about the possibility of the person asking me a follow-up question in a language I couldn’t understand. What would happen if I went sightseeing on my own?

God forbid I get lost here; I’ll never make it back.

After paying, Kingston passes one stick to me and grabs the second for himself.

I don’t waste time; I take a bite, feeling the sugary sweetness melt onto my tongue and suppress a moan. It’s been so long since I’ve had this. When I was young, I would wait for the man who sold candy every Sunday afternoon.

“Wanna hear a funny story?” I hum to Kingston.

“Always.”

“Do you know what cotton candy is called in India?”

“I know it has many different names, but I can’t recall what Indians call it.”

“Gudiya ke ball,” I answer, aware that he speaks Hindi, too. However, from his accent, you couldn’t guess.

“Doll’s hair?” Surprise flickers on his sharp face. He laughs after I nod sheepishly.

“Until middle school, I truly believed that’s what it was.”

“Yet you still ate it?”

I shrug, unable to stop grinning like a fool. “One time I was craving it so bad, I tried to eat my Barbie’s hair. My mother had to pry it out of my hands before I could choke on it. I did manage to eat one strand and was so confused when it tasted like crap and didn’t melt on my tongue.”

“Shit,” he mumbles, wiping a tear away.