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Zoe grins. Not a normal grin. No, this is the grin of a woman who is positively thriving in my suffering. High on chaos and caffeine and whatever this night is turning her into.

“Because the only way to get the next clue is to complete the challenge,” she says sweetly, already accepting a can of beer from a dude who looks like he legally shouldn’t be handling fire.

“And the challenge,” she continues, “is to shotgun a beer while holding a sparkler. Hence…” She gestures to the stoner dude who is somehow responsible for running this shambles. “The sparkler.”

I shake my head. “That is objectively unsafe.”

“Not my problem.”

I glance around again. There is literal fire. There is no fire marshal. Someone is playing the flute. The flute.

“What the fuck kind of festival is this?”

Zoe beams. “The best kind.”

Before I can say anything else, she steps forward, accepts a Roman candle sparkler the size of her forearm from Stoner Guy, and lights it with zero hesitation. Sparks erupt in every direction.

“Zoe,” I say, already panicking.

“What?” She pops the tab on the beer. “You nervous, Walton?”

“If you set yourself on fire, I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

She smirks, tips her head back, and chugs the entire beer like it’s nothing, like it’s water .

The sparkler crackles beside her, and the merry little band of idiots around her roars. And Zoe? Zoe looks like a goddamn goddess. Flushed cheeks, dangerous grin, glowing from the firelight and the chaos and the sheer adrenaline of being right in the middle of everything.

I hate her. I hate how hot she is. I hate that watching her laugh like this feels like taking my first real breath in weeks. Like everything in my life snaps into place the second she smiles.

I’m also in love with her, but that’s a separate issue I don’t have the mental capacity to unpack right now.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, still glowing with triumph as she turns to me, her eyes dancing.

“You’re up, Walton.”

I exhale, accepting the beer and the sparkler, and briefly mourn the version of myself that used to exist before this moment.

Zoe’s smirk is so big it’s about to launch off her face. “Want me to hold your hand?”

I don’t answer. I just pop the tab and tip it back, draining the entire thing in three seconds flat. The crowd erupts like I just scored the overtime winner in the Stanley Cup Final.

Zoe gasps and clutches her chest dramatically. “Chase Walton, you glorious bastard.”

I wipe my mouth and hold out my hand, waggling my fingers.

“Clue.”

Stoner Guy, now visibly awed, passes it over. Zoe’s practically bouncing beside me, beaming up at me, all exultant and bright with something I don’t deserve. I want more of this. More of her eyes on me, more of her smile directed toward me. Just more of her.

I unfold the slip of paper and read it aloud, still catching my breath.

“Clue number three…” I pause. “Okay, no. Absolutely not.”

Zoe’s eyes light up. “Oh my god, what is it?”

I stare at the paper, then at her. Then at the paper again.

“Apparently,” I say, deadpan, “we need to find the neon cowboy and make him sing a song from his soul.”

Zoe claps her hands in delight. “OH MY GOD.”

“No,” I say immediately. “I’m drawing the line at soul-singing cowboys.”

“Chase,” she says, grabbing my forearm with both hands. “Do you understand how happy this makes me?”

I roll my eyes, ready to plead all the reasons why I will not be convincing some neon cowboy to sing a ballad, but my eyes get caught on her again.

Hair wild, the sparkler light still flickering across her face.

Eyes lit up with that big, reckless smile.

To her, this is all the best kind of madness—and I know on the spot I’d follow her straight into it if she asked.

So, when she reaches for my hand without thinking, fingers sliding easily into mine, my heart does something stupid and irreversible in my chest.

I feel it in my ribs. In my knees. In the part of me that’s been aching since the day I met her.

“Come on, Walton.”

She tugs me toward the crowd again, and I follow her straight into the chaos, because apparently, this is the greatest day of her life.

And when she doesn’t let go, it’s suddenly mine, too.

***

This is a goddamn fever dream.

It’s been over an hour since the sparkler-chug incident, and now we’re standing on the roof of a bowling alley. Not metaphorically. Literally. On the roof.

Surrounded by glow sticks and neon signs and people dressed like backup dancers in a post-apocalyptic rave ballet.

And in the middle of it all, we are attempting to emotionally coax a man in a neon pink fringe jacket and a glowing cowboy hat to perform a ballad from his soul .

Zoe is absolutely in her element.

Elbows resting on the railing, her long legs crossed at the ankle, she’s soaking it all in and completely at home in the madness. She’s been deep in negotiations with the cowboy for ten minutes.

“I’m just saying,” she says, brow furrowed, “a song from your soul doesn’t have to be sad. It can be joyful. It can be about resilience. Or longing. Or… brunch!”

The cowboy, a bearded mountain of a man with glitter under his eyes, lets out a slow, dramatic breath. His eyes close. He’s clearly deep in his method.

“The soul,” he says gravely, “hurts.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Holy shit.”

Zoe shoots me a look, but then perks up. “Oh! What about Iris ?!”

Cowboy Man’s eyes fly open. “Yeah… That’s got depth. ”

“No,” I say immediately. “Nope. There’s a line, and that is the line.”

I’ve had to listen to this song one too many times. It’s Jake and Charlie’s thing, some emotional past-and-future nonsense, and he played it constantly in the locker room last season like a love-sick puppy. But it’s too late.

He steps forward, lifts one arm to the night sky, summoning the spirits of emotionally repressed cowboys past, and begins to sing.

He sings the first line, dragging out the “you” longer than necessary.

Then he goes full tilt. Full volume, full emotion. On a fucking rooftop in the middle of downtown Denver. With backup dancers in alien goggles joining in with an interpretive dance.

Zoe gasps and grabs my forearm, the biggest grin plastered on her face. “Oh my god , this is magic.”

I glance at her, ready to make some smart-ass comment, but she leans into me, her arm sliding against mine and her shoulder pressing into my chest. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. Her hand stays wrapped around my wrist, thumb absently brushing across my skin.

And I stop thinking altogether, because she’s not looking at me.

She’s watching the damn cowboy, her face lit up in the glow of the cowboy’s hat, all sparkly and weird and wild.

No masks, no filters. Just joy. Exactly herself in a way I don’t get to witness nearly enough. Completely, unapologetically delighted.

And all I can do is stare at her, every rational thought drowned out, because she’s the performance. This whole goddamn city could disappear, and I’d still be right here, locked in this moment. Locked on her.

I barely register the crowd singing along. Or the fact that the cowboy is now doing an Irish jig, which doesn’t stay true to the genre of the song or his outfit. All I know is that Zoe is against me, and she hasn’t moved.

I’m not even annoyed, I’m just… fucking gone .

When the cowboy finally bows with one hand over his heart, the other pointed to the sky, she claps like she means it.

“Okay,” he says, walking over to us, breathless. “You were right. That was cathartic as fuck.”

I nod with a confused grimace, but Zoe grins. “Told you. Soulful joy.”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled note. “Here’s your next clue.”

She takes it with a nod. “Thank you for your service.”

The cowboy salutes. “Godspeed.”

I lean in behind her as she unfolds the paper, every inch of me still buzzing from the contact.

CLUE #4: Defeat the Guardian of the Golden Ticket in battle

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

Zoe doesn’t answer. She just points.

I follow her gaze and immediately regret everything. Because there, sitting on the back of a parked flatbed truck in the parking lot, wearing literal medieval armor, is a gigantic motherfucker wielding a foam sword.

He’s got a feathered plume on his helmet. A chainmail coif. A literal cape.

I drag a hand down my face. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Zoe is already grinning. “Guess we fight him.”

I turn to her slowly. “Define we. ”

She pats my chest with zero remorse. “You, obviously.”

“What, I gotta sword fight some random-ass guy for the next clue?”

“You play hockey. How hard can it be?”

I open my mouth, ready to argue, but then the dude on the truck suddenly leaps to his feet and points his foam sword directly at me.

“CHALLENGER!” he bellows. “CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON.”

Zoe lets out a startled laugh. “Oh my god, I love this.”

I shoot her a look. “You are so lucky you’re hot.”

She just blows me a kiss.

When we’re back on solid ground, with a tortured sigh, I step forward, grab the nearest foam sword, and accept my fate.

There’s no backing out now, not with Zoe’s laughter still echoing behind me. Not with my fake girlfriend bouncing on the balls of her feet with glee.

And definitely not with this adult in cosplay who raises his sword and lets out a feral war cry, charging at me in full medieval delusion.

I brace, sidestep the first swing easily, and smack him on the shoulder with a clean thwomp .

Zoe cheers behind me. “He’s beauty, he’s grace, he’ll hit you in the face!”

But then the guy pivots way faster than I expect and bops me square in the thigh with an uppercut that actually has some weight behind it.

I stumble. Not a lot, just a step. But it’s enough to make the whole crowd gasp, dramatic as hell.

“YOU HAVE MET YOUR MATCH!” the knight roars, sounding not dissimilar to a man on an energy drink bender.

Zoe’s voice cuts through. “Chase—”

“I’m good,” I call over, gritting my teeth.

The knight drops into a crouch and starts swinging the foam sword in wide arcs, and I sigh again, giving him a flat look.

“You realize this is a lawsuit waiting to happen, right?”

“ONLY IF YOU LOSE!” he roars, charging straight at me for the second time.

I don’t move this time, I wait. And then, with all the grace of a man who plays a contact sport for a living and is desperately trying not to break someone’s collarbone with a pool noodle, I sidestep him and give him a light bop on the back of the shoulder. It makes a squeaky thwomp sound.

The knight spins around, eyes blazing with foam-sword bloodlust. Zoe is cackling from the sidelines, completely enthralled by this amateur version of live Gladiator.

“Oh my god,” she shouts, doubled over laughing. “You’re so serious! You look like you’re training for war!”

I ignore her. Mostly because I can’t afford to look over. Not with the knight now fake-snarling at me, eyes gleaming with unhinged foam-sword fury.

But I spin and duck, then swing wide and hit his chest. Then his shoulder. Then, with one final pivot and a very undignified grunt, I catch the top of his helmet.

He stumbles back, drops to his knees, and performs the most dramatic death scene in Denver’s bowling alley parking lot history.

“I YIELD!” he cries. “THE CHALLENGER HAS PROVEN HIMSELF WORTHY.”

The crowd erupts again. Someone throws biodegradable confetti. Zoe’s laughing, but it’s breathless now, almost stunned.

I drop the foam sword and turn to her, but she’s already in front of me.

Her eyes flick down to my leg. “Did he actually hurt you?”

“It was a foam sword, Zo.”

“Chase.” She says my first name for the second time in as many minutes, voice low and suddenly very serious. “Training camp starts next week. If you pull something fighting a man named Greg in chainmail, I am never living that down.”

I smirk. “Ohh, so you do care.”

She rolls her eyes, but then she steps closer, and her hand grazes my waist. She’s checking my leg, but she’s close enough that I can smell her perfume, can feel the warmth of her fingers through my shirt as they slide up to rest lightly against my chest.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks again, quieter this time.

I nod, caught in the way her thumb brushes against me. “I’ve had worse.”

Zoe’s gaze dips, then drags back up to meet mine.

“Okay,” she says.

For one suspended second, she doesn’t move, and neither do I. With her hand still pressed against me, I swear to God, I almost lean in.

Almost.

The knight, still kneeling nearby, clears his throat loudly and tosses a rolled-up clue in our direction.

Zoe startles, grabs it, and mutters something about the location for the festival as she reads it quietly to herself.

With a grin, she looks back up at me, but she doesn’t step away.

We’ve won. Which, quite honestly, is shocking.

Because the only thing harder than me fighting a medieval foam knight on a truck is spending four straight hours watching Zoe exist in this fucking outfit.

***

The second we step into the clearing, the whole world shifts. We cross some invisible barrier, and the early evening blooms around us, pulsing with light and sound.

Flashing strobes slice through the trees, catching on smoke and glitter and streaks of movement.

The music is deep and low, reverberating under our feet, through the trunks, into my chest. People are everywhere dancing, shimmering in metallics and mesh, bodies moving under UV paint and fairy lights.

And Zoe glows.

She turns toward me, her skin kissed by the haze like the night itself is in love with her. Her lips part in awe, and then she laughs, like happiness itself just cracked her open.

Her hand finds my arm, fingers curling tight around my bicep, eyes still locked on the scene unfolding around us.

“Wow,” she breathes. “This is fucking amazing.”

And for one suspended moment in time, I forget it’s fake. I forget that this is supposed to be a PR stunt, a bet, a bluff.

I forget that I’m not allowed to feel this.

Because the way she’s looking at me feels real, holding my arm like I belong to her. Because she’s so damn happy, all I can think is how I’d give anything to be the reason she looks like this.

She turns back to me, grinning like she’s high on starlight.

“You ready?”

I look down at her, eyes dragging down to the sparkles dusting her collarbone. The wind tangling her hair, the flush in her cheeks, and the fire in her eyes.

And I swear, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to be hers.

But I can’t say that.

So I just smirk. “Let’s go find the Vinyl Saints.”

She lets out a delighted squeal, fingers sliding down my arm to loosely wrap around my wrist. Then she tugs me into the crowd as if she knows exactly where she’s going.

And I follow. No hesitation, no second-guessing.

Only Zoe.