Page 123 of Stolen Harmony

He selected a stuffed shark from the middle shelf, all gray fur and improbable teeth, and presented it to me with mock solemnity.

“For you,” he said. “Something to keep Herbert company.”

“What's his name?”

“Bruce. He looks like a Bruce.”

I was laughing now, really laughing. Herbert tucked under one arm, Bruce under the other, probably looking like the world's most questionable pet owner.

“We look ridiculous,” I said.

“We look like people having fun.”

The word hung between us for a moment, simple but weighted with significance. Fun. When was the last time either of us had used that word without irony?

We wandered from booth to booth, accumulating an increasingly absurd collection of prizes. A rubber chicken from the basketball game. A plastic tiara from the dart board. A set of chattering teeth from some game involving fishing for rubber ducks.

“We can't carry all this,” I said as our collection threatened to achieve critical mass.

“Sure we can. We're men on a mission.”

“What mission is that?”

“To win every terrible prize this festival has to offer.”

The evening light was golden now, painting everything in warm hues that made even the slightly seedy carnival games look magical. The brass band had given up on “Sweet Caroline” and moved on to an instrumental version of something that might have been “My Way” if you didn't listen too closely.

“Food,” Elias announced, as if he'd just made a profound discovery. “We need festival food.”

“We already ate.”

“That was hours ago. Festival food doesn't count as real food anyway. It exists in its own category.”

We found ourselves in line at a funnel cake truck, standing behind a family with three young children who were having a heated debate about powdered sugar versus strawberrytopping. The smell of frying dough and sugar filled the air, making my mouth water despite the fish and chips we'd had earlier.

“Funnel cake is not food,” I said. “It's a cry for help made edible.”

“That's what makes it perfect festival food.”

When our turn came, Elias ordered one with everything: powdered sugar, strawberry sauce, whipped cream, and what the vendor optimistically called “chocolate drizzle” but looked more like house paint. We found a spot at a picnic table that was sticky with the accumulated sins of a hundred previous festival-goers.

The funnel cake was exactly as advertised: aggressively sweet, structurally unsound, and impossible to eat with any dignity. We took turns trying to navigate the mess, laughing at each other's increasingly ridiculous attempts to consume something that was clearly designed to be experienced rather than eaten.

“There's powdered sugar in your hair,” I said, reaching over without thinking to brush it away.

The moment my fingers touched his temple, everything changed. The casual contact that should have lasted a second stretched longer, my hand lingering against his skin while something electric passed between us. His eyes went dark, and I felt my breath catch in my throat.

“Rowan,” he said quietly, my name rough in his voice.

I pulled my hand back, heat flooding my face. “Sorry, I just...”

“It's fine.” But his voice was different now, charged with something that hadn't been there a moment before.

We finished the funnel cake in relative silence, the easy banter of the afternoon replaced by awareness that hummed between us like a live wire. Every accidental touch as wereached for napkins, every shared glance, felt loaded with meaning.

As the sun started to set properly, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that made even the shabby pier look magical, I found myself thinking that this was what happiness felt like. Not the sharp, desperate joy of getting something you'd fought for, but the quiet contentment of being exactly where you belonged with exactly the right person.

We'd collected so many prizes that we looked like we'd robbed a carnival. Herbert, Bruce, Gerald, the tiara, Chompers, and at least three other things I'd already forgotten the names of. The absurdity of it all should have been embarrassing, but instead it felt like evidence of something important. Proof that we could be silly together, could let go of the careful distance we usually maintained.