Oakley Ponciano meant to be composed. She tried. She pressed down harder on her smile, smoothed her tone, blinked slow as if that could dim the light collecting behind her eyes. It was no use.
Joy was germinating inside her like a seed that had found warm soil. Sprout, leaf, tender climb—soon it had taken the whole chest, a green insistence of happiness. Her mouth curved higher and higher, drawn by its own gravity.
"Beautiful words," she said, gazing at Grace Barron with those deer-bright eyes, a teasing tilt to them. "You'd better mean it. I don't fall for pretty promises."
She hefted her basket and, with a little run, slipped past Grace into the orchard where the branches wove overhead like ribs of light.
The mountain wind was gentle and married to sun; together they turned the frizzed ends of Oakley's hair into bright watercolor. She looked like something from a painter's loose, luminous hand—motion in every detail, alive enough to make butterflies consider landing and staying.
Grace followed at her own pace—one hand hooked in a coat pocket, the other carrying the basket—watching that figure in orange light and green shade. The smile at her mouth never quite left.
It wasn't spring, not some feverish height of summer, none of the officially extraordinary seasons, and yet the day felt charmed. The air had a sweetness brewed in it, a soft intoxication.
She laughed under her breath and walked after Oakley.
The orchard was larger than it looked from outside. Once inside, it felt endless—trees upon trees, a leafy congregation without a visible back row.
Which suited Oakley perfectly. Like those optimists who always over-order—satisfaction begins with abundance, not completion. Who cared if one tree could not be emptied, much less a whole grove? Even the baskets were modest. Delight, here, was not in finishing but in being surrounded by everything you loved.
It was harvest season for oranges, and this farm had become a small magnet for couples—pockets of laughter, two by two, threaded through the trees.
"These are beautiful," Oakley said, standing on her toes beneath a branch heavy with bright fruit. She tugged the limb down with careful fingers and twisted one of the round oranges free.
Sunlight broke itself into coins across the leaves, glittering.
She turned the orange in her palms, lifted it to her nose. The clean, citrus scent leapt up, green edges and sunshine and a promise of juice.
"When I was little, I watched this show about a kid in the country," she murmured. "When the oranges ripened, he climbed the neighbor's tree because he couldn't help his greedy mouth. He picked a ton and was so happy… until a dog chased him down the road and he lost a shoe."
Maybe it was the way the climbing had been filmed, or maybe she'd been the right age to be seized whole by a scene. Whatever it was, the image stuck. Since then, any chance to gather fruit with her own hands felt like stepping back into that warm, mischievous light.
Minus the dog, of course.
She held up the orange. "Prettier than the ones in the shops," she said to Grace, unable to stop smiling.
"Mm," Grace scanned the grove. "And at this quality, they'd fetch a good price."
"They're a local specialty," said a young man from a nearby couple, cheerful and eager. "New cultivar, between a navel and a tangerine. Supposed to taste amazing."
His girlfriend nodded, eyes bright.
"That makes me all the more curious." Oakley studied the fruit as if it might answer back.
The girlfriend hesitated, then asked, "Sorry—are you two friends, or…?"
Before Oakley spoke, Grace shook her head. "We're married."
"Oh! Then you should know about Quail Lake." The woman grinned. "It's an amusement park, and for their fifth anniversary they're running a special—this gorgeous combined light-and-fireworks show. Couples can try to book a slot. If you get one, after seven they let you into these curated romantic spaces for the show. It's so pretty that people have been faking couple status just to sneak in. Have you heard of it?"
"What? That exists?" Oakley's surprise was open and sweet. "Is it already running? Any photos leaked?"
Skylark never did things like this—at least, not that she'd ever seen. This was new and glittering.
"One sec." The woman set down her basket and unlocked her phone.
A moment later she swiped, tapped, zoomed, and handed it over. "I saved a few."
Oakley's breath caught. Nighttime rides lit like constellations; planned arcs of light and orchestrated fireworks stacked beauty upon beauty until it looked like movie magic. If someone told her it was CGI, she might believe them.
She'd always loved spectacle that was both romantic and dream-soft. She was, after all, a lifelong dreamer. One look at a place like this and the lever inside her flipped—instant infatuation. Today was no exception.
"Oh, it's gorgeous…" Oakley's soul practically drifted in the direction of the screen. She scrolled through every image twice, then a third time, as if beauty could be stored by repetition.
Grace stood at her shoulder, quiet, admiring the same frames.
"How do we book?" Oakley asked at last, returning the phone.
"Search the park's public page on apptalk," the woman said. "There are instructions and links there. Just follow the steps."
"Got it." Oakley's fingers were already moving. Maybe they'd get lucky—nothing ventured, nothing won.
Open apptalk. Search. Tap. Link… And then: Not Okay.
Every slot—today through the end of the event—was booked solid.
She backed out, retried, refreshed. Full. Full. Full. She sighed without meaning to.
The other couple watched her face fall. "No luck?"
"No," Oakley said. "I must've found out too late. Did you manage to get in?"
"Yes!" the woman nodded vigorously. "We only learned a couple of days ago and thought it was a long shot, but we got a slot. We were over the moon."
"Good for you," Oakley said with a crooked mouth. "Then we'll let it go."
"Very disappointed?" Grace asked softly.
"A little." Oakley made herself smile. "But it's fine. We don't have to go. There's so much to do here—we don't need to cling to one thing."
Grace only nodded, matching her tone.
"Exactly," the woman agreed. "Miss one, catch another."
"Right," Oakley said, then glanced at them. "You said 'around here'—are you locals?"
The man finally chimed in. "We are."
"Then," Grace said smoothly, "any food spots you'd recommend?"
The internet was a glittering city of lists and ratings, but hyperbole traveled fast and truth lagged. One honest local recommendation could beat a hundred five-star strangers.
The woman's face brightened with hometown pride. "I won't mention the famous places—you'll find those anyway. I'll give you a few smaller ones only locals know." She did, carefully, even adding a dry-cleaner as a landmark for a hidden spot that didn't show up on maps. "It's right across from that."
"Perfect," Grace said, brow lifting with her smile. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. Oh! You have to try the oranges," the woman added, as if suddenly remembering her sworn duty. "Ours are genuinely delicious!"
Oakley laughed. "We will. I'm actually thirsty."
Grace twisted a fresh orange in her hands, scored and peeled. She held it out. "Want to try?"
"Absolutely." Oakley tried to start on the rind herself, but her basket was getting heavy and tugging down on her forearm. She set it on the ground, then stared at her fingertips, slightly horrified.
For beauty's sake, she'd had her nails done before the trip. Beautiful, yes. Practical, no. Long glossy nails plus a tight-skinned citrus equaled a very careful, very slow operation.
"Feels tougher than usual today," the other woman muttered.
"I thought so too." Oakley glanced at her nails. "And mine are way too long."
The woman looked at her own hands with a wince. "Same. Too long."
New manicures had a way of making people tender with themselves. Both women slowed, obviously reluctant to sacrifice the finish.
"I told you not to do this yesterday," the boyfriend piped up. "They're impractical."
There it was—a small, inevitable dampener.
The girlfriend's smile broke. "My nails are my business."
He barreled on, oblivious. "But they're not practical. Look—I don't have long nails and I'm already done. See? Clean, right?"
He popped the segments into his mouth by way of demonstration.
The girlfriend's face puffed with silent indignation.
Oakley bit back a retort—someone else's couple, someone else's weather—but the itch to correct him crawled along her tongue.
Grace said nothing. She simply kept peeling. When the rind fell away, she methodically stripped the white pith from each segment until the flesh shone like small glass boats.
She lifted one to Oakley's mouth. "Open."
"You peeled this for me?" Oakley froze, hands emptying themselves of all purpose.
"Yes." Grace's smile tilted. "Open."
Oakley obeyed. The orange was thick with juice and absurdly sweet, the brightness without any sour burn—exactly right for someone who loved citrus but not acidity.
"Good?" Grace asked.
"Mmhmm." Oakley could only give a big thumbs-up.
Grace tucked the rest of the cleaned segments into Oakley's hand and took the half-peeled orange from her, finishing the work with calm, patient fingers.
Oakley glanced sidelong at the couple now trading barbs, then back at Grace beside her, and pressed her lips together to keep all that feeling from spilling out. It might seem uncharitable to think it, but she couldn't help it: she had found treasure.
The world with Grace in it was… better. Simply, entirely better.
She slipped another segment past her lips, cheeks dimpling deeper with each sweet bite.
An hour later, they returned to the car with baskets that had become minor harvests. They wandered the rest of the grounds, then tucked the haul into the trunk and—in the same moment—fell silent.
"This many oranges," Oakley said, "will be hard to finish quickly."
"Hard?" Grace rubbed her lower lip, thinking. "Eat too many too fast and the ICU might send a greeting."
"So… what do we do?" Oakley blinked.
Harvest first, consequences later.
Grace considered, then snapped her fingers. "Jam. We'll make marmalade. We've got a kitchen at the Airbnb."
Oakley lit up. "Yes! I want to taste how it turns out."
"Deal," Grace said, laughing.
They closed the trunk. It was already noon, so Grace drove them to one of the locals' hidden gems. The place was a maze to find—twists, turns, a narrow alley—but the food was worth every step. They ate past comfort and kept wanting more.
Grace, however, had principles. Under gentle but firm supervision, Oakley relinquished her dreams of "one more bite" and set her chopsticks down like a good citizen.
After lunch, they stopped at a market for rock sugar and glass jars, then returned to the Airbnb. Oakley napped; she needed it. Grace rested too and, because the morning had been full, kept the evening light: dinner, then a turn through a claw-machine arcade famed here, then shopping so Oakley could pick up a few small, necessary nothings.
Claws, shops, a late snack; by the time they looked up, it was past eleven. Storefronts were closing like eyes.
"Head back?" Oakley asked. The cold had edged in. If there was nothing left to browse, a hot bath and a bed sounded kinder than wind.
"Sure," Grace said, glancing toward the car.
They walked without talking. At the lot, as they reached for the doors, a couple strolled past, and Oakley caught the words:
"Quail Lake has real magic."
"So worth it," the other replied. "Too pretty."
Oakley stared after them, wondering—how beautiful was beautiful? Beautiful enough to keep people glowing an hour after closing?
If she remembered right, the place shut down at ten. It was nearly midnight, and still they were buoyed by it.
A soft regret unfolded inside her. She sighed.
"What is it?" Grace asked.
"Nothing," Oakley said quickly. "Come on. Let's go home."
Grace didn't argue. They buckled in. Oakley chattered as she rifled through her small shopping bags—this, that, like a kid too fond of a new toy to put it down.
Grace only smiled and drove.
Night pooled around them, the music slow and easy. The windows framed a world that slid backward—a dark sea with drifting lights. It was peaceful, the kind of peace that makes the spine lengthen and the lungs remember how to fill.
Oakley yawned.
She was considering a bath when the road forked—and Grace took the other way.
"Hmm?" Oakley glanced at the street signs; the navigation protested in an agitated mechanical voice. "This isn't the way back."
"No," Grace said lightly. "It isn't."
"Then where are we going?" Oakley's confusion tipped into a small, bright thrill.
"You'll see."
Ten minutes later, the car swung gracefully to a stop before a handsome gate.
Oakley peered through the glass—and went still. The sign was unmistakable. The amusement park.
But it was long past hours; the place inside was dark, hollow, a shell of its daytime self. Only the marquee glowed. All that noise and color from earlier had drained away, leaving a tender loneliness behind.
Before she could gather a thought, Grace had her door open. "Come," she said, taking Oakley's hand.
Oakley ran because Grace ran.
They slipped inside—and the lights came on.
Grace slowed. She had timed it to the breath.
One strand, then another, then all at once, the park bloomed. Rides turned electric; the pathways shone. The night received a small galaxy. It was like standing inside a giant snow globe with the switch flipped to wonder.
The centerpiece was the lake.
Even in darkness, its skin held color—now it held thousands, all of them trembling in the water like held breath. The sky, meant to be solid black, burst open with firework after firework: silks of blue, sprays of gold, peonies of white. Sky and lake met and mirrored each other until language failed.
They stood at the shore.
They were alone.
Oakley stopped, every muscle poised. A suspicion bloomed—ridiculous, huge, inevitable.
"You… did you book it? After midnight? For us?" Her voice was small with shock.
"Yes," Grace said, lashes lifting. "Before midnight, the fairy tale belongs to everyone. After midnight, it's only ours."
Oakley put both hands to her face. Her mind emptied so completely it echoed.
"You—you did this, for me, I—" She fumbled, laughter and tears threatening the same space. "How… why…"
Another flower of fire climbed and broke, scattering color across the lake, across their faces.
Grace watched the reflections, the starlight caught in her eyes. Then she turned to Oakley.
"What other reason?" she said, smiling. "If you need one: because you're Oakley Ponciano."
She reached for her. "Because you're you. That's enough."