Fireworks screamed into the sky and burst, bloom after bloom, stitching themselves to the colored beams until the ink of night was bright with a thousand brief, extravagant flowers.
Inside that haze of mauve light, the world felt touched by illusion. Everything wavered at the edges, a little unreal, a little enchanted.
Grace Barron stood a step ahead—tall, shoulders straight, eyes lit with a restless gleam—and Oakley Ponciano felt her heart pulled like a tide.
It took a long moment before Oakley lowered the hand she'd clapped over her mouth. Curiosity slid in under the shock, and she asked, softly, "When did you set all this up?"
They'd only learned about the event earlier today, from a couple in the orchard. This wasn't the kind of thing one whipped together in an hour. Not in the real world, where every nearly-finished plan grows a new complication like an extra head.
Grace folded her arms, a casual brace across her middle. "A couple days ago."
Oakley blinked. "So you knew about this earlier? Days earlier?"
"Yes." Grace's gaze flicked up as if replaying it. "The bookings were already swarmed. I tried and didn't get one. I didn't want you to miss it. I kept thinking… and this was the answer."
The instant she'd seen the announcement online, she'd known Oakley would love it. Missing the official slots wasn't permission to surrender; it was an invitation to invent.
Oakley's smile sweetened, slow honey. "No wonder," she said. "When that girl told me we could book, I was the only one mashing the button. You didn't move an inch. I thought you weren't interested."
She'd soothed herself fast for that very reason—if she was the only one aching to go, then Grace would be coming along out of kindness, counting the minutes, wishing for anything with more adrenaline and less glitter.
Self-comfort: her most practiced craft.
Grace laughed. "Hardly. I was busy imagining what I'd do if, by some miracle, you got a reservation… and my whole scheme became useless."
Oakley opened her mouth to answer—and stopped. A stray thought clicked into place. Grace had mentioned "a plan," and Oakley had wondered what it might be, skimming possibilities and finding none. Now the picture sharpened.
"So this," Oakley said, looking around at the polished darkness, the sudden color, "this was the plan?"
Grace only tilted her head. "Do you like it?"
"Like it? I love it. So much it hurts." The shifting lights made her smile look sugared and soft.
She'd half believed she was still dreaming. Then she said "oh!"—a small, stunned sound—and scrambled for her phone. Pictures first, then video; then, just in case, more pictures.
"Want me to take some?" Grace asked.
"Yes." Oakley pressed the phone into her hand and jogged back to the spot where she'd first turned to light.
When the rockets climbed again, Grace lifted the phone and framed Oakley—arms out, hair lifted by the wind, a free figure bathed in reckless, rosy light.
Grace smiled without meaning to and felt something loop back to their first trip away together: Oakley in a neutral dress, standing in a river of air, contained and wild at once.
If Grace was a winter moon—cold, exact—then Oakley was the noon sun in July, bright to the point of ache.
After a generous run of shots, Grace started to hand the phone back, then paused. "Let's take some together."
Oakley looked up, braid half-undone between her fingers. For someone who disliked photos—especially shared ones—Grace had just spoken a small miracle aloud.
Oakley's heart turned syrup-thick. "All right."
Grace lifted her arm; they pressed their faces into the same frame. The ambient light rinsed everything in a gentle wash, rounding the edges, softening posture into something easy and warm.
"Hmm." Oakley squinted at the screen, brow knitting dramatically.
"Don't tell me," Grace said, amused. "You think your face looks big again."
"A little." Oakley pushed her windblown hair back. "Yours is too small."
"It's not," Grace protested, already stepping forward. "I'll stand closer."
The move shoved half her face to the edge of the frame and distorted it into a polite oval.
She realized, belatedly, they should have brought a selfie stick. Distance is mercy.
Oakley snorted, tugged Grace back to her side. "It doesn't matter. I'm too happy to care. Small face, large face—who cares?"
"That happy?" Grace's gaze slipped from the phone to Oakley.
"That happy." Oakley bounced once and grabbed Grace's arm, as if to anchor the feeling before it floated away.
Grace smiled and pressed the shutter again. And again. The last firework of the night sprinted up and broke in a shower of light as the final photo snapped.
"Tonight was perfect," Oakley said, glancing at the sky, then diving into the fresh roll of photos with greedy delight. "A very successful haul."
Seeing her happy, Grace found herself lit from the inside.
When the fireworks hushed, the sky returned to quiet. The decorative lights kept their glow a little longer, dreamlike now that the fervor had faded. Then, one by one, they dimmed and disappeared into the dark.
"Shall we?" Grace asked, turning to her.
"They only gave us fifteen minutes," she added softly as they walked. "This isn't normally an option. I had to… negotiate."
"Let's go," Oakley said, still enlarging and re-enlarging one image after another, reluctant to stop tasting them with her eyes.
Outside the gate, she was still looking. Grace, meanwhile, looked only at her.
After a few steps, Grace leaned close. "Send me the photos?"
It startled Oakley—this newness. Grace didn't usually ask. She barely took pictures, let alone requested them.
"So eager?" Oakley teased, turning a mystified face toward her.
"My wallpaper's worn out," Grace said. A beat. "I want a new one."
Ah. Oakley bit back a grin that wanted to lift off her face entirely. The implication was bright enough to be a light of its own.
A minute later, Grace lowered her phone. Oakley, sneaking a glance, caught the briefest glimpse: the old solitary image gone, replaced by the two of them. Even that fraction of a second was enough to make her mouth curve wider.
They walked on. Oakley tugged at Grace's sleeve. "Look."
"What?"
"There," Oakley whispered, lowering her voice like a curtain. "Students, right?"
It was late, and the distance was poor for detail. Grace squinted and saw little.
Oakley, irrepressibly nosy, drew her beneath an old banyan whose heavy branches made the world look nearer.
"There," Grace said at last.
On the open patch of ground, a dark-haired girl had arranged candles in the shape of a heart. She stood inside the glowing line with a bouquet clasped tight, facing a girl with light brown hair.
"Yan-yan," the dark-haired girl said, too earnest to be quiet, "I like you. Be with me. I can only give you flowers today—but I'll give you a home in the future."
The words rang, ridiculous and perfect. The light-brown-haired girl stared, hands flying to her mouth. Her eyes went bright with unshed things.
Oakley's eyes went bright, too, uninvited.
Just as Grace turned to look at her, the light-brown-haired girl broke into a run.
They clung to each other—so tight, so certain—like sailors finding the same shore at last.
"Yes," the girl said, voice breaking at the edges. "Let's be together. Let's get married. Let's make a home."
Night was thick, but it couldn't smother the flare of those two. Youth and force spilled outward, unchecked, like dye in water.
It felt like watching the last scene of a long, irresistible drama.
"Wow," Oakley breathed, hands pressed under her chin, eyes wide with wanting. "That's… such a beautiful love."
Grace turned to find Oakley looking as if she'd seen the perfect present in a shop window—enchanted, rooted to the spot, swallowing her own sighs.
"Jealous?" Grace asked lightly.
"Hardly." Oakley dropped her hands as the couple drifted off, still glued together. "I just love shipping people. Online too."
Grace laughed. "Do you?"
Oakley nodded. "Sure."
"Why?"
"Because it's sweet," she said simply. Then, after a beat, quieter: "Honestly? I don't even know what being in love feels like."
She put her hands behind her back and walked, turning her face to Grace. Before Grace could reply, Oakley tilted her head and sighed, half a question in her voice.
"Is it fun, though? Love?"
She looked forward again, thinking aloud now, words tipping out like marbles.
"What's the biggest difference between two people in love and two people who aren't?"
"If you're in love, do you get to cling as much as you want? Without constantly negotiating the boundaries?" She darted a look at Grace—mischief, then something softer.
For all their closeness, she and Grace still stood a little apart in daylight. Proper couples linked arms because they felt like it, poked each other's cheeks, leaned and complained and lingered. Those were not their habits. Not yet.
They were tender in special scenes: packed together for a selfie, or in the almost-holy privacy of bed. Outside those frames, they held a respectful distance, like two flames careful not to burn the other's air.
"So," Grace said, stopping. She turned and faced Oakley fully. "You want to be in love."
"Uh—" Oakley blinked, startled, the question landing like a pebble into still water.
Grace didn't let the moment slide past. She lifted her chin, eyes steady on Oakley's face.
"Mm?" she prompted, gently insistent.
The fireworks were gone. The night held its breath. Oakley felt the line under her feet—old life on one side, something unnamed on the other—and knew that whatever she said next would move the world a finger's width closer.