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We leave the downtown core behind, traffic thinning as we move west into Ashford Heights proper. The buildings around us get lower, then older, brick and stone replacing the steel and glass of the financial district. Street vendors sell coffee and breakfast to early morning workers, and kids with backpacks wait at corners for school buses.

Orien turns into a strip mall parking lot, pulling into a space near the back before cutting the engine.

I sit up straighter, head turning to take in the space around us. “What are we doing here?”

He climbs out without answering.

With a huff of frustration, I follow, pulling my cardigan tighter around my shoulders. The strip mall is mostly closed, a few shop windows lit for early morning business, but at the far end of the lot⁠—

I stop with my hand still on the door handle, the sound dying in my throat.

A pop-up fair spreads across the asphalt, lights strung between rented stanchions. Folding game booths line the edges of the lot, painted plywood and hand-lettered signs announcing chances to win, and they even have a roller coaster and Ferris wheel. The aroma of fried dough and popcorn cuts through the cool air, cinnamon sugar, frying oil, and corn dogs making my mouth water.

A hand-painted banner reading Ashford Heights Community Fair sags between two poles, the edges rippling in the morning breeze.

I say nothing, not trusting my voice.

Orien circles the front of the car, his hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders set with what might be discomfort. “It’s not much, but I thought⁠—”

“You thought what?” I ask when he doesn’t finish.

He shrugs. “That you might like it.”

I look back at the small fair.

I’ve been to a thousand functions in my life, charity galas and fundraising dinners, gallery openings and private showings, every kind of event where important people gather to see and be seen. I’ve worn tuxedos and three-piece suits, made conversation with politicians and mob bosses.

I have never been to a community fair.

“Come on,” Orien says, and starts across the parking lot.

I trot to catch up to him.

The fair is just opening, staff still setting up some of the booths and checking equipment. A woman with a clipboard stands at the entrance, and Orien hands her cash for two tickets.

She stamps our hands, a star for him and a moon for me, and we step inside.

Orien’s hands stay out of his pockets, but he doesn’t reach for mine, and I don’t want to risk being rejected if I try, so I keep my hands at my sides.

We stop at the first booth to read the hand-lettered sign.

WIN A PRIZE!! THREE THROWS FOR FIVE DOLLARS!!

I study his profile. “You’ve never been to one of these, have you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re reading the instructions for a dart throw.”

He doesn’t answer, which is its own answer.

“I haven’t, either,” I admit, and he cuts me a sharp look.

A toddler in a puffy teal coat careens out of nowhere, bounces off Orien’s legs, and sits down hard on the asphalt.

The wailing starts immediately.

Orien crouches without hesitating, and I go still.