Between explosions of light, they traded bites from the treats they had bought—a piece of sugared fig, a shared skewer of caramelized fruit, warm bread torn into small, considerate pieces.
Each taste seemed to stitch them closer: laughter after a bad joke, an exchanged glance when a particularly loud set of rockets painted the sky a furious red.
Twice, Alexander threatened to take Elaine's hat—an affectation she'd bought for the disguise—and twice she flicked it back at him, smiling.
When the final, largest shell roared and blossomed into a crown that rained sparks like melted starlight, Alexander sat up and pressed his forehead to hers. "Promise me we'll have nights like this," he whispered, voice small under the lingering light.
Elaine's hand cupped the back of his head; fingers threaded in his pinned hair. "I promise," she said. "On condition you learn to carry one heavy thing now and then."
