Saturday afternoons on campus had their own personality.
Less rush. Less books. More laughter drifting through open spaces. Booths had been set up around the main quadrangle with bright banners fluttering in the mild breeze: Cultural Week – Fun Fair.
It wasn't big enough to be called a festival, but it wasn't small enough to ignore either. Music played from portable speakers, students wandered around with paper cups of juice, and everything smelled faintly of grilled snacks and popcorn.
Ava stared at the handwritten poster taped to a lamppost.
"Fun Fair Games – Winner Gets a Crown," she read out loud, then squinted. "What are we, medieval royalty?"
"You're talking to paper now," Recee said beside her.
She jumped a little. "You walk too quietly. Get a bell."
He didn't apologize. "You're here early."
"So are you."
They exchanged a look that said neither of them would admit they'd been hoping the other would be here.
The fair wasn't mandatory. Their department had only encouraged attendance "for social interaction and cultural bonding," which everyone had interpreted as come if you want free snacks.
Ava folded her arms, eyeing the crowd. "I'm here for the food."
"You're always here for food," he said.
"Food never disappoints me."
"People do?" he asked without looking at her.
She shrugged. "Sometimes."
Before the conversation could dip deeper, a loud voice interrupted.
"AVA THOMPSON!"
A whirlwind of bright lipstick and bouncing curls crashed into her. Her friend Mia wrapped her in a sudden hug.
"You're volunteering, right?" Mia said breathlessly. "The drama club needs someone energetic to pull people into games."
"I don't think screaming counts as volunteering," Ava said.
"You're perfect then," Mia grinned, then noticed Recee. "Oh. Partner-boy is here too."
Recee inclined his head politely. He was used to the nickname by now.
Mia's grin turned mischievous. "Great. We need contestants."
"No," Ava and Recee said at the same time.
Mia clapped. "Perfect! That's a yes."
Before either could argue, she shoved two paper wristbands into their hands and ran off shouting orders.
Ava stared down at the wristband. "I have been trapped."
"You could refuse," Recee suggested.
She raised a brow. "And miss a chance to beat you at something? Never."
He blinked, amused. "You think you'll win?"
"I know I will."
The first "contest" was harmless enough: Trivia Toss — answer a question and toss a ring over a bottle. The prize table was filled with candy, old keychains, and silly plastic crowns that sparkled far too much.
Recee folded his arms. "This is ridiculous."
"Scared?" Ava teased.
He answered the trivia question effortlessly… then missed the bottle entirely.
She tried not to laugh.
"I haven't done ring toss before," he said calmly.
"Really?" she said sweetly. "I couldn't tell."
Her turn. The volunteer asked: "Capital of Finland?"
Her brain went momentarily blank. "Fishland?"
The ring still landed perfectly around the bottle.
She gasped. "I did it!"
The volunteer cheered. "We accept confident wrong answers."
Recee looked at her with a strange expression — half disbelief, half admiration he would never voice.
"You won by pure luck," he said.
"Victory is victory," she replied proudly, claiming a piece of candy and immediately handing it to a passing kid who looked longingly at the table.
They moved to the next stall: Blindfold Pop Balloon Challenge.
Ava tied the blindfold around her head herself. "Ready."
"You're holding the stick backwards," Recee said.
"Oh."
He fixed it silently, fingers brushing hers briefly. Neither commented on it. Neither needed to.
Balloons popped and people cheered around them. Ava laughed so hard she forgot to count how many she'd hit. When it was Recee's turn, he popped all his balloons with precise, unhurried movements.
Show-off.
She nudged him. "Who practices this at home?"
"I don't practice games," he said.
But his accuracy said otherwise.
They collected stamps on their silly wristbands, wandered between booths, tasted badly mixed juice, and got glitter dust accidentally sprinkled on them by someone who declared the air "too boring."
Ava didn't realize how much she'd been smiling until her cheeks started to ache.
At some point, she caught Recee watching her — not staring, not intense, just… there.
Softly focused.
Like he was memorizing the way she laughed when her guard completely dropped.
"What?" she asked, suddenly conscious.
"Nothing," he replied, looking away.
He didn't say:
You look happy. I like seeing you happy.
He didn't need to. It lingered between them anyway.
The final event of the day was louder than the rest.
Mini Talent Show — Winner Gets Crown and Vouchers.
Students gathered around an improvised stage near the fountain. Some sang, some danced, some recited poetry with dramatic hand gestures that earned equal parts applause and laughter.
Mia popped back up again, eyes gleaming. "Ava, go."
"No," Ava said.
"Yes," Mia insisted. "Do your funny storytelling thing. People love you. Also, we need more participants."
Recee looked at her. "You don't have to."
Ava hesitated.
Crowd.
Attention.
Eyes.
The old version of herself would have stepped back.
The version that had survived storm after storm… stepped forward.
"Fine," she said. "If I embarrass myself, we all pretend this never happen."
She climbed the low stage and adjusted the microphone. The noise faded just slightly. Recee watched, hands in his pockets, face unreadable but gaze unwavering.
Ava didn't sing.
She didn't dance.
She told a story.
Not a sad one. Not heavy. Just a funny, vivid story about being mistaken for a staff member, carrying trays, juggling three jobs, napping in the library and waking up mid-snore, and how she once went to the wrong class and took notes for an entire hour before realizing it was advanced economics in French.
People laughed.
Not at her.
With her.
Her voice flowed easy as water, animated hands painting pictures in the air. She didn't need a script. The story lived in her bones. Recee watched the crowd react to her — how quickly she pulled them in, how warm the laughter felt.
She finished with a grin, bowed dramatically, and hopped down.
Applause followed her offstage like a wave.
"That was…" Recee searched for a word.
"A disaster?" she offered.
He shook his head slowly. "Alive."
She blinked. "That's… oddly nice."
"You make things feel alive," he said simply.
Before she could respond, the announcer called, "Winner — Ava Thompson!"
The drama club placed a cheap plastic crown on her head. It glittered in the late sunlight, crooked and ridiculous.
Recee looked at her for a moment.
"Don't say it," she warned.
He didn't.
He lifted his hand slowly… straightened the crown just a little… and said softly, "It suits you."
For half a second, her heart forgot how to beat.
Mia shoved prize vouchers into Ava's hands. "Use those for food. Or give them to me. Preferably me."
Ava laughed and pretended to argue back, but her attention drifted to Recee again. Something unspoken stretched between them — warm, confusing, steady.
The sun slipped lower, dyeing the sky faint orange.
Students began to disperse.
The fair slowly wound down.
Ava and Recee walked toward the gate again like they always seemed to — side by side without planning it.
"You were going to say something earlier," he said.
She twirled the crown in her fingers. "Yeah."
"And?"
She hesitated… then smiled instead of answering. "Next time."
He let it go.
For now.
At the gate, they paused.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, tone light but hope tucked beneath it.
"We don't have anything tomorrow," she said.
"I know."
Her heartbeat stumbled.
"Maybe," she said softly. "If I'm not working."
He nodded. "I'll be around."
She turned to leave.
He watched her go.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed — ignored. His attention stayed on the girl with the crooked crown walking into the fading light.
For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel ahead of everything.
He just felt drawn in.
And neither of them noticed the pair of eyes in the crowd that lingered on Ava a second too long… then disappeared.