The sky was ink-black when they reached the edge of the lake. Hundreds of people had gathered on blankets, couples and families pointing up at the stars. The countdown had begun.
Leyah sat beside Harvey, hugging her knees.
"Number five," she whispered, "is the one I've always dreamed of."
Harvey glanced at the list she unfolded in her lap.
5. Kiss under the fireworks.
He went still.
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, her voice gentle. "I know it's stupid. A cliché. But… it's not really about the kiss."
He frowned. "Then what is it about?"
"It's about feeling something beautiful in the middle of something that's ending. Even if it's just for a second."
He didn't answer.
Then the first firework exploded—gold and red streaks painting the sky. The crowd gasped.
Leyah turned to him, eyes shimmering with more than just the light above. "Can I?"
Harvey's chest felt too tight. His throat too dry. But he nodded.
She leaned in.
The kiss was soft. Brief. Gentle as the night wind. But it burned into his memory like fire.
Not because it was perfect, but because it was hers.
---
When she pulled back, she didn't say anything.
Neither did he.
They sat in silence as bursts of color bloomed overhead. The world felt far away—like it couldn't touch them up here, on this little hill, where something sacred had passed between two souls on borrowed time.
Leyah scribbled beside number five:
—He kissed me back. He didn't have to. But he did.
Then she laid her head on his shoulder.
Harvey wanted to say something—anything—to break the weight in his chest.
But instead, he whispered, "I added a number eleven, remember?"
She smiled sleepily. "Yeah?"
"It's not ready yet," he said. "But it's coming."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She closed her eyes. "Good. I want to be there when you check it off."