The sun crept through the silk curtains, warming the room in soft gold. A gentle breeze carried in the scent of roses, and somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed like it had a vendetta against the morning.
Tasha turned under the silky white sheets, blinking sleepily until her eyes focused on the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. Then came a familiar voice—unnecessarily loud, unnecessarily dramatic.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Or should I say... Sleeping Beast?" Collins stood at the edge of the bed, already fully dressed in a cream shirt with sleeves rolled up, a gray vest, and trousers that hugged his tall frame with alarming elegance. He had a wooden spoon in one hand and a tea cup in the other, offering both like gifts from heaven and hell.
Tasha groaned, pulling the covers over her face. "How are you this alive at six in the morning?"
"It's eight," he said with a grin. "I let you sleep in. Your snoring was majestic, by the way. Like a dragon."
She peeked out from under the covers, narrowed her eyes, and threw a pillow at him. He dodged it easily.
"Come on," Collins said, his tone softening. "I have plans. Real-world experience. Fresh air. Mischief. Breakfast."
Tasha sat up, still groggy, but something about the sparkle in his eyes chased away her sleepiness. "You're taking me out?"
"I'm liberating you," he declared, walking out of the room with exaggerated swagger. "Be ready in twenty minutes, or I'll wear something so embarrassing you'll be forced to pretend you don't know me in public."
She smiled as she climbed out of bed.
---
By mid-morning, they were on the road in Collins' cherry-red convertible, wind in their hair, the sky clear and stretching forever. Tasha wore a flowy white blouse, a pair of jeans, and sunglasses that Collins insisted made her look like a 70s celebrity. He wore a matching pair—only slightly ridiculous—and had an arm casually draped over the wheel.
"First stop," he said, "the best pancake shack in the county. And by 'best,' I mean it hasn't failed a health inspection in three months."
"I'm not sure if that's comforting or terrifying."
"You'll survive," he said. "Maybe."
The pancake shack turned out to be a rustic little diner by the roadside with crooked wooden benches and an old jukebox that only played songs older than Collins' sense of humor. They ordered a mountain of pancakes, smothered in syrup, butter, and strawberries.
"So," Collins said, pointing a fork at her, "if pancakes were people, which one would you date?"
"Definitely this one," she said, stabbing a heart-shaped piece. "It's sweet and dependable."
Collins gasped. "You'd go for the romantic pancake? I expected more chaos from you."
"And you?" she asked, raising a brow.
He jabbed at a half-burned one. "This guy. Charred, misunderstood, emotionally unavailable. Probably writes poetry."
They both burst into laughter.
---
Their next stop was a flea market. Stalls stretched endlessly, selling everything from antique clocks to old comics to hand-knitted cat sweaters. Tasha wandered through the maze of colors and clutter, eyes sparkling with wonder.
She stopped at a small stand displaying ceramic figurines—tiny animals painted with ridiculous expressions.
"Don't do it," Collins warned. "You'll fall in love with a duck with googly eyes and I'll have to pretend to like it forever."
She picked up a duck with one eye painted far higher than the other. "Too late. Meet Charles."
"I hate him already."
They walked through the rows of stalls, occasionally buying odd things: a bracelet shaped like ivy, a novelty T-shirt that said "I Survived Collins' Jokes," and a tin music box that played a slightly off-key lullaby.
At one point, Collins paused near a man selling old books. He picked up a weathered red volume and flipped through it.
"Used to love these," he muttered, then handed it to her. "It's about a girl cursed by a mirror. Ends in betrayal, fire, and ghosts. Very you."
She smirked. "So romantic."
---
By afternoon, they reached the coast.
They walked barefoot along the shore, the ocean breeze wild and cool. Tasha's laughter mingled with the seagulls' cries as Collins chased after her with seaweed like it was a deadly weapon.
"You're a menace!" she cried.
"Say you love Charles and I'll spare you!"
"Never!"
When they were breathless and soaked from ankle-deep waves, they sat on the rocks overlooking the sea, eating ice cream that melted faster than they could lick.
Tasha leaned back, watching the clouds drift like lazy ships.
"I forgot the world could feel like this," she said quietly.
Collins turned to her. "Like what?"
"Big. Free. Soft."
He didn't speak for a moment. Then, with a gentle smile, he said, "You deserve to feel that every day."
Her heart skipped.
---
They visited a nearby rose garden after that—wildly different from the manicured one on his estate. This one bloomed in chaotic beauty, petals spilled everywhere like nature had thrown a party and didn't clean up after.
"Close your eyes," Collins said.
Tasha did.
He gently plucked a deep red rose and placed it behind her ear. "Perfect," he murmured.
She opened her eyes. He was close. Too close. His breath warm against her cheek.
Their eyes locked.
"Careful," she whispered. "If you keep doing things like that, I'll fall for you."
He grinned. "Wouldn't be the worst tragedy."
Their kiss was soft, brief, yet full of something unspoken. A promise wrapped in uncertainty.
---
Later, as they strolled toward the car under the golden hue of sunset, Collins told jokes—half terrible, half genius.
"So I told the tailor, 'You're hemming me in!' Get it?"
"God, that one physically hurt."
He placed a hand dramatically on his chest. "Someday, historians will appreciate me." Collins declared, tossing a half-melted scoop of vanilla into his mouth like it was the most heroic act of the century.
Tasha wrinkled her nose. "For what? War crimes against comedy?"
"I'm deeply underappreciated in my time. Like Van Gogh, but with charm and better ears."
She laughed, nudging him with her elbow as they walked along the cobbled path that led back toward the car. The world around them had softened under the touch of golden hour—everything bathed in warmth, like a painting that didn't want to dry.
They passed a small park, mostly empty now except for a couple of kids playing with kites and a man tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons. Somewhere nearby, a saxophone played—jazzy, imperfect, but sincere.
Collins slowed down and looked toward a nearby bench shaded by an old jacaranda tree, its purple blossoms scattering like quiet confetti in the breeze.
"Sit with me?" he asked.
Tasha nodded.
They sat without speaking at first, just listening to the world hum around them—the whisper of leaves, the faint rhythm of footsteps, the distant bark of a dog. Tasha leaned back against the bench, eyes closed, breathing in deeply.
"I wish I could freeze this moment," she murmured.
Collins didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached over, his fingers brushing hers gently, before wrapping around them with careful certainty.
"You can't freeze it," he said. "But you can keep it."
She opened her eyes and turned to him.
"How?"
"By being here," he replied simply. "Fully. Remembering the way the sky looked, the way the air smelled, the sound of you laughing at my terrible jokes—"
"They were truly awful."
"—and the way you're smiling now," he finished, tapping her cheek lightly with his fingertip.
Tasha smiled wider.
They sat there until the sun dipped lower, smearing the horizon in gold and lavender. The sky glowed like something magical, and for once, neither of them felt like running from the past or worrying about the future.
Eventually, they made their way back to the car, fingers still interlocked.
As Collins started the engine, Tasha turned to look at him—really look at him. The teasing smile was still there, but beneath it, something softer lingered. A quiet kindness. A safety she hadn't felt in a long, long time.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For today. For reminding me that there's still beauty in the world."
He looked at her for a beat too long, then said, "It's easier to find when you're in it."
And with that, the car pulled onto the road, the sun setting behind them in soft amber hues, and the world—for the first time in a while—felt simple, quiet, and whole.