The bench creaked softly as I settled beside Diana, the warmth of the day still clinging to the wooden slats. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, but her forehead glistened with tiny beads of sweat—likely from the adrenaline rush of the rides. Without thinking, I pulled out my handkerchief and gently dabbed at her forehead, wiping away the moisture.
Diana blinked in surprise, her hand instinctively reaching up. "I can do it myself," she protested, though her voice lacked its usual firmness.
I smiled, shaking my head. "It's okay," I said softly, my fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. She hesitated, then relaxed, letting me take care of her in that small, intimate way.
A chime of cheerful music caught my attention. I turned to see an ice cream truck parked nearby, its bright colors and swirling soft-serve cones calling out like a siren song. "I'll be back soon," I told Diana, pointing toward the truck. "Don't go anywhere."
