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Searching my eyes, she thinks about it briefly before conceding. "Fine," she mumbles. "But I'm researching for next time."

I press my lips to hers for the first time today, then once more for good measure. "Next time," I echo. "I like the sound of that."

"It's not a museum but…"

I glance over at Lenny who is standing in awe of the building in front of us—dozens of windows sandwiched between curved white stone.

The whole structure looks fluid, like the architecture itself is flowing like water, and a large, fin-like structure runs up the far side.

"I didn't even know there was an aquarium in Golden City."

I tilt my head from side to side. "Well, we're actually just outside of the city." She rolls her eyes toward me in mock annoyance. "But close enough."

She laughs under her breath as I gesture toward the door, my hand falling to her lower back. I scan the tickets on my phone that I bought on the ride over, grabbing her hand as I guide her past security.

"What made you think to bring me here?" she asks once we're fully inside.

I arch a brow, and when it registers, she stops in her tracks.

"No."

Nodding, I grin.

"No," she repeats.

I press my lips together smugly. "Pretty damn sure."

She squeals softly, sinking her fingers deeper between mine. "This is amazing. Please tell me there's an immersive documentary."

An unexpected laugh rips out of me, and I hold my free hand up in defense. "I've been told there are otters. The rest is a mystery."

We spend the next half hour walking through the aquarium and visiting sea life—an assortment of fish from guppies to clownfish, a stingray tank, even an axolotl, which I always assumed was a made-up thing.

Eventually, though, we make our way toward what I know are the otters.

There's no sign announcing it—and unlike at a zoo where the exhibit stands out, most things here are tucked behind massive panes of glass filled with bright blue water. So, technically, I guess I can't be sure.

But the energy beside me seems to know.

Lenny squeezes my hand a little tighter—the one I've managed to keep threaded through hers between each stop—and she picks up her pace, finally matching my much longer strides.

A dozen people crowd the windows, half blocking whatever's happening inside the tank.

I tug the brim of my hat a little lower—something I've done about a million times today. Not because I don't love my fans—I've stopped for several of them along the way.

But because this specifically is about me and Lenny.

A hole opens up against the glass when a mom pulls her double stroller away from the viewing area just as we approach it. We step forward, Lenny now moving slower and more cautiously than she just was a second ago, almost as if it's real now and she's… hesitant?

Or savoring it.

"Oh my God," she whispers as she scans the tank.

I follow her gaze as she sweeps it over the rock formation in the back, trailing down the slide where one otter is slowly making his way down, and into the clear water in front of us where ripples lead to a smaller one that just plopped in from the edge.

"I haven't seen them since high school," she says, her eyes never leaving the tank.

It's a simple observation, but one that fills me with a ridiculous amount of happiness—possession even. Because now I know this is still ours. Always has been.