Chapter Text
The Spud State Fair setup is overwhelming—the kind that settles into your bones before the first tent is pitched or the air turns sick with deep-fried everything.
Tater had known it was coming. The signs had been there for weeks—Jerry pacing behind the counter at Spud Hut like a man possessed, muttering about marketing strategies and “a comeback, a rebrand .” He’d kept fiddling with the already peeling menu board, slapping up half-baked promotional ideas written in Sharpie, like Loaded Potato Explosion? and Tubers Gone Wild (that one got a hard veto). But the real sign—the undeniable harbinger of disaster—was Jerry’s midnight calls .
Tater had barely been conscious when her phone vibrated violently on her nightstand, the bright screen cutting through the darkness. She groggily reached for it, knocking over a half-empty cup of water in the process. She answered without looking.
“ Potato mushroom… roomtata! ” Jerry’s voice blasted through the speaker, loud and frantic.
Tater squinted at the time. 3:42 AM.
She groaned, rolling onto her side. “Jerry, what the hell are you saying?”
“We need a new menu item! Something fresh, something bold . Think…potatoes. Think… elevated .”
Tater blinked at the ceiling, brain struggling to function in the depths of sleep deprivation. “Uh. Baconata ?” she mumbled, words barely forming.
“ BACONATA! ”
Tater shot upright at the sudden burst of sound, her phone slipping from her hands and smacking against the hardwood floor. The dull crack of her screen protector shattering was enough to make her soul leave her body.
Fuck.
She didn’t even pick up the phone again. Just flopped back onto her bed, staring at the ceiling while Jerry’s voice continued on, oblivious. Something about potato-shaped hats? Or hats made from potatoes? She didn’t know.
—
The setup for the actual festival? Kill me.
Tater had barely been functioning when Jerry shoved her into the car at five in the morning , mumbling something about the early bird getting the worm while practically flinging a potato costume and her sign into her arms.
Well, Jerry wasn’t wrong , technically. They had gotten there early enough to snag a prime festival spot—right next to Potato Palace’s obnoxiously massive tent, which was already looking entirely too professional for a potato-based event.
“You go put the costume on,” Jerry had waved her off, already half-distracted as he arranged their table setup, aggressively plopping down trays of prepped potatoes and muttering under his breath about Baconata . ( Melted cheese, baked bacon. Loaded potato perfection. )
Tater would be lying if she said the thought of it didn’t make her mouth water, just a little.
Still, she had sighed, trudging behind the tent to wrestle herself into the cursed potato suit . She exhaled, adjusting the plush fabric, and picked up her sign, twirling it once—muscle memory more than anything. But her mind was elsewhere .
The breakup. If you could even call it that. It wasn’t a relationship. Not really . Just a handful of nights, some late-night conversations. It shouldn’t be hitting her this hard. It should’ve been easy to brush off, to file away as just another thing that didn’t work out .
She spun the sign again, faster this time, like the movement could shake the thought loose. And then—voices. Bickering. She perked up, stepping out from behind the tent, sign in hand, peering toward the front.
Augustus was already at the station, focused on grilling up whatever weird combination of spuds Jerry had schemed up last night. But beyond him—Jerry, cackling , dramatically gesturing in the way only Jerry could. Across from him— Peter.
Tater didn’t even need to hear the words to know exactly what was happening. Jerry and Peter, locked in another round of their never-ending culinary feud , still carrying whatever stupid grudge they had been clinging onto since high school.
Something about true potato artistry , no doubt.
Tater sighed, tightening her grip on her sign and making her way toward them. She had long since learned that stopping Peter from antagonizing Jerry was impossible. But managing the fallout? That she could do.
As she approached, movement caught her eye.
Frite .
She was standing a few feet away, sign in hand, effortlessly twirling it between her fingers in that obnoxiously smooth way she always did. Like it was second nature. Like she didn’t even have to try . Their eyes met.
Frite’s movements slowed, the sign stilling for just a second before she smirked slightly, tilting her head. “Hey.”
It sounded… sincere . Which was weird , considering the ongoing chaos of Jerry and Peter trading increasingly dramatic insults just feet away. Tater rolled her shoulders, casually flipping her sign in response. “Hey.”
Jerry finally noticed her, eyes flicking between her and Frite, then—because he never knew when to quit while he was ahead —blurted out, “Potatoes are made in a lab.” There was a beat of hesitation, like even he wasn’t sure what the hell that meant. He grabbed Frite’s sign, hesitating just a second—maybe debating if this was really the hill he wanted to die on—then shoved it into her.
“Hey!” Frite yelped, stumbling back a step. Jerry opened his mouth, probably to throw out some half-baked excuse, but Frite cut him off with a sharp, “Shut up!”
Jerry actually did , lips pressing together in a flash of embarrassment, like it had just dawned on him that maybe physical sign-based combat wasn’t the most professional business strategy.
Before Peter could even open his mouth—because, oh, he definitely had something to say—Jerry was already grabbing Tater by the arm, dragging her back toward the tent.
Jerry’s words faded into the background as she glanced over her shoulder, almost compelled to look back.
And Frite—who was already turning away, already trying to pretend this whole thing hadn’t just happened— caught her gaze . Frite scoffed under her breath, rolling her eyes like this whole situation was just an annoyance to her.
—
Tater had finally peeled herself away from her post after Jerry had barked at her for the fourth time to take a break. She had spent the last few hours in a haze of spinning her sign, handing out coupons, and deflecting Jerry’s increasingly absurd potato-based ideas. ( Spudtastic Surprise ? Tater Typhoon ? Spudsy Buds ? He was losing it. )
Now, tucked beside the tent, she rolled her shoulders, stretching out the stiffness from hours of standing in that damn costume. She yanked the hood down, letting her hair spill out, and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off her neck.
The cool sip of water was everything . For a second, she just stood there, zoning out, feeling the contrast between the dry heat of the day and the cold water running down her throat.
Then—shuffling. She barely registered it at first, too caught up in her own little world, but the movement lingered. Close.
Tater turned, still drinking from the bottle— And almost choked.
Because there she was.
Frite.
No sign. No smug bravado. Just standing there, her dumb potato costume slumping, toppings drooping under the weight of the day. And of course—because the universe had a sick sense of humor—she still had that stupid sailor hat, barely clinging to her head like it had lost the will to live.
“Hey. Again ,” Frite mumbled.
Tater swallowed wrong, water hitting the wrong pipe. “Hhhkk—uh.”
Frite shifted, glancing around like she was checking for witnesses. “I’m not supposed to be here. Or wandering around, actually.”
Tater just blinked at her, still processing the fact that she was here at all . “… Then why are you here?” Her voice came out slower than intended, like her brain was still catching up. “Peter might kill you if he finds out you’re talking to the competition again.”
“I’d like to see him try.”
It was so casual. The idea of Peter losing his mind over this was funny to her. The whole rivalry thing was just an afterthought . And all that ran through Tater’s mind was— Woah. And also—
Cool.
Which was not the reaction she should be having. Because Frite wasn’t supposed to be cool . She was supposed to be annoying . The enemy . The literal competition. But standing there, totally unbothered, looking like she had deliberately walked into the lion’s den just because she felt like it —
Yeah.
Cool .
Frite’s gaze flicked to the seat beside her—uncertain.
Tater shifted, scooting over just a little. Not much. Barely anything. Just enough.
Frite hesitated for only a second longer before finally sitting down.
Then, out of nowhere —
“Are you sure he’s not gay?”
Frite turned her head, brow furrowing. “Who?”
“Peter.” Tater leaned back slightly, tilting her head toward her. “Are you sure he’s not gay?”
Frite let out a sharp scoff. “He’s not gay. He’s a sailor .”
Tater raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “A gay sailor, maybe.”
Frite gave her a deadpan look, then shot back, “Tell that to his pillow girlfriend.”
Tater snorted. She cleared her throat, sitting up straighter. “So, uh—” she fumbled for something to say , anything to fill the pause, “—you and Peter, huh?”
Frite raised a brow, smirk twitching at the corner of her lips. “What about us?”
“I mean.” Tater gestured vaguely. “You were betrothed or whatever.”
Frite made a face. “ Ew —don’t say it like that. Makes it sound medieval.”
Tater blinked . “I mean, I think it is medieval. Like, that’s where that word comes from.”
“Okay, scholar ,” Frite teased, rolling her eyes. “Look, it was an arrangement . Business stuff. Family stuff. He needed a partner to keep the brand going. I needed… I don’t know.” She waved a hand. “Something to do, I guess.”
Tater stared at her. “That’s so weird.”
“Right?”
“So,” Tater started, hesitating, “he, uh… wasn’t your type?”
Frite looked at her, amused. “What, Peter ?” She shook her head, leaning back on her hands. “Not even close.”
Tater nodded, trying to play it cool. “ Right . Yeah . That makes sense.”
Another pause.
A very terrible pause.
Frite just stared at her, then cocked her head, curious. “Why do you look like you’re about to short-circuit?”
Tater huffed, looking away. “I’m not short-circuiting.”
“You so are.”
“I just—” She waved a hand again, like that would help . “I don’t know. I didn’t expect you to be so…”
“So what ?” But something about the way Frite was looking at her—casual, amused, a little too pleased with how thrown-off she was—was annoying .
She shook her head, groaning. “Never mind.”
Frite snorted. “God, you’re so awkward.”
Tater looked away, pressing the water bottle to the back of her neck. She wasn’t flustered , she was just hot . Overheated. Dying, probably. She cleared her throat. “So, uh… what are you doing here, then?”
Frite cracked an eye open. “I told you. Not supposed to be here.” She rolled her shoulders. “Peter’s probably running his little empire with an iron fist right now. Making sure our potatoes are perfectly baked. You know, for the people .”
Tater snorted. “ Wow . How noble of him.”
“Right? Man of the people.”
“So… what? You just decided to go AWOL?”
Frite lifted a shoulder. “Got bored.” Tater gave her a look. Frite gave a lopsided grin in return, like she knew how weak of an excuse that was.
She exhaled through her nose, gaze drifting somewhere else. “I don’t know,” she admitted after a beat, quieter this time. “It’s just a lot , sometimes. The whole… Peter thing. The Potato Palace thing. The whole sign-spinning, mascot-ing, sell-your-soul-to-potatoes thing.”
Tater blinked. “That’s a thing ?”
“Oh, yeah .” Frite’s lips twitched. “Haven’t you heard? Potatoes own you , not the other way around.”
Tater huffed a small laugh. Frite leaned back on her hands again, staring off toward the crowd.
Tater found herself watching her for a second too long, trying to figure out what, exactly, it was . Frite caught her staring. Tater snapped her head forward so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.
Frite’s smirk curled back into place. “ What ?”
“Nothing,” Tater muttered, taking a sip of water.
Frite eyed her for a moment, then leaned in again, voice dropping to something lower. “Are you sure?”
Tater shot up so fast her knee smacked the underside of the table, rattling everything on top of it. “OH, LOOK ! Break’s over !” She clapped her hands together, voice an octave too high, her entire body betraying her. “Time to get back to work! I probably should— yeah , I should definitely get going. You too! I mean —you probably —shouldn’t even be here, right ? Yeah , yeah , so you should—go. We both should go.”
Frite just watched her, head tilted slightly, gaze flicking over her like she was trying to pinpoint something.
Frite blinked once. Then, in the slowest, most deliberate movement, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said simply, like she was humoring her. “Guess I should.” And that tone —that look . She liked seeing Tater this flustered.
Tater stiffened, swallowing down whatever weird feeling was creeping up her throat. Frite, taking her sweet time, finally stood. She stretched, letting out a long sigh, and fixed her ridiculous sailor hat before tossing a lazy glance back at Tater.
“See you around, Spud.” But before she could even begin to process it, Frite had already turned, sauntering off with way too much ease, leaving Tater standing there like a moron .
She barely registered Jerry yelling for her in the distance, something about getting back to the tent. And she barely processed her own feet moving, dragging her back toward the Spud Hut stand.
Because all she could think about— all she could hear—was the echo of that stupid little nickname in her head.
See you around, Spud.
Oh, she hated her .
—
The whole thing was chaos—the rush of last-minute prep, Jerry hovering over her shoulder, making her test different topping combinations until her stomach felt like a sack of overstuffed potatoes.
“More cheese,” he muttered, barely even tasting the one he had shoved into his mouth. “No—less cheese. No— hell —more cheese again.”
Tater groaned, barely managing to swallow the bite she had. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack before the festival’s even over.”
Jerry just pointed at the next batch. “Try this one.”
By the time she got a moment to breathe, she was being sent off —again—this time to fetch more potatoes from the van. Which should have been easy . Simple .
But of course , it wasn’t .
Because somehow, the second she had the sack of potatoes in her arms, her entire center of gravity shifted, her steps wobbling as she tried to maneuver her way back to the tent. She could feel the weight shifting—one wrong step and she’d be doomed .
And then— there it was .
The trip .
She stumbled forward with a choked gasp, the potatoes lurching dangerously to the side, her entire life flashing before her eyes .
But somehow— somehow —she managed to keep them from spilling.
Tater let out a breath, steadying herself, heart still racing .
And that’s when she saw her.
Frite. Walking just a few feet away, looking completely unbothered , a guy beside her rolling a whole crate of potatoes.
Of course she didn’t have to carry them. Of course they had a whole system in place. Tater clenched her jaw, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly gave her whiplash.
Because of course Frite looked effortless , all relaxed and cool and— stupidly confident .
Like she wasn’t the same person who had shown up earlier, alone, sitting next to Tater like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like she wasn’t the same person who had called her Spud like it meant something . Tater exhaled sharply, adjusting the weight of the sack in her arms, and trudged back toward the tent. Because the last thing she needed to be thinking about was her .
—
Tater barely had a moment to breathe before Jerry was yanking her back to the front, practically shoving a freshly loaded potato into her hands.
“Taste test,” he commanded.
Tater blinked at the monstrous creation—golden-brown, perfectly baked, absolutely drowning in toppings. Cheese melted down the sides, crisp bacon bits balanced on top, a dollop of sour cream threatening to tip over. It looked perfect.
She took a bite. Flavor exploded on her tongue—sharp cheddar, smoky bacon, the buttery softness of the potato underneath. It was good . Better than she expected.
She chewed thoughtfully, nodding. “It’s good.”
Jerry squinted. “ Good? ”
“ Really good,” she corrected.
Jerry clapped his hands together, beaming. “That’s what I like to hear.”
But before Tater could even put the potato down, she heard another voice.
“Oh, that’s cute.”
Tater exhaled sharply before finally turning her head, and—yep. There she was.
Frite stood a few feet away, arms crossed, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Like she had just come from an effortless round of winning at life or whatever the hell she did when she wasn’t trying to make Tater’s day worse .
Tater wiped her hands off on a napkin, buying herself exactly three extra seconds before responding. “What’s cute ?”
Frite gestured loosely toward the potato in her hands. “The little taste testing thing you’ve got going on. Very professional.”
Tater narrowed her eyes. “What, like you don’t do the same thing?”
Frite shrugged, looking entirely too casual . “Nah. We don’t have to.”
Tater blinked. “Excuse me?”
“ We already know our potatoes are the best.”
Tater gawked at her. The audacity . The absolute nerve .
And Jerry— oh, Jerry —looked ready to lunge across the counter. “You wanna say that again, Captain Crunch ?”
Frite just snorted. “Relax, Grandpa Spud.”
Tater had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.
Frite’s fingers barely grazed the edge of a sample before Tater yanked it away, holding it just out of reach. Frite’s gaze flickered to her, slow and unimpressed. “Shouldn’t customers get as many samples as they want?”
“Not rival customers.”
Frite tilted her head. “I’m just a customer right now.”
“You’re literally in uniform.”
“So?” Frite shrugged, all easy confidence, like she wasn’t currently breaking every unspoken rule of this dumb potato war. “Maybe I’m just a huge Spud Hut fan.”
Tater gave her a flat look. “Yeah, okay .”
“You caught me. I’ve been converted .” She reached for another sample. Tater swiped it before she could.
Frite let out an exaggerated gasp. “Wow. Gatekeeping potatoes? That’s low, Tater .”
Tater pressed her lips together, fighting back a grin. She hated how easily Frite made her want to laugh, especially when she was being so annoying . “Go steal from someone else,” Tater said, crossing her arms.
Frite hummed, pretending to consider it, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “You sure you don’t want me to stick around? Could give you some pointers on winning over customers.”
“Oh, I’m sure .”
Frite just smirked, like she had already won something. She leaned away, rocking back on her heels. “Your loss.”
She reached for another sample .
Tater swatted her hand away.
Frite laughed , fully, loudly, like this was the funniest thing in the world to her. And before Tater could even respond, Jerry—who had not been paying attention because he was too busy aggressively organizing toppings— finally turned back around.
“What’s this ?” he said, narrowing his eyes.
Frite, with zero shame, held up her hands. “Just appreciating the competition.”
Jerry scoffed . “Shoo.” He flapped a towel at her like she was a stray cat . Tater wanted to be smug about it, but instead, she just watched as Frite took a step back, still grinning. And as she turned to leave, her gaze flickered back.
And then she was gone.
Jerry nudged her. “Weirdo.”
—
The sky was starting to make everything look a little hazier, a little dreamier—if not for the fact that Tater is stress sweating through this stupid potato costume.
Jerry, in full showman mode, is bouncing on the balls of his feet like an over-caffeinated game show host. “Alright, This is it. Our moment of glory.” He claps her on the shoulder, way too hard. “You ready?”
Tater swallows. Is she? Probably not. But it’s not like she has a choice.
The announcer takes the stage, clearing his throat into the mic. “Next up, from your local mall, Spud Hut—” There’s a weak smattering of applause, but it’s drowned out by the overwhelming cheers that had come before for Potato Palace . Tater doesn’t even need to look to know that Peter probably waved like some benevolent potato king, soaking in the adoration.
Jerry doesn’t seem fazed, though. He grabs Tater’s arm and practically drags her forward. “C’mon, let’s blow their minds.”
Tater sets down the platter of samples, each one carefully stacked with bacon, melted cheese, and a mix of spices that Jerry swears is “ the secret to success .” The judges take a bite. Some interested murmurs ripple through the panel. Jerry is already on his spiel—something about flavor innovation and the future of the potato industry —but Tater barely registers it.
Frite’s standing in the crowd, arms crossed. Then, in front of everyone, Frite steps forward, reaching out and grabbing one of the samples off the platter.
Tater almost swats her hand away out of instinct. Hey—”
Frite raised an eyebrow. Then, without breaking eye contact, popped the sample into her mouth. And chewed.
Slowly .
The moment it hits, Tater sees the exact second Frite realizes she likes it. The way her jaw clenches slightly, how she stops mid-chew, eyes flicking toward the side like she’s recalibrating everything she thought she knew about Spud Hut’s tragic little menu.
But instead of admitting defeat, Frite just licks her lips, shrugs, and says, “Huh.”
Tater gapes. “ Huh? ”
Jerry is beaming like a lunatic. “See? Even our enemies can’t deny greatness.”
Frite, still chewing, side-eyes Jerry like she’s actively resisting the urge to deck him. She swallows and turns back to Tater. “Don’t get a big head about it,” she says. “You still work for a struggling potato restaurant.”
The words should sting. They don’t. Not really.
Before Tater can say something really stupid, Jerry claps his hands together. “Alright, well! Presentation’s over, moving on, moving on—” He yanks Tater back toward the tent.