I’m starting to think I was wrong about us being strangers.
I’m starting to think we might be exactly what each other needs.
Chapter Fifteen
Jordan
Standing outside Retro Replay in Hollywood, I’m checking my lipstick in my phone’s camera for the third time when I spot Forge’s truck pulling into the parking lot.
It’s been a week since our taco truck adventure, and we’ve been in almost constant contact—good morning texts that turn into lunchtime calls, late-night conversations that stretch past midnight because neither of us wants to hang up.
We’ve talked about everything: his childhood in An’Wa before the Rift, my disastrous college dating experiences, his apprenticeship with the elder woodworker, my first big case win. The random dates are bringing us together, but it’s these daily conversations that are building something real. Something I’m trying very hard not to overthink.
He emerges from his truck wearing dark jeans and a charcoal Henley that clings to his shoulders in ways that should come with a warning label, and when he spots me and grins, my heart does that ridiculous flutter thing that I’m trying very hard not to analyze.
“Please tell me you didn’t research optimal arcade strategies,” I call out as he approaches.
“I tried,” he admits with a sheepish expression. “But apparently there’s not much tactical information available about Ms. Pac-Man.”
“Good. Because today, I have the advantage.” I shoulder my purse with newfound confidence. “Hope you’re prepared to get absolutely destroyed by someone who spent way too many quarters in the antique arcade near my house when I was in high school.”
“Those are fighting words from someone who needed a NASA-level rating system for tacos,” he counters, but there’s warmth in his amber eyes that makes my stomach flip.
“Tacos are serious business. This?” I gesture toward the neon-lit entrance with its promise of vintage games and 80s music. “This is going to be fun.”
The moment we step inside Retro Replay, I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it makes me dizzy. Dim lights glow from dozens of classic arcade cabinets, the air filled with electronic beeps, digital music, and the satisfying clicks of joysticks andbuttons. The scent of popcorn mixes with that particular arcade smell of old electronics and teenage dreams.
Orange and purple streamers left over from Halloween still dangle from the ceiling near the vintage pinball machines, and a few cardboard bat cutouts cling to the walls—remnants of last month’s celebration that nobody bothered to take down.
“Holy shit,” Forge breathes beside me, and I glance up to see his expression of genuine wonder.
“Language,” I tease, then take in his awestruck face. “This is really your first time in an arcade?”
“We had a few dilapidated pinball machines in the Zone’s community center growing up,” he says, his voice almost reverent. “But this…” He gestures at the rows of pristine cabinets, each one glowing like a beacon. “This is incredible.”
His obvious amazement unlocks something warm in my chest. After weeks of him being the competent one—rescuing people, cooking perfect bacon, navigating my emotional walls with patience—it’s my turn to be the expert.
“Alright, newbie,” I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the nearest machine. “Time for your education. We’ll start with the classics.”
I lead him to the Pac-Man machine, that little yellow menace chewing through the demo maze. “Rulebook’s simple: snack, sprint, survive.”
He nods gravely. “So… your dating history?”
I snort. “Mylaw schoolhistory. Dating would have been a luxury.”
I dig quarters out of my purse and feed them into the machine. “Watch and learn.”
The moment the game starts, muscle memory takes over. My fingers find the joystick with practiced ease, and I guide Pac-Man through the maze with the kind of precision that comes from hundreds of hours of teenage dedication. I clear the first three levels without losing a life, completely absorbed in the familiar rhythm of the game.
“Okay, that’s actually impressive,” Forge says when I finally pause between levels. “You weren’t kidding about having arcade skills.”
“I told you.” I step aside and gesture toward the controls. “Your turn. And remember—big hands, delicate movements.”
He approaches the machine as if he’s defusing a bomb. After he sits, his large fingers hover uncertainly over the joystick. The moment he starts playing, it’s clear this is going to be entertaining. His Pac-Man lurches across the screen in jerky, unpredictable movements, running directly into the first ghost within ten seconds.
“That ghost came out of nowhere,” he mutters, feeding another quarter into the machine.
“They always come from the same places, Forge. It’s about pattern recognition.”
