“Pattern recognition,” he repeats, like he’s taking mental notes. This time he lasts maybe fifteen seconds before a pink ghost corners him near the bottom of the maze.
“You’re overthinking it,” I say, stepping closer behind his chair. Close enough to smell his cologne, that warm, woodsy scent that makes me want to lean in further. “Here, let me show you.”
I reach around him to place my hands over his on the joystick, and suddenly we’re pressed together, his back against my front, my chin almost resting on his shoulder. The position is intimate, and convenient since I’m standing and he’s sitting.
The arcade noises fade into background static as I become immersed in his warmth, the way his breathing changes when I touch him.
“Feel the joystick,” I murmur, trying to focus on the game instead of the way his muscles tense under my hands. “Don’t force it. Let it guide you.”
We play like that for a few moments, my hands covering his as I direct Pac-Man through the maze. From this close, I catch the change in his breathing, the way his shoulders lock with concentration, and I have the sudden, insane urge to press my mouth to the very tempting back of his neck.
“Better,” I manage, though only one percent of my attention is on this childish game.
“Good teacher,” he says, his voice rough, and when he turns his head slightly, our faces are suddenly inches apart.
For a heartbeat, we just look at each other. I can see the intricacies of the tattoos on his neck, can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. The urge to close that final distance, to see if he tastes as good as I remember, is overwhelming.
“Jordan,” he says quietly, and there’s a question in his voice.
“We should…” I clear my throat and step back, immediately missing his warmth. “We should try some other games. I promised you a tournament, not a tutorial.”
If he’s disappointed by my retreat, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he grins and feeds another quarter into the machine. “Rematch first. I think I’m getting the hang of this.”
He’s not getting the hang of it. His third attempt lasts maybe twenty seconds, but he’s laughing when the game-over screen appears, and there’s something infectious about his determination.
“This is harder than it looks,” he admits.
“Everything worthwhile usually is,” I say, then realize how that sounds. “I mean—the game. The game is hard.”
“Right. The game.” But his smile suggests he caught my slip.
We move through the arcade as though I’m giving him a personal tour of my childhood. Street Fighter, where I proceedto demolish him with a flawless victory using Chun-Li. Galaga, where his hand-eye coordination finally starts to kick in, but he still can’t master the timing. Centipede, where his big fingers keep hitting multiple buttons at once, making him curse under his breath in guttural orcish sounds.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he observes after I beat his high score on Frogger without breaking a sweat.
“Are you kidding? This is the first time in weeks I’ve been better at something than you.” I pump my fist as my frog successfully crosses the final lane. “Do you know how good this feels to my ego?”
“Your ego was never in question, counselor.”
“Oh, really?” I arch a brow. “Because you always look like you know exactly what you’re doing. It’s very intimidating.”
“Intimidating?” He looks genuinely surprised. “Jordan, you argue cases in front of judges for a living. You won a cooking contest even though you didn’t know how to preheat an oven. If anyone’s intimidating, it’s you.”
The compliment catches me off guard, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks. “I’m certainly not perfect.” I pause, then add with a wry smile, “I micromanage, overthink everything, and talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“So… basically human,” he says, grinning.
We’re standing close again, the arcade lights painting his face in alternating colors, and I can see the sincerity in his expression. The way he looks at me—like I’m capable of anything, like my competitiveness and intensity are assets rather than flaws—makes something light up inside me.
“Come on,” I say, needing to break the moment before I do something stupid like kiss him in the middle of an arcade. “I want to show you the pinball machines. Those might be more your speed.”
The pinball section is in the back corner, a collection of vintage machines with elaborate backglasses and complex playfields. I lead him to Medieval Madness, one of my old favorites, and feed quarters into the slot.
“The key to pinball,” I explain, stepping up to the machine, “is all about control and timing. You’re not just hitting the ball—you’re guiding it, nudging it, and workingwiththe physics rather than against them.”
I pull back the plunger and release, sending the silver ball shooting up the playfield. For the next few minutes, I’m completely in my element, working the flippers with practiced precision, activating multiball rewards, and hitting ramps and targets with the kind of accuracy that comes from years of practice.
“Now this,” Forge says, watching my technique with obvious appreciation, “this is art.”
