“It’s physics and muscle memory,” I correct, but I’m grinning as I rack up bonus points.
“No, it’s more than that. Look at your face right now—you’re completely absorbed, totally focused. It’s like watching you when you talk about the law, but lighter. Happier.” He pauses, searching for the right word. “More joyful.”
The words sink in, dangerous and sweet, and suddenly he’s closer. Too close. It’s his turn, but before he steps up to play, his hand brushes mine on the edge of the machine, and when I glance up, our faces are only inches apart. His gaze dips briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes—asking without words.
My breath catches. The urge to close the distance between us is overwhelming, but something holds me back—the fear of moving too fast, of ruining what we’re building. I break eye contact first, looking down at the pinball machine like it holds answers.
Forge reads the shift immediately. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask questions. Instead, he steps back with an easy smile that gives me room to breathe.
“Your turn,” I say, stepping aside.
Forge approaches the machine with the same careful consideration he brings to everything else. But pinball, I quickly realize, might actually be in his wheelhouse. His hands are steady on the flippers, and there’s something about the physical nature of the game that seems to click with him.
“Better,” I admit as he manages to keep the ball in play for a respectable amount of time. “You’ve got good reflexes.”
“A lifetime of stickball in the empty lots of the Zone,” he says, working the left flipper to save the ball from the outlane. “Plus, this feels more… intuitive than the video games.”
“More hands-on?”
“Exactly.” He nudges the machine gently when the ball gets stuck, just enough to free it without tilting. “I can feel the physics, understand how the machine responds.”
We trade turns for the next twenty minutes, and I watch him improve with each game. There’s something sexy about his concentration, the way his whole body gets involved in playing, the satisfied smile when he finally beats my score on his fifth try.
“Beginner’s luck,” I declare, but I can’t look away from him despite myself.
“Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to keep you smiling at me like that.”
The way he says it, the warmth in his voice, makes me look up at him more carefully. We’re standing close again, the noise of the arcade creating a bubble of intimacy around us, and I can see something intense in his amber eyes.
“Jordan,” he says quietly, “there’s so much more to you than your delectable body.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean?” For one heartbeat, the world tilts toward him—his cologne, the warmth of his body, the soft rasp of his voice. If I leaned forward a few more inches and lifted onto my toes, our mouths would meet.
“This. Today. Watching you destroy me at video games and then patiently teach me pinball. You get fierce over high scores, and there’s this glow when you’re in your element that’s impossible to look away from. He steps closer, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
A strand of hair fell across my face during our intense pinball competition, and before I can brush it away, Forge reaches out. The arcade lights play over the green of his skin as he moves closer, his scent—woodsmoke and cedar—curling around me, stronger in the close heat of the arcade.
Fingers gentle, he tucks the strand behind my ear—a gesture so tender, so intimate, that I forget how to breathe. The rough calluses of his palm dwarf the curve of my cheek, and the mix of strength and gentleness makes my stomach clench with want. He lingers there, thumb brushing along my jawline, and I hear it—a low rumble starting in his chest. Not quite a purr, but close. The sound vibrates through me where we’re touching. I can see him fighting the urge to cup my face entirely.
“You had—” His voice scrapes out. He clears his throat. “You had hair in your face.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, exquisitely aware of how close we’re standing, how his hand is still hovering near my cheek.
“I’m falling for you, Jordan. For your mind as much as anything else.”
His admission sends warmth flooding through me, but it’s not just what he said—it’s how he said it. There’s a quiet confidence in his voice that wasn’t there a few weeks ago at the coffee shop, where every word seemed carefully weighed, as if he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. Tonight, he’s certain. Not arrogant, but grounded in his own worth. It’s magnetic in ways that both terrify and thrill me.
“I know we’re taking this slow,” he continues, his voice intimate. “But I need you to know—when I look at you, I see someone I want to know everything about. Someone worth understanding completely.”
The weight of his words settles over me, and I realize I can’t argue because I want that too. But wanting something and being ready for it are different things, and tonight—surrounded by flashing lights and arcade sounds—I’m not ready to navigate that particular conversation.
Instead, I let myself lean into the warmth of the moment without overthinking it.
“Come on,” he says softly, offering me a lifeline. “There’s a Skee-Ball alley with our names on it. I bet I can beat you at something that involves throwing balls at targets.”
“Oh, you’re on,” I say, grateful for the subject change. “But fair warning—I was Skee-Ball champion at Chuck E. Cheese three years running.”
“Of course you were.”
