“Someone could see.”
“There's no one here but us and that kid who's been playingGuitar Herofor the past hour.”
She glances around the mostly empty arcade, then back at me. “This is dangerous.”
“This is duckpin bowling.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. We're forty minutes outside Minneapolis, in a no-name arcade where no one knows or cares who we are. For once, there’s no spotlight, no team, no rules. Just us.
“Bowl,” I say, stepping back. Every instinct wants to stay close, but I let her go.
Her form is flawless this time. The ball arcs down the lane and crashes into the pins, clearing half the deck.
“Much better,” I say.
“Good teacher.”
“Motivated student.”
We finish the game—she wins, obviously—and head to the prize counter with our tickets. The teenage attendant stares at us, dead-eyed, as we dump them on the counter.
“How many?” he mumbles. “Four hundred thirty-two,” Sloane announces. She’d been counting, of course.
I scan the shelves, ignoring the practical prizes—keychains, stress balls, flashlights.
“That one,” I say, pointing to the largest, most absurd prize available: a giant, electric-blue sloth that's approximately the size of a small child.
“Seriously?” the kid asks.
“Seriously.”
“Garrett, what am I supposed to do with that?” Sloane protests as he uses a telescoping pole to retrieve it. “He’s our son,” I declare, accepting the sloth with mock solemnity. “Our… son?”
“Our secret sloth-child. A tribute to tonight’s triumph.” I bow as I hand him over. “What shall we name him?”
She stares at the absurd thing, then at me. Her expression shifts. The careful guard she always wears slips, replaced by something simple and bright: joy. “Steve,” she says, hugging the sloth’s fuzzy bulk. “His name is Steve.”
“Steve the Secret Sloth.”
“Steve the Secret Sloth,” she repeats, and when she smiles at me over his plush blue head, I swear I could take on an entire playoff team solo.
The drive back feels like floating. Steve's buckled in behind us, and Sloane's thumb traces lazy circles on my palm where our hands rest on the console. Every red light becomes a small gift—another excuse to steal glances at her profile in the dashboard glow, to watch the way she smiles at nothing.
Neither of us mentions that we should probably let go. That someone might see.
When I pull up to her building, she doesn't reach for the door handle. Just sits there, still holding my hand, staring up at the familiar brick facade like she's seeing it for the first time.
I scan the street automatically—empty sidewalks, no late-night dog walkers, no cars idling with phones pointed our way. Her building sits tucked back from the main road, shielded by mature trees that cast everything in shadow. Safe.
"Steve's going to need an escort," I say.
"Definitely a two-person job." But she's grinning when she says it.
Getting him out of the backseat is ridiculous. His massive blue limbs catch on everything—the seatbelt, the door frame, my jacket. Sloane dissolves into giggles when his fuzzy head gets stuck, and I have to physically wrestle our stuffed son free while she steadies his body from the other side.
"Our parenting skills need work," she gasps, still laughing.
