Chapter 15
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 and buttons.
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. “My law school history. 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.”
“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 proceed to 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 working with the 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.”