Chapter 15 #2
“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.”
As we make our way toward the Skee-Ball machines, I catch myself smiling. There’s something liberating about being with someone who appreciates my competitive streak instead of finding it threatening, who sees my intensity as an asset rather than a flaw.
After I’ve thoroughly destroyed him at Skee-Ball (100-point pocket three times in a row), we end up near the exit where a claw machine sits in the corner. Forge studies it with the same intensity he probably uses to assess burning buildings.
“Want me to win you something?” he asks, already fishing quarters from his pocket.
“Only if you can get that ridiculous turkey plushie.” I point to an orange and brown monstrosity with googly eyes tucked in the back corner.
“The turkey? Really?”
“It’s almost Thanksgiving. Where else am I going to get a turkey that ugly?”
He laughs, feeding coins into the machine with careful deliberation. The claw descends, misses. He tries again. “Speaking of Thanksgiving…” Another miss. “I know this wasn’t on any of our twenty slips of paper, so feel free to say no.”
My stomach does a small flip. “Okay…”
“The firehouse does a big dinner every year. Everyone brings someone—family, friends, whoever matters to them.” The claw finally snags the turkey, and he maneuvers it toward the chute with impressive precision.
“I thought… maybe you’d want to come. But only if you’re comfortable with that. I’m not trying to rush anything.”
The turkey drops into the prize slot with a muffled thump. He retrieves it and hands it to me; the shy look on his face makes him look ten years younger… and adorable. I clutch the ridiculous bird to my chest, buying myself a moment to think.
Meet his firehouse family. The crew he talks about with such obvious affection. Be introduced as someone who matters to him—because that’s clearly what this invitation means. It’s only our second date, and he’s already asking me to step into his world in a significant way.
My instinct is to panic, to make an excuse about needing to check my calendar. But looking at Forge’s now carefully neutral expression—the way he’s giving me space to decide, not pushing—I realize he meant what he said about taking this slow. He’s offering, not demanding. Asking, not assuming.
“When is it?”
“Two in the afternoon on Thanksgiving Day.” He adds quickly, “But seriously, no pressure. If it’s too soon, or if you have family plans—”
“I’d like to come,” I hear myself say. Then, more honestly: “I’m terrified, but I’d like to come.”
The relief that flashes across his face is immediate and genuine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I can’t promise I won’t embarrass you. I’ll probably say something awkward, and I definitely can’t cook, so I’ll bring store-bought pie.”
“You could bring saltines on a paper plate and they’d be thrilled you’re there… and so will I.” He shifts his weight, and I can see him fighting the urge to pull me close. Respecting our boundaries even now. “Thank you. For being brave enough to say yes.”
“Thank you for not making it feel like I had to.”
His smile is soft and genuine. “One date at a time, remember? Even when those dates terrify us both.”
I nod, feeling the truth of it settle somewhere deep. “Then you should keep this,” I say, handing him the Ziploc of folded slips. “Next date’s yours to choose.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes it, and something warm sparks between us—quiet, steady, real.
Maybe that’s what courage looks like. Not grand gestures, just showing up, even when you’re scared. Because some things are worth the fear. And Forge Ironwood might be one of them.