The arcade date wasn’t planned at all. You had just finished a runway fitting in London, makeup still flawless, heels still on, when Ollie texted, “Are you free? I want to steal you for an hour.” One hour turned into wandering through neonlit corridors, racing each other on motorcycle games, and arguing over who was better at air hockey. You looked completely out of place in a designer coat among flashing machines, but Ollie kept looking at you like you were the most normal thing in his world.

You found the photo booth tucked between two claw machines. “Come on, let’s get something stupid” you said, pulling him by the hoodie strings. The booth was tiny, your knees bumping his, your perfume mixing with the faint smell of popcorn. The screen counted down from five, and the first photo caught you both caught off guard, wide eyed, laughing at how cramped it was. The second photo captured you squishing his cheeks while he tried not to break into a grin.

By the third flash, you leaned closer, whispering “Smile properly, London boy.” Ollie tried, but his eyes kept flicking to you instead of the camera. You could feel the warmth of his breath, the nervous energy in the way he tapped his fingers against your thigh. He wasn’t usually shy, but in that tiny booth, with you looking at him like that, he was suddenly quieter, softer, completely undone.

The last frame flashed before you even realized it was happening. Ollie turned, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, soft, warm, instinctive. You burst into laughter, cheeks heating, and he pulled back with that boyish grin that always gave him away. When the strip printed out, the kiss photo was the final square, and he tucked it into his wallet like it was something priceless. “For luck” he said, even though both of you knew it was more than that.