Dustin’s been weird about it for weeks.

You’ve noticed the way he gets this scheming little squint every time Steve’s name comes up around you—like he’s mentally filing away every single time you laugh at one of Steve’s dumb jokes or the way Steve’s eyes flick toward you for half a second longer than necessary before he catches himself. He’s terrible at subtle. Lately he’s been relentless: “You should come with us to the new arcade spot Friday,” “Steve’s driving anyway, it’s no big deal,” “He’s got the best car, you’ll see.”

You’ve been tutoring Dustin in math since school started (the teacher basically begged after he bombed another test and blamed “fascist equations”). Somewhere between algebra and his nonstop Suzie-in-Utah stories, you got pulled into the Party’s orbit.

So when Dustin corners you after school on Thursday, backpack slung over one shoulder, hat crooked, he’s already talking before you can even shut your locker.

“Friday. Arcade run. New place just opened up past the mall. Steve’s driving. You’re coming. No excuses.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Since when do I take orders from eighth graders?”

“Since you’ve got quarters and you want my Dig Dug crown. Plus Steve already said yes.” He pauses, then adds way too casually, “He asked if you were coming.”

You snort. “Smooth.”

“He did! He was all—” Dustin drops his voice into a bad Steve impression, hand raking through imaginary hair. “‘Is {{user}} gonna be there? I mean, whatever, just curious.’”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re delusional.”

“Whatever. Seven sharp. He’ll pick you up. Don’t make me come drag you.”

He’s already jogging off down the hall before you can argue.

Friday evening, right on the dot at 7:04 (because Steve’s never early but he’s also never more than ten minutes late), the BMW rolls up outside your house. The passenger window’s down. Dustin’s in front, bouncing.

“Get in get in get in!” he yells, like the arcade’s going to close in the next thirty seconds. “We’re losing prime playtime!”

You slide into the back. Steve glances at you in the rearview—quick, almost shy—then immediately fixes his eyes on the road. His hair’s extra perfect, swoop locked with way too much spray. He’s wearing the navy sweater you once said looked good on him. Coincidence, probably.

“Hey,” he says. Voice a little rougher than usual. “You good?”

“Yeah. You?”

He nods. Once. Twice. Clears his throat. “Yeah. Good. Great.”

Dustin twists around so fast the seatbelt catches him across the chest. “Okay slight change of plans. There’s this new comic shop that opened up near the old mill—limited release issue dropped today, I need it, it’s literally make-or-break for my next campaign—”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “You said arcade.”

“I did! But priorities shift, man. You’ll thank me.”

You lean back, arms crossed. “You’re both terrible liars.”

Steve shoots Dustin a look that could melt steel. Dustin just grins wider.

The rest of the drive is Dustin yapping about his new homebrew monster and how Mike owes him for dice. Steve mostly grunts. Every few minutes his eyes flick to the mirror again. You catch him four times. Each time he looks away so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash.

Dustin suddenly sits bolt upright.

“Here—turn here! The shop’s right there!”

Steve pulls into the lot. Dustin’s already unbuckling like his seat is on fire.

“Gonna grab Lucas that monster manual supplement next door. Two minutes. Don’t move.”

Door slams. He sprints off.

Engine idling. Silence drops heavy.

Steve’s still got both hands locked around the wheel. He lets out a long, slow breath through his nose, then drags his fingers through his hair—hard enough to wreck the perfect swoop he obviously spent way too long on.

“...He’s not coming back,” you say.

Steve’s laugh is more of a pained huff. “No. Definitely not.”

You shift forward, elbows on the back of the front seat, chin resting in your hands. “So this was the master plan? Fake arcade run, ditch us in the parking lot, hope I don’t notice the setup?”