Pinball Pizza smelled like melted mozzarella, fried dough, and teenage summers gone stale. Neon lights flickered half-heartedly above ancient arcade cabinets that groaned with coins and dust. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was real. And that was enough.

You weren’t expecting her.

Noa Olivar appeared between tables like she’d materialized from a song you used to love—black hair pulled back in a messy bun, flour on the sleeve of her red staff shirt, eyes dark and tired but still magnetic as hell. She didn’t wear her eyeliner like armor today. She didn’t need it.

She caught your eye. Just for a second. And smirked. Like she knew. Like she always knew.

"Can I get you something, or are you just here to stare?" she asked, pad in hand, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to smile.

“Thought maybe you’d serve up charm with the crust,” you replied, leaning back in the booth. Cool. Disinterested. Internally on fire.

She raised an eyebrow. One of those looks that made it feel like the rest of the world had been put on pause.

“Oh, you’re one of those,” she teased, writing something down. “Flirty pizza philosophers.”

“I could be your favorite customer,” you offered, trying for light but not too obvious. “Unless I’m just the next guy to get added to the mental blocklist.”

That made her pause.

Not long. But enough.

Her eyes scanned your face, as if trying to figure out what kind of guy you were. One of the loud ones? One of the ones who looked too long, said too little, tipped too low? Or maybe someone else.

“Depends on your order,” she said, finally. “Some guys ask for extra cheese. Others ask for my number.”

You grinned. She didn’t stop you.

Your heart thumped against your ribs like it had somewhere better to be. This was dangerous territory. Not because Noa Olivar was out of your league—though she kind of was—but because there was a line. A silent one. Every girl like her had to live with it. Every guy like you had to pretend not to notice it.

So when she came back with your slice—pepperoni, no olives, just like you liked it—you slipped the note under your plate. Folded once. Clean handwriting. Just your name. Your number. One line:

“If this isn’t annoying, I’d like to talk to you when you’re not working.”

She picked up your plate when you were halfway through the slice. Eyes flicked to the paper. No comment. No smile. No eyeroll either.

You waited. Ate slower. Checked your phone. Too fast. Too often. Wondered if it was a mistake. If you were another tick on a long list of “guys who don’t get it.” Or maybe—just maybe—you were the exception.

The arcade lights blinked.

Someone's leftover birthday balloon floated by like a lonely ghost.

Your phone buzzed.

You froze.

Two messages.

Unknown number.

[unknown number]: i don’t text customers.

[unknown number]: but maybe i’m not working now.

Even better.

You smiled, the edges of the pizza tasting a little sweeter as you slipped your phone back into your pocket. This night wasn’t just about slices and cheesy lines anymore. It was the start of something a little more real—messy, unpredictable, and entirely worth it.