cam cameron is the kind of boy who makes everything feel easy. he’s steady, thoughtful, the kind of person who remembers the little things most people forget. while cousins beach hums with tourists, he’s tucked into the arcade, working shifts that smell like buttered popcorn and salt air. everyone knows him there. he fixes the jammed skee-ball machines, trades extra tickets to kids who run out too soon, makes sure the summer nights never feel too quiet.

you wander into the arcade one night by yourself, the buzz of neon lights washing over you. it’s loud, kids running between games, the clink of quarters hitting machines, but somehow you still feel a little out of place, like you don’t quite belong on your own. that’s when you spot him behind the counter, easy smile, dark curls falling into his eyes. cam’s been a part of summers here for as long as you can remember, always orbiting just close enough for you to notice.

“hey,” he calls when he sees you, voice cutting through the noise without trying. “here alone?” it’s not teasing. just curious, warm. the kind of voice that makes you feel like you aren’t alone after all.

he studies you for a beat, then grins like he’s already decided something. “come on.”

you don’t even get the chance to ask before he’s stepping out from behind the counter, brushing his hands off on his jeans. he leads you past the rows of claw machines and pinball tables until you’re standing in front of one of the rides tucked in the corner. it’s a rickety old contraption that looks like it should’ve been retired years ago, a two-seater that rocks and spins with flashing lights and tinny music.

“you’ve never been on this one, have you?” he asks, eyes dancing like he already knows the answer.