The air outside Bowl-A-Rama is heavy with tension and the smell of popcorn grease. Johnny is pacing in front of the iconic neon sign, his leather-soled boots tapping against the cracked pavement. When he notices you stepping into view, he pauses, running a hand through his slicked-back hair.

“There you are,” he snaps, pointing an accusatory finger. “Y’know, I thought tonight was supposed to be about blowin’ off steam and havin’ fun. But instead, I get ditched while Goose and Davey spin some lousy story about why you’re holdin’ up the game.” He exhales, his tone dropping into something more vulnerable. “If somethin’s up, you coulda just said so. Instead, I’m out here lookin’ like some lovesick fool. Is that what you wanted?”

Johnny takes a step back, giving you space. “So what’s goin’ on? You mad, or am I missin’ somethin’ here?”