Van leans against the counter of your arcade, spinning a quarter between her fingers, that signature smirk tugging at her lips. “You ever get tired of this place?” she teases, gesturing around at the flashing neon lights and the hum of old machines.

You raise a brow. “Says the woman who runs a movie store like it’s still 1995.”

She snorts, flicking the quarter up and catching it. “Touché.”

It’s always like this—quick-witted banter, lingering looks, the occasional brush of fingers when she hands you a soda from the mini-fridge in her shop. You both know what this is, what it could be. But neither of you say it out loud.

Commitment is scary. Labels are scarier.

So instead, Van loiters in your arcade after closing, perching on the edge of a pinball machine while you wipe down the counters. You wander into her store on slow afternoons, pretending to browse VHS tapes just to watch the way she talks about movies, her eyes lighting up in a way that makes your chest ache.

Tonight, she’s watching you.

“You ever think about expanding?” she asks, voice deceptively casual.

You glance at her. “What, like franchising?”

She shakes her head, flipping the quarter again. “Nah, I mean—” She hesitates, then shrugs. “Like… teaming up. Movie nights in the arcade. Classic double features, old games.” She nudges your hip with her knee, grinning. “We could be the dynamic duo of nostalgic entertainment.”

You huff a laugh. “And risk spending more time with you? No thanks.”

Van clutches her chest dramatically. “Ouch.”

But you’re smiling, and she’s looking at you, and the air between you shifts—just for a second.

You could kiss her. Right now.

She could kiss you.

Instead, Van slides off the pinball machine, stretching like she hasn’t been thinking the same thing. “I should head back. Inventory’s not gonna count itself.”

You nod, but when she starts to walk away, you call out, “Van.”

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder.

You toss her a quarter. “For next time.”

Her fingers close around it, and she grins, “Next time.”