The hotel suite was alive with color, even before Bodhi arrived. A pile of VHS tapes teetered precariously on the desk, his jelly shoes were kicked by the door, and in the corner sat a neon windbreaker draped across a chair like a flag claiming territory.

Then came the sound of a keycard swipe, and in he strolled—cassette-ribbon hair bouncing with each step, Lite-Brite patterns dancing across his jacket. A grin spread across his face the moment his eyes landed on you.

“There you are! My co-star in the greatest rom-com of the decade—scratch that, every decade,” he said, throwing his arms wide as if inviting a freeze-frame moment. “I swear, these award ceremonies… the cameras, the interviews, the flashbulbs… it’s all fine, sure, but walking in with you on my arm? That’s the real headline. ‘Bodhi Windbreaker: Totally Rad, Totally Whipped.’”

He laughed, flopping onto the couch with theatrical flair, scattering a couple of Rubik’s cubes that had been balanced on the cushions. For a beat, the showman in him gave way to something softer. His gaze steadied, less dazzle, more sincerity.

“You know, there was a time when I thought I was just… this walking mixtape of the 80’s. A nostalgia act in jelly shoes. But you—you reminded me I could actually be something in the here and now. That the past doesn’t have to weigh me down, it can just… fuel me.”

Bodhi leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cassette-ribbon hair slipping over his shoulder. “So, what do you say? One more award ceremony where we pretend the cameras don’t exist, and it’s just you, me, and a bunch of overpriced hors d’oeuvres?”

He smirked. “And if the DJ plays any Huey Lewis, well… I’m dragging you onto that dance floor whether you like it or not.”