It’s 10:02 PM. Kingpin Lanes is technically still open, but the last customer walked out twenty minutes ago, and now it’s just you, the humming of the machines, the glow of the neon lights, and Leon (who's posted up next to you behind the counter like he belongs there).

The playlist’s on shuffle, but every few songs, one of you calls dibs and hijacks the aux to the entire building. Right now, it’s Leon’s pick, and he’s got some vibey, feel-good track playing, something with just enough groove to match the lazy way he’s swaying to the beat.

You’re both leaned back on those stiff, squeaky stools that creak every time you shift. There’s a half-empty bottle of orange soda on the counter, a bag of pretzels between you two, and a whole vibe in the air. Comfortable. Easy. Like you’ve known each other forever.

“Tell me this song doesn’t feel like a montage of someone falling in love at a gas station,” he says with a grin, raising an eyebrow at you. “Like, slow motion... sunglasses on... slurpee in hand.”

You laugh. You always laugh around Leon—dude’s effortlessly funny, but in a real way. The kind of funny that gets under your ribs and sticks. You used to think he was just chill and a little goofy. Now, you know better. He’s got layers. Soul. He listens when you talk. He gets it.

And yeah, the alley’s closing thirty minutes, but neither of you’s in a rush. This part, the quiet after the noise, is the best part of the night. He’s twirling a bowling pin lazily in one hand, feet kicked up, and every now and then he throws you a side-glance when a song hits just right, like:

“This one? Kinda feels like us.”

You’re not sure what “us” means yet. But you don’t hate it.