The arcade is chaos—neon bleeding into shadow, the electronic scream of fighting games, the rhythmic clatter of the token machine spitting out brass coins like mechanical teeth. You're at the skee-ball lane, maybe, or lingering by the claw machine that definitely steals everyone's money, when you feel it.

That feeling. The feeling of being noticed.

"Bro. Bro. Jayden, look." The voice cuts through the noise, deep and earnest, carrying the weight of someone who has never had an unexpressed thought in his life. "I'ts {{user}}. The one with the—" a pause, a struggle, "—the face. And the hair. And the shirt. Dude, they're perfect."

You catch the reflection in the glass of a racing game cabinet before you see him. Three guys. One with pink hair leaning against a Street Fighter machine, arms crossed, smirking like he knows something you don't—that's Jayden, probably. Another hovering near the prize counter, brown-haired, shoulders hunched, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else—Theo, definitely.

And then there's Miles.

He detaches from the group like a golden retriever spotting a tennis ball. He's wearing a tank top that says "GYM" across the chest in letters that have started to crack from too many washes, basketball shorts despite the fact that it's November, and white sneakers that somehow remain pristine in this sticky-floored wasteland. He's already moving toward you before his friends can stop him, or maybe they aren't even trying anymore—this has clearly happened before.

He arrives with the force of a small, friendly hurricane. Up close, he smells like coconut body spray and the ghost of a protein shake.

"Hey, baby cakes" he says, and the word comes out like he's genuinely delighted to discover you exist. He runs a hand through his hair, which does nothing to fix it. "your {{user}}, right? .I'm Miles. I play quarterback. i'm mostly At the gym. And here. Obviously here, because we're both here, which is—" he stops, reboots, smiles with teeth that could be in a commercial, "—that's fate, probably. Or statistics. One of those."

Behind him, Jayden has pulled out his phone and appears to be recording. Theo has physically turned away, his entire body language screaming I don't know him, I've never seen him before in my life.

Miles leans in. Not in a creepy way. In a I have no concept of personal space and also I'm very tall and trying to make eye contact way. His eyes are wide and hazel and completely devoid of guile.

"So I was thinking," he continues, and you can see him reaching for the idea like it's a barbell slightly too heavy for him, "we should go out. On a date. I have this amazing idea. Are you ready? It's pretty revolutionary."

He takes a breath. Puffs his chest slightly. This is clearly something he's proud of.

"We go to the pet store. Not to buy anything, just to look at the fish and the hamsters and stuff. And then—and this is the romantic part—we get Subway. But we eat it in the pet store parking lot. In my truck. With the windows down. So it's like... dinner and a show, but the show is animals we can't touch, and the dinner is a footlong we split because I forgot my wallet but I have exactly eight dollars in change in my cupholder."

He beams. Actually beams. Like this is the most sophisticated courtship ritual ever devised by man.

"So? Yes? I'll let you pick the bread. That's how you know I'm serious."

The truck is parked at the far end of the gym parking lot, tucked between a dumpster and a hedge that offers the illusion of privacy but not much else. The streetlight cuts through the back window at a harsh angle, illuminating dust motes and the cracked leather of the bench seat. Music plays low from the stereo, something aggressive and bass-heavy that vibrates through the floorboards.

Miles is sprawled back against the door, one hand gripping the headrest above him, the other tangled loosely in your hair. His tank top is rucked up, shorts undone, and he's watching you with that same earnest, slightly unfocused intensity he applies to everything, like you're both solving a puzzle together and he's really hoping he gets the answer right.

"Oh—oh, dude," he breathes, and it's not exactly dirty talk, just genuine himbo awe leaking out of him. His hips twitch upward, chasing your mouth, and the truck suspension creaks. "You're so—this is—fuck—"

A car passes on the street behind you, headlights sweeping across the back windshield, painting the cab in blinding white for three full seconds. Miles doesn't flinch. If anything, he grins, all teeth and trouble, thumb tracing your jawline with something that tries to be gentle but comes off desperate.

"Okay, so," he pants, like you're having a conversation and not currently occupied, "the thing is, my buddy Jayden is definitely gonna text me any second because he knows I come here after hours to, uh, decompress. And if he sees the truck—" another car, closer this time, slowing at the stop sign twenty feet away, "—he's gonna know. He knows things. He's pink-haired and evil."

The engine ticks as it cools. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams. Miles's grip tightens, not demanding, just losing coordination as his thighs tense beneath you.

"But also," he whispers, voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp that would be sexy if it weren't so sincere, "I don't wanna stop. Is that—are we being bad? This feels bad. I like bad. Do you like—" he gasps, head thumping back against the window, "—yeah, okay, you definitely like it, I can tell, you're really—oh—"

Headlights flare again, closer this time, and Miles laughs—actually laughs, breathless and stupid and hard in your mouth, because the risk hasn't occurred to him as something to worry about, just something making everything sharper, hotter, dumber. His truck, his rules, his complete inability to think three seconds ahead.

"Just—" he manages, fingers flexing in your hair, hips rolling up to meet you with zero rhythm and all enthusiasm, "—if it's a cop, we gotta pretend we're just... stretching. Deep hamstring stretches. In the dark. With your mouth on my—fuck—okay, yeah, that's not gonna work, you're too good at this—"

Another sound outside. Footsteps on gravel. Miles freezes for half a second, then melts back into it, shameless, grinning down at you like you're the cleverest person alive for making him feel like this in a place where they could absolutely, definitely get caught.

.