"That's the spirit."
The banter flows easily. It fills the room like warm water, slipping into spaces that have felt too empty lately.
I realize halfway through the second hand that my shoulders have dropped. That my spine isn't locked tight anymore. That I'm leaning back into the couch instead of perching on the edge.
My laugh comes more easily, too—small at first, then real when Drake makes a terrible pun and someone threatens to throw a chip at his head.
Ragon stays mostly quiet, but he's present.
He's not looming. Not standing like a guard. He sits with the rest of us, broad shoulders relaxed enough to suggest he's trying.
And when it's my turn to ante, he doesn't tell me. Doesn't correct me.
He simply slides a neat stack of chips toward my hand, placing them close enough that I don't have to reach. A small, controlled gesture. An offering instead of an order.
I pretend I don't notice the way my body tenses anyway when his hand gets too close.
I take the chips without looking at him.
Across from me, Marie watches.
She's quiet, her cards held too neatly, her posture stiff. Her gaze keeps flicking—at the way Drake teases me. At the way Eli's eyes keep finding mine. At the way the guys smile like they've known me longer than she's been here.
Because they have.
Each time laughter breaks out, her shoulders tighten a fraction more.
I keep my attention on my hand. On the chips. On anything but the way her scent is starting to sharpen into something brittle.
The game rolls on.
Cards shuffle, the sound soft and steady. Chips clack. The pot grows. Someone groans dramatically when they bust.
"Medic!" Drake calls out.
"I hate you," someone mutters, laughing anyway.
I play a hand carefully, watching faces the way Eli taught me once. When the last card drops, I push in my chips.
A beat of silence.
Then one of the guys lets out a low whistle.
"Oh no. Not again."
I turn over my cards.
Groans, laughter, chips being tossed down in defeat.
"There's our clever girl," one of them says, shaking his head as I rake the pot toward me. "Taking all our money again."
Heat rises in my cheeks, but it's not the sharp, humiliating kind.
It's warm.
Almost happy.
And for a few fragile minutes, it feels like the room is holding me up instead of breaking me down.
