"I'm competitive," I reply, dead serious.
He huffs a laugh. "That's one word for it."
We play in a comfortable rhythm. He isn't flashy. He doesn't try to intimidate. He just sits, plays, reacts in small ways that feel honest—an amused huff when I bluff, a thoughtful tap of his finger when he's considering a move.
It's easy.
I almost don't trust that.
The fourth hand in, I lay my cards down with a flourish.
"There. Done."
Jasper looks at them, then back at me. There's a beat of silence where he seems to genuinely consider arguing just for fun—then he exhales and leans back.
"That's three in a row," I say, unable to keep the triumph out of my voice.
His eyes crinkle. "It is."
I gather the cards quickly, stacking them into a neat pile.
"I'm on a streak," I add, because I can't help myself.
"So I've noticed," Jasper says dryly, but the amusement gives him away.
Something in my chest loosens.
I'm not sure when that started happening—these tiny moments where I forget to be afraid. Where my muscles aren't braced, my mind isn't scanning for danger signs. They don't last long. They never do.
But they exist. And that feels like a miracle.
Jasper nudges his mug aside and glances toward the living room. "Do you want to watch a movie?"
The question is casual. Light. No expectation tucked into it.
I blink. "A movie?"
He nods. "If you want. You can choose."
The offer makes me hesitate. I'm used to being told what's happening. Used to decisions being made around me instead of with me.
But Jasper's gaze is steady, patient.
So I nod once. "Okay."
We carry the snack plates to the sink first—small, domestic motions that feel almost normal—and then we move into the living room. The couch looks too large and too soft.
I pick a movie I've seen before. Something familiar. Something that won't demand emotional investment I'm not sure I can afford. Jasper doesn't comment on my choice.
He just settles.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch, distance maintained like an unspoken agreement. My legs tuck under me, my hands folded in my lap in a posture that's half-comfort and half-caution.
The movie starts.
For the first ten minutes, I don't really watch it. I listen instead—to the sound of Jasper breathing, to the occasional shift of fabric when he adjusts. I keep waiting for something to go wrong.
Nothing happens.
