"You know," he says, rearranging his tiles with a focus that's almost military, "you're different when you're competing."
"Different how?"
"Relaxed. You stop editing yourself."
The observation hits hard—because he's right. I am different. The anxious narrator in my head, the one who second-guesses every word and every feeling, goes quiet when there's a game to win. Competition is a framework I trust. Rules, strategy, measurable outcomes. No ambiguity.
"Maybe I need more competition in my life," I say.
"Or maybe you need to stop competing with yourself."
I look up from my tiles. He's watching me the way he does—steady, patient, seeing things I'm not ready to have seen. His hair is still slightly damp from his workout, and there's a looseness in his posture that's new. He's relaxing too. This room, this game—it's dissolving both our defenses.
"That's very insightful for a man who just played FROG for twelve points."
"FROG was strategic. I was setting up the triple word."
"FROG was surrender."
"Watch and learn." He plays GRIFTER off the G in FROG, landing the R on triple word. Forty-two points.
"You sandbagged me."
"I prefer strategic patience."
"You sandbagged me with FROG."
He grins, and it's disarming in its openness—boyish and sly and completely at odds with the stoic security professionalwho's been radioing status reports for three days. This version of Tucker Brennan—loose-limbed, competitive, delighted—is the most dangerous one yet.
We play for two hours. The lead changes six times. I take it with JUXTAPOSE in the final round, winning by eleven points, and the look on his face—impressed, annoyed, reluctantly admiring—is worth more than any word score.
"Rematch tomorrow," he says. Not a question.
"You're a glutton for punishment."
"I'm persistent. Different thing."
We clean up the board in companionable silence, returning tiles to the bag with the care of people handling something more fragile than plastic letters. When our fingers brush over the last tile—an X, worth eight points—neither of us pulls away.
"Tucker?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For finding this room. For the game. For..." I gesture vaguely at the space between us, which contains too many things to name. "All of it."
"All of it," he repeats, and the words sound different in his mouth. Heavier. Fuller. Like all of it means something specific that neither of us is ready to say.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice is careful now. Deliberate.
"Depends on what it is."
"Your manuscript. The one you've been working on." He meets my eyes. "Can I read it?"
The question stops my breath. My manuscript. My half-finished, emotionally raw, barely coherent manuscript that I haven't shown anyone—not my agent, not my editor, not even my best friend. The manuscript that has a hero who is tall and quiet and military and observant, because apparently my subconscious has zero subtlety.
"It's not finished," I say quickly.
"I know."
