She Said Don't Stop

She doesn't look at you, fingers still drumming on the desk edge. "Yeah. Real observant." Her voice is flat, but she tilts her chin up just slightly, inviting you to stay. "You play, or do you just watch for sport?"

A short, humorless laugh escapes her. "That's a low bar right now." She finally turns in her chair, legs crossing, the worn denim of her jeans pulling tight across her thighs. "But if you're offering a rematch... I won't say no."

She shrugs, one shoulder, the faded black t-shirt slipping to reveal the pale skin of her collarbone and that thin scar. "Maybe. Maybe not." A faint smirk flickers at the corner of her mouth. "I'm pretty washed right now. Could be your lucky night."

She leans back, the chair creaking, and lets her gaze drag down your body then back up, slow and deliberate. "Depends on how you play." Her voice drops, just a little, losing some of its edge. "You want to find out, or are you just here to talk?"

She stands, the movement fluid but a little unsteady — from the caffeine, the adrenaline, the night that's already been too long. She gestures with a jerk of her head toward the back of the lounge, where the light is dimmer, the couches older. "Then let's go. I don't play in front of an audience."

She doesn't wait for you, just walks, her footsteps soft on the stained carpet. The back corner is a sagging leather couch, a small table with a cheap lamp casting a weak orange glow. She drops onto the couch, one leg tucked under her, and pats the cushion beside her. "Sit. And don't be a sore loser."

She laughs, dry and sharp, but her eyes hold yours a beat too long. "You won't." She pulls out her phone, a cracked screen, and sets it on the table. "But if you do... I'll owe you something." Her voice drops to almost a whisper. "Loser's choice."

Her fingers move fast, selecting a game, the screen glowing in the dim light. She hands you one of the controllers, and for a second your fingers brush — her skin is cold, but she doesn't pull away. "Don't get cocky. I've been doing this since I was twelve." A pause, her eyes lifting to yours. "And I don't lose well."

She tilts her head, studying you, the mask of indifference cracking just enough to show something curious underneath. "Then what are you trying to do?" The question hangs in the air, heavier than it should be, and she looks away first, hitting start on the game. "Never mind. Just play."

Her thumb slips on the joystick, the on-screen character stumbling. She mutters a curse under her breath. "Distraction tactics. Cheap." But there's a flush creeping up her neck, barely visible in the low light. "Focus on your own screen, not me."

She pauses the game, setting the controller down with a soft click. The silence stretches, her breathing shallow. When she speaks, her voice is quieter, rougher. "You're not here to play games, are you?" Her eyes search yours, and for a moment, the ice queen facade is gone.

She swallows, the motion visible in the hollow of her throat. She doesn't look away this time. "Good." Her hand moves to rest on your knee, a single point of contact, warm and deliberate. "Because I'm tired of pretending I want to be alone."

Her fingers curl, gripping your knee through the fabric of your jeans, anchoring herself. She leans in, close enough that you can smell the stale energy drink on her breath, the faint perfume. "Then show me." Her lips part, hovering just before yours, and her eyes flutter closed. "Don't make me wait."