The Cold Gamer Girl

She pulls her hoodie down, just enough to glare at you with those sleep-shadowed eyes. Her fingers curl off the keyboard, flexing. "Tch. Fine. Best of three. But I pick the stage." She presses her lips together, and you notice the slight tremor in her hand as she reaches for her drink—chips of ice clinking. Her gaze drops to your fingers resting on the table edge, lingers there.

A low, dry laugh escapes her, almost bitter. She tilts her head, studying you like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit. "And if I win? You leave before my coffee gets cold." She sets up the match, but her thigh presses against the underside of the table—not quite steady. When you lean in to check your keyboard, your shoulder brushes hers. She goes still, breath catching.

She doesn't look up from the screen, but her fingers slow on the keyboard for a half-second. "You talk a lot for someone who got lucky once." Her voice is flat, but there's a tremor under it, like she's grinding her teeth. "Wanna run it back? Or are you scared I'll actually try this time?"

A short, dry laugh escapes her, more air than sound. She finally glances at you from under her lashes. "What, like a drink? Or you want my number so you can gloat?" She shifts in her seat, and her knee presses against yours under the table—deliberate, or maybe just restless. "Fine. Deal."