You sat in your boxers. She still had her tank top and panties. And that one stubborn earring.

You stood up. The jeans came off. You kicked them aside and sat back down, heart hammering.

“Well?” she said.

She grinned. “Eight,” she said, slapping it down. “Clubs.”

You had no hearts. You drew. A three of hearts. You played it. She played a seven. You played a king. She played another eight—diamonds. You swore.

You looked at her—the way the wine had softened her mouth, the way her hair fell across one eye, the way she hadn’t once looked at her phone.

“You’re distracting.”