You leaned back on your chair and crossed your arms. "Some idiot who's now got a red dot sight right at the centre of his forehead."

"New job?" He hummed as he sat down across from you.

You nodded. "I just don't get how people are that dumb. Do they really think that they can get away with trying to sell classified data?"

"It's idiots like him", you said, pointing at the profile image printed on the paper, "who are the ones that keep me from getting jobs that are actually fun."

"I could always join you."

Looking back, you should have told him no. You should have told him it was not worth it. That you could handle one target on your own and that you would do something together some other time. Maybe when the prospective kill count was higher.

Because one former Black Widow out on the streets is one thing; adding Dex to the equation was another. You worked well together—no, that was an insult. You worked great together. Truly a force to be reckoned with.

But in some cases, even two can be company, and before you knew it, the target had escaped and called for backup. Fifteen minutes and a pile of dead bodies later, you were crawling back into his apartment through the fire escape.

Dex clutched his stomach, and you pressed your hand over the bullet wound on your thigh.

"That file was disgustingly unupdated." You winced when you sat down, placing your free hand on the couch to help you drop to the floor.

"Who thought the bastard would have backup, huh?"

You laughed, coughing up blood in the process. "Hey, did you have fun at least?"

Dex nodded his head, a small drop of blood dripping from his temple to his cheek with the movement. "They did get a few good hits on us, though."

You lifted your hand from your thigh, opening it up and observing the red that stained all across the lines of your palm. "Nothing we haven't seen before. Besides, they're dead. We're not. We won."

That was when Dex's smile got wider, allowing that same drop of blood to slip into his mouth. That was the sweet flavour of victory. Of knowing that despite how big your own wounds were, your enemy's were greater.

His eyes had that wicked shine in them that they only ever got in moments like this. He looked entirely pleased with himself. He was now a good person, he told himself. An even better boyfriend. Because helping your girlfriend take down seven different agents is the epitome of love.

Bleeding out for you was the best gift he could give you.

Dex's hand came to your waist, adding yet another red stain to your clothes when he pulled you closer. His head dropped lower with a small wisp of hair now dyed crimson falling over his forehead.

Your own hand brushed his chin and then his cheek. Your fingerprints left marks on his skin, right where he wanted them. The carpet beneath you—which Dex usually kept squeaky clean—was now a bloodied mess.

Holding each other close like this, your breath had evened out. The adrenaline had mostly worn off, and the only thing left was the sweet aftermath. Without a second warning, Dex pulled you into a messy kiss.

It hurt him to breathe and it hurt him to move, but right then and there he didn't have it in himself to care. At all. He tasted the blood on your lips—no longer sure if it was his or yours. He couldn't have wanted you more than what he did in that very second.

There were little things more intimate than this. Your blood in his mouth meant knowing you completely, consuming you obsessively in a way only Benjamin Poindexter could. It meant having a piece of you in his system, because to him, you already were his whole horizon.

His North Star that guided him in all the wrong directions.

Eventually you had to pull away, no matter how much you wanted to merge your body with his. Your head dropped to his shoulder with a tired huff. Your tongue licked your own lips, wiping the remnant blood. Once again, Dex's eyes fell over your face. You had red stains on your cheeks and on the left corner of your lips, over your right eyebrow and under your chin.

You had never looked more beautiful, a painting he had helped to paint. The red brought more shine to the colour of your eyes, he thought. He pressed one hand to the wound on his stomach, hoping it would keep the wound from interrupting his moment.

Stitches could wait for later.

divider by @uzmacchiato

“Did you ever think about it?"

"What?"

"Playing in a rock and roll band!" Bucky exclaims, rolling off the bed, stretching his ink-covered arms over his head.

"No," You laugh, "It's not really me, is it?"

Bucky swipes a water bottle from the hotel's mini fridge, sauntering back over, "It could be." 

"I don't think so, I'll leave that to my chart-topping boyfriend," You comment as he cracks open the bottle and takes a swig.

"You'll get there soon." He jokes, and you throw a discarded sock at him.

"I've been there, thank you very much."

Bucky hums, sitting back down on the bed, kissing your bare shoulder, "Yeah, you were, baby— fuckin' killed it."

"Well, I've got a very handsome muse to write about." 

He smiles, "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!" You can't stop the mischievous grin that appears on your face, "Sam's a great piece of eye-candy."

Bucky pouts, "Take that back."

"No."

"Sam could never write what I write about you."

"That's unfair, considering you have first-hand knowledge."

That pout quickly morphs into a sly smirk.

"And it's gonna stay that way."

Bucky leans down, kissing you slowly, nothing like the heated make-out session after his show earlier that had you both falling into bed.

"Next album, there's gotta be less songs about us fucking." You murmur against his mouth.

He grins, nipping at your bottom lip, "What can I say? I'm just a guy in love with his girl's—"

"James Buchanan Barnes!"

His head falls back as he cackles at his own crude joke, and you shake your head.

"What am I gonna do with you?" You sigh, curling into his side.

"Write a song about me?"

You look at him with a smile, brushing hair away from his forehead.

"Careful, I just might." 

You leaned back on your chair and crossed your arms. "Some idiot who's now got a red dot sight right at the centre of his forehead."

"New job?" He hummed as he sat down across from you.

You nodded. "I just don't get how people are that dumb. Do they really think that they can get away with trying to sell classified data?"

"It's idiots like him", you said, pointing at the profile image printed on the paper, "who are the ones that keep me from getting jobs that are actually fun."

"I could always join you."

Looking back, you should have told him no. You should have told him it was not worth it. That you could handle one target on your own and that you would do something together some other time. Maybe when the prospective kill count was higher.

Because one former Black Widow out on the streets is one thing; adding Dex to the equation was another. You worked well together—no, that was an insult. You worked great together. Truly a force to be reckoned with.

But in some cases, even two can be company, and before you knew it, the target had escaped and called for backup. Fifteen minutes and a pile of dead bodies later, you were crawling back into his apartment through the fire escape.

Dex clutched his stomach, and you pressed your hand over the bullet wound on your thigh.

"That file was disgustingly unupdated." You winced when you sat down, placing your free hand on the couch to help you drop to the floor.

"Who thought the bastard would have backup, huh?"

You laughed, coughing up blood in the process. "Hey, did you have fun at least?"

Dex nodded his head, a small drop of blood dripping from his temple to his cheek with the movement. "They did get a few good hits on us, though."

You lifted your hand from your thigh, opening it up and observing the red that stained all across the lines of your palm. "Nothing we haven't seen before. Besides, they're dead. We're not. We won."

That was when Dex's smile got wider, allowing that same drop of blood to slip into his mouth. That was the sweet flavour of victory. Of knowing that despite how big your own wounds were, your enemy's were greater.

His eyes had that wicked shine in them that they only ever got in moments like this. He looked entirely pleased with himself. He was now a good person, he told himself. An even better boyfriend. Because helping your girlfriend take down seven different agents is the epitome of love.

Bleeding out for you was the best gift he could give you.

Dex's hand came to your waist, adding yet another red stain to your clothes when he pulled you closer. His head dropped lower with a small wisp of hair now dyed crimson falling over his forehead.

Your own hand brushed his chin and then his cheek. Your fingerprints left marks on his skin, right where he wanted them. The carpet beneath you—which Dex usually kept squeaky clean—was now a bloodied mess.

Holding each other close like this, your breath had evened out. The adrenaline had mostly worn off, and the only thing left was the sweet aftermath. Without a second warning, Dex pulled you into a messy kiss.

It hurt him to breathe and it hurt him to move, but right then and there he didn't have it in himself to care. At all. He tasted the blood on your lips—no longer sure if it was his or yours. He couldn't have wanted you more than what he did in that very second.

There were little things more intimate than this. Your blood in his mouth meant knowing you completely, consuming you obsessively in a way only Benjamin Poindexter could. It meant having a piece of you in his system, because to him, you already were his whole horizon.

His North Star that guided him in all the wrong directions.

Eventually you had to pull away, no matter how much you wanted to merge your body with his. Your head dropped to his shoulder with a tired huff. Your tongue licked your own lips, wiping the remnant blood. Once again, Dex's eyes fell over your face. You had red stains on your cheeks and on the left corner of your lips, over your right eyebrow and under your chin.

You had never looked more beautiful, a painting he had helped to paint. The red brought more shine to the colour of your eyes, he thought. He pressed one hand to the wound on his stomach, hoping it would keep the wound from interrupting his moment.

Stitches could wait for later.

divider by @uzmacchiato

You leaned back on your chair and crossed your arms. "Some idiot who's now got a red dot sight right at the centre of his forehead."

"New job?" He hummed as he sat down across from you.

You nodded. "I just don't get how people are that dumb. Do they really think that they can get away with trying to sell classified data?"

"It's idiots like him", you said, pointing at the profile image printed on the paper, "who are the ones that keep me from getting jobs that are actually fun."

"I could always join you."

Looking back, you should have told him no. You should have told him it was not worth it. That you could handle one target on your own and that you would do something together some other time. Maybe when the prospective kill count was higher.

Because one former Black Widow out on the streets is one thing; adding Dex to the equation was another. You worked well together—no, that was an insult. You worked great together. Truly a force to be reckoned with.

But in some cases, even two can be company, and before you knew it, the target had escaped and called for backup. Fifteen minutes and a pile of dead bodies later, you were crawling back into his apartment through the fire escape.

Dex clutched his stomach, and you pressed your hand over the bullet wound on your thigh.

"That file was disgustingly unupdated." You winced when you sat down, placing your free hand on the couch to help you drop to the floor.

"Who thought the bastard would have backup, huh?"

You laughed, coughing up blood in the process. "Hey, did you have fun at least?"

Dex nodded his head, a small drop of blood dripping from his temple to his cheek with the movement. "They did get a few good hits on us, though."

You lifted your hand from your thigh, opening it up and observing the red that stained all across the lines of your palm. "Nothing we haven't seen before. Besides, they're dead. We're not. We won."

That was when Dex's smile got wider, allowing that same drop of blood to slip into his mouth. That was the sweet flavour of victory. Of knowing that despite how big your own wounds were, your enemy's were greater.

His eyes had that wicked shine in them that they only ever got in moments like this. He looked entirely pleased with himself. He was now a good person, he told himself. An even better boyfriend. Because helping your girlfriend take down seven different agents is the epitome of love.

Bleeding out for you was the best gift he could give you.

Dex's hand came to your waist, adding yet another red stain to your clothes when he pulled you closer. His head dropped lower with a small wisp of hair now dyed crimson falling over his forehead.

Your own hand brushed his chin and then his cheek. Your fingerprints left marks on his skin, right where he wanted them. The carpet beneath you—which Dex usually kept squeaky clean—was now a bloodied mess.

Holding each other close like this, your breath had evened out. The adrenaline had mostly worn off, and the only thing left was the sweet aftermath. Without a second warning, Dex pulled you into a messy kiss.

It hurt him to breathe and it hurt him to move, but right then and there he didn't have it in himself to care. At all. He tasted the blood on your lips—no longer sure if it was his or yours. He couldn't have wanted you more than what he did in that very second.

There were little things more intimate than this. Your blood in his mouth meant knowing you completely, consuming you obsessively in a way only Benjamin Poindexter could. It meant having a piece of you in his system, because to him, you already were his whole horizon.

His North Star that guided him in all the wrong directions.

Eventually you had to pull away, no matter how much you wanted to merge your body with his. Your head dropped to his shoulder with a tired huff. Your tongue licked your own lips, wiping the remnant blood. Once again, Dex's eyes fell over your face. You had red stains on your cheeks and on the left corner of your lips, over your right eyebrow and under your chin.

You had never looked more beautiful, a painting he had helped to paint. The red brought more shine to the colour of your eyes, he thought. He pressed one hand to the wound on his stomach, hoping it would keep the wound from interrupting his moment.

Stitches could wait for later.

divider by @uzmacchiato

Little Rebecca had behaved even more so than she usually did. She was a pleasure to raise, that was for sure. Polite and always smiling. She had yawned and curled her tiny hands into fists around your shirt as you carried her to the bathroom.

When you dropped her off at daycare, she didn’t fuss one bit. She waved brightly and yelled, “Goodbye, Mommy!” while trying to balance four different colourful blocks on her hands.

The outlook for the day was ideal, which meant you were more than bummed when things started going wrong.

On your way to Pilates, your car stopped three different times. Three different occasions in which you had to awkwardly signal to the cars behind you to drive around because the engine had decided not to start after you had stopped at the red light. You swallowed the insults and turned on some music.

The next blow came in the middle of the street. You hurried, balancing your weight in those brown leather boots you had bought the week prior. New York was as busy as ever; time waited for no one, and you were not about to be left behind. It was a short walk from your work to the grocery store, and if you hurried, you would be able to catch that perfect time right before the store got flooded with customers.

Turns out, the street said, 'Not today.' One wrong step and a loose tile later, and you were clutching your poor ankle. “Dammit—” You winced in pain as you stopped walking. Your foot had twisted into some uncomfortable position, surprised by how the hard floor had dipped when the tile moved.

You took a deep breath; you could push through it.

The pain only worsened when you returned home to find the elevator to be ‘out of order’. That was five stories with a handful of grocery bags and an injured foot.

You unlocked the door to your apartment with arms aching and out of breath. You dragged your feet to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Some water would fix it, you were certain. You reached out into your tote bag, only to find a huge, wet mess. The water bottle had the lid separated enough from the actual bottle to allow quite a few drops of water to spill.

“God fucking dammit!” You cursed out in exasperation. You covered your face with your hands, already feeling the tears behind your eyes, which only made you feel worse. Were you seriously going to cry because of a bad day?

That was the last stroke.

With whatever strength you had left within you, you threw the soaking wet tote bag on the clothesline before making your final choice: you were fed up, and you were going to visit your husband.

In that moment, there was nothing that you needed as much as a kiss, a hug, and reassurance that everything would be okay from one of the people you loved most in the world.

Your car was left in the parking lot. There was no way you would risk it again. You took the subway instead. In the short path between the subway station and Bucky's work, the grey clouds in the sky began their slow but steady downpour.

You had brought no umbrella.

By the time you crossed the main entrance to Bucky’s office building, you were barely holding it together. The rain had got enough water in your hair and clothes to make it uncomfortable. The workers at the front desk paid no mind; they were used to you. The problem came later on, when you were about to knock on Bucky’s door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A young woman asked,

“Yeah, I’m just here to see my husband.” With the way the woman looked at you, with her eyes wide and lips turned down, you knew what was coming.

“That’s a nice try, honey. But Mr Barnes is busy.”

“Ma’am, seriously. James is my husband—”

The woman was stepping closer, sharp in her heels. “I don’t know why so many women think they can get to him. He’s a busy man.”

“Many women?” You stuttered, confused and increasingly irritated. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this.”

You took one final step over, swinging the door open and stepping into your husband’s office, knowing that if you waited a second longer, things would get messy. Bucky looked up immediately, dropping the pen in his hand when he caught sight of the scene.

“Mr Barnes, I’m so sorry; I tried to stop her—” the woman cried, placing her hand on her chest. You did not like the way she looked at your husband one bit.

“Stop her?” Bucky asked, standing up from his desk. His eyes scanned over you, noticing every single detail. The way you leaned all of your weight on your healthy ankle, or your wet hair, or the way you shivered, or simply how miserable you looked.

“This is my wife.” His tone was more like an angry boss and less like the tender husband you knew. “Always let her in. Always.”

The woman nodded awkwardly and scurried out of the door. Bucky waited until she had left and was far away enough. His head turned back to you. There was this thing that Bucky always did with his face when he was concerned about you, his brows would knit and his eyes would widen.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, curling his fingers around your arms. “What happened?”

You did not waste a second before jumping into his arms. Your face rested on his chest, right next to that blue tie of his that you loved to take off him. His arms embraced you, and one of his hands traced your back.

Bucky held you like that until he felt the tension start to leave your body. He pressed a warm kiss to your head before he pulled away. He held your gaze until you spoke.

“I just had the worst day ever,” you began, holding onto him tighter. “My car stopped like three times on my way to Pilates, and then I stepped on a loose tile and hurt my ankle—and then the fucking elevator was out of order, so I had to walk the stairs all the way to our apartment, with the grocery bags, mind you. And then I spilt water—and I think I might get my period soon, and I just feel, so, so terrible.”

“Hey, shhh, sweetheart,” Bucky’s hand ran up and down your arms. At that moment, he needed you to relax before he could begin to unpack what was bothering you so much to be able to help you. “You said you hurt your ankle? Here,” he carefully led you to his office couch, allowing you to use him as an aid to sit down. “I’ll take a look, alright?”

You nodded, pushing the wet strands of hair away from your face. With a carefulness that was solely reserved for you, Bucky removed your boot. He placed it on the floor and grabbed your ankle with one hand. Trying hard not to make the injury worse, he slipped your sock.

“It’s a little swollen,” he confirmed, and for a moment, he looked almost offended. “That loose tile and I will have a chat.”

You almost laughed. “Not the time, James.”

“Alright, alright,” he raised his free hand in mock surrender before going back to your leg to trace small circles on your thigh. “How about you rest here for a while, hm? I can have Natasha bring you some tea; I’m sure she’ll be more than glad to see you.”

“James, honey, are you sure this isn’t too much trouble? You don’t have to drop your entire schedule just because I’m having a bad day—and for stupid reasons at that.”

He sighed, sitting on the couch next to you and draping one of his arms on the headrest behind you. “It’s not stupid. You’re allowed to have a bad day, and you’re more than allowed to reach out to me when you do. What kind of terrible husband would I be if I shut you away? And as for my schedule, that’s the great thing about being the boss: I get to plan my own week. It’s not the end of the world if I delay some tasks to make sure you’re okay, sweetheart.”

The tone of his voice and the way he looked at you told you everything you needed to know. He meant it. He always did.

“I still need to pick Rebecca up…”

“I’ll drive you, or we can have Steve and Sam pick her up—you know she loves her uncles.”

You nodded with a growing smile. “That she does.” You shifted closer on the couch, resting your head on Bucky’s chest. His arm wrapped around you, and he kissed your head. “Thank you.”

“Always. Don’t ever doubt it.”

The table was small, the kind that wobbled when you leaned on it too hard, but it had seen a hundred late-night games with Dex already. Cards stacked neatly in a draw pile, two mugs sweating on the wood, and the dim light above both of you—it all set the stage for what was about to become a warzone.

Dex had that look again. The one with his tense jaw and his sharpened eyes, pupils narrowing as though the deck in his hand wasn’t just colored numbers, but classified information he needed to decode.

For most people, Uno was just a way to pass the time. But he was, in fact, not most people.

You tossed down a yellow seven without much thought, sipping your drink casually. His gaze flicked from the card to your face, and you could practically see the gears turning. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his deck held close like he was shielding it from prying eyes.

“Yellow,” he repeated, voice low.

“Yeah, does that yellow card tell you anything?” you teased, but your grin didn’t last long—because he slapped down a Draw Four.

“Red. Your move.”

You groaned, dragging four fresh cards into your hand. “You don’t even need to play that right now. You just did it out of spite.”

“Strategy,” he corrected, eyes locked on the pile. His fingers twitched like he was already planning three turns ahead, memorizing what had passed, calculating what you might still be holding. To him, it wasn’t a game of luck—it was pattern recognition, the kind of obsessive skill he’d honed until it was second nature.

“Mmm, totally.”

He glanced up at you, then looked back down at the pile of cards. He flicked his next card down with unnecessary sharpness, a red nine landing flat against the table.

Your chest warmed with amusement, even though you rolled your eyes. He took it so seriously every single time, and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate it. That intensity of his—the way he poured himself into anything—was just so in character for him.

You tried to regain footing, tossing a skip onto his pile. “Guess you’re not playing this turn.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at the card for a moment, then at you. And you knew—you knew—you’d just lit a fuse.

The game spiraled from there. Cards slapping harder, both of you stacking skips and reverses like it was a personal vendetta. He muttered under his breath every time you dodged a trap he’d set, cursing in that low, rasping way that sounded far too harsh for something as childish as Uno.

When you had a card left, you casually leaned back and announced, “Uno.”

Dex’s entire body stiffened. His breathing changed, sharper now, and you could practically hear the blood rushing in his ears. “No,” he muttered, flipping through his deck like a man possessed.

“Yes,” you corrected, flashing your single yellow three.

“Not happening.” He threw down a wild card like it was a weapon, changing the color, forcing you to draw. Then another. Then another. Until your once-near victory turned into a clumsy handful of cards that wouldn’t match no matter how you arranged them.

“You... seriously?” you paused, watching your carefully built win crumble in seconds.

Dex leaned back finally, smug in the smallest, quietest way. A shadow of a smirk ghosted across his lips, though he tried to hide it away. “Told you. Strategy.”

You stared at him, speechless for a moment, then broke into laughter. The sound filled the room, light and unbothered, while he just sat there blinking at you like he didn’t understand what was so funny.

“You scare me,” you managed between breaths.

He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “For playing Uno?”

You scoff, “For trying to kill me with Uno.”

The corner of his lips twitched. Then, he threw another skip.

The card landed between you with a sharp snap, echoing louder than it should have in the quiet of the room.

You froze mid-breath, staring down at it like it was a bullet fired just past your ribs. Slowly, your eyes lifted back up to Dex, and sure enough, he was already watching you, his smirk fading into something more dangerous—like he was daring you to call it unfair.

“Again?” you asked, incredulous. “That’s, what—two of my turns skipped already.”

“Three,” he corrected without hesitation, like he’d been counting, cataloging, filing away each move as ammunition.

He tossed another card, blue four. He knew.

You snorted, shaking your head, but still reached out and slid one card off the stack. And then another. And another. The pile in your hands started to swell again, ruining the clean, tight grip you’d had when you were on the verge of winning just moments ago. The unfairness of it all nearly made you throw the whole thing down.

“Y’know, most people play Uno to have fun,” you muttered, fanning the cards and pretending you weren’t impressed by his ruthless tactics.

He didn’t even blink. “This is fun.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hand for a second, the laughter threatening to bubble out again just from how serious he was. You peeked at him through your fingers. He was sitting perfectly still, back straight, shoulders tense. The kind of posture you’d expect in a standoff, not over a stack of neon-colored cards. His eyes flicked up to yours briefly, sharp as ever, and you realized he was daring you to underestimate him.

The silence stretched thin before you finally threw down a blue two, unable to resist pushing him a little more. “Your move, genius.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows digging into the table, his gaze darting over the discard pile. You could practically see the storm inside his head—running back every card you’d played in the last ten turns, analyzing your tone, your expressions, the weight of your draw pile. To you, it was just a two. To him, it was information.

Finally, he slid a card into place with a deliberate flick of his wrist. A blue reverse.

You squinted at him. “Really?”

“Really.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, he laid down another reverse.

You blinked. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The faintest glimmer of satisfaction crossed his face, though it was subtle, tucked into the twitch of his lip and the shift of his jaw. He sat back, arms folding across his chest like he’d just dismantled a bomb instead of skipping your turn twice over.

“You’re insufferable,” you accused, gripping your hand like it was suddenly heavier than bricks.

“Efficient,” he replied simply.

Your cards had turned into a burden. Twenty minutes into what was supposed to be a lighthearted round, and the weight of plastic-coated numbers in your hand felt more like shackles than entertainment. Every attempt to claw your way back ended with him snapping down another skip or reverse like it was divine judgment.

You sighed heavily, leaning back in your chair, fanning the ridiculous pile in front of you. “You know what? I’m done. This game’s rigged. You’re rigged.”

Dex barely moved. He just sat there, straight-backed, his deck balanced perfectly in his palm. The silence dragged a moment too long before his lips curved—not into a full smile, but that razor-thin smirk that had been haunting you all game. “Giving up?”

“Not giving up,” you corrected, tossing your hand onto the table with a dramatic flourish. “Surrendering. There’s a difference. I’d rather face execution than sit here for another half-hour just to lose to a man who treats Uno like chess.”

His eyes tracked the discarded pile of cards, then slid back up to meet yours. He didn’t gloat with words; he didn’t need to. That smug little glint in his gaze said enough. He gathered the cards calmly, stacking them into a neat pile with surgical precision, as though wrapping up a mission rather than ending a board game.

You groaned into your hands. “I hate this.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice was smooth, matter-of-fact, like he was reciting a truth he’d already filed away long ago.

Before you could fire back, the scrape of his chair startled you. He pushed up, tall and deliberate in his movements, then came around to your side of the table. You raised an eyebrow, but before you could question him, he bent down in one swift motion and hooked an arm under your knees, the other around your back.

“Dex—” You gasped as he lifted you clean off the chair, scooping you up like you weighed nothing at all.

The bastard had the audacity to grin now—small, boyish, and irritatingly self-satisfied. “Game’s over. Now, you’re all mine.”

He started walking, steady and unhurried, carrying you down the dim hallway toward the bedroom. His arms were strong and secure, body heat bleeding into yours, and for someone so ruthlessly competitive over a children’s card game, he looked far too content now.

“You forfeited,” he murmured, lowering his head slightly so his words brushed close to your ear. “That means I win.”

“Barely,” you argued, wriggling half-heartedly in his hold.

“And now I win this.” He tightened his grip, just enough to make his point clear.

The smugness radiating off him was unbearable, but you couldn’t stop the way your lips twitched, the way laughter broke free from your chest again. He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot and set you down gently onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight.

Hovering above you, his shadow long in the lamplight, he wore that same cheeky smile that had teased you all evening. Except now it was softer at the edges, tempered with something warmer.

You stared up at him, hair mussed from being carried, and shook your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Efficient,” he corrected again, echoing the word from earlier. Except this time, his tone held more mischief than calculation.

And when he leaned down to press a slow kiss against your temple—smug, victorious, but tender all the same—you realized there was no such thing as beating him at Uno. Or at anything else, for that matter.

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw, @cannibalisticcorpse