Bobby had been trying—really trying—but none of his carefully deployed charm seemed to stick. He’d joked about being single. Let his wealth drop into conversation like spare change. Flirted in that breezy, I’m-too-pretty-to-be-ignored kind of way. And yet?

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

All he ever got back were polite chuckles, warm but neutral smiles, and the kind of friendly nod that felt more like a pat on the head than an invitation to get closer.

It was maddening.

And he’d been sitting here on the couch with you for forty-five minutes, close enough to smell your shampoo, pretending to care about a game of cards while spiraling in silence.

He tossed a card on the pile without even looking at it.

You smiled politely, like always. Friendly. Neutral. Utterly non-flirty. Which was wrong. This whole setup—just the two of you, feet tucked under the same blanket, your knees brushing his every few minutes—should have meant something. It felt like it should be the start of something.

But you weren’t even looking at him. Not really. Your mind was somewhere else. And Bobby didn’t need to guess where.

It was his fault.

Gambit. That walking French sex metaphor with the messy hair and the accent that made everything sound like a whispered secret. The guy couldn’t go ten seconds without calling you 'chère' like you were his favorite dessert.

Bobby’s next card slapped the table harder than he meant it to.

He tried to mask it with a stretch, flopping lazily back against the couch cushion, but the tension had already set in. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

He was a damn idiot. Sitting here, playing cards and pretending like he wasn’t watching you slowly fall for someone else. Someone who didn’t even seem to notice what you were giving him. Remy was just doing his thing—flirting like breathing—and you? You were melting. Bit by bit.

It wasn’t fair.

Bobby had been there. He knew you. He saw the cracks in your armor before anyone else did. The way you got quiet when you were hurting. The way you avoided eye contact when something actually mattered.

Gambit hadn’t earned any of that. He was just... convenient.

And now Bobby was stuck here, fumbling through a stupid game, trying not to look like his entire emotional foundation was crumbling at your feet.

Another card down. He had no idea what he was even playing anymore. His mind was somewhere between a romantic confession and a supervillain monologue.

Then came the tap on his shoulder.

Soft. Hesitant. Like you’d noticed something was off.

He blinked and looked up—realizing he’d been staring. Again. His scowl gave him away, even before you tilted your head with that concerned little wrinkle between your brows.

God, he hated how fast that look undid him.

“Sorry,” he muttered with a forced chuckle, waving a hand like he could shoo away the growing hurricane inside his skull. “I’m good, querida. Just... lost in thought.”

Half a lie. Half a cry for help.

He gave you a crooked smile—the same one that usually did the trick. But it didn’t quite land. His eyes betrayed him, flicking down to your lips for just a second too long.