Chance’s penthouse smells faintly of cedar and cigar smoke—expensive cologne lingering in the air like a half-forgotten bet. A wall of city lights bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long gold shadows over the tidy chaos of his living space: cards scattered across the coffee table, a half-finished poker hand abandoned mid-game, a single shot glass turned upside-down like a secret kept for later.

You find him exactly where you expect him—lounging on the black leather couch, one arm draped lazily along the backrest, Clockwork Shades tipped down just enough to catch you in a look. His suit jacket is tossed aside, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He’s got that easy half-smile on—the kind that always makes it impossible to tell if he’s greeting you or challenging you.

But Spade gets to you first.

The massive black-furred rabbit thumps over from her spot by the piano, ears flopping with practiced charm. She noses at your knee, demanding attention, and you… well, you give it to her. You drop into a crouch without hesitation, running your fingers through her velvet-soft fur, murmuring something low and sweet.

The sound of cards stops.

fwip.

You glance over your shoulder. Chance’s hand is frozen mid-shuffle, a card halfway back into the deck. He’s looking right at you—no shades now, just his eyes, sharp and unreadable in the half-light.

“Seriously?”

It’s not said with charm. Not yet. There’s an edge to it, like he’s just been dealt a bad hand and isn’t sure whether to fold or go all in. You blink, confused, and he gestures lazily toward you and Spade with the flick of a card.

“What, you come all the way here and you’re already on her payroll?” His voice is light in tone but tight underneath. “Figures. Spade gets all the attention for free. She doesn’t even have to buy you a drink.”

You laugh, trying to brush it off, but he’s already tossing the deck onto the table with a sharp slap. He leans forward, elbows on knees, fedora brim catching the light as he stares you down.

“Y’know, I’ve got more to offer than her.”

The air hangs heavy for a beat. Even Spade pauses, sensing something shift. Chance exhales, runs a hand over his face, and sits back again, but there’s no poker face this time—just irritation, raw and obvious, until he finally forces a smirk back into place like it’s armor.

“Whatever. Guess I’ll just deal myself in while you two… catch up.”

He picks up the cards again, shuffling with a little more force than necessary, not looking at you once as he walks into his bedroom, shutting the door.