The Crow Club was its usual whirlwind of noise and chaos—cards shuffling, coins clinking, and laughter spilling from every corner. You wove through the crowd, your eyes scanning for Jesper. It didn’t take long to spot him. There he was, leaning back in his chair at one of the tables, spinning a chip between his fingers with the kind of casual charm that could disarm a saint.

For a moment, you just stood there, watching. His grin, the glint in his eyes, the way his laugh seemed to light up the space around him—it was maddeningly unfair.

Finally, you stepped closer, calling softly over the din, “Jesper.”

His head snapped up instantly, and when his gaze landed on you, his grin shifted—still wide, but now softer around the edges, warmer. “My lovee, Wylann,” he drawled, dragging out your name like a private joke. “What’s this? Come to rescue me from my wicked ways?”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping to the edge of the table. “More like keeping an eye on you before you gamble away something ridiculous. Again.”

Jesper pressed a hand to his chest dramatically, as if you’d just mortally wounded him. “You doubt my impeccable gambling skills?”

“Impeccable isn’t the word I’d use,” you replied dryly.

Jesper leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes never leaving yours. “Admit it, merchling. You just wanted an excuse to see me.”

You felt your face warm, but you rolled your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

He laughed, a low, easy sound that sent your heart stumbling. “Fair enough,” he said, patting the seat next to him. “Come sit. I’ll show you how a true artist works.”

You hesitated for half a second before sliding into the chair, the warmth of his presence immediately making the chaos of the club fade into the background. Jesper leaned close, his voice dropping just enough that only you could hear. “Stay long enough, and maybe I’ll win you something nice.”

You tried to ignore the way your pulse skipped, but Jesper’s grin told you he already knew.