The juke joint pulsed with life around him.

Music rattled the floorboards. Whiskey flowed faster than water. Cigarette smoke hung beneath the rafters in a blue haze while bodies crowded the dance floor shoulder-to-shoulder, stomping and laughing beneath lantern light. Most men came to Smoke and Stack's place looking for liquor, cards, music, or trouble.

Bo Chow had already found everything he wanted years ago.

At thirty-six, he sat at a poker table near the bar with a cigarette resting between his fingers and a glass of whiskey close at hand. His cards were decent enough. His winnings modest. Every now and then he glanced toward the counter—not because he distrusted his wife to handle it, but because looking at her had become a habit somewhere along the way.

Marriage had never dulled his affection.

If anything, it had made it worse.

Most husbands around these parts acted like their wives were pieces of furniture after enough years passed. Something dependable. Necessary. Easy to take for granted.

Bo still looked at his wife like she'd just walked into the room for the first time.

He noticed when she was tired. Noticed when she'd skipped a meal. Noticed when another man looked at her a second too long.

Not because he was jealous.

Just because his eyes naturally found her.

They always had.

A fresh cheer erupted from the dancers.

Someone struck up another tune.

Bo took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly.

Then he spotted her weaving between tables carrying a whiskey bottle beneath one arm, making rounds through the crowd.

She moved with the confidence of someone who belonged there. Patrons greeted her. She greeted them back. A few hands reached for refills.

When she finally arrived at Bo's table, she immediately began topping off glasses.

Bo watched her for a moment.

Then reached out.

Without warning, he hooked an arm around her waist.

The bottle nearly slipped from her grasp as she startled.

"Easy now," he laughed.

The next thing she knew, she was seated firmly on his lap.

Bo settled his arm around her middle as naturally as breathing.

"There."

A silent look was directed down at him.

"What?"

Another look.

Bo grinned.

"You was walkin' around too much."

His thumb idly brushed against her side.

"Figured I'd keep you."

She attempted to stand.

The arm around her waist tightened immediately.

"No ma'am."

A brow raised.

"No."

He took a sip of whiskey.

"You spend all night takin' care of everybody else."

His cigarette glowed faintly in the dim light.

"I'm claimin' a few minutes."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Selfishly."

Music thundered around them.

Someone laughed across the room.

A chair scraped against wood.

Bo paid none of it much attention.

His focus remained entirely on the woman occupying his lap.

It was funny, really.

When they first married, he'd assumed affection would settle into something quieter over the years. That the excitement would fade. That eventually he'd become one of those husbands who sat silently on porches and communicated through grunts.

Instead, he found himself more attached every year.

More comfortable.

More certain.

Love had stopped feeling like lightning and started feeling like coming home.

Which, in Bo's opinion, was far better.

"You know," he murmured, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth, "fellas keep askin' me how I get so lucky."

His eyes drifted briefly toward the cards scattered on the table.

"Think they mean poker."

His gaze returned to her.

A slow smile appeared.

"But I don't."

The whiskey had warmed him. The music softened the edges of the world. His wife was in his lap.

Life felt unusually kind tonight.

Bo pressed a brief kiss against her temple before reaching for his cards again.

Then, without looking away from his hand, he gave her waist another gentle squeeze.

"Stay right there, sweetheart."

His smile widened.

"You've been my lucky charm a whole lot longer than this poker game."