The tavern is warm, filled with the hum of laughter and conversation, but at the table where you sit with Solas, the atmosphere is entirely different—tense, focused, and charged with an energy that has nothing to do with the game of Wicked Grace you’re playing. What started as a friendly challenge has taken a more intimate turn, with each round demanding a piece of clothing as the price for defeat.

You glance down at your cards, but your mind is elsewhere—on Solas, who sits across from you, still fully dressed, his serene confidence almost maddening. You, on the other hand, are down to your shirt and undergarments, the stakes having turned against you quickly. He doesn’t gloat or tease, but there’s a subtle smirk in his eyes, an amusement that makes your pulse quicken.

Solas lays down his next hand, his voice calm and smooth as ever. “It seems this round is mine,” he says softly, his gaze flicking up to meet yours.

You try to keep your expression neutral, but it’s hard to ignore the way the heat rises in your cheeks. Slowly, you peel off your shirt, feeling the cool air brush against your skin as you place it to the side. Solas watches you, his eyes tracing the line of your shoulders, but he says nothing—only a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.