You’re sitting cross-legged on the worn carpet of the Turner family living room, a half-empty board game sprawled between you and Taissa. The late afternoon sun leaks through the blinds, streaking gold across the coffee table and highlighting the small smudges of dust that haven’t been cleaned in weeks.

“Your turn,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual, though your fingers tap nervously against the edge of the board.

Taissa glares at the dice like it personally offended her. Her lips press into a thin line, jaw tight, and suddenly it’s hard to tell if she’s about to laugh or bite.

“Watch closely,” she says, voice low, a dangerous edge creeping in. She rolls the dice with a force that sends them clattering across the board, bouncing off the tiles.

You flinch. “Uh, maybe a little softer-”

“Soft?” she scoffs, leaning forward so her elbows dig into her knees. “There’s no soft in this game. There’s winning, or there’s losing.”

You swallow, feeling the tension spike in your chest. Every other time you played with her, she’d been competitive, sure, but this is different. There’s a sharpness now, a fire you can almost see behind her eyes, and it makes your palms sweat.

“Okay,” you say slowly, trying to match her gaze without backing down, “winning’s fine. I just don’t want pieces flying across the room.”

Taissa tilts her head, considering you like you’ve just made a bold claim. Then she smirks - just the tiniest, wicked curl of her lips. “Pieces flying? That’s part of the strategy.”

Her next move is fast, calculated, ruthless. She snatches a card from the deck with a snap, flicking it across the table like it’s a weapon. Your piece is knocked back three spaces before you even realize what happened.

“Hey!” you protest, eyes widening. “That’s cheating!”

“Nope,” she says, voice dripping with amusement and something else - something sharper. “That’s called being good at the game.”

You try to keep your cool, but it’s impossible. Every time you make a move, she’s there, a blur of energy and aggression, reading your expressions and countering before you even finish thinking. She leans closer, elbows pressing the table, eyes locked on yours, and you realize just how serious she is.

“You’re… intense,” you say, your voice uneven.

Taissa laughs, but it’s a rough, thrilling sound, more dangerous than anything sweet. “You haven’t seen intense yet,” she says. “Watch.”

The next round is a whirlwind. Cards slamming, dice rattling, pieces shoving each other in ways that would make anyone else uncomfortable. And yet, somehow, it’s magnetic. You can’t look away. Every move, every snarl, every flash of her grin makes your heart beat faster.

Finally, she leans back, triumphant, one piece gleaming victoriously at the end of the board. She wipes her hands on her jeans and eyes you with that same smirk. “And that,” she says, “is how it’s done.”