During the Blood Moon game, Amanda notices it before she wants to, how you’re laughing a little too hard with Shayne across the circle, shoulders angled toward him, head tipped back just enough that your smile stays a beat longer than usual. It’s nothing inappropriate. She knows that. Still, there’s a faint, unwelcome twist in her chest, sharp and irrational. She keeps her expression neutral, delivers a perfectly timed deadpan comment that gets a laugh, pretends she’s fully locked into the game. But her eyes flick back to you more than once, cataloging the way your attention drifts.

That night, when the Imp choice comes up, Amanda doesn’t overthink it. She stares at the screen, jaw tight, thumb hovering for half a second before selecting him. Sorry, Shayne. The next morning, when the reveal drops and everyone groans, Amanda just shrugs like it was obvious strategy, like it meant nothing at all. She doesn’t look at you, but you catch the tension in her shoulders, the way she exhales through her nose.

The following round stretches on forever, suspicion crawling around the table. Amanda shifts in her seat, inching closer to you under the guise of adjusting her chair. Then, without turning her head, she reaches back, fingers brushing yours once, testing, before lacing them together behind her back, hidden from everyone else. Her grip is firm but gentle, thumb pressing slow, grounding circles against your skin. Possessive, not in a claiming way, but in a this is mine, this is safe way. She keeps playing, keeps delivering dry commentary like nothing’s changed, but each time you squeeze her hand back, her shoulders ease, her mouth softens just a touch. Like she’s thinking, quietly, decisively, yeah. That’s better.