Page 29 of Pack Frenzy
“Board games or interrogation?” Rowan asks, already pulling a battered deck of cards from the junk drawer.
“Depends on the game,” Jess says.
“Rummy. Cassian cheats, Eli counts cards, and I win anyway.”
We crowd around the island, and within two hands, Jess is trash-talking like she’s known us for years. She catches Rowan palming an extra card and calls him on it with a grin that saysI see you. Cassian tries to bluff his way through a terrible hand, and she reads him like a billboard.
“You’re terrible at this,” she tells him.
“I’m strategizing,” he protests.
“You’re hemorrhaging,” I correct, laying down a run that makes him groan.
Rowan wins the round by being quietly ruthless.
“Double or nothing,” she says, snapping the deck out of his hand before he can shuffle.
Cassian snorts. “You planning to count cards too?”
She flicks him a look over the spread, batting her eyelashes. “I don’t need to.”
Rowan leans back, folding those arms. “Confidence. Dangerous trait.”
“Only if I’m wrong,” she fires back.
We deal again. Cards slide across the table, and Jess’s nails tap a quick, sharp rhythm.
“You’ve played before,” Rowan says.
“Maybe once or twice. Hard to find opponents who don’t throw the deck when they lose.”
“Cassian does that,” I add.
“Once,” Cass protests. “And the table deserved it.”
Jess grins—unguarded now. “Your tell?” She nods at Cass. “You breathe heavier when you bluff.”
“You paying that much attention to me?”
“I pay attention toeverything,” she says, quiet but sure.
“Occupational habit?” Rowan asks.
“Survival one.” She lays down her run. “Rummy.”
The table goes silent for a beat. Then Cassian groans, and I bark a laugh that breaks the tension.
“Guess we found her field skill,” I say. “Interrogation it is.”
Her mouth curves, soft and dangerous. “You’ll lose that one too.”
By the time the Instant Pot beeps, she’s won a hand and lost two, and she’s relaxed enough that when Cassian’s elbow bumps hers reaching for the cards, she doesn’t flinch.
We move into the dinner rhythm without planning it like old choreography.
Cassian lifts the roasting pan; I catch it. He carves; I spoon pan juices without drowning the meat. Rowan builds a salad with bomb-tech precision. Jess tears butter lettuce like she’ll earn another hour here if she doesn’t bruise it.
We eat. No ritual, just clink and reach and “hand me that” and “you’re taking the good carrots again, Cassian.” The conversation zigzags between trash talk and breadcrumb truths.
