Chapter Text
[Your POV]
It was supposed to be just another Scrabble tournament. You sat down across from a boy from Enova High School, trying not to look nervous. The boy looked calm. Too calm. The kind of person who switched between rack, board and clock like clockwork, as if he were born to do this. His name was Ethan.
You told yourself not to stare.
The game started normally, and by normally, I mean he was cooking it from the start.
“Bicep…twenty-two,” he muttered instinctively.
Of all words – bicep? You fumbled, not sure where to stack your tiles.
“Wives…twenty-eight,” he mumbled.
You realized that he had an odd accent – you couldn’t place it, but he pronounced his Ts in a way that was not harsh, but not soft either, more round around the edges. He pronounced his words like…”tvendty eighdt.” And somehow, that stuck.
The game carried on. You surprised yourself with your competence. You blocked most of his openings and saw through his traps. There was one moment when you saw through one of his particularly clever tricks. At least, you thought so, because he leaned forward slightly, eyebrows creased.
Then, he looked up, straight into your eyes, with an unreadable expression, “…Nice.”
“T-thanks –” you hated how small you sounded. He pretended that interaction never happened. Meanwhile, you tried hard not to let it get to you.
From then on, you started paying more attention to Ethan. His school shirt fit him just right -- not too tight, but enough to accent his lean build and strong forearms, dusted with the slightest trace of ink from where he'd possibly been scribbling scores all morning. Dark hair fell over his forehead every time he tilted his head down to study the board, and every few minutes, he’d push it back absentmindedly with long fingers before reaching for another tile. His fingers…they were slender, thinner and more graceful than that of other boys. His fingernails were long enough just to expose pure white crescents of cartilage – clean and smooth. They were nimble, flitting from tile bag to rack to clock with utmost grace and certainty that made it mesmerizing to watch.
His face was a different thing altogether. It wasn’t soft. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. Narrow face. Eyes that looked almost black under the fluorescent lights in the hall. Focused. The kind of eyes that made you feel like he noticed everything.
You noticed small things about him. The way he leaned back after each turn. The way he looked at you intently as you placed your tiles down; didn’t stare, just looked longer than a polite glance. The way he kept his rack close to his chest when he was thinking. How he tapped his rack absentmindedly while staring into space, pondering. Or was he looking at you? Your heart skipped at the thought.
Then came outrising. His eyes widened slightly, arranged and rearranged his tiles. Then, he took all 7 tiles off his board and lay them on the board. Outrising. 126 points. It looked so legitimate. And yet…
“Hold.” You paused the clock.
Ethan leaned back and looked at you. He tapped his empty tile rack, his expression still unreadable. 10 seconds passed. Ethan raised his eyebrows. “Challenge?” His voice was deeper that you expected, still with that crisp accent.
You hesitated. You looked at the clock slowly ticking down on your time. “No challenge.”
Ethan’s lips tightened. “Okay.”
The game was as good as over by then. Your score was so far behind the gap became impossible to bridge. Naturally, you lost by a humiliating amount.
Nevertheless, you extended your hand. “Good game.”
His raised his eyebrows and shook your hand. His hand felt smooth and warm. “Good game.” Maybe it was just your imagination, but he held on for just a second longer than necessary.