a play of the die

Polly’s jaw tightened. The mug in her hand felt suddenly heavy, the weight of Rebecca’s challenge pressing against her like a hand between her shoulder blades. She set it down with deliberate precision, the ceramic clicking against the counter louder than necessary.

“Fine,” she said, the word clipped.

Rebecca’s smile curled at the edges. She nudged the die forward with one fingertip, sliding it across the laminate until it stopped just shy of Polly’s blazer sleeve.

Polly’s fingers closed around the die. The ivory was cool, faintly porous under her touch. Rebecca’s breath hitched—just slightly—as Polly rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, the numbers blurring into dark streaks.

The die tumbled from Polly’s fingers, striking the counter with a sound like a tooth cracking. It spun—once, twice—before wobbling to a stop.

three.

Rebecca’s exhale was slow, deliberate. She didn’t look at the die. Instead, her gaze stayed locked on Polly’s face, her lips parted just enough to reveal the sharp edge of her teeth.

“My turn,” she murmured.

Her fingers closed around the die, her knuckles whitening for half a second before she flicked it across the counter. It bounced once—clattering against the stainless steel sink—before settling.

Five.

The die lay still—five dark pits staring up at them like tiny voids. Rebecca’s exhale was slow, deliberate, her lips curling into something too sharp to be called a smile.

"Looks like luck favors me," she murmured, plucking the die from the counter. Her fingers brushed Polly’s wrist—just a graze, deliberate, lingering a half-second too long. "But then again, it always does."

Polly’s breath caught—just for a second—as Rebecca’s fingers lingered. The scent of jasmine turned cloying, thick enough to taste. The refrigerator shuddered off, plunging the breakroom into sudden silence.

Rebecca withdrew her hand slowly, the die vanishing back into her blazer pocket. Her nails—pale pink, flawless—tapped once against the counter’s edge. Click.

“So,” she said, tilting her head. The overhead light carved a sharp line down the bridge of her nose. “My favor.”