Yes, and Katie and Brian don’t turn up, but guest leave the poker.

The hands kept coming.

One hour slipped into two. The pile of empty cans on the side table grew. Conversation rose and fell around the poker table in easy waves—old stories, mild arguments over bad beats, laughter that felt increasingly out of place in your living room. Chloe dealt steadily. Mark joked about hosting the next game. Someone else asked if you and Katie always kept the table set up or if this was a special occasion.

You answered when you had to. Mostly you watched the front door.

It never opened.

By the third hour the energy in the room began to thin. One of Brian’s friends checked his phone, muttered about second wind, and stood up. He clapped you on the shoulder on his way out.

“Good night, man. Thanks for hosting. We should do this again—proper poker night at yours.”

You nodded automatically. The door closed behind him.

A second person left ten minutes later. Then a third. Each one offered the same easy thanks, the same casual suggestion that this should become a regular thing at your house. Chloe stayed longest, finishing one last hand before she left.

“They probably lost track of time,” she said, almost kindly. “It happens. Thanks for being a good host, Dylan. Seriously—next poker night is on you two.”

She gave a small wave and stepped out into the night.

One by one the rest followed until the living room was empty except for you, the scattered cards, the empty cans, and the quiet tick of the clock on the wall.

Katie and Brian still had not arrived.

You sat alone at the poker table in your own house, the night stretching past any reasonable hour, listening to the silence and waiting for a front door that refused to open.