Nine: The Pretzel Pot

Nine: The Pretzel Pot

Cecilia POV

I watched the door to the dining room swing shut behind my father, the latch clicking shut with a finality that made the house feel suddenly vast. Dad had looked so tired, the weight of the world seemingly resting on those broad shoulders as he pulled me into that hug. I felt a lingering pang of worry. He had been acting off since the gala, more distracted than usual, but I pushed it aside. He was probably just stressed from work. Whatever that entailed these days.

With a small sigh, I turned back to the table, where Treyvan was already stacking our dessert plates with that easy grin of his.

"Well, dewdrop, he is out for the count," Treyvan said, his green eyes sparkling with mischief as he glanced toward the stairs. He always called me that when Dad was not around, like he was picking up where our father left off. "Looks like it is just you and me, little sis. What do you say we make the most of it?"

My face lit up, the tension from dinner melting away. This was what I lived for, these stolen moments with my brother when the house felt less like a museum and more like home. Treyvan was the only one who could pull me out of my head, make me laugh until my sides hurt.

"You are on," I replied, hopping up to help clear the table. "But if we are doing this, I am picking the game. No more of your rigged poker nights."

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the room as we carried the dishes to the kitchen. The mansion’s kitchen was a chef’s dream. Marble counters, double ovens, and enough gadgets to make any home economics class jealous. But tonight, it was just us, the servants long since dismissed for the evening.

Treyvan set the plates in the sink and leaned against the island, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Rigged? Me? I am wounded, Cici. How about something fair? Cards or controllers? Your call."

I pretended to think it over, tapping my chin dramatically as I wiped my hands on a dish towel. Video games were fun, but Treyvan had this sneaky way of letting me win just enough to keep me hooked, his thumbs flying across the buttons while he trash talked. Cards, though? That was my domain. Strategy, patterns, probability. I could outmaneuver him every time.

"Cards," I decided, a sly smile creeping onto my lips. "Texas Hold 'em. And to make it interesting, a wager. Loser cooks breakfast tomorrow and does all the dishes."

Treyvan’s eyebrows shot up, but his grin widened, revealing that boyish dimple I loved teasing him about. "Oh, you are feeling bold tonight. Alright, deal me in. But do not cry when I clean you out and you are flipping pancakes at dawn."

We migrated to the sunroom off the kitchen, a cozy nook with plush armchairs and a low glass table that overlooked the manicured gardens. Treyvan brewed some hot chocolate for us, and the rich scent told me it was my favorite, Italian mint. He remembered.

Moonlight filtered through the floor to ceiling windows, casting silvery patterns on the Persian rug. I shuffled the deck with practiced ease, my fingers dancing over the cards, years of quiet evenings like this had made me quick and precise. Treyvan sprawled in his chair, legs stretched out, looking every bit the carefree king of the castle.

"Ladies first," he said, nodding at the deck.

I dealt the cards, the soft slap of paper on glass punctuating the comfortable silence. The first hand was a warm up. Treyvan bluffed his way to a win with a pair of jacks, crowing about his unbeatable luck while I rolled my eyes and folded my queens. But by the second hand, I was in my element, reading his tells like an open book. The way his left eyebrow twitched when he had nothing, or how he would lean forward just a fraction when he was strong.

"Raise by twenty imaginary chips," I said, sliding a pile of pretzels we had grabbed from the pantry as makeshift bets toward the center.

Treyvan eyed me, then matched it with a dramatic flourish. "You are going down, brainiac. I have the Midas touch tonight."

I smirked, my mind racing through the odds. The flop came, ace, king, ten. Suited. My hole cards, a queen and jack, gave me a straight draw. Treyvan bet big, but I called, my pulse quickening with the thrill of the game. The turn brought the nine I needed, and I kept my face neutral, betting just enough to lure him in.

"All in," he declared on the river, pushing his pretzel stack forward with a wink. "Your move, sis."

I laid my cards down slowly, revealing the straight. Treyvan groaned theatrically, tossing his pair of aces onto the table. "How do you do that? It is like you can see through my soul."

I laughed, gathering my winnings. "It is called math, Trey. Probability and observation. You should try it sometime instead of relying on that poker face that is about as subtle as a neon sign."

He clutched his chest, feigning heartbreak. "Harsh! But fine, you win this round. Rematch? Double or nothing?"

We played three more hands, the banter flowing as easily as the turns of the cards. Treyvan’s humor was relentless. He would mimic celebrity poker pros mid hand, or invent ridiculous side bets like "loser has to do the winner’s laundry for a week." I fired back with quips about his questionable fashion choices, my laughter bubbling up genuine and free. This was Treyvan at his best, happy go lucky, the big brother who could turn any ordinary night into an adventure. I adored how he made me feel seen, not just as Daddy’s little girl, but as his equal. Smart, capable, unbreakable.

By the final hand, the pretzel pot was mine, and Treyvan conceded with a mock salute.

"Alright, alright. Breakfast is on me. Eggs benedict? Or should I go wild with crepes?"

"Surprise me," I said, leaning back with a satisfied stretch. "But no burnt toast or eggs this time. Remember that one morning?"

"Hey, that was artistic char!" he defended, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. The easy rhythm between us wrapped around me like a warm blanket, chasing away the lingering unease from dinner. Treyvan was my constant, the one who would always have my back.

As I shuffled idly, Treyvan’s phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with a sharp vibration. He glanced at it, his expression flickering for just a split second. Something tight, almost guarded, before he scooped it up and silenced it.

"Who was that?" I asked, curiosity piqued but light.

"Just one of the guys," he replied smoothly, pocketing the phone with a shrug. "Nothing important. Probably begging for a rematch in fantasy football or something equally riveting."

I nodded, accepting it without a second thought. Treyvan’s friends were always texting at odd hours, late night plans, dumb memes. It fit his world, the one I glimpsed but never quite entered. Why question it when everything else felt so right?

He checked the clock on the wall, then stood, stretching his arms overhead. "Speaking of riveting, it is getting late, Cici. You have got that big volunteer shift at the community center tomorrow, right? Those kids are not going to read themselves to sleep."

I groaned playfully but rose too, the cards forgotten. "Yeah, yeah. Early bird gets the worm. Or in my case, the glitter crafts."

Treyvan pulled me into a quick hug, then pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead, his hand lingering on my shoulder. "Get some rest, champ. Sweet dreams."

I smiled up at him, warmth blooming in my chest. "Night, Trey. Do not stay up too late yourself."

As I headed up the grand staircase, the house settling into quiet, I felt lighter than I had all evening. Tomorrow would bring more of my world. Books, laughter, purpose. And with Treyvan in my corner, what could go wrong?