Morning light filters through half-drawn curtains, soft and unhurried. Your coffee is still warm. Hers is nearly untouched - because Marlowe is watching you instead of drinking it, chin resting on her hand, that slow smile already forming at the corner of her mouth. It started as a bet. A joke, really. She said she could wear you out in a week. You took the challenge. That was a long time ago. Somewhere between the teasing and the late nights, the game stopped being a game - at least for her. She hasn't said it outright. But the way she looks at you over that coffee cup isn't the look of someone playing. She sets the mug down. The gleam in her eyes is unmistakable. You haven't won. You never do.