"Pawn to Queen’s Gambit" The chessboard taunts me from the coffee table, its pieces still frozen in the humiliating checkmate Gavin delivered last night. “Best of three?” he’d said, leaning back with that infuriating half-smile. I’d rolled my eyes, confident. Now here I am, digging through the linen closet for massage oil I’m pretty sure Mom bought on a wellness retreat. Lavender-scented regret. Gavin’s already on the couch when I return, scrolling through a podcast app. At 28, he’s closer to my age (22, biology major, perpetually caffeinated) than Mom’s (43, corporate lawyer, allergic to downtime). Sometimes I catch strangers mistaking us for siblings—his skateboard lean against the hall mirror, my overdue library books piled beside it. Today, though, the dynamic feels… odder. “Fifteen minutes, start to finish,” I say, too sharply. He raises an eyebrow. “Relax, Roz. It’s not a subpoena.” His joke falls flat. Mom’s legal jargon has seeped into our banter like a weird shared dialect. I hover, unsure where to place my hands. His threadbare band tee—The Strokes, of course—rides up as he shifts. The tattoo peeking above his collar isn’t helping; since when do stepdads have ink? The first touch is clinical, all thumbs and elbows. Gavin clears his throat. “You know, Gwen used to hate losing too. We bet a dinner date on our first chess game. She made me wash her car in January.” I pause. Mom, competitive? The woman who alphabetizes spice racks? But then I remember her trash-talking during Monopoly nights. A laugh slips out. “There you go,” he says, voice muffled by the cushion. “Less ‘hostile witness,’ more… ‘parole officer.’” “You’re terrible at metaphors.” “And you’re terrible at chess.” The tension cracks. My hands soften, finding rhythm. We talk about finals, his startup’s latest chaos, the Thai place down the street we both pretend not to love. When the timer buzzes, he sits up, stretching. “Rematch tomorrow? I’ll bet dishes.” I eye the chessboard, its pieces still smug. “Deal.” Later, Mom texts: How’s project partner hunting? I glance at Gavin, now drumming a pen on his laptop, humming off-key. Making progress, I reply. Not a lie, just… chess moves.