The first round, I let it slide.
The second round, I smiled.
By the third round, he was squinting at my board like it personally betrayed him.
"You rigged it," he mumbled, pointing at my winning row with the suspiciousness of a detective and the pout of a five-year-old denied a lollipop.
I shrugged innocently, trying not to laugh. "It's called talent. Some of us are born lucky."
"Or born cheaters," he muttered, slumping back in his chair. "No one wins three times in a row unless they're in a Bollywood script."
I leaned in just slightly, letting my pencil hover over a blank square. "Or unless they're good at reading the pattern."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so now you're a pattern-reading bingo master?"
"Nope," I grinned. "Just someone who knows how to distract the competition."
He blinked—and I swear, just for a second, I caught the flicker of a smile. Then he recovered, all mock-serious, and said it.
That one word.
"Bhn."
I froze mid-mark. "Did you just—?"
"I mean," he smirked, shrugging, "if you're going to act like a bingo villain, I've got to protect myself somehow."
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to throw my pencil at him. I wanted to un-hear that stupid word.
Instead, I just narrowed my eyes. "You'll regret that when I win again."
And I did.
He sulked the rest of the day.
I replayed the way he said it more times than I'll ever admit.
He sulked the rest of the day.
And I... well, I tried not to look at him every five seconds. Tried being the keyword.
Because he had that one look—the one where his brows scrunched slightly when he was fake-annoyed but secretly amused.
By the fourth round, I was so sure I'd used up all my luck.
Then the teacher read out, "G-59."
And guess whose square it was again?
I didn't even mark it. I just looked up slowly, met his gaze across the table, and raised a single eyebrow.
His jaw dropped.
"No. No way."
I bit my lip, fighting the biggest smile. "Want to check my board again, Mr. Suspicious?"
He leaned forward this time, way too close for my heart rate to behave properly, and scanned my bingo sheet like it held secrets of the universe.
"It's not fair," he whispered, eyes narrowed. "You have bingo privilege."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said with mock sympathy. "Would you like me to lose on purpose?"
He looked right at me—deadpan—and said, "I'd like you to stop flirting with the universe to win, actually."
I blinked. Wait. Did he just say—
Before I could react, he leaned back with a smirk. "But you can keep flirting with me. Might boost my luck."
My brain stuttered.
Excuse me, sir??
My pencil slipped out of my hand. He laughed under his breath.
I hated that I liked that sound way too much.
But I had a comeback locked and loaded. "I thought I was your bhn, remember?"
His smirk disappeared for a second—one delicious, glorious second.
Then he smiled.
"Yeah. And you're the most annoying one I've got."
He didn't look away when he said it.
Neither did I.
To Be Continued... maybe.
(Or maybe it stayed there, suspended in one of those teenage moments where everything means something, but no one says a word.)