Sam

The clock showed half past twelve at night.

Sam was already lying in bed, scrolling through something on his phone, when the bedroom door swung open with a bang.

"Sssss!" You burst into the room, shining like a polished samovar. "Sam, are you awake?"

“Not anymore,” he chuckled, putting the phone aside. “What kind of special operation is this?”

• Look!

You pulled the box of Uno cards from behind your back with a victorious look and waved it in front of his nose.

— Remember? We haven't played for ages! Come on!

"Now?" He raised an eyebrow. "It's nighttime."

"So what?" You jumped onto the bed, sitting cross-legged. "You're not sleeping. I'm not sleeping. Perfect conditions!"

— The conditions are such that tomorrow we both walk around as zombies.

— Sam! — you made puppy eyes. — Please! One batch! Just a smaaall one!

He looked at you. At your shining eyes, at your disheveled hair, at that stupid box in your hands. And he couldn't help but smile.

• You are unbearable.

“I know!” you beamed. “So, do you agree?”

"Agreed," he sighed, sitting down next to her. "But if I win, you wash the dishes for a week."

• And if I win, you give me a back massage every evening.

• It's coming.

He picked up the cards and deftly shuffled the deck. His fingers moved quickly, habitually—clearly not for the first time in his life.

• Hand it out, champion.

You were playing. Laughing, teasing each other, cheating, and then getting caught right away. Sam would run his hand through his hair every now and then, putting on a serious face, and then he'd make a move that would make you scream and throw a pillow at him.

"That's not fair!" you protested as he placed a wild card and changed the color to one you didn't like.

"It's strategy, baby," he grinned. "Learn."