For the first story in my series of Eclare one-shots, I thought I'd do something a little different. I hope you all like it! ;)

That stupid line on the computer screen continued to taunt me. It blinked with a steady rhythm on the far left, a whole blank row following it. The line kept egging me on to write the next word- which would lead to the next line and paragraph- of this World History paper that I'd now convinced myself was impossible. I looked over at the clock that sat beside me on the desk- 1:12 AM. And I had 360 words left to go.

Deciding to give my aching head a break, I tiptoed downstairs, being careful not to wake my sleeping parents. Maybe a can of soda would help me focus- preferably one that was caffeinated. As my bare feet made their way across the soft carpet in the dining room, I noticed a sliver of light peeking through the bottom of the kitchen door. Who could possibly be up this late? Pushing it open, I saw my father standing near the coffee maker, which sputtered and steamed promisingly.

He wore a pair of green plaid pajama bottoms and a long, grey robe, the pockets of which he had his hands shoved into as he leaned against the counter. His thick hair- that had once been nearly black and was now peppered with gray- was ruffled on the left side, as if he'd been passed out on the couch. I stepped closer across the cool marble floor as he continued to stare blankly.

"What are you doing up so late?" I asked quietly through the silence, trying not to startle him. Still, he jumped slightly as his head snapped toward me, green eyes wide. Within a second, I could see his shocked expression fade into relief.

"Marathon on the Automobile Network," he said, almost embarrassed. "Vintage Hour isn't until three." I nodded, opening the fridge in search of a Coke. "I could ask you the same thing, Aud. Isn't it a school night?"

"Yup," I said, leaning so far forward my nose almost touched a carton of eggs. "Which is why I need to get my paper done." I resurfaced with a can in my hand.

"Having trouble with a paper?" he asked, crossing his arms. "That doesn't sound like you."

"It's a history paper."

"Ah." He smiled knowingly. "You're more of the creative type. Like your mother." I rolled my eyes as I walked past him to get a glass from the cupboard, but as soon as my back was to his, I smiled a little in spite of myself. Writing was something I was proud to have in common with my mom. I stood on my toes to reach a long glass on the top shelf and, after plucking it, made my way back to where I'd come in.

As I pushed open the door, I mumbled something about getting back to work to my father, who took me a little by surprise when, after a beat, he called, "Hey, hold on a minute."

"What?" I asked without turning around, aware of the ticking grandfather clock in the living room, which was getting ready to chime at the bottom of the hour.

He stepped behind me, touching my shoulder as a cue to turn around. "First of all," he began, taking the soda and cup from my hands, "this is no way to stay awake when pulling an all-nighter. Trust me, black coffee is rule number one."

"And what is rule number two, if you're the expert?" I swung at his arms in an attempt to get my drink back, but he set it on the counter. Instead of responding, he poured two cups of coffee and handed me one.

"Do you know how to play poker?" he asked simply. I just looked at him, trying to figure out if it was a serious question. Before I could answer, he spun on his heel and walked over to the small kitchen table, gesturing for me to sit across from him. He reached into the basket in the middle, pulling out a deck of cards that I'd never known were there.

"No, Dad, I don't know how to play poker," I finally answered his question. He smirked, already shuffling.

"Which is why I'm going to teach you."

"Right now? But my paper—"

"Won't get anywhere until you take some time off," he finished for me. I sat down hesitantly. The clock was chiming 1:30, and I wondered how long I'd be sitting in this chair. "Did you know that, before we moved to Toronto, your grandpa and I used to play poker every Friday night?"

I hadn't known that, actually. "Really. Every Friday night?"

He chuckled. "That's right. And then I turned sixteen."

"Mmm," I replied, answering my previous unspoken question; we were going to be there awhile. "So, how do you start?"

We played for another good hour. There wasn't much to be heard other than the shuffling of cards and cereal pieces we used as chips— we just enjoyed each other's company in the quiet of night. That's how we easily heard footsteps on the staircase, a tired, clumsy trot. My mother came in then, clad in a modest floral nightgown, her curly, shoulder-length hair awry. She didn't even seem to notice she wasn't alone in the kitchen as she shuffled in and rifled through the bottom of the bread drawer, eventually pulling out a half-eaten candy bar. My dad and I giggled quietly as her back was turned to us.

"What'cha got there, honey?" my dad asked. She spun around much like he had earlier that night, except she threw her back against the refrigerator, one hand to her chest. Her ice-blue eyes that were identical to my own were like perfect spheres popping from her head, and her small, pink lips formed a tiny "o." Dad and I couldn't hold in our laughter any longer.

Mom's cheeks blushed deeply as she said, "What are you two doing down here so late?"

"Just taking a little study break," he told her, winking at me. She crossed her arms, cocking her head to the side.

"Well it's going to have to be cut short," she said with authority, though it was hard to take her seriously in that moment. My dad rose from his seat, walking slowly toward her as she continued. "Both of you are going to be so tired tomorrow and you know I have to be to work early and what if I can't get Auden up in time for school—"

"Then I'll handle it." With that, he took her sharply angled elbows in his hands, kissing her forehead delicately. She blushed again, beaming as she looked up to meet his eyes.

"Don't you always?" She kissed him on the cheek before shuffling back up to her room. I winced, but just barely.

My father and I agreed to finish our game and then call it a night, since he was already letting me win anyway. He shuffled and dealt the cards distractedly, obviously thinking of something else. Still, we continued in complete silence. Just before he was about to pick up his hand, he looked at me with a dreamy expression and his crooked mouth— my crooked mouth— curved up at the ends.

"Auden, I am still so in love with your mother," he told me simply, then went on to scan his cards.

Right then I knew that I was nowhere near understanding what there was between my parents. All I knew was that it was something really special, something words couldn't begin to describe. And that, whatever it was, I hoped to have it someday.