Author's Note: No prompt this time. Rated T.

/

Luke walks downstairs and joins Lorelai in the kitchen who's seated at the table. "Okay, that has to sit for at least 90 minutes, and then we can test it."

"Thanks babe," she says through a mouth full of pop-tarts, "I know that the third time you've fixed the whatchamacallit this year." She'd been forced to hold off all serious - expensive - repairs around the house while working to open the Dragonfly, so this was not a surprise.

"I don't mind. Though, if it breaks again, you'll probably have to replace it." He eyes her with feigned disgust when she brushes the crumbs onto the floor. She couldn't just use a plate?

She mumbles something that sounds like "I figured," more crumbs hit the table only to be redirected to the floor. Then with a flirty smile she asks, "What do you want to do to kill the time?"

Luke ducks his head and bites his lip a bit, thinking of what he'd like to do to pass the time but he's not sure if that's what she was proposing. They were still new enough that he wasn't sure if Lorelai was just teasing or if she was actually offering some afternoon intimacy.

Meeting her eyes and tapping his fingers on the table, "Um, beer?"

"Sure," she hops up and snags two bottles from the fridge and spots a deck of cards in the drawer buried under the bottle opener and other miscellaneous utensils, "Annand, poker!"

"Poker?" He grins recalling the last time they played poker. They were in the Diner watching Sookie and Jackson overcome their first-date awkwardness. Now, Sookie and Jackson are married with a kid - did Lorelai say that Sookie was pregnant again? - and he and Lorelai are dating. And it was going well, very well.

"Yea, strip poker," wiggling her brows and returning to her chair.

"It's 3 in the afternoon," he counters.

"Your point?" But she huffs, "fine, just regular poker," at his pointed look and starts to shuffle the deck.

"Here, deal." She passes him the cards.

He shuffles the deck once more and deals five cards to each. She flicks the top of each card as she organizes them in her hand, huffs, then places three face down on the table, "Three."

He takes a moment to look at his hand, two Jacks, 9, 8, and 4. He places his three number cards down on hers, sweeps them to the bottom of the deck, and deals three more out to both of them.

He works to keep a straight face; early luck has granted him a third Jack.

"Whatcha got?" He looks at her and she's barely containing a grin.

"Read 'em and weep!" He sees her pair of Queens and finally likes his lips curl in a smile.

"Tears of victory maybe," he fans his cards down, "three Jacks."

"Noooo!" She cries gravely, as if it's the worst defeat of her life.

"Ha!"

Wagging a finger in his face, "You cheated!"

"How?" He laughs and scoops up the cards.

"I don't know, but you did."

He starts to shuffle the deck. "I didn't cheat."

"Fine, fine, you didn't cheat, but you didn't bet anything either, so you lost there, mister." She taunts as if she's made a point and takes a swig.

He eyes her, places the deck in front of her, and mutters "Shirt."

She chokes on her beer. "Wha.." She heard him, but needs him to repeat it.

"Your shirt," he repeats confidently, "that's my bet." He pauses to gauge her reaction, but he doesn't need to be anxious, her wide-eyes quickly glaze over with amusement and little defiance. "That is, unless you are a sore loser."

She can't believe he actually doubled down rather than trying to pretend he said "cut" or something. I should be used to this side of him by now, I guess. She'd had a hard time adjusting to dating-Luke's surprising audaciousness. He has not only tolerated all her movies and shows, middle of the night pie demands, mild PDA, and frequent dirty jokes at his expense, but he is equally bold. More than once they've nearly been caught kissing - making out really - in the Diner's storage room by customers passing on the way to the bathroom after he's pushed around the corner. He flirts with her in the Diner, matching her innuendoes, when no one is within earshot. And even once he participated in a dirty late-night phone call, bringing her to the edge with his husky, gravelly voice and following her over seconds later.

"I'm NOT a sore loser," she plays with the hem of her shirt, lifting it slightly to flash the underside of her breasts, "but," she pulls it down, covering her stomach once again, "we didn't bet items of clothing before we exchanged cards and that's when bets are placed in strip poker."

"Oh come on," he scoffs and his back his the back of the chair, "that's not the rule - loser strips - that's the rule." He takes a drink of his beer, his ears turning red in a slight embarrassment, "Besides, strip poker was your idea and now you're chickening out." He knows he's being a bit childish, but sometimes play yard taunts work with Lorelai.

"Ugh," she's incredulous now, "I am not chickening out, but if you want this shirt on the floor, either you have to bet on the next hand or" wiggling her brows again, "come take it."

He doesn't answer, and just deals their five cards.

He's got 2, 3, 6, 10, and Ace, mismatched suits. Shit hand. He she's her biting her lip, trying so hard to hide her smile. Damn, she must have a good hand. I'm gonna lose more than my hat on this hand.

"One," she meets his eyes with a big grin as she pushes a single, face-down card his way.

Yup, I'm screwed. He takes a deep breath, stealing himself for his next move. He drops his cards and stands up from his chair.

"Luke, what are you doing?" He's standing right next to her now, reaching towards her with his eyes narrowed.

"Taking it." He mutters as he roughly pulls her up from her chair, lifting her shirt in the process. His lips are on hers - hard - before it hits the floor. She moans and wraps her arms around him. Their heads tilt, tongues meet, and he turns her around, pushing her onto the table.

She pulls back to breathe and mutter "Smart man," before she leans back in.