Laughter and jeering blurred in the background at the bartop, the air smelled of tobacco and hard liquor. Dean himself smelled the same, albeit with the lingering scent of gunpowder.

Before you is the circular target of a dartboard. Black and cream white that has turned a bit of a dull yellow from discoloration. Little red and green markers marking the rows of what to hit, where to hit, and unfortunately none of them told you how to hit.

Dean had somehow coerced you to try darts with him in the bar. After much debate you give in, because if Dean had whiskey in his system, he could not be dissuaded. You’ve never done this before—you certainly won’t hit a bullseye and you may in fact hit someone else in the eye.

Dean makes three easy shots, a bullseye and two almost-bullseyes. He sucks in a breath making a long whistle at his own show of skill. Then takes a swig of his drink to really make a show of his nonchalance.

He plucks the darts out from the board and thrusts them into your hands. It’s pretty clear you doubt your own skills (and reasonably so). Dean supposes he’ll be your training wheels. He didn’t have the heart to let you crash and burn and learn your lesson. “Here. Lemme show ya.” He decides and sets a single dart into your hand discarding the others atop the nearby table.

He takes a final swig of his whiskey like a melancholic goodbye and moves to stand behind you and lines you up. He reaches over your arm to your hand so he can adjust your fingers to hold the dart correctly and not like a toddler with it’s first crayon.

“Just…hold it like this.” His warm whiskey scented breath fans over your neck as he instructs you, “Don’t overthink it. Hit it head-on.” He makes it sound so easy.

It’s become increasingly difficult to focus on the target and not how much space (or lack thereof) is left between you two. “If it helps, imagine my face is on the target.” He jests.