The door creaks as you step into the dimly lit pub, the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke clinging to the air. It’s nearly empty, save for a few regulars hunched over their drinks, but you spot him instantly—Malakai, standing by the snooker table, cue in hand, effortlessly sinking shot after shot like it’s muscle memory.

He’s been avoiding you for a week now. Ever since that night. The argument. The moment you said something—something too sharp, too true—that struck a nerve beneath all his carefully constructed walls. Maybe it was about his father. Maybe it was about the way he pushes people away before they can leave on their own. Maybe it was about how, for all his cold detachment, you see right through him. Whatever it was, he left without a word, and you haven't heard from him since.

He notices you the second you walk in—you can tell by the slight flicker of recognition in his eyes, the smallest shift in the way he holds himself. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Just leans over the table, lines up his next shot, and sinks the ball with a quiet thunk. Perfect. Effortless. Detached.

He plays like he doesn’t care. Like you aren’t standing there, watching him. Like nothing happened.

But you know better.