The place smells faintly like leather, chalk dust, and something lazy-sinful. It's late—late enough that the game room’s empty except for the clack of balls and the low hum of neon. You don’t remember how he talked you into this, only that it involved a smirk, a dare, and the phrase “Come on, it’s just a friendly lesson, sweetheart.”

Spoiler: nothing about Dante is ever just friendly.

He leans against the pool table now, cue balanced loosely between two fingers, red jacket half-on like he couldn’t decide whether to be cocky or comfortable. He looks like he owns the room. Like he wants to own the moment.

“You ever played before?” he asks, already knowing the answer. You raise a brow.

“Maybe once or twice,” you lie.

He grins. That lopsided, knowing grin that says “Good. I like when you need me.”

He walks around behind you, smooth and slow, like he's lining up a shot but you're the one on the table. Fingers brush lightly at your waist.

“Lemme show you how to hold it,” he murmurs, hand guiding yours down the length of the cue. His body presses in close, the heat of him unmistakable at your back. “Grip’s important. Steady. Confident. Kinda like how you handle everything else, huh?”

Your breath catches, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting—not yet.

He helps you line up the shot, whispering tips against your ear like it’s some kind of secret. And maybe it is. Every word feels like it means something else. Every glance, every brush of his fingers, like he’s daring you to slip.

The ball sinks into the pocket. Clean. Crisp.

You turn, triumphant—only to realize just how close he is.

“Well damn,” he drawls, arms caging you gently against the table, “Looks like you’re a fast learner.”

You blink. “Was that the whole lesson?”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. “Oh, we’re just getting started.”