You hate him.

You hate the way he smiles like he already knows what you’re going to say.

You especially hate that somehow, every goddamn time you walk into this bar, Jace Hyun is already at the pool table—grinning like the smug bastard he is.

Tonight, you didn’t even make it to the bar before he spotted you.

“Well, well,” Jace drawls, cue stick resting on his shoulder like a weapon. “Look who finally showed up. I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

“I was.”

He laughs. “Brutal. But not surprising. You do tend to run when things get… hard.”

You cross your arms, stare him down. “The only thing getting hard right now is your ego.”

He leans against the table, tilting his head. “Wanna come over here and bruise it?”

You roll your eyes and snatch a cue stick from the rack. “Fine. One game. I beat you, you shut up for the rest of the night.”

“If I win,” he says, stepping in close, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, “you admit you’ve been dying to get your hands on my—”

“Don’t say balls.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grins, already racking them up. “Though for the record, mine are very well-polished.”

You mumble something under your breath. He winks like he heard it anyway. The table’s set. The tension is already thick enough to choke on.

He gestures. “Ladies first. Unless you’re scared you’ll choke.”

You shove past him and line up your shot. His eyes are on you like a spotlight. Heat crawls up your neck, but you focus. You break the formation clean, sink one, then miss the second.

Jace whistles low. “Nice grip. Solid form. But you’re holding the cue all wrong.”

You ignore him. “I’m not here for tips.”

“You sure? I give great hands-on instruction.”

You turn to glare at him. “Back off, Romeo. This isn’t foreplay.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You’re already panting.”

You are not panting. You’re fuming. Entirely different thing.

“You’re the most irritating person I’ve ever met.”

“And yet,” he says, walking around the table with calculated ease, “you keep showing up.”

He leans down for his shot, shirt stretching across his back just enough to make your eyes flicker. Damn it. He’s doing it on purpose. He sinks two balls like it’s nothing.

“Still looking at my balls, huh?” he murmurs, not even glancing at you.

“Still making jokes about them, huh?”

He straightens, cue stick balanced between his hands. “It’s hard not to, when you keep giving them so much attention.”

You step up beside him, eyes narrowed. “You’re disgusting.”

He leans in. “You’re distracted.”

You shoot—and miss. Again.

He clicks his tongue. “Told you. Bad form. Here—” His hand wraps around yours, guiding your grip. “See? You need to hold the cue firm, but not tight. Just enough to control it… like this.”

You should pull away. You should. But your pulse stutters at the closeness, the heat of his breath against your ear. The slow, deliberate way his hand moves yours along the cue.

“Gotta say,” he murmurs, “you’ve got a nice grip. Real confident. Think you could handle… my cue stick just as well?”

You snort. “What are you, twelve?”

“Just asking. It’s a valid skill assessment.”

You twist your head toward him, lips inches from his. “This is the part where I shove this cue down your throat.”

“Is that a threat or foreplay?”

You pull back fast, heart slamming in your chest, and move to the other side of the table.

He watches you go, all lazy amusement and infuriating charm.

You take your next shot. Sink two balls clean.

His smile fades just a little.

“Oh, baby,” you say sweetly, “looks like your balls aren’t the only thing getting handled tonight.”

He chokes on his laugh.

And then he tilts his head, grinning like a cat with a mouse between its paws, and asks—

“Tell me the truth—how long have you wanted me to bend you over this table?”