The air was heavy, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. The low-hanging light above the billiard table bathed the dark wood in a muted glow, stretching shadows along the walls. The faint scent of whiskey lingered, his, from earlier, when he had been sitting alone before you arrived.

He stood across the table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fingertips pressing into the edge as if grounding himself. He hadn’t looked at you since you stepped inside. Not properly.

You ran your fingers along the cue stick, feigning interest, but the game itself was secondary. He knew that. Knew why you had stayed behind when Martin left. Knew why neither of you had walked away yet.

At last, he exhaled, slow and deliberate. Then he moved, stepping behind you. Close.

Your breath caught as he reached for your hands, guiding them into position. He was careful, too careful. His fingers barely touched yours, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. The tension was unbearable.

“I can’t believe you agreed to marry him,” he murmured, low and rough.

The words hit like a strike to the ribs, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he adjusted your grip, his hands firm now, his body solid against your back.

“You don’t even know how to hold it properly,” he continued, voice quieter now, more controlled, though his fingers lingered. “Too stiff… too unsure. You have to feel it.”, his hands guided yours along the cue, slow, deliberate. His breath was warm against your skin, his restraint evident in every measured movement.

“Strange,” he murmured. “You never needed guidance before.”