You lean over the pool table, squinting down the cue like it’s some kind of sniper rifle. The neon bar lights give everything a soft glow, painting Dean in gold and green. He’s watching you from behind with that smug smirk, the one he knows drives you insane.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping in close enough that you feel the heat of his chest on your back, “you’re gripping the cue like you’re about to stab someone. Loosen up a little.”

“I am about to stab someone,” you grumble, eyeing him sideways. “You’ve sunk five balls already and I haven’t even hit one.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re distracted,” he teases, guiding your hands gently. “Not your fault, really. I mean, I am hard to ignore.”

You huff a laugh, but you don’t pull away when he adjusts your stance— one arm around your waist, the other ghosting down your arm to help align your shot. You can smell his cologne, feel his breath at your ear.

“Like this,” he says, voice low. “Line up your shot… steady…” His hand wraps around yours, guiding the cue slowly, deliberately, like he’s in no rush at all.