The half-empty bar had a cozy atmosphere, the kind that let you sink into the worn leather of the booths and lose track of time. The smell of old wood and the low hum of conversation wrapped around you as you and Mattheo settled into a spot near the pool table. You couldn't help but smile as you handed him a glass of firewhiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light.

“Here’s to a night off,” you said, clinking your glass against his.

Mattheo's eyes sparkled with that familiar mischievous glint, and his slight smirk made your heart skip a beat. “I’ll drink to that,” he replied, taking a sip. The firewhiskey burned warmly down your throat, matching the heat that always seemed to flicker between you two.

He set his glass down and picked up a cue, rolling it between his veiny fingers as he surveyed the table. “Think you can beat me this time?” he asked, a playful challenge in his voice.

You laughed, shaking your head. “With your reputation? Not a chance. But I’m willing to try.”

As you racked the balls, Mattheo moved closer, his presence a comforting yet electrifying constant. His cold hands brushed yours briefly, sending a shiver up your spine. He chalked his cue, eyes never leaving you, that undercurrent of intensity always there, just beneath the surface.