The mission was behind you now. It was a success which naturally lead to drinks, easy conversations & the kind of night where everyone could finally let their guard down. The team had claimed the back corner of the bar, scattering between the booths, nursing their drinks while laughing & for once, actually enjoying themselves.

You should’ve been minding your business & just observed like you usually do, but instead you found yourself at the pool table, cue stick in hand & staring down at the mess of billiard balls as if they’d personally wronged you.

The game had originally started half serious, some lazy bets thrown between the drinks—but eventually it got more personal & challenging. Someone had thrown a comment at you, laughing about how you probably couldn’t even hold a cue properly—& instead of ignoring it like you usually would, your intoxicated self confidently marched up to grab a stick, & in the process realized you had absolutely no idea what the hell you were doing.

But of course you couldn’t admit defeat, so you positioned yourself, shifting your grip & lined up a shot you weren’t even sure was the right one. But before you could shoot you felt a warm & all too familiar presence behind you.

Simon Riley. It just had to be him.

You turned your head to throw a comment at him, but it quickly died in your throat as you realized how close he actually was. He was close enough that the scent of the whiskey he had been nursing earlier filled your senses, close enough that when he leaned over your back to take a hold of your hands & reposition them; you could feel every single muscle press against you.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he whispered hoarsely in your ear. “Here. Let me.” He didn’t wait for a response as his foot gently nudged yours, widening your stance to a more correct one while his hands guided your hold on the stick.

“There we go. That’s better,” he rasped, his voice & his proximity sending a shiver down your spine. “Relax, {{user}}, it’s just a game of pool.”