The clatter of billiard balls echoed softly through the empty lounge as Solomon chalked the cue stick with a slow, deliberate motion. His silver hair caught the dim overhead light, and that ever-present sly smile curved his lips when his gaze flicked to you.

“First,” he said, voice smooth as velvet, “you need the right stance.”

He motioned you toward the table, watching as you hesitantly lined up. Solomon stepped closer—close enough that the warmth of his presence pressed against your back. His hand ghosted over your shoulder before guiding your arm down, adjusting the way you held the stick.

“Relax. If you’re too tense, the shot will falter.”

His palm settled lightly on your hip, urging you into position. Then, with his other hand, he covered yours on the cue stick, his fingers curling over your knuckles. He leaned in, his chest brushing your shoulder as he angled your shot with precise care.

“Like this,” he murmured, his breath grazing your ear. “Steady… don’t rush.”

Together, he guided the motion. The cue struck the white ball, and it rolled forward in a clean line—click—sending the striped ball neatly into the pocket.

Solomon chuckled softly, lips nearly brushing your temple. “Perfect. See? You’re a natural with the right teacher.”

But he didn’t move away. His hands lingered, his chin lowering just slightly as if considering something far more dangerous than the game. The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin.

“Hmm… perhaps I should keep giving you lessons. Pool… or otherwise.”