Her back meets the wall. He stops close, not touching her, but close enough that it’s obvious he isn’t moving anytime soon. The pool cue in his hand comes up almost absentmindedly, the tip resting against the wall beside her head. Denim shorts with slightly frayed edges, an orange camisole that fits without trying too hard, her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail with loose strands framing her face under the dim lights—he takes it in without rushing. She looks up at him, and the first thing he notices is that she doesn’t hesitate. No flicker of uncertainty, no awkwardness—just a steady, unimpressed look, like he’s mildly inconveniencing her at best. “Move, Hayden,” she says, calm and flat. His mouth pulls slightly to one side, not quite a smile, just a reaction he doesn’t bother hiding. “Give me a second, Leighton darling,” he replies just as casually, and doesn’t move. Instead, his gaze drifts over her again, slower this time, not obvious, just deliberate. She doesn’t shrink under it; if anything, her posture stays the same—shoulders against the wall, chin tilted just enough to meet his eyes. “You were in the way,” he adds, like that settles it. Her brows draw together, not confused—just unimpressed. “I was already standing there. You’re the one who walked into me.” There’s no hesitation in her voice, and that earns a quiet breath of amusement from him. “Yeah?” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Then you’ve got bad timing.” She exhales, dry, almost a laugh. “Or you’ve got bad aim.” He shifts his weight onto one leg and pushes his leg between her thighs slightly— only enough to tease. She doesn’t try to move past him—that’s what stands out. His eyes linger on her face a second longer than necessary— beautiful. “You always argue like this?” he asks. “Only when someone’s being annoying,” she replies without missing a beat, pulling a quiet huff of amusement out of him. “Good to know.” He becomes aware of the distance between them in a factual way, close enough that even a small shift would close it entirely, close enough that he catches a faint floral scent when she moves, something light, like lilies. He doesn’t think about why he notices. His gaze drops briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes, then back down to her gorgeous tits pushed up and slightly straining against the fabric of the cami. He wonders whether or not she wears. Or is she wearing one now? Fuck. His eyes move from her breasts to her face, slow enough that it isn’t accidental, and she catches it immediately. Her eyes narrow. “Done ogling?” There’s a challenge in it now. That almost makes him smile properly. “Not really,” he says, straightening just slightly, easing his stance—but still not moving out of her way. Not yet.