Dracco leans over the billiard table, cold grey eyes fixed on the shot.

He glances up briefly; she crosses her arms defiantly, and he aches to provoke her, to watch her crumble beneath him, sprawled on the table. But her small, upturned nose wrinkles, unable to bear the heavy cigar smell that clings to her clothes and dishevelled hair.

“Your turn to lose,” he murmurs, the smoke in his throat lending a rasp to his voice. He knows exactly what he's doing, knows how the words will twist in her mind, how her sweet voice will hiss at him, just as it has a hundred times before.

Her lips press into a thin line, her jaw tightening ever so slightly. She walks around the table deliberately, her dainty fingers trailing lightly along the green felt.

Confused, tangled⎯neither friends nor lovers, yet not strangers either. They break apart and come back together, always craving each other's warm embrace. It's difficult.

He straightens, leaning casually against the cue, his eyes following her every movement.

She leans over the table, positioning herself for her next shot, and for a brief moment, the man's gaze flicks down. Casual, unbothered. His eyes linger, just for a second, on the curve of her hips as she bends lower over the table. It isn't the first time he does it, and it won't be the last. He knows she notices, but she will never admit it⎯prideful, stubborn, like him. And, god help him, he loves that.

The woman takes her shot, missing by inches. The sharp crack of the cue ball echoes through the room, and a low, mocking chuckle escapes him.

“Missed again?” he stepping closer. “Having trouble focusing?”

Her hands tighten around the pool cue, knuckles whitening as she turns to face him.

Just as her lips part to curse at him for distracting her by breathing down her neck, he steps even closer, brazenly invading her space; she⎯ oh, he knows⎯ likes it. “Maybe,” he murmurs near the corner of her pink-lipped mouth, “you're just distracted... by me?” His free hand presses against the edge of the table, trapping her.