You leaned over the pool table, eyes locked on the eight ball as you lined up your shot. The party buzzed around you—music pulsing, people laughing, drinks spilling—but you barely noticed.

Until he showed up.

Rafe Cameron.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he drawled, coming to stand way too close beside you.

You didn’t even glance at him. "Didn’t ask.”

Rafe smirked, watching you for a second before reaching out, adjusting your grip on the cue stick without warning. His fingers brushed against yours, slow and deliberate.

“What the hell are you doing?” you muttered, finally turning your head.

Rafe was right there, just a breath away, his expression unreadable. “Helping.”

You arched a brow. “Since when do you help anyone but yourself?”

Rafe chuckled. “Since now, apparently.”

You held his gaze, searching for whatever game he was playing. But before you could call him out on it, a familiar voice rang out from across the room.

“{{user}}!”

Topper.

Rafe smirked like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

You exhaled sharply, yanking the cue stick from his grip before sinking your shot in one clean move. Then you turned, stepping just close enough to drop your voice.

“Stay away from me, Cameron.”

Rafe grinned, unfazed. “Sure, Thornton. Whatever you say.”