She pushed the mug toward me once it was ready, her voice low. “Don’t tell anyone I made you this.”
I almost smiled. “Would ruin your reputation?”
She gave me a flat look. “Completely.”
I took a sip of the milk. It was warm and a little sweet, surprisingly perfect. “Thanks for this, by the way. You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, “You looked like you needed it.”
There was a pause, then she tilted her head toward the cupboard. “You want some cookies too? I think we’ve got chocolate chip or whatever weird flavors in here.”
“Chocolate chip sounds dangerously good right now.”
She pulled out a tin from the cupboard and slid it toward me. “Help yourself.”
I took one, still clutching the mug in my other hand. “Thanks. You’re surprisingly decent at midnight hospitality.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She took one too, she grabbed the whole tin and poured herself a cup of milk like it was the most natural thing in the world. There was something oddly domestic about it, the two of us standing there barefoot in the kitchen, sharing cookies and warm milk like it wasn’t the middle of the night in some sprawling estate.
A beat passed before she asked, casually, “You play billiards?”
I hesitated. “I mean... yeah. A bit. Here and there.” I honestly don’t.
She narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. “Right. ‘Here and there.’”
“I’m athletic,” I said, feigning confidence. “How hard could it be?”
She raised an eyebrow, her mouth twitching. “Dangerous words, Smythe.”
Something was teasing in her tone, but edged with a challenge that sent a spark down my spine.
“Come on, guest speaker,” she said, voice low and amused. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I stared at her. “...Now?”
She was already walking out of the kitchen, cookie tin in hand, her hips swaying just enough to make it unfair. “Unless you’re scared.”
I sighed, picked up my mug, and followed. “I’m not scared. I’m just conserving energy.”
She glanced over her shoulder, that maddening smirk curving her lips. “Sure,” she said. “Let’s call it that.”
Her eyes met mine for a split second, something playful flickering there, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if we were still talking about pool.
In the room, Alex racked up a fresh game with an annoying sort of confidence, twirling her cue like she was born holding it. I stood there, trying to remember anything useful from the one time I played at a pub years ago, and promptly forgot everything the moment she looked at me.
“Right,” I said, squinting at the table. “So I just... hit it in?”
“You lied to me,” she said, grinning. “Just straight to my face.”
I feigned innocence. “I bent the truth. For hospitality.”
“You said you played billiards.”
“I didn’t say I was good at it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Right. So what you meant was, you once stood near a pool table and watched someone else play.”
