The air grows a little too heavy after that, the kind of quiet that invites overthinking. I clear my throat and nod toward the dartboard at the back of the bar.
“Wanna play darts?”
He blinks, caught off guard. “Uh—aren’t you working?”
I shrug. “I’m my own boss. I deserve a break.”
He snorts softly, then shakes his head. “I’m terrible at darts. My hand-eye coordination’s not great.”
“That so?”
“Yeah. Luke was always better at that stuff,” he adds, words tumbling out faster now. “Sports, games, anything competitive. He played football in high school.”
I squint at him. “Do you always compare yourself to your siblings like that?”
He goes quiet, shoulders drawing in slightly. “I…” He takes another sip of his beer instead of finishing the thought.
I reach out before I can overthink it, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. He stills beneath my touch.
“I can teach you,” I insist. “Come on.”
Before he can protest again, I grab his wrist and tug him off the stool, steering him toward the dartboard. He follows, beer clutched tightly in his other hand, nervous laughter trembling from his lips. I feel his eyes trained on me as I snag the darts from the ledge beneath the board.
Ashton sets his half-empty beer aside like he’s afraid it might get caught in the crossfire, then folds his arms, all attention on me.
“Feet shoulder-width apart,” I explain, planting myself at the line taped on the floor. “Elbow up. You don’t throw with your whole arm—just guide it.” I lift my forearm, wrist loose. “It’s about control, not force.”
I draw back and flick my wrist. The dart sinks neatly into the triple ring on the twenty.
Ashton lets out a low whistle. “You’re good at this.”
I grin. “Your turn.”
He hesitates, then steps up, shoulders tight, dart clenched clumsily between his fingers. He squints at the board, breath held, and throws.
The dart veers off immediately, skidding across the floor with a pathetic little clatter.
For a beat, he just stares at it.
I can’t help it. I burst out cackling, doubled over and clutching my stomach. Ashton shoves me playfully before he joins me, groaning and laughing at the same time, cheeks flushing a bright, embarrassed pink.
“Wow,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That was… humiliating.”
“Hey,” I say, still smiling. “Let’s try again. There’s still time to redeem yourself.”
He shoots me a dubious look but bends to grab another dart. He lines up again, jaw set, determination written all over him.
I step in behind him without really thinking—close enough to feel his body heat bleeding into mine, close enough to catch the scent of his shampoo, something clean and masculine with an edge of pine and cedarwood.
He stiffens immediately.
“Relax,” I murmur near his ear, my voice dropping low. “You’re all locked up.”
He swallows, throat bobbing, but doesn’t respond.
I adjust his grip gently, my fingers closing over his. “Here,” I say softly. “Loosen your wrist.” I guide his elbow higher, my chest brushing his back. “Take a breath.”
His inhale stutters, shallow and quick.
