"Every time," Pete said, who had returned to the pool table’s edge with Chronos’s remaining cookies stashed safely in his pocket, shaking his head.

Julius said nothing, but his expression had already said everything.

Chronos watched the scene blankly, still unsatisfied with his food. However, it was already taken by Pete, so he had no choice but to just drink away his unsatisfied appetite.

Neville frowned as he calmed himself down.

"Hmm?" Grayson leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching Neville with a faint, infuriating curve at the corner of his mouth. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing." He said as he snatched the cue stick from where Grayson had propped it against the table.

Grayson tilted his head as he finally turned his gaze to the table.

"That’s not right," he said.

Neville’s head snapped up. The redness on his face quickly vanished and was replaced by a flat stare.

"No," Neville said in a steady voice and leaned forward.

One hand braced on the rail, and pointed with the tip of the cue stick at the cluster of solids.

"See this? The first ball sits at roughly thirty-five degrees to the side pocket. If I cut it thin on the left, it’ll transfer just enough momentum to the second ball to push it right—which sends the third ball along the cushion and into the pocket on the natural line. Meanwhile, the cue ball draws back here."

He tapped a spot on the felt.

"Clean setup for the eight."

He straightened, met Grayson’s eyes squarely, and smiled. "Got it?"

Grayson looked at the table. Looked at Neville. Then looked at the table again with an expression saying that he already knew that.

"Hmmm," was all he said.

Neville, who was leaning over the table to demonstrate the angle, felt a warm, solid presence settle against his back.

Grayson’s hand came to rest lightly on Neville’s elbow, steadying it. His chest barely touched Neville’s shoulder blade.

To anyone watching, it would look like a boyfriend helping his partner with form—supportive, innocent, sweet.

Except that Grayson’s mouth suddenly came very close to Neville’s ear.

"Your elbow’s drifting," he said.

Then, with a voice dropping half a register, his breath ghosting across the shell of Neville’s ear. "—look forward to your punishment later."

The cue stick wobbled in Neville’s grip.

He blinked a few times before he turned his head so fast their noses almost collided.

Grayson didn’t pull back. Their faces hung close enough that Neville could see the individual flecks of silver in Grayson’s irises. Their breath mingled in the narrow gap between them.

"What did I do?" Neville whispered, genuinely bewildered.

Grayson stared back with his insufferable half-smile widening by a fraction.

Then, without saying anything, he leaned in and pressed a quick, light kiss directly onto Neville’s lips again.

"You’re getting flustered again," he said, as if that explained anything at all.

Not far from them, a collective complaining noise arose. The kind of sound a group of adults makes when they are forced to watch something they wish they hadn’t.

Sarah, who had half-demolished a plate of avoine cookies, set down her drink with an audible clunk.

"Oh my god," she said, loudly. "Stop flirting and just play the game already!"

Pete turned toward Chronos.

"Is Grayson always this..." He searched for the word, gesturing vaguely at the pool table. "Open?"

Bryan, who had overheard it, answered without looking up. "It’s his first relationship."

Pete was a little speechless. He also knew that it was Grayson’s first relationship. The problem was his unusual attitude.

Chronos, who had been sitting beside Pete, said nothing. He simply reached into Pete’s jacket pocket, sneakily taking the bag of oatmeal cookies that Pete had confiscated from him earlier, and popped one into his mouth.

"Watch and learn," Chronos said, chewing.

Bryan nodded sagely.

Pete, having just watched his confiscated cookies return to their original owner smoothly, was too appalled to continue the conversation.

He stared at Chronos’s hand, then at his own now-empty pocket, then back at Chronos’s hand.

Chronos offered him a cookie. "Want one?"

"No thanks," Pete said.

Back at the pool table, Neville heard none of this. His brain had stalled somewhere around the word "punishment" and was spinning its wheels trying to imagine every possible interpretation.

What punishment? Additional workload? Salary cut? No day-offs? Emotional punishment? Or physical punishment?

That last thought made his ears burn, forcibly erasing it from his mind. But never once did he question why he was getting a punishment.

Grayson, who seemed to understand what was going on in Neville’s mind, let out a soft exhale that might have been a laugh.

He stepped back, creating a proper distance between them, and placed one steadying hand on Neville’s shoulder.

"Focus," he said. But the gentleness in his voice was so unexpected, Neville almost went on another spiral again.

When Neville still didn’t move, Grayson lightly massaged the back of Neville’s neck with the secondary gland, sending small amounts of pheromones to calm Neville down.

"If you win this," Grayson’s tone changed, turning conspiratorial. "I can ease the punishment."

The effect was instantaneous.

Neville’s spine straightened. His eyes, which had been slightly unfocused with a dreamy sort of anxiety, snapped into sharp clarity.

The will to win burned in those ocean-blue eyes.

But Grayson intentionally ’forgot’ to mention something.

Neville didn’t know what the punishment was. So, he had no baseline for severity.

Which meant that even if Grayson "went easy" on him, Neville would have absolutely no way to verify whether the punishment had actually been reduced or if Grayson had simply done the full thing while claiming to show leniency.

It was, in Grayson’s professional opinion, an elegant piece of negotiation.

Some skills translate beautifully from the battlefield to the bedroom.

Grayson smiled victoriously and watched his little boyfriend play.

It was one of his favorite things about Neville—how quickly he could shift gears.

One moment, he was a flustered mess. The next, a razor-sharp tactician who could read a room faster than anyone.

That duality was endlessly fascinating.

Neville grabbed the chalk cube and worked it over the cue tip with short, precise rotations. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, drawing Grayson’s attention.

Then he leaned over the table, exhaled once, and went still—

The cue struck.

The crack was sharp and clean. The cue ball spun forward, caught the first target at the exact angle Neville had predicted.

The chain reaction unfolded.

The first ball kissed the second with a satisfying click; both split apart and rolled toward their respective pockets on diverging paths.

It sank with two quick, successive thuds that sounded almost like applause.

Two balls.

One shot.

Both pocketed.

The table went quiet.

Grayson raised one eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"’Kind of’?" he repeated.