Chronos shot Pete a look—quick, sidelong, with a raised eyebrow. "Betting?"

"Nope." Pete cleared his throat. "Not betting."

"Such a killjoy," Sarah sighed.

Pete’s eyebrow twitched. "Are you drunk?"

Sarah picked up a small glass from the tray and downed it in one single motion. She set the glass on the table with a definitive click.

"Nope. Got a pretty high tolerance."

Then, not long after, Chronos scrunched his nose. It was a subtle, involuntary reaction that might pass for a sneeze in the making.

But then his jawline tightened. His hand moved to cover his stomach. The color on his cheeks gradually drained of color.

Sarah’s unconscious leak of floral pheromones after the shot wasn’t strong by alpha standards. It was just a faint, sweet scent that would quickly be filtered by the pheromone filtration device in the ventilation system.

But Chronos was so sensitive, he could instantly smell it. His face went a shade paler, the tendons in his neck drawing taut.

Pete noticed immediately.

He became sharp and alert as he leaned forward to ask, "Are you okay?"

Chronos looked at him with an unreadable expression, but he didn’t answer.

Pete’s brow furrowed, and he made a wild guess. "I told you not to eat too much of the same thing."

It wasn’t the cookies. Chronos complained in his mind.

But he couldn’t really explain what it actually was, especially not now.

Chronos shook his head.

"Excuse me." He said as he stood up, acting naturally, if not for the fact that he did it too fast.

Pete half-rose from his seat, asking with concern. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Chronos shook his head again without turning around. "No. I can manage."

"You sure?"

The pause before Chronos’s response lasted one beat too long. "I’ll go now."

He walked toward the corridor that led to the second floor, his steps measured and even. And then he disappeared around the corner without looking back.

Pete watched the empty doorway for a long moment. His fingers tapped once against the table, and then he settled back into his chair.

Although he was really concerned, he also wanted to respect Chronos’s decisions.

Sarah glanced between Pete and the corridor. For once, she kept her mouth shut.

The awkward silence didn’t last for long when a sharp crack of a cue ball striking its target was heard.

The flirting time had its moments.

Whether it was the weird competitive energy or simply the realization that they had been making everyone at the side table uncomfortable over time, the two couples seemed to reach an unspoken agreement to actually play pool for real.

The change was almost instant; one moment, Grayson was murmuring something against Neville’s ear. Next, he was studying the table layout, planning his next moves.

Bryan and Iris also fell into a rhythm.

Bryan handled the cue smoothly, while Iris moved around the table like someone who had played enough games to know exactly how much force to apply and at what angle.

Her dark violet bob swung forward each time she leaned down to aim. She blew it out of her face with a sharp puff of air.

But the real show was Neville.

For the first several shots, he played conservatively—clean, competent, good enough to show that he really knew how to play the game.

Then Iris made her move.

She saw that her angle on the seven ball was garbage. The pocket was hidden by the eight ball sitting fat and smug right in front of it.

Rather than waste the attempt, she played smart. Her cue struck low on the cue ball with a controlled draw.

She sent it rolling gently behind the eight ball, nestling in so tight that whoever came next would have to deal with it.

A safety shot. Clean, deliberate, and annoying.

Sarah leaned forward on her elbows. "Ooh, dirty."

Pete, who had refocused his attention on the game, tilted his head. "Solid positioning. She’s blocking the line to the corner."

Julius said nothing, picked up a cookie, and ate it.

Neville stood at the head of the table, his eyes scanning the layout. The cue rested against his shoulder. He looked at every angle, considering how he would deal with this problem.

Then something changed.

Neville slightly straightened his spine, adjusted the way his fingers wrapped around the cue’s grip.

He bent over the table.

Not over the eight ball nor anywhere near it.

Neville aimed at the far rail.

Bryan, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "He’s not going for it."

"He is," Grayson said, not looking away from Neville.

The cue struck, and the cue ball kissed off the rail at a sharp angle. It moved swiftly across the felt, clipped the edge of Neville’s target ball with a delicate kiss shot that transferred just enough momentum.

The target ball rolled across the green and dropped into the side pocket with a soft thunk.

The table went still.

Sarah’s jaw dropped. Pete’s eyebrows rise. Bryan uncrossed his arms. Iris, who had orchestrated the safety shot specifically to prevent this exact outcome, stared at the pocket.

"What the—" Sarah started.

"Bank shot with a kiss," Julius commented. "Clean contact. Good side spin on the cue ball."

Grayson’s expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes clearly conveyed how proud he was of Neville. His lips curled upward.

Neville straightened up and chalked the tip of his cue nonchalantly. He didn’t look anywhere else, just threw a quick glance at Grayson at the corner of his eye.

He showed a satisfied curl on his lips that said more than any victory speech.

The next shot was worse. Or better, depending on which side you were rooting for.

The cue ball had ended up in what anyone with basic pool knowledge would classify as a garbage position. It hemmed in near the rail at an angle that made any direct shot quite laughable.

Neville circled the table once, twice, his fingers trailing along the edge of the table as he calculated the angles.

Then, he stopped and bent down.

And hit a four-rail kick shot.