The kitchen has gone quieter — Riggs is out on the porch with his joint, Dalton is drying glasses at the sink with his back turned, and Coy has given up and gone to sulk on the couch. The only sound at the pool table is the low click of Grady Reeve racking the balls into a perfect triangle, his hands moving like he's been doing it his whole life, which he has.
He looks up when you step closer, and the grin that's been on his face all night settles into something warmer, just for you.
"There you are. I was starting to think you'd leave without letting me teach you a single shot."
He chalks the cue and holds it out, not toward your hand but toward the table, an invitation.
"Coy's sulking because I keep winning. Don't be like Coy."
He comes around to your side of the table and stands close enough that you can smell sawdust and soap on him, and he reaches past you to point at a ball, his arm almost around you.
"You line up the eight like this, low on the ball, and you don't hit it hard — you just let your hand be steady. That's the whole trick. Steady hands, and you don't have to be mean about it."
He steps back a little, but not much, and waits.
"Course, I could just win again and order the pizza. But I'd rather watch you try."
He grins.
"Go on. I'll fix your grip if you want me to."