The laughter and music buzzed faintly from Aric’s apartment long after the group had settled into their own rhythms. Cards lay scattered on the coffee table, half-finished drinks sweating onto coasters, and an unfinished game no one was paying attention to.

Fynric sat wedged between Dorian and the arm of the couch, trying to focus on anything but the way Dorian’s thigh pressed steadily against his. It was casual—of course it was casual—but every nerve in Fynric’s body reacted as if it meant something else.

Across the room, Joren sprawled dramatically on the rug, head propped on a pillow like a king on his throne. He was midway through a story about crashing someone’s rooftop party when he suddenly cut himself off, smirking.

“Hey,” Joren said, eyes flicking between Dorian and Fynric. “You two look cozy.”

Fynric stiffened immediately, heat crawling up his neck. He opened his mouth to deny it, but Dorian beat him to it, leaning in with that infuriating grin.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dorian said smoothly, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.

Aric snorted from the armchair. “You’re going to give Fyn a heart attack one of these days.”

“Or a stroke,” Joren added helpfully, cackling.

Fynric shot them both a glare, but it only made Joren grin wider. Dorian, of course, looked completely unbothered, his hand brushing casually against Fynric’s as if daring him to pull away.

He didn’t.

---

Later That Night

The party wound down by midnight. Joren stumbled out first, still laughing at his own jokes. Aric shoved him toward the elevator with a long-suffering sigh, muttering something about babysitting. Luthien, quiet as ever, lingered behind, tucking his sketchbook under one arm.

“Goodnight,” Luthien said softly, his hazel eyes flicking briefly between Fynric and Dorian. His voice carried that same cryptic calm as always. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Fynric felt a shiver at the way he said it, though he couldn’t explain why.

By the time the others were gone, it was just him and Dorian left in the apartment. The silence was thick, broken only by the faint hum of music still playing from Aric’s speakers.

Dorian leaned back on the couch, stretching, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. His green eyes locked on Fynric.

“Want another drink?” Dorian asked lazily, already reaching for the bottle.

Fynric shook his head. “I should head home.”

“Mm.” Dorian poured himself another anyway, swirling the liquid thoughtfully. “Always running, huh?”

Fynric frowned. “I’m not running.”

Dorian’s lips curved into a half-smile, sharp and knowing. “Then stay.”

The word landed heavy between them. Stay.

Fynric’s heart stuttered. He knew Dorian was teasing—he was always teasing—but something about the way his voice dipped lower, rougher, made the air feel charged.

“I… can’t,” Fynric said quietly, though his body betrayed him by staying exactly where it was.

Dorian studied him for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he leaned forward, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. His arm slid across the back of the couch, and suddenly Fynric was caged in, heat radiating off Dorian in waves.

“You sure about that?” Dorian murmured, his breath warm against Fynric’s ear.

Fynric swallowed hard. His pulse thundered in his throat. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to defuse the tension—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, his gaze flicked to Dorian’s mouth, just for a second, and that was all it took.

Dorian noticed.

Of course he noticed.

---

The Almost

The air crackled between them, heavier than it had ever been. Dorian’s hand brushed lightly against Fynric’s jaw, fingers barely grazing skin. It was the same touch as last night—soft, testing—but this time he didn’t pull away.

Fynric’s breath hitched, his body leaning in despite every protest his mind tried to form.

“Dorian…” His voice was barely a whisper.

“Yeah?” Dorian’s lips curled in a slow, wicked smile, but his eyes burned with something deeper, something that stripped away the joke.

Fynric’s throat went dry. He should’ve said stop. He should’ve moved. Instead, his body betrayed him again, inching closer, caught in the gravity that was Dorian.

Their lips hovered a breath apart—one more second, and the line would break.

But then—

The front door swung open with a loud creak.

“Forgot my damn phone—” Aric’s voice cut in, followed by his footsteps.

Fynric practically leapt off the couch, heart racing, as if he’d been burned. Dorian leaned back slowly, smirking even as his eyes darkened with frustration.

“Smooth,” Dorian drawled under his breath.

Fynric avoided his gaze, pretending to adjust his shirt. His chest felt too tight, his skin still buzzing where Dorian had touched him.

Aric reappeared with his phone in hand, raising a brow at the tension thick in the room. “Uh-huh. What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” Fynric said too quickly.

“Everything,” Dorian said at the exact same time.

Aric blinked, then smirked knowingly. “Right. Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He left again with a wave.

The door clicked shut, and silence fell once more.

Fynric stood awkwardly, grabbing his jacket. “I—I should go.”

Dorian tilted his head, watching him with an unreadable expression. “Yeah. You should.”

But there was something in his tone, low and edged, that promised this wasn’t over. Not even close.

---

Back Home

Fynric collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, his heart still hammering. He pressed his hands over his face, groaning.

This was getting dangerous.

He had spent years telling himself Dorian’s flirting was harmless, just his way of teasing. But tonight, there had been no mistaking it. That wasn’t just a game.

And worse—Fynric had wanted it.

He rolled onto his side, restless. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the way Dorian had looked at him—hungry, unguarded. He felt the ghost of his touch, the warmth of his breath.

Fynric cursed under his breath. This couldn’t keep happening. He couldn’t afford to cross that line.

But his body, traitorous and aching, whispered that he already had.

---

The Next Day

Morning light spilled into the café where Fynric worked part-time. The smell of coffee and baked goods filled the air, a comfort he desperately needed.

He was wiping down the counter when the bell above the door chimed.

Of course.

Dorian strolled in, casual as ever, sunglasses perched on his head and a grin that screamed trouble.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dorian drawled, leaning against the counter. “You look like hell.”

Fynric glared. “Thanks.”

Dorian chuckled, unbothered. “Rough night?”

Fynric’s cheeks burned. He busied himself with the rag, refusing to meet his eyes. “What do you want, Dorian?”

“You, obviously.” The words came so easily, so shamelessly, that Fynric nearly dropped the rag.

Dorian smirked, leaning closer across the counter. “Relax. Coffee’ll do for now.”

Fynric exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus. But deep down, he knew one thing for certain:

The line between them wasn’t just blurring anymore.

It was breaking.