The week passed in a blur. Between work, late-night meetups, and Dorian’s infuriating habit of showing up uninvited at Fynric’s door, there was little room to breathe.

It wasn’t that Fynric didn’t want him there—he did, far more than he cared to admit. But every time Dorian leaned too close, or touched him casually in public, Fynric’s heart leapt to his throat. The others already suspected. And if the wrong person noticed…

Tonight, they were all at a rooftop bar Aric had discovered. The city lights stretched out endlessly below, glittering like spilled diamonds. Music thumped low, and the air carried the tang of summer heat mixed with alcohol.

Fynric nursed his drink, leaning against the railing. The wind toyed with his hair as he let his gaze drift over the skyline. It was easier than looking at Dorian, who was across the deck, laughing too loudly at something a stranger said.

The stranger was a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, leaning in far too close.

Fynric’s stomach knotted. He told himself it didn’t matter. Dorian was free to do what he wanted. They weren’t… anything. Not officially.

But when the man’s hand brushed Dorian’s arm, lingering, something hot and sharp flared inside Fynric.

He turned away quickly, trying to drown it with another sip of his drink.

“Jealousy looks good on you,” Joren’s voice sang at his shoulder.

Fynric stiffened. “I’m not—”

“Oh, you are,” Joren cut in gleefully, propping his chin on his hand as he leaned against the railing. “Face red, grip tight on your glass, glaring like you’re about to duel. Classic jealous boyfriend energy.”

Fynric groaned. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Joren tilted his head. “Because Dorian hasn’t stopped watching you, even while fake-laughing at Mr. Muscle over there.”

Against his better judgment, Fynric glanced over.

Sure enough, Dorian’s gaze flicked to him, sharp and burning, even as he smiled at the man beside him. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before Dorian excused himself, leaving the stranger behind and cutting straight through the crowd toward Fynric.

Joren whistled low. “Aaand here comes trouble. Have fun, lovebirds.” He slipped away before Fynric could strangle him.

“Enjoying the view?” Dorian drawled, sliding up beside him. His green eyes glittered, but his jaw was tense.

Fynric forced a calm expression. “City looks nice tonight.”

Dorian leaned in, his arm brushing Fynric’s as he rested it on the railing. “Funny. Thought you were staring at me.”

Fynric’s throat tightened. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.” Dorian’s grin curved slow and dangerous. Then, after a beat, his tone dropped, edged with something darker. “You didn’t like him touching me, did you?”

Fynric’s heart stuttered. He gripped his glass tighter. “What you do is none of my business.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed, studying him with sharp intensity. Then, without warning, he leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of Fynric’s ear as he whispered, low and rough:

“You’re lying.”

Fynric’s breath hitched. The heat of Dorian’s body pressed against him, his scent—whiskey, smoke, something undeniably him—wrapping around him until the world narrowed to just the two of them.

Before he could respond, Aric’s voice cut in. “Hey, lovebirds! We’re grabbing food downstairs. You in?”

Fynric jerked back like he’d been burned, muttering something about finishing his drink. Aric smirked knowingly before disappearing down the stairs with Joren and Luthien.

That left him alone with Dorian.

Dorian didn’t move, didn’t stop watching him with that infuriating, devastating intensity. “You’re jealous, Fyn.”

Fynric’s chest tightened. “…So what if I am?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and unguarded.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Dorian’s grin spread, sharp and triumphant. “Good. Because you’re mine.”

Fynric’s eyes widened, heat rushing to his cheeks. “We’re not—”

But Dorian cut him off, closing the space between them in a single step. His hand slid around Fynric’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest.

The kiss that followed was nothing like the ones before. It was rough, claiming, filled with all the tension that had been simmering for weeks. Fynric’s knees nearly buckled as Dorian devoured him, tongue sweeping past his lips, hand fisting in his shirt like he had no intention of letting go.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Dorian pressed his forehead to Fynric’s, voice a low growl.

“Does that look like a joke to you?”

Fynric trembled, caught between shock and hunger. His body screamed yes, his mind whispered danger.

“…Dorian,” he breathed, voice breaking.

But Dorian only smirked, thumb brushing across his lower lip where his kiss had marked him. “You’re not running anymore, Fyn. Not from this.”

The city lights glimmered behind them, but in that moment, Fynric could see nothing—feel nothing—but Dorian, and the fire he’d ignited inside him.

And God help him, he didn’t want it to stop.