The night air was cool, the city alive with its usual chaos, but Fynric felt only the heat still clinging to his skin from the night before.

He shouldn’t have called. He knew it. But his hands had dialed Dorian’s number before his head could argue.

And now, here he was—heart racing, pacing his living room as he waited for the knock at the door.

When it came, sharp and certain, Fynric’s pulse spiked.

He opened the door.

Dorian leaned against the frame, smirk in place, eyes glinting like molten fire. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

Fynric tried to scowl, but his voice betrayed him, rough with want. “Shut up and get in.”

The door closed. And then there was no space between them.

Dorian’s mouth was on his, desperate, hungry. Their bodies collided, pushing through the apartment blindly—kissing, biting, gasping.

By the time they stumbled into the bedroom, clothes were already half undone. Fynric pushed Dorian onto the bed, straddling him, lips swollen, chest heaving.

“Last night wasn’t enough,” Dorian growled, dragging him down into another kiss.

Fynric’s laugh was breathless. “It’ll never be enough.”

---

The Nights That Followed

It became routine. Dangerous, intoxicating routine.

Every night they could steal away, Dorian would show up—sometimes drunk on adrenaline from a fight, sometimes calm, sometimes teasing—but always needing.

And Fynric would let him in. Always.

Sometimes they’d tear into each other with a hunger that bordered on violent, leaving marks that had to be covered the next day. Sometimes they’d go slow, deliberate, whispering words neither dared to repeat in daylight.

It wasn’t just sex. It was comfort. It was fire and safety, wrapped together in a secret only they shared.

One night, after hours tangled together, Dorian lay on his side, tracing lazy patterns on Fynric’s chest.

“You know,” he murmured, “I think I like you better like this. Quiet. Soft. Not snarling at everyone.”

Fynric rolled his eyes, though his cheeks warmed. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Dorian’s smirk softened into something gentler, his green eyes dark in the dim light. “I want all your sides, Fyn. Even the ones you don’t show anyone else.”

Fynric swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling. “…You’re dangerous.”

“Only to your walls.” Dorian pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “And I’ll keep breaking them until there’s nothing left but me.”

Fynric didn’t answer, but he didn’t push him away either.

---

Almost Caught

It was bound to happen.

One night, just before dawn, Fynric opened the door to let Dorian slip out—only to freeze at the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

It was Joren. Coming back early from a job, messy-haired, humming to himself.

Fynric panicked, pushing Dorian back inside. The two stood pressed against the wall, holding their breath as Joren’s footsteps drew closer… closer… and then passed by.

Silence.

Dorian grinned, whispering against Fynric’s ear: “You like the thrill of almost getting caught, don’t you?”

Fynric shoved him lightly, though his body betrayed him with a shiver. “Shut up.”

Dorian kissed him again anyway, slow and taunting. “You’re mine, Fynric. Doesn’t matter if the world knows or not.”

And God help him, Fynric wanted that to be true