The nights had grown reckless.

Fynric wasn’t sure when the rule of “just once in a while” had turned into every stolen hour they could manage. Dorian slipped into his apartment like he belonged there, and more often than not, he left just before dawn—clothes disheveled, lips swollen, eyes burning with a hunger that hadn’t yet been satisfied.

Tonight was no different.

Fynric’s back hit the wall as Dorian’s mouth crashed against his, the taste of whiskey and fire spreading between them. Their hands were everywhere—gripping, tugging, desperate.

“You’re addicted,” Dorian whispered against his lips, teeth grazing as he smirked.

Fynric’s breath hitched. “Says the man who shows up every night.”

Dorian’s laugh was low, dangerous. “Touché.” His mouth dragged down Fynric’s neck, marking skin he knew would have to be hidden later.

When they finally collapsed onto the bed, tangled in sweat and shadows, Fynric could barely remember why they kept swearing to slow down. All he knew was the heat of Dorian’s body pressed against his, the way their breathing synced, the way the world outside ceased to exist.

But when morning came, the danger returned.

---

Luthien’s Eyes

The group had gathered again, laughter spilling through Aric’s apartment. Joren was his usual noisy self, teasing everyone in reach, while Aric lounged back with his beer, gaze calm but calculating.

Luthien sat apart, sketchbook in hand. His pencil scratched softly across the page as he glanced up—once, twice, too many times.

Dorian, sprawled on the couch, was doing his best impression of carelessness. But Fynric, sitting close enough for their knees to brush, wasn’t as good at hiding the subtle flush that betrayed him.

Luthien’s hazel eyes flicked down to his sketchbook again, but this time, the lines he drew weren’t abstract. Slowly, carefully, he began sketching two figures—close, almost touching, yet with a tension between them that bled through the page.

When Fynric caught the faintest outline of it, his stomach dropped.

Luthien noticed more than he let on.

---

Aric’s Interference

Later, when Joren tried to drag Dorian and Fynric into another one of his late-night games, Aric jumped in fast.

“Come on, Joren,” he said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go hit that new spot downtown. Leave these two boring souls to argue about books.”

Joren laughed, easily distracted. “Fine, fine. But you owe me a drink for stealing my fun.”

As they left, Aric shot a sharp look back at Fynric and Dorian—a warning and a promise all at once. I’m covering for you. Don’t get sloppy.

---

The Edge of Discovery

That night, Fynric told himself to send Dorian home. He told himself to resist, to put distance between them.

But the knock came. And when he opened the door to see Dorian leaning against the frame, smirk in place, all resolve dissolved.

This time, though, they weren’t careful. Their voices carried, their laughter too loud, the bed creaking in ways that could have been heard from the hall.

And just before dawn, as Dorian slipped out, neither of them noticed the shadow lingering at the end of the corridor.

Luthien.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched as Dorian adjusted his jacket, his lips curved in the faintest ghost of a smile, and disappeared into the night.

When Fynric shut the door, Luthien turned silently, walking back into the dark.

His sketchbook felt heavier in his hand.