The knock was soft, unexpected.

Fynric opened his door to find Luthien standing there, sketchbook tucked under his arm, hazel eyes unreadable.

“Can we talk?” Luthien’s voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something heavier than small talk.

Fynric hesitated, heart hammering. “…Of course.”

They sat at the table. The silence stretched until Fynric thought he might break. Then, Luthien opened his sketchbook, turning it toward him.

On the page were two figures—shadows at first glance, but unmistakable in posture. One leaning in, lips close to the other’s jaw. The other tilting just slightly, caught between resistance and surrender.

Fynric’s breath caught. “…Luthien—”

“I don’t draw lies,” Luthien said softly, closing the book. “You can keep hiding if you want. Joren is blind, Aric is loyal. But me?” His eyes lifted, sharp and calm. “I see.”

Fynric’s throat tightened. “Are you going to tell?”

A long pause. Then Luthien shook his head. “Not yet.” He leaned back, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But you should ask yourself how long secrets like this can survive.”

---

Dorian’s Recklessness

That night, Dorian slipped into Fynric’s apartment again, grinning as if nothing in the world could touch them.

But Fynric’s hands gripped his shirt tighter than usual, pulling him close not with lust, but with urgency.

“Luthien knows,” he whispered.

Dorian stilled, then smirked. “Let him know.”

Fynric pulled back, eyes wide. “This isn’t a game. If he tells Joren—if word spreads—”

“Then we stop hiding.” Dorian’s voice was rougher now, his green eyes blazing. “I’m tired of pretending, Fyn. I want you. All of you. I don’t care who sees.”

The confession struck Fynric deep, unraveling him. His lips parted, and before he could argue, Dorian kissed him—hard, claiming, burning away the fear with fire.

Clothes hit the floor faster this time, their desperation tangled with something heavier than lust. As Dorian moved above him, as their bodies collided with raw need, Fynric felt the weight of what they were risking—and the truth that he couldn’t let go, even if it destroyed him.

---

Aric’s Warning

The next day, Aric cornered Dorian outside the bar.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Aric said, voice low but sharp. “I can’t keep covering for you if you’re going to parade your feelings all over the place.”

Dorian leaned against the wall, smirking. “Relax. I’ve got it under control.”

“No, you don’t.” Aric’s jaw tightened. “Luthien’s watching. He won’t stay quiet forever.”

Something flickered in Dorian’s eyes, but his grin didn’t falter. “Then let him watch. I’m not ashamed of what I feel.”

Aric swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Goddamn it, Dorian. Just don’t get Fynric hurt.”

For once, Dorian didn’t fire back with a joke. His silence said everything.

---

The Watcher

That evening, Luthien sat alone with his sketchbook.

He turned to a fresh page, his pencil moving slowly, deliberately. This time, he drew not just two figures, but three.

The third stood apart—watching.

When he looked at the image, Luthien’s lips curved in the faintest, unreadable smile.