The tavern was loud, filled with the crackle of fire, clinking of mugs, and voices rising in drunken song. Their little group had taken a table in the corner, away from the worst of the noise, and Joren sat back with his cup of ale, eyes sharp as ever. He wasn’t drinking much tonight, not really—he was watching.

Dorian laughed at something Aric had said, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth. Beside him, Fynric smiled softly, eyes bright, fingers resting on the edge of his glass. Nothing unusual to anyone else, but to Joren… something about it wasn’t right.

The way Dorian leaned in closer than necessary.

The way Fynric’s smile reached only one person at the table.

The way their knees brushed—and neither pulled back.

Joren had always been observant. A soldier couldn’t afford not to be. And while the others were distracted with food and drink, he watched the smallest details, the cracks in their brotherhood.

“Quiet tonight,” Luthien said, nudging Joren’s arm with a playful grin. “What’s brewing in that head of yours?”

Joren smirked faintly. “Just making sure none of you idiots get us kicked out of here.”

Luthien laughed, shaking his head, and turned his attention back to Aric. But Joren didn’t move his gaze from the pair across the table.

---

Memories resurface

At first, he thought he was imagining it. The little looks, the shared silences. But his mind betrayed him, pulling up a memory from weeks ago.

He had gotten up one night, restless, wandering the halls of their lodgings. That was when he’d heard it—muffled laughter, soft gasps. He thought nothing of it then, dismissing it as drunk rambling between rooms.

But now… with the way Dorian’s hand lingered too long when passing Fynric his drink, with the way Fynric flushed under the smallest glance… Joren’s jaw tightened.

Something was there.

---

Testing the waters

He leaned forward suddenly, breaking into their bubble.

“So, Dorian,” Joren said casually, “you and Fynric seem to spend an awful lot of time together. Should the rest of us be jealous?”

The words were meant as a joke, his tone light. But his eyes—sharp, probing—never left theirs.

Dorian chuckled easily, leaning back in his chair. “What, can’t a man enjoy the company of his best friend without raising suspicion?” He reached out and ruffled Fynric’s hair, too rough, too playful, covering the tension.

Fynric’s laugh was a beat too late, his cheeks reddening as he swatted Dorian’s hand away. “You’re ridiculous, Joren. Dorian just can’t stand being alone, that’s all.”

“Mm,” Joren hummed, swirling his drink, noting the stiffness in Fynric’s shoulders. “If you say so.”

Aric, oblivious, jumped in with a teasing grin. “Maybe they’re keeping secrets from us.”

The whole table laughed, but Joren didn’t. He saw the way Fynric’s eyes darted down, the way Dorian’s smirk faltered for a heartbeat too long.

Secrets indeed.

---

The private moment

Later that night, when the others had stumbled off to bed, Dorian caught Fynric’s arm in the hallway.

“He knows,” Fynric whispered, voice tight with panic.

Dorian shook his head, pulling him into the shadows. “He suspects. That’s different.” His fingers brushed against Fynric’s, grounding him. “We just have to be careful. Act normal.”

Fynric’s chest heaved. “I don’t know if I can. When you touch me, when you look at me like that in front of them—”

“Then don’t look back,” Dorian cut in, softer this time. His thumb stroked over Fynric’s knuckles, his body pressing closer. “Save it for when we’re alone.”

Alone. The word triggered the memory of the night before—the tangled sheets, the muffled cries, the way Fynric had arched beneath him, clutching at his shoulders as if drowning.

Fynric flushed at the memory, his body betraying him even now. He could still feel Dorian’s mouth on his throat, the weight of him, the raw hunger that had left them both gasping.

“Dorian…” Fynric breathed, need lacing his voice despite his fear.

Dorian’s eyes darkened, a promise in their depths. “Later,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to Fynric’s temple before pulling away.

And just like that, they separated, footsteps echoing down opposite halls.

---

Joren’s suspicion grows

From the shadows of the stairwell, Joren stood frozen. He hadn’t heard everything, but he’d seen enough.

The way Dorian held Fynric’s hand.

The way their bodies leaned too close, too familiar.

The way they split apart like guilty thieves.

His stomach twisted, not in disgust, but in something far more complicated. Concern. Loyalty. Maybe even jealousy—though he’d never admit it aloud.

They were hiding something. Something fragile, something forbidden. And it was only a matter of time before the truth tore through their carefully constructed facade.

---

The confrontation begins

The next morning, Joren cornered Dorian in the training yard.

“You’ve been distracted,” Joren said flatly, crossing his arms. “Care to tell me why?”

Dorian smirked, grabbing a practice sword. “I’m always distracted when you’re around. You’re just too pretty, Joren.”

“Don’t play with me.” Joren’s voice was low, dangerous. “If you’re keeping something from the rest of us, it won’t stay hidden for long.”

Dorian’s smirk faltered, just for a second, before he swung his sword lazily. “You worry too much.”

But Joren saw it—the flicker of guilt, the weight in his stance.

“Mm,” Joren murmured, gripping his own weapon. “We’ll see.”

---

Flashback: The secret night

Fynric lay awake that evening, replaying the night over and over.

The way Dorian had pinned him against the wall, lips bruising his, hands sliding under fabric with reckless hunger. The heat of their bodies, the way Dorian’s voice had broken when Fynric whispered his name.

The slow burn had turned desperate, frantic, their breaths mingling as they moved together. Fynric remembered the way his nails had raked across Dorian’s back, the way Dorian had murmured promises against his skin, raw and unrestrained.

Even now, his body ached with the memory. His lips parted, breath uneven as he buried his face in the pillow. He shouldn’t want it again, shouldn’t crave the danger of it. But gods help him—he did.

---

Ending – Joren’s resolve

Joren stood at the window that night, watching the moonlight cast silver across the courtyard.

Pieces of the puzzle clicked together in his mind: the glances, the touches, the whispered words in the hallway.

They thought they were careful. They thought no one noticed. But Joren did.

And now he had a choice—confront them, or protect them.

For the first time in years, Joren felt the weight of secrecy pressing down on his chest. Whatever this was between Dorian and Fynric, it was dangerous. And yet… a part of him envied it.

With a sigh, he turned from the window, whispering to the empty room.

“This won’t stay buried forever.”