The night hung heavy in Aric’s apartment. The others had left hours ago, the laughter and noise fading into silence. Only the four of them remained—Aric, Joren, Luthien, and Fynric—though Dorian had slipped out to smoke on the balcony.

Fynric sat stiffly at the table, nursing a glass of water he didn’t want. His body still ached faintly from the fire of the night before, Dorian’s touch lingering on his skin like invisible bruises. The memory burned, equal parts sweet and dangerous.

Joren lounged across from him, spinning a bottle cap between his fingers. His grin was too sharp, too knowing. Aric sat nearby, pretending to scroll his phone, but Fynric could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched.

And Luthien—Luthien sat in the corner as always, legs crossed, sketchbook resting unopened on his lap. His hazel eyes gleamed in the dim light, unblinking, unreadable.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Joren drawled, breaking the silence. His eyes flicked from Fynric to the balcony where Dorian’s silhouette smoked in the shadows. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Enough,” Aric said sharply. “Drop it, Joren.”

Joren smirked but didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, stretching like a cat, letting the silence settle again.

It was Luthien who finally broke it. His voice was soft, almost gentle—but it sliced through the room like a blade.

“You should stop hiding.”

The words hit Fynric like a punch. He froze, his hand tightening on the glass. “What?”

Luthien tilted his head, his hazel eyes pinning him in place. “The two of you. Dorian. You’re both suffocating under a secret that everyone can already see.”

Aric stiffened, sitting up straighter. “Luthien—”

But Luthien raised a hand, silencing him. His gaze never left Fynric. “You think you’ve been careful. The stolen looks. The brushes of touch. The way you orbit each other without realizing it. But secrets… they rot when kept too long. And yours is beginning to seep through the cracks.”

Fynric’s chest tightened, panic rising like a tide. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

The balcony door slid open. Dorian stepped back inside, smoke curling around him like armor. His green eyes swept the room, catching the tension instantly.

“What the hell’s going on?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Luthien’s gaze shifted to him, steady and unflinching. “I know.”

The room went silent. Joren’s grin widened, Aric swore under his breath, and Fynric’s heart slammed so hard against his ribs he thought it might crack.

Dorian didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, his presence filling the room like a storm. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know enough.” Luthien’s voice was calm, almost sorrowful. “I’ve known for a long time. And so have they.” His eyes flicked briefly to Joren and Aric. “You’re not hiding from us—you’re only lying to yourselves.”

Fynric felt the ground tilt beneath him. His throat was dry, his mind screaming to deny it, but his body betrayed him—his eyes darting to Dorian, his breath quickening under the weight of being seen.

Joren laughed softly, low and sharp. “Finally. Someone said it out loud.”

“Shut up, Joren,” Aric snapped, his voice tight with strain.

But Dorian wasn’t listening. His eyes burned into Luthien’s, fury and fear twisting together. “You don’t get to sit there and play prophet, Luthien. You don’t know what this means. What it risks.”

“I know exactly what it risks,” Luthien said, his tone unshaken. “Which is why you should stop pretending it isn’t real. Because the more you hide, the more dangerous it becomes.”

The air between them crackled, sharp as lightning.

Fynric finally found his voice, though it shook. “Why are you doing this?”

Luthien’s gaze softened slightly. “Because I’ve seen what happens when love is buried in shadows. It destroys everything around it. I don’t want that for you.”

The room was suffocating. Fynric’s breath came quick, his pulse racing. Dorian’s hand found his under the table, a silent anchor, strong and steady.

Joren’s grin faltered, his eyes narrowing as he caught the gesture. “Well, well. Guess the prophet was right after all.”

Dorian shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. “Say another word and I’ll—”

“Dorian.” Fynric’s voice was a whisper, but it stopped him.

Aric dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” He looked at them, his eyes filled with exhaustion and loyalty all at once. “You should’ve told me. I’ve been covering for you without even knowing how deep it went.”

“You knew,” Dorian said, his voice rough.

Aric’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. But hearing it is different.”

The silence stretched, heavy and raw.

Luthien leaned forward, his voice quiet but certain. “You can keep lying to the world if you must. But don’t lie to us anymore. Not when we already see you.”

Fynric’s vision blurred, his chest aching with the weight of it all—the fear, the desire, the relief of not carrying it alone anymore. His hand tightened around Dorian’s under the table, their fingers interlacing, a silent answer.

Dorian’s jaw was set, his green eyes blazing as he looked around the room—at Joren’s smirk, at Aric’s strained loyalty, at Luthien’s piercing calm. He pulled Fynric’s hand onto the table, no longer hiding.

“Fine,” Dorian said, his voice like steel. “You want the truth? Here it is. He’s mine. And I’ll burn down anyone who tries to come between us.”

Fynric’s breath caught, his heart breaking open under the words.

The room erupted—Joren’s laughter sharp and disbelieving, Aric cursing, Luthien watching with an unreadable calm.

But in that moment, none of it mattered.

Because Dorian’s hand was in his, and the line between them wasn’t blurred anymore. It was gone.