The night felt heavier than usual, as though the walls of the tavern leaned in on the five of them. The fire crackled in the hearth, shadows licking the walls, but the laughter that usually rose between friends had thinned into quiet glances and measured words.

Fynric sat close to Dorian, closer than he intended, their shoulders brushing every time one of them shifted. The air between them was taut, charged from the night before when their bodies had entwined in stolen hours, when Fynric had bitten down on his own knuckles to stop himself from crying out Dorian’s name too loudly.

He could still taste Dorian on his tongue. Still feel the ache in his body. Still remember the way Dorian whispered, “Mine,” like a vow pressed into skin.

But now… now there were eyes.

Joren’s eyes lingered. Aric, for all his smooth smiles, didn’t miss the way Fynric’s hand twitched toward Dorian’s whenever the others weren’t looking. Luthien, quiet but perceptive, seemed almost protective in his silence, as though shielding them without ever saying it aloud.

The only one oblivious was Joren. Except—no. Not oblivious. Watching. Calculating.

The tension broke when Aric rose with his easy grin. “I’ll get us another round,” he said, sliding away toward the bar. Luthien muttered something about checking the horses and slipped out the door.

And just like that, the circle fractured.

Only Joren remained, eyes glinting in the firelight.

“You two are… closer than before,” he said casually, but the weight in his tone was sharp as a blade.

Fynric froze, his throat tight. Dorian’s jaw flexed beside him, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he tried to mask his reaction.

“Closer?” Dorian said flatly.

Joren leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his gaze flicking between them. “You used to argue. Now you’re… what? Whispering? Sharing secrets? Trading glances when you think no one notices?” His voice dropped lower. “I notice.”

Fynric’s chest squeezed painfully. The room felt too small, too hot. His pulse hammered against his throat, threatening to give him away.

Dorian shifted, placing himself ever so slightly in front of Fynric, like a shield. His voice was sharp when he answered. “You notice shadows where none exist, Joren. Maybe your paranoia should be turned on something useful.”

The tension snapped taut like a bowstring. Joren’s lips curled in a half-smirk. “Paranoia? Or truth?”

Fynric’s breath trembled in his chest. He wanted to speak, to deny, to do anything—but Dorian’s hand brushed his under the table, subtle, firm, grounding him. The message was clear: say nothing.

Joren leaned back, the smirk fading, replaced with something darker. “Secrets have a way of burning through friendships. You’d do well to remember that.”

Then he stood and walked out, leaving the words like ash in the air.

---

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Fynric finally released the breath he’d been holding, shoulders trembling. Dorian turned to him, eyes fierce with protective anger.

“He’s getting too close,” Dorian muttered, voice low, dangerous. “If he pushes you again—”

“What will you do?” Fynric asked softly, though his body trembled under the heat in Dorian’s gaze.

Dorian’s eyes softened, only for Fynric. He leaned closer, his words brushing against Fynric’s ear. “I’ll make sure he never puts you in that position again. No one gets to touch you. Not even with suspicion.”

Fynric shivered. The possessiveness in those words should have scared him. Instead, it ignited a fire deep in his stomach.

The moment the others returned, Dorian shifted back, mask in place. But the hunger between them didn’t fade.

---

Later that night, when the inn quieted and their friends had settled into sleep, Fynric slipped into the hallway, heart pounding. He told himself he needed air, that he needed space after Joren’s veiled threats. But the truth was simpler.

He needed Dorian.

He had barely reached the shadowed corner near the stairwell when a hand caught his wrist and yanked him into a hidden alcove. His gasp was smothered by Dorian’s mouth crashing onto his.

The kiss was raw, brutal with urgency. Teeth clashed, tongues tangled, and Fynric melted against the wall as Dorian pressed him there, hands gripping his waist as though he might vanish if Dorian let go.

“You’re mine,” Dorian growled against his lips, echoing the vow from last night. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” Fynric gasped, body arching into the heat of Dorian’s. “Only yours.”

The world outside vanished—the suspicion, the danger, the eyes that followed them. Here, in this stolen space, there was only need.

Dorian’s hand slid beneath Fynric’s tunic, fingers trailing fire along his skin. Fynric moaned softly, muffled against Dorian’s mouth as the older man’s hand traced lower, claiming every inch of him.

“Last night wasn’t enough,” Dorian rasped. “I need you again. Now.”

Fynric’s knees threatened to buckle as Dorian’s hand slipped lower, as his body burned hotter with every rough kiss. “What if someone hears—?”

“Let them.” Dorian’s eyes glowed with reckless hunger. “Let them know you’re mine.”

The words undid him. Fynric’s head fell back, his body surrendering, his voice breaking on Dorian’s name as the night swallowed their secret once more.

---

But secrets never stay buried.

Unbeknownst to them, a shadow lingered at the end of the hall. A figure watching quietly, expression unreadable.

Joren.

And this time, he wasn’t guessing. He knew.