The night didn't feel real anymore.
Julian couldn't remember exactly when he stopped resisting the pull—only that at some point, his feet were moving without conscious permission, following Lucian through the terrace doors and into the quieter corridors beyond the bar. The music faded behind them, replaced by the muted hum of the city and the soft echo of their footsteps.
Every instinct told him this was a mistake.
Every nerve told him not to stop.
Lucian walked ahead of him, unhurried, utterly certain Julian would follow. That certainty unnerved him more than any words could have. There was no coercion, no demand—just the quiet confidence of someone who had never been refused.
Julian hated how much that thrilled him.
They stepped into a private elevator—glass walls, city lights stretching endlessly beneath them. The doors slid shut with a soft, final sound. The silence pressed in.
Julian became acutely aware of his own body: the tightness in his chest, the heat curling low in his stomach, the way his pulse beat too fast for calm. He leaned back against the glass, grounding himself in the cold surface.
Lucian turned.
Up close, the man was overwhelming. Not in size alone—though he was tall, broad-shouldered—but in presence. His expression was composed, eyes sharp and reflective, studying Julian with the same patient attention he had all night.
"You can still walk away," Lucian said quietly.
The words were not a challenge. They were an invitation to choose.
Julian swallowed. "I know."
And yet he didn't move.
Lucian stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough that Julian could feel the warmth radiating from him, could smell something faint and metallic beneath the clean scent of his clothes.
"You don't," Lucian murmured, "though."
Julian laughed softly, breathless. "No."
The elevator continued its ascent, unnoticed.
Lucian reached out—not to grab, not to restrain—but to brush his knuckles along Julian's wrist. The contact was light. Intentional. It sent a shock through Julian's system that made his breath hitch.
His body responded before his mind could catch up.
Julian hated himself for that.
Or maybe he hated how much he didn't.
"I should stop this," Julian whispered, though he made no move to pull away.
Lucian's thumb pressed gently into the pulse point at his wrist. "Then say so."
Julian met his gaze. The silver eyes held him, unblinking, unyielding—but not forcing.
The doors opened.
A private suite. High windows. Low light. The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass, indifferent to the choices being made inside.
Julian stepped forward first.
That was all the answer Lucian needed.
⸻
Lucian
Lucian had waited a long time for this.
Not for Julian specifically—at least, that was what he told himself—but for this particular tension, this precise fracture point where resistance dissolved into consent. Julian was fragile in ways that fascinated him. Worn thin by obligation. Starved for something unnamed.
Perfectly human.
Lucian closed the door behind them.
Julian stood near the window, fingers curled tightly at his sides, staring out at the city as if memorizing it. As if some part of him already knew he would never see it the same way again.
Lucian approached slowly.
He reached out, this time allowing his hand to settle at Julian's waist. The contact was deliberate, grounding. Julian stiffened—then exhaled.
Lucian leaned in, stopping just short of contact. "Look at me."
Julian hesitated, then turned.
The expression on his face—uncertainty tangled with desire—sent something sharp and ancient through Lucian's chest. He had seen countless faces like this over the centuries. None had ever stopped him.
Julian's did.
Lucian kissed him.
Not urgently. Not possessively. A measured press of lips, exploratory, controlled. Julian's breath caught, his hands lifting instinctively—hovering, uncertain—before settling against Lucian's chest.
Lucian felt the tremor.
He deepened the kiss slowly, giving Julian time to pull away.
Julian didn't.
Instead, he leaned in, mouth parting, fingers curling into Lucian's coat as if anchoring himself. The sound Julian made—soft, unguarded—sent heat coiling through Lucian's veins.
Lucian tightened his hold, guiding Julian backward until his shoulders met the cool glass of the window. The city lights framed him, reflected in the glass like fractured stars.
Lucian kissed him again. And again.
Julian's responses grew less hesitant. His body learned quickly—too quickly. He arched slightly into Lucian's touch, breath shallow, eyes darkened with something dangerously close to need.
Guilt flickered across his face.
Lucian noticed.
"Stop me," Lucian said softly against his mouth.
Julian shook his head, almost imperceptibly. "Just... don't make promises."
Lucian paused.
Then, with a faint smile Julian would later struggle to forget, he murmured, "I never do."
⸻
Julian
Time blurred.
Clothes were shed in unspoken agreement, movements unhurried but inevitable. Lucian touched him with an attentiveness that made Julian's chest ache—like every reaction, every shiver, was being memorized.
Julian felt seen.
Exposed.
Wanted.
The bed was cool beneath his palms, Lucian's presence a constant weight and warmth. Every kiss, every slow exploration pulled Julian deeper into sensation, further from rational thought.
This was wrong.
And yet, it felt devastatingly right.
Lucian murmured his name once—just once—and Julian's resolve shattered completely.
When Lucian finally pressed close, when the world narrowed to heat and breath and sensation, Julian closed his eyes and let himself fall.
Not into love.
Into surrender.
⸻
The city continued to glow beyond the glass.
By the time Julian slept, curled unconsciously toward Lucian's warmth, dawn was already threatening the horizon.
Lucian watched him in silence.
And smiled.