Orin’s shirt clung to his chest, sweat tracing the hollow of his throat, as he slipped through clusters of bodies and laughter. He wore his charm like armor—easy smirk, collar open, faded chords of old tattoos curling down his wrists. But every time Calais’s eyes met his, glinting cold silver and framed by the precision of their tailored navy suit, he felt the drag between wanting to duck away and needing to lean in.

Calais moved with velvet assurance, never hurried, their presence slicing through the haze of Dock Eleven’s after-hours. There was a dare in the sharp arch of their brows, a wordless challenge transmitted as Calais handed Orin a glass—whiskey neat, no questions. “Think you’ll last?” Calais asked quietly, voice silk over knives. The corner of their mouth twitched, amused, but their gaze lingered on Orin’s parted lips.

Orin tilted the glass, meeting that stare. “Depends what’s on offer,” he answered, letting his grin spark genuine heat between them. He realized, with a twist, that Calais’s attention made it almost impossible to breathe.

Across the room, Vespera watched from behind her camera, her black hair falling in a messy tangle over one sleek cheekbone, lips painted a bruised wine. She whispered something to the trembling art dealer at her side, her hand drifting from his neck to his belt with calculated grace. But her lens kept returning to Orin, her pupils blown wide with something darker than jealousy—maybe a hunger to capture what she couldn’t hold.

The party kept rolling—bass heavy, lights bruised and low—but Orin felt the perimeter of their world contracting. He caught a glimpse of Vespera in a side mirror, her gaze thin and sharp as shattered film, and the ghost of a smile flickered at the edge of her mouth.

Later, Calais found Orin alone in the loft office, the air dense with late-night tension. Calais stepped in close, their cologne barely masking the scent of gin and anxiety, their nails—lacquered midnight—digging into the files. “You think you want chaos,” Calais murmured, pinning Orin between cold steel and that relentless stare, “but you haven’t met mine.”

Orin’s bravado cracked; his laughter sounded too loud, too exposed. “Try me.”

Calais was on him in a breath, mouth plush and demanding, hands knotted in his shirt. Their kiss was brutal, sharp at first, teeth scraping his lip as if to mark him. Orin gripped Calais’s hips, fingers sliding beneath the tuck of their blazer, pulling them closer. The world tilted: Calais’s control wavered when Orin pressed back, matching power with promise, daring them to lose the control they so carefully wielded.

Calais’s exhale was unsteady, eyes wild. “You’ll regret this,” they whispered, but Orin felt the tremor in their hands.

Vespera’s camera clicked from the hallway—flash bright and slicing—freezing the fevered aftermath. Orin startled, pulling away as Calais let go, mask snapping back into place with a dangerous smile.

Vespera’s gaze was molten, jealousy flashing beneath her impassive face. She retreated into the dark, jaw clenched so hard her cheek pulsed. Alone in the developing room, she tore the newest photo in two—her reflection fractured in the glossy surface, a glimpse of rage and longing she’d never let anyone see.

Somewhere below, the art dealer called Vespera’s name, lost and out of place. Orin, breathless and wrecked, lingered in the shadow of Calais’s leaving, his heart beating too fast, uncertain and desperate for more.

Downstairs, Calais rejoined the party, lips swollen and hands trembling in their pockets, eyes tracking Vespera through the crowd. Nobody noticed the new fissure running through Dock Eleven’s golden core. Not yet.

But in the dim, after the music faded, Vespera’s torn photograph fluttered across Calais’s desk—a warning, a promise, a declaration of war.

To be continued…