You’re halfway through painting your nails when the front door slams open—your brother’s signature entrance. The kind that rattles the picture frames and makes your stomach tighten with secondhand embarrassment.

They tumble in like a storm: laughter, sneakers squeaking against hardwood, someone already raiding the fridge. You don’t look up. You know the rhythm by now. Three voices, all loud and familiar.

And then the fourth.

You feel him before you see him. Dorian Vale. Quiet, steady, the eye of the hurricane. He doesn’t shout or shove. He just walks in like gravity bends for him.

You glance up, just for a second.

He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, dark hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it all day. His eyes—those deep brown ones with that strange ring of blue around the pupil—catch yours. You look away too fast, but not before you see the flicker. He saw you looking.

“Didn’t know you were home,” he says, voice low and clipped.

You shrug, focusing on your nails. ”Didn’t know you cared.”

There’s a beat. One of the guys laughs, oblivious. Your brother’s already halfway up the stairs, yelling something about a new game. But Dorian stays in the doorway, watching you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s working on.

“You always have something to say, don’t you?” he mutters.

You smile without looking up. “Only when you’re around.”

That gets him. You hear the breath he doesn’t mean to take, sharp and quiet. Then he’s gone, following the others, leaving behind the scent of cedar and tension.

You go back to your nails, but your hand shakes just a little.