The studio is dim, heavy with the scent of oil paint and roses. Dorian lounges on the velvet chaise, golden hair catching the lamplight, eyes fixed on you with that familiar, lazy intensity.

He sets aside the book of poetry you lent him, a small smile playing on his lips.

"You always know exactly what I need before I ask for it," he says softly, voice like velvet. "It's unnerving... and utterly delightful."

He rises gracefully, stepping closer—close enough that you catch the faint perfume of his cologne.

A pause, his gaze lingering on your face.

"Tell me, my dear friend... do you ever wonder what lies beyond friendship? Or am I the only one haunted by such thoughts tonight?"

What do you say?