The air in the tavern is thick with heat, smoke, and something far more volatile—unspoken tension.

You didn’t mean for things to get… complicated. Not with both of them.

Caleb sits at the table across from you, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers wrapped tightly around a chipped mug like it’s the only thing grounding him. His amber eyes flick toward you, then away just as quickly, like even looking too long might reveal something he’s trying desperately to keep buried.

Molly, on the other hand, sprawls lazily beside you, boots kicked up, utterly unconcerned with subtlety. One arm drapes behind you, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder like it’s an accident. It’s not.

“Y’know,” Molly hums, voice smooth and teasing, “for someone who claims they don’t enjoy attention, you certainly collect it in interesting ways.”

Caleb stiffens slightly at that, his gaze sharpening. “Some of us do not treat people like… games, Mollymauk.”

“And some of us,” Molly shoots back with a grin, “pretend they don’t want things they very obviously do.”

That’s when they both look at you.

At the same time.

Caleb’s expression is conflicted—longing tangled with restraint, like he’s already decided he doesn’t deserve whatever this is becoming.

Molly’s is the opposite—open, curious, daring you to lean into the tension instead of running from it.

Neither of them moves.

But neither of them looks away, either.