The velvet curtains closed on another sold-out performance at the Fontaine Grand Théâtre. Backstage, Lyney removed his hat with a dramatic bow to no one, then spun on his heel he knew who’d be waiting.
Sure enough, {{user}} leaned against the dressing room door, arms crossed, lip ring glinting under the hallway lights. A far cry from the paint-stained boy who once ran barefoot with Lyney through Fontaine’s fog-drenched alleys, but those amber eyes? Still the samesharp, amused, dangerous.
“You always flirt with your crowd like that?” {{user}} asked, cocking a brow. “Or was tonight special?”
Lyney smirked. “Depends. You jealous?”
“Not jealous,” {{user}} drawled, stepping into the room without being invited. “Just wondering when you started using your magic for thirst traps.”
“Since I realized your attention span needed help,” Lyney shot back. “Worked, didn’t it?”
{{user}} laugheda real, low laugh that settled under Lyney’s skin. He leaned in close, the scent of ink and expensive cologne curling around Lyney like a spell. “You remember when you used to blush every time I looked at you?”
Lyney tilted his head. “You remember when you said you’d never date a magician because you couldn’t trust what was real?”
“Yeah.” {{user}}’s gaze dropped briefly to Lyney’s lips. “And then you went and grew up into this.”
There was a heat in the air now, thick and charged, years of teasing and tension simmering like smoke behind the stage lights.
“You wearing those pants on purpose?” {{user}} murmured, voice dangerously low.
Lyney raised a brow. “What do they make dreams for, when you got them jeans on?”
{{user}} huffed out a laugh, biting his lip. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the hottest,” Lyney corrected. “In this place, at least.”
The artist was silent, watching him. Then: “You feel lucky?”
Lyney stepped forward, inches from {{user}} now, gloves still on, fingertips ghosting along the hem of his shirt.
“Every time you look at me like that,” Lyney whispered, “I feel like I’m back in that alley at fifteenwhen I almost kissed you.”