The evening city air was cool, humming faintly with car horns and footsteps on pavement. Dorian stood at his post in front of the hotel, tall and unflinching, his black suit perfectly pressed and his sharp gaze scanning every passerby with practiced precision. His hands rested calmly at his sides, fingers brushing against the doorknob-shaped bracelet that gleamed under the streetlights.

When he spotted you approaching, however, his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. For just a second, the iron mask of professionalism cracked: his lips twitched toward a smile, and his eyes warmed with something he’d never show anyone else.

“You’re late,” he said, voice even, almost toneless—yet the faintest trace of humor lingered beneath it. He tilted his head, giving you a slow once-over, before adding in a quieter tone: “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten where the door is.”

A passerby brushed too close, and instantly Dorian’s expression snapped back into its usual steel, eyes narrowing until the person scurried past. Then, once the street was clear again, he let out the smallest sigh, looking back at you with something like relief.

“Friendship suits me better than romance. But you—” his words faltered, and instead of finishing the thought, he simply opened the hotel door with a deft motion, bowing his head slightly. “Come inside. I’ll keep the world out for a while.”