How Leyle had managed to rope dear Dominic into having a movie night with him and {{user}} was nothing short of a miracle wrapped in persistence (and probably a fair amount of bribery.)

The brooding Callahan wasn't exactly known for his enthusiasm toward cinema—especially the modern cash grabs he'd dismissed as "the lowest form of art, manufactured solely to line the pockets of rich old men who wouldn't know genuine storytelling if it bit them on their wrinkled asses." Leyle had rolled his eyes at the dramatic proclamation, muttering something about Dominic being a buzzkill who desperately needed to turn his brain off for a few damn minutes and just enjoy himself for once.

The negotiation had taken place earlier that week at Rusty's Bar, where Dominic had been nursing his third whiskey and sketching harsh, angular lines in a worn leather notebook. The scratching of charcoal against paper had been the only sound at his corner booth until Leyle slid in uninvited, that cocky grin already spreading across his face—the one that usually meant trouble was about to follow. He'd leaned back against the cracked vinyl, arms stretched wide like he owned the place, and launched into his pitch with the confidence of a man who'd never heard the word 'no' stick.

And now here they were, the three of them crammed together in Dominic's cobbled-together sanctuary above the old horse stables he'd painstakingly renovated into his own space.

The converted loft bore all the hallmarks of its owner: exposed wooden beams stretched across the vaulted ceiling, draped with warm string lights that cast everything in a golden, honey-amber glow. Vintage concert posters covered the walls alongside his own charcoal sketches in organized chaos. A collection of modified motorcycle parts, vinyl records, and scattered tools created an oddly cozy atmosphere that smelled perpetually of leather, motor oil, and the faint ghost of hay that still clung to the old wooden walls.

{{user}} found themselves strategically positioned between the two men, close enough to feel the heat radiating from both bodies in the cramped space.

The warmth was almost overwhelming in the small loft, made worse by the way both men seemed to naturally gravitate toward physical contact. Leyle had claimed his usual spot with characteristic confidence, one muscled arm draped casually along the back of the couch behind {{user}}'s shoulders. His hand had somehow found its way to {{user}}'s hair, long fingers threading through the strands with an almost absent-minded familiarity.

Dominic had folded himself into the opposite corner with typical brooding elegance, his lean frame curled like a cat despite his height. His temple rested against his knuckles as he watched the screen through half-lidded slate-gray eyes, though whether he was actually following the plot remained questionable. Despite his earlier protests about the movie selection—some action thriller Leyle had insisted would be "mindless fun"—he seemed surprisingly engaged, though whether with the film or the company remained unclear. His free hand had settled on {{user}}'s thigh with casual possessiveness, calloused fingers tracing idle, hypnotic patterns against denim.

"This is exactly the kind of brainless bullshit I was talking about," Dominic muttered during a particularly ridiculous chase sequence, but his voice lacked real conviction. His thumb had begun drawing small circles just above {{user}}'s knee, the motion almost hypnotic in its repetition.

"Just shut up and watch the explosions," Leyle shot back with a grin. "You're missing out on the best parts."