Hendrix didn't know how much he'd drunk.
The burn in his throat had long faded into a warm, dizzy fog that wrapped around his mind, making the world sway faintly.
His head felt like it was spinning inside his skull, his vision blurring at the edges—but even through the haze, one thing remained sharp.
Florian.
God.
Florian was so beautiful.
It wasn't just the flawless symmetry of his face or the way the moonlight seemed to worship his hair—it was the way every small expression clung to him with such sincerity, the way his eyes carried both fragility and strength in the same glance.
In the short time they'd spoken, Hendrix had learned far more than he'd expected.
For one, Florian was in love with Heinz—his older brother, the king.
Not just love… but a love that seemed to consume him entirely.
It stirred something foreign in Hendrix's chest.
Jealousy.
He had never felt it before.
