Ella Sallow

You slowly twirled, a movement practiced a thousand times over, effortless and elegant. Your legs extended with fluid grace, your eyes mirroring the depth of the music, and your posture remained flawless as you commanded the stage. As the final notes slowly faded, you offered three deep bows and stepped back just as the velvet curtain fell. The thunderous applause followed you all the way backstage, where your teacher and peers stood waiting.

"Brilliant as always, my dear," the head mistress praised. You tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, a soft blush warming your cheeks and neck as you offered a gracious smile.

You were the theater's reigning prima ballerina, the singular force that sold out every tier of the house, night after night.

Stepping into the quiet sanctuary of your dressing room, you began unlacing your satin pink gloves. The moment the door swung open, your eyes immediately found the vanity table. There it sat, a pristine bouquet of white roses, tied with a heavy black silk ribbon. Every bloom was immaculate, perfectly cultivated and fresh, looking as though they had been hand-plucked from a private conservatory moments ago.

A quiet, familiar smile touched your lips.

For the past ten years, ever since your debut, these flowers had awaited you. Every single performance, without fail, they appeared on your vanity like clockwork, a silent testament to your artistry.

There was never a card, never a name.

In the anxious hours before a show, you always resolved to catch whoever left them. Yet, amidst the chaos of backstage preparation, the mystery slipped away, leaving the bouquet to feel like a deeply personal, exclusive ovation upon your return. You had questioned the theater staff countless times, but the answer was always the same.

no one had seen a soul enter the room.

As you carefully lifted the bouquet from the vanity, the door burst open.

"Tell me he proposed this time."

You barely managed to steady your hands to keep from dropping the flowers as your closest confidante, Mina, swept into the room, the tulle of her costume rustling with her dramatic entrance.

You rolled your eyes, maintaining your composure. "For the last time, Mina, there is no he."

Mina snorted, collapsing onto the plush velvet sofa with practiced theatricality. "Please. A decade of flowers? White roses? Imported white roses, might I add. Whoever your mystery gentleman is, he is either hopelessly devoted or entirely mad."

You busied yourself setting the stems into a heavy crystal vase, arranging them with meticulous care. "It could very well be a woman," you countered.

Mina raised a single, perfectly sculpted brow. "A woman with the patience to send flowers for ten years without demanding your attention? Even the most dedicated patroness would have requested a proper introduction by now. No, it is a man, without a doubt."

"He could be an old patron," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on the blossoms.

"An old patron does not track your schedule after every single performance for a decade."

You offered no retort, simply because Mina was not entirely wrong.

The flowers had evolved into a sacred ritual. On grueling nights when rehearsals stretched into the early morning hours and exhaustion settled deep into your bones, the thought of returning to your dressing room sustained you. You looked forward to the roses. To the heavy black ribbon. To the silent, enduring reassurance that somewhere in that cavernous, darkened auditorium, someone had come solely to watch you move.

Mina caught the subtle shift in your expression immediately. A faint, private smile had touched your lips as you stared down at the white petals, genuinely wondering for the first time if a man truly sat behind the gesture.

"Oh my God."

"What?" you asked, defensive.

"You fancy him."

"I do not even know his name."

"Exactly," she declared, leaning forward. "You have fallen in love with a bouquet."

A sudden heat rushed to your cheeks. "Be quiet, Mina.”

°

The following week found you in the grand rehearsal hall, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reflected every precise, fluid movement of your practice.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors swung open, and your head mistress marched in, clutching an official parchment that bore a prominent, gilded seal.

"Y/N!" she exclaimed, her usual stern demeanor giving way to pure excitement. "You have been personally selected to perform at the Cornetthe!"

The room erupted. The other dancers cheered and applauded, but the sound felt distant as your eyes widened in sheer disbelief. To take the stage at the Cornetthe was the pinnacle of a dancer's career—the very dream you had bled for since you first laced your slippers. Every grueling hour, every bruised ankle, and every late-night rehearsal had been a quiet dedication toward reaching that sacred stage.

You caught Mina in a breathless embrace, a rare, uncharacteristic giggle escaping your lips as you jumped slightly.

Beneath the artistic triumph, however, a wave of profound relief washed over you. A performance at the Cornetthe commanded an exorbitant fee—wealth that would change everything. Your first thought flew instantly to your younger sister.

She was approaching the age to enter a proper university, and after losing your parents five years ago, the weight of providing for her had fallen entirely on your young shoulders. Every performance had been a means to ensure her security. Now, you could finally buy her the fine dresses she deserved and secure her tuition without a second thought.

"Miss Y/N?" a maidservant called out softly, knocking on the open door frame.

You stepped back from the huddle, smoothing your leotard. "Yes?"

"A parcel has just arrived for you, miss." She carefully placed a structured box onto a nearby mahogany table and offered a polite dip before withdrawing.

"A gift?" Your brow furrowed slightly.

Your head mistress gave a knowing, proud nod. "Rest now, and prepare yourself. The official itinerary will be dispatched shortly." With a final, encouraging pat on your shoulder, she swept out of the hall, taking the rest of the company with her.

Left alone with Mina, you approached the table, your curiosity piqued. The box was wrapped in immaculate, heavy cream paper and bound with a thick, silk black ribbon.

Your heart skipped a beat. The texture, the precise knot, the deep midnight shade—it was identical to the ribbons on your bouquets.

"Oh?" Mina gasped, instantly appearing over your shoulder with a delighted giggle. "Is this from your phantom suitor as well?"

"No... how could it be?" you whispered, your hand hovering over the silk.

"Of course it is! Look at the ribbon." Mina gently lifted the edge of the bow. "Did he send this to congratulate you on the Cornetthe?" she asked, her eyes wide with realization.

A chill, both thrilling and unnerving, raced down your spine. "How could he possibly know I was selected? I only just found out myself…”

You carried the elegant box home with you that evening, keeping it tucked securely under your arm. Once you were safely behind the closed door of your bedroom, the quiet of the small apartment enveloped you.

The room was modest but entirely yours, decorated in soft, faded pink wallpapers, walls adorned with vintage ballet posters, a simple iron-frame bed in the center, and a wooden dressing table positioned right by the window.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, you finally untied the black silk ribbon and peeled back the crisp cream paper.

Inside lay a pair of opera-length gloves.

A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest. You lifted the silk-lined fabric, tracing the exquisite craftsmanship with your fingertips. The material was impossibly supple, carrying the distinct weight and flawless sheen of haute couture—the kind of luxury born from elite ateliers, far beyond what your standard wages could ever afford.

"Oh..." A soft breath of wonder escaped your lips.

You carefully slid them onto your hands, the fabric hugging your arms like a second skin. Turning toward the vanity mirror, you offered a small, private smile. As you leaned closer, your eyes caught a glimpse of something remaining at the bottom of the box.

It was a small, heavy cardstock note. On it, written in sharp, elegant calligraphy, was a single letter:

J.

Your breath hitched. J?

A hundred questions flooded your mind. Who was he? An aristocrat? A quiet fixture in the grand tier boxes?

Your gaze drifted to the vase on your windowsill, where the white roses from last week’s performance were basking in the evening twilight. A flush of heat warmed your cheeks as you approached the vanity, your fingers gently brushing against the cool, velvet petals.

Could it truly be a man? A gentleman who had watched you from the shadows for an entire decade, quietly celebrating your triumphs from afar?

You leaned in, carefully pressing a single petal to your lips to inhale the faint, sweet fragrance, your heart racing with a feeling you couldn't quite name.

°

Tonight, the veil of secrecy would finally be torn away.

The decision had been solidified the precise moment your eyes opened that morning.

As the wardrobe mistress fastened the final, delicate pearl button of your bodice, your gaze drifted toward the heavy oak door of your dressing room. Soon, if a decade of tradition held true, another immaculate bouquet of white roses would materialize upon the marble vanity, bound in that signature black silk.

Ten years.

Ten years of unyielding devotion, delivered in silence.

You had spent countless evenings painting a portrait of him in your mind. Was he a distinguished patron of the arts? A reclusive aristocrat? Someone who had caught a fleeting glimpse of you on stage a decade ago and remained forever captivated?

Tonight, speculation would end.

"Places in ten minutes, ladies!" the stage manager’s voice boomed down the corridor.

Instantly, the backstage area erupted into a flurry of motion as dancers hurried toward the wings, the ribbons of their pointe shoes trailed by the scent of powder and resin. You followed the tide, your steps clicking softly against the lacquered floorboards.

Then, you paused.

This was your moment.

Murmuring a swift excuse to a passing ballerina, you slipped away from the throng, turning down a narrow, dimly lit servants' corridor that looped back toward the private dressing rooms.

The theater was eerily tranquil here, insulated from the grand auditorium. The distant, muffled hum of the audience settling into the velvet tiers echoed faintly through the stone walls, sounding like a rising tide.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with stage fright.

As you neared your door, your pace slowed to a breathless crawl.

The door was ajar, a sliver of warm candlelight spilling across the threshold.

Someone was inside.

Holding your breath, you pressed closer, peering through the gap.

A gentleman stood before your vanity.

He was exceptionally tall, carrying an aura of effortless, old-world elegance. Even from behind, his presence was commanding; broad shoulders filled out a tailored charcoal overcoat, the exquisite cut unmistakably born from a master artisan. Dark, lustrous hair, perfectly styled, brushed the high collar of his coat.

In his gloved hands, he held the familiar, pristine arrangement of white roses.

With an almost reverent tenderness, he leaned forward and placed them upon the vanity table.

By all accounts of propriety, you should have pushed the door open. You should have demanded his name.

Instead, you remained entirely frozen, captivated.

The gentleman’s gaze swept slowly across the private sanctuary of your room. Then, his hand moved. Deliberately, he reached out for the pale silk shawl you had discarded across the chaise after morning rehearsals.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He lifted the delicate fabric with astonishing gentleness, his long fingers smoothing over the silk before bringing it toward him. For a fleeting, suspended second, he closed his eyes, inhaling the faint trace of your perfume that lingered in the threads.

A quiet, nearly imperceptible sigh escaped his lips.

It was a sound heavy with contentment, longing, and an absolute, unshakable devotion.

A sudden chill raced down your spine, yet it was entirely devoid of fear. The sheer intimacy of the gesture should have horrified a lady of your upbringing. Instead, an intoxicating warmth unfurled deep within your chest, accompanied by an inexplicable thrill that rooted you to the floor.

Who was this ghost?

As though catching the subtle shift in the air, his eyelashes fluttered.

You startled, stepping back.

At that exact moment, the grandfather clock at the end of the gallery began its deep, resonant chime.

Eight o'clock.

The curtain was rising. Your performance was beginning.

A wave of panic supplanted the spell. Without another thought, you gathered your tulle skirt and hurried back toward the stage, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs as you fled into the shadows.

You missed the way the gentleman turned slowly toward the doorway moments later. His dark eyes fixed upon the empty corridor and no one was there.

You barely managed to take your position before the heavy velvet curtains parted.

As the orchestra began its swelling overture, your body moved instinctively. Years of rigorous, unforgiving training guided every graceful extension and precise turn, yet tonight, your thoughts refused to be disciplined.

Because it had been a man.

Not a collective phantom, nor some frail benefactor hidden behind a wall of distant philanthropy.

A man.

An exceptionally handsome man.

Even now, as you floated effortlessly across the stage, the memory of him burned vividly in your mind. The pale, luminous quality of his skin beneath the warm amber lights of your dressing room. The sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw. The immaculate black coat that seemed tailored to him like armor. There had been something distinctly regal about his bearing—an effortless, innate elegance that could not be bought or taught.

And then, there was the way he had lifted your shawl.

The absolute reverence in the gesture.

The quiet, desperate sigh that had escaped him as he inhaled your scent.

A strange, intoxicating warmth spread through your chest, contrasting sharply with the cool stage air. Somewhere among the hundreds gathered in the darkened auditorium tonight, he was watching you. Watching, just as he had for the past ten years.

Your heart stuttered in its rhythm.

Without meaning to, breaking the strict discipline of your art, your eyes drifted toward the upper tiers.

And found him.

Seated entirely alone within a shadow-drenched private box, he looked almost ethereal amidst the gilded gold moldings and crimson velvet. Dressed in midnight black, he sat with effortless poise, one gloved hand resting lightly against the brass railing. His dark eyes were fixed solely on you.

It was as though he had been waiting for you to look.

The precise moment your gazes locked across the vast expanse, a violent shiver danced down your spine. You nearly faltered, your foot slipping a mere fraction of an inch on the lacquered wood before you recovered with practiced grace.

Throughout the remainder of the performance, your eyes sought him again and again, drawn by an irresistible gravity.

And every single time, he was already watching.

The sheer intensity of his unwavering focus should have unsettled you. It should have felt invasive. Instead, it made your skin prickle pleasantly beneath the layers of silk and satin.

Tonight, you danced differently. More passionately. More intimately. It was as though the grand theater had emptied entirely, leaving only the two of you locked in a silent dialogue.

When the final, dramatic note echoed through the hall and thunderous applause erupted from the stalls, you stepped forward to take your bows. Instinctively, your gaze rose toward the private box one last time.

He was still there, a solitary silhouette against the crimson backdrop.

Unable to help yourself, you allowed the smallest, rarest smile to grace your lips before lowering your head in a final, sweeping bow.

A smile meant for him alone.

°

The moment the heavy velvet curtains fell and the final, echoing wave of applause washed over the stage, you were already moving.

Ignoring the bewildered calls of your fellow dancers and the stage manager’s sharp reprimands, you gathered the voluminous tulle skirts of your costume and hurried through the labyrinth of backstage corridors. Your satin pointe shoes slipped precariously against the highly polished marble floors, but you didn't slow your pace.

You didn't stop to change into your street clothes. You didn't stop to wipe away your stage makeup. You only knew one undeniable truth: you had to catch him.

The crisp, cool evening air bit at your bare shoulders as you burst through the grand proscenium entrance of the theater. A line of pristine luxury automobiles lined the cobblestone curb, their chauffeurs waiting patiently beneath the warm pools of golden streetlight.

Your eyes frantically scanned the departing high-society crowd. For one agonizing, terrifying moment, you thought you had missed him entirely.

Then, your gaze locked onto a silhouette.

Standing beside a sleek, midnight-black Rolls-Royce, one gloved hand resting lightly on the open carriage door, was the gentleman from your dressing room.

The moment his eyes found you, he froze completely. It was the first time his unyielding composure faltered, as though he had never, in ten years, anticipated you coming after him.

And for the first time, in the clear clarity of the lamplight, you truly saw him.

He was utterly breathtaking.

The soft, ambient glow of the theater facade illuminated features so striking they appeared chiseled from marble. Dark, lustrous hair perfectly framed an impossibly handsome face, his pale skin luminous against the deep black of his cashmere overcoat.

Every inch of his bearing exuded quiet wealth—not the loud, vulgar ostentation of the newly rich, but the effortless, understated elegance that only generations of old money could cultivate. The exquisite cut of his tailored suit alone likely cost more than your entire season's salary.

For a few suspended moments, neither of you spoke, the city sounds fading into a hum between you.

Gathering the remains of your courage, you took a step closer into his space. "It was you."

The gentleman regarded you with a calm, guarded intensity.

"The flowers," you continued, your fingers clutching the delicate silk edge of your bodice. "You have been leaving them for me. For a decade."

Something entirely unreadable flickered across his dark eyes, gone as quickly as it had arrived. "I believe you have mistaken me for someone else, Miss."

You stared at him, incredulous. "Mistaken you?" you repeated, your voice breathless. "I saw you in my dressing room. Not an hour ago."

A faint, ghost of a smile touched the corner of his lips. "I was merely returning a misplaced item."

"My shawl?" you challenged softly.

He inclined his head with impeccable, aristocratic politeness. "Precisely."

"Then the flowers?"

"The theater receives many wealthy admirers, mademoiselle. I am merely one of many."

A profound confusion swirled within you. He had been caught. You had witnessed his reverence with your own eyes, yet he stood before you now, maddeningly composed, offering a flawless mask of denial.

"Who are you?" you finally whispered, the question escaping before you could stop it.

For the very first time, a genuine trace of hesitation crossed his striking features. He looked at you, really looked at you, before speaking.

Before you could press further, his chauffeur stepped forward, holding the rear door fully open. Jimin turned back to you and offered a small, old-fashioned bow—impossibly elegant, a gesture from a bygone era.

"Congratulations on tonight's performance, Miss. Your Giselle was entirely exceptional."

Your breath caught completely in your throat. You had performed Giselle only three times in your entire career, years ago.

By the time you managed to gather your scattered thoughts, he had already slipped into the darkened luxury of the vehicle. The heavy door closed with a muted thud, and the Rolls-Royce glided effortlessly into the London mist, leaving you standing beneath the theater lights, draped in tulle and satin, entirely captivated by a phantom who finally had a name.

°

The moment the heavy car door clicked shut, insulating him from the cool night air, Jimin finally exhaled.

He looked down. His hand was trembling.

He stared at his fingers in quiet, clinical disbelief. Trembling.

Park Jimin—heir to one of the realm's oldest and most formidable fortunes, a man who had negotiated multi-million-pound acquisitions before the age of twenty-five without so much as a flicker of unease—sat entirely paralyzed in the plush leather backseat of his vintage car. All because a breathless ballerina had looked into his eyes and spoken to him.

"It was you."

Her voice reverberated through the quiet luxury of the vehicle, soft, accusing, and achingly beautiful. For ten long years, he had composed this exact confrontation in the private theater of his mind. Yet, in all his carefully orchestrated scenarios, it had never once unfolded with him completely stripped of his armor, utterly defenseless against her gaze.

"Home, sir?" his chauffeur inquired, his voice a low, deferential murmur through the glass partition.

Jimin offered a curt, absent nod, his eyes still anchored to his uncharacteristic tremors.

She had looked at him. Truly looked at him, past the high society facade and the tailored armor of his overcoat. And at the end of her performance, before she offered her final curtsey to the auditorium, she had smiled.

The memory alone was enough to throw his highly disciplined heart into utter disarray.

As the gas lamps and misty London streets blurred past the tinted windows, Jimin let his forehead rest against the cool glass, allowing his mind to wander back to the absolute genesis of his ruin.

Ten years.

A decade ago, he had been dragged to the annual Winter Arts Gala solely to satisfy the unyielding social obligations of his grandmother. He had been nineteen, cynical, detached, and wholly indifferent to the arts.

Then, she had stepped onto the stage.

She was seventeen then. Nervous. Exquisite.

He remembered every microscopic detail of that evening with terrifying clarity: the pale blue tulle of her practice costume; the slight, endearing tremor in her hands before the conductor raised his baton; the exact moment, midway through her variation, when her anxiety evaporated and she surrendered entirely to the music, a radiant smile transforming her features.

Jimin had been unable to draw breath. He had never truly looked away since.

Over the years, his quiet observation had deepened into an intimate, unspoken understanding. He knew her favorite composer was Tchaikovsky. He knew she considered Swan Lake’s Pas de Deux the pinnacle of romance, and that she invariably listened to Debussy in the solitude of her dressing room before opening nights.

He knew that when she was terribly anxious, she would absentmindedly twist the silk ribbons of her pointe shoes around her slender fingers until the knuckles turned white.

He knew, because he was always there. A silent, permanent fixture in the shadows of the grand tier boxes.

The white roses had begun a mere week after that initial performance. At first, they were a gentleman’s anonymous tribute to a rising star. Then, they became a sacred tradition. Eventually, they became a necessity, the only way he knew how to breathe.

When her academy scholarship had mysteriously faced revocation due to clerical politics, an anonymous endowment had materialized the following morning. When the theater company suffered devastating budget cuts, private donations quietly restored their funding. When she suffered that agonizing ankle injury during her third season, a world-renowned specialist had arrived at her side within hours, his exorbitant fees settled by an untraceable account.

She never knew. She was never intended to know. The Park name carried a weight that would have suffocated her pure artistry, and he refused to let the cynicism of his world touch the sanctuary of hers.

By the time the Rolls-Royce glided through the wrought-iron gates of his family’s country estate, the trembling in his hands had finally subsided. Almost.

Jimin moved through the sprawling, ancestral mansion in absolute silence, ignoring the distant servants and passing beneath the stern gazes of painted forefathers lining the marble corridors. He walked until he reached the isolated corridor of the west wing—his private sanctuary.

With a heavy brass key, he unlocked the reinforced oak doors and stepped inside.

The room belonged entirely to her. It was a museum of a life preserved in meticulous, breathless devotion.

Framed programs from every single performance she had ever given lined the silk-paneled walls. Ticket stubs, obscure newspaper critiques, and candid photographs filled silver-gilt frames. In illuminated glass cases lay the retired costumes auctioned off for charity, purchased through proxies and restored by master tailors with painstaking care. Another display held every pair of satin gloves she had ever discarded in the theater bins, neatly pressed and preserved.

At the absolute center of the room hung an immense, breathtaking portrait.

Her. Painted in the dramatic, tragic costume of the White Swan. Timeless. Pure. Utterly untouchable.

Jimin stopped before it, his hands clasped behind his back in his habitual aristocratic posture. Ten years ago, he had merely thought her beautiful. Tonight, looking at the canvas, he realized he could no longer remember what his life had even looked like before her existence defined it.

His dark eyes lingered on the painted lines of her face, remembering the years of sorrow the canvas couldn't capture. He remembered the year she lost her parents; the heartbreaking performances where she danced with hollow, grief-stricken eyes and a forced, fragile smile.

He remembered the agonizing months she vanished from the playbills entirely, and the fierce, protective pride that had swelled in his chest when she returned—thinner, quieter, but possessed of a profound, unbreakable strength.

He had watched her leave rehearsals early, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion as she rushed home to raise her younger sister alone. He remembered the precise night she had finally smiled with genuine warmth again on stage.

Jimin had kept the program from that evening in a separate, velvet-lined drawer. It remained his most treasured possession.

Slowly, modern restraint warring with a decade of suppressed longing, Jimin raised his hand. His long fingers hovered just inches away from the painted edge of her cheek.

"Who are you?"

Her voice lingered in the quiet room.

He closed his eyes, a low, disbelieving laugh escaping his chest. He still could not entirely comprehend the reality of the evening. She had confronted him. She had demanded to know his name.

And for the first time in a decade, his silent devotion no longer felt entirely confined to the shadows.

°

You arrived at the theater nearly an hour earlier than usual that evening.

You told yourself it was because you wished to rehearse the difficult adagio alone before the company arrived. Nothing more. It was certainly not because a certain dark-haired gentleman had occupied your thoughts with alarming, relentless persistence over the past three days.

Stepping into the quiet sanctuary of your dressing room, you carefully hung your heavy wool coat before settling before the illuminated vanity mirror. For several moments, you simply stared at your reflection, the quiet hum of the empty theater vibrating through the floorboards.

Then, moved by a sudden, inexplicable impulse, you bypassed your usual stage cosmetic and reached for a different lipstick. A richer, deeper shade. A soft, flush-toned rose.

Your brows furrowed in the mirror. Why were you making such an effort?

The answer came unbidden, striking a chord deep in your chest.

Because he will be there.

Heat immediately flooded your cheeks, staining your skin a natural crimson. It was entirely ridiculous. You had exchanged barely a handful of words with the man in the damp night air, and yet...

Your gaze drifted toward the elegant opera-length gloves resting atop the mahogany vanity.

You hesitated only briefly before lifting the supple fabric and slipping them on. The silk embraced your arms flawlessly, smooth and impossibly luxurious against your skin. Even now, you could scarcely believe they belonged to you, or that his hands had chosen them from some exclusive atelier.

"You look unusually lovely today."

You nearly jumped as Mina entered the room, her tulle costume draped over one arm. She stopped short, her sharp eyes immediately narrowing as she took you in. "Is that a new lipstick?"

"No," you lied softly, turning your face away.

"And the gloves?"

"They're old."

Mina folded her arms, a look of profound skepticism crossing her features. "You are a terrible liar, my dear."

You busied yourself with adjusting your pearl earrings, refusing to meet her gaze. "I simply felt like wearing them tonight."

"Hm." Mina's lips curved into a knowing, maddening smile. "Waiting for someone, perhaps?"

Your heart stumbled in its rhythm. "What? Of course not."

Mina's smile only widened. "You've glanced toward the door six times since I walked in."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

You turned away completely before she could dissect your expression any further. Thankfully, the call for places echoed down the corridor moments later, rescuing you from her interrogation.

The familiar, cold pre-performance nerves settled over you as you took your position in the wings. Yet tonight, beneath the customary anxiety, another feeling thrummed quietly in your veins. Anticipation.

As the heavy velvet curtains rose and the golden stage lights bathed you in their artificial warmth, your eyes instinctively sought the grand private boxes in the upper tier.

And there he sat. Exactly where you had expected him to be.

He was entirely alone, dressed impeccably in black, looking like a prince of the old world. The gilded, baroque surroundings of the theater only seemed to sharpen his quiet elegance. One gloved hand rested lightly against the crimson velvet-lined railing as he watched the stage with unwavering, absolute attention.

He was watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, you forgot the conductor, the orchestra, and the hundreds of spectators in the stalls entirely. Then, the music swelled, and your training took over.

Tonight, however, you danced differently. Every pirouette felt lighter, as if gravity had lost its hold on you. Every extension was executed with a desperate, fluid grace. Again and again, as the choreography allowed, your gaze drifted upward toward the shadows of the box.

And every single time, you found his dark eyes already fixed upon you. Steady. Intent. Devoted.

The sheer intensity of his focus should have unsettled a lady of your propriety. Instead, it sent a delicious, intoxicating shiver down your spine. You found yourself smiling more, performing not for the critical eyes of the directors hidden in the stalls, but for him alone.

When the final, dramatic note faded into the rafters and thunderous applause erupted throughout the grand hall, you bowed deeply, your chest heaving from exertion. As you straightened, your eyes lifted instinctively to the upper box one last time.

He remained in his seat, a solitary figure amidst the standing ovation, simply watching.

Unable to help yourself, you allowed the faintest, most private smile to grace your lips—a fleeting gesture no one else in the crowded theater could possibly notice.

But he did. You knew he did.

With your heart fluttering wildly against your ribs, you hurried toward your dressing room the moment the curtains fell, eager to escape the backstage chatter.

You pushed the heavy oak door open.

And there they were. The white roses. Pristine, dew-kissed, and waiting for you on the marble table.

A breathless smile blossomed across your face before you could stop it. Setting the heavy bouquet closer to the light, your fingers caught on something white tucked deep amongst the velvet blooms.

A card.

Your hands trembled slightly as you unfolded the heavy, cream cardstock. Written in that sharp, elegant calligraphy you had seen once before were just four words,

The gloves suited you.

— J.

For several seconds, you could do nothing but stare at the ink, the breath trapped in your lungs.

He had noticed. Amongst hundreds of spectators, beneath dazzling, blinding stage lights and layers of theatrical costume, he had recognized the very gloves he had gifted you.

A deep, warm blush spread slowly across your cheeks and neck as you pressed the note to your chest. Your mysterious patron finally had a name, and your world would never be the same.

°

Nearly an hour later, the grand theater had finally emptied.

The excited, melodic chatter of the corps de ballet had long faded from the galleries, replaced by the distant, rhythmic thuds of stagehands dismantling the evening’s scenery. In the vast auditorium, the soft, amber hum of the single ghost light illuminated the abandoned stage, casting long, romantic shadows across the velvet stalls.

You packed your belongings with slow, deliberate movements, carefully wrapping the silk ribbons of your pointe shoes before placing them into your satin bag. Yet, before zipping it shut, your gaze was drawn back to the heavy, cream-colored card resting atop your mahogany vanity.

A profound, intoxicating warmth bloomed within your chest despite your best efforts to remain disciplined. You quietly slipped the card into your vintage purse, snapping the clasp shut.

The moment you stepped through the heavy oak exit of the theater, the sheer violence of the elements greeted you.

It was a torrential downpour. Heavy, unrelenting sheets of water swept from the midnight sky, drumming a fierce rhythm against the marble steps and the ornate, neoclassical stone façade of the building. The city beyond the courtyard had dissolved into a mesmerizing blur of silver and gold reflections beneath the storm.

You let out a soft, defeated sigh. No umbrella. Truly perfect.

Resigned to wait out the tempest, you stepped back beneath the deep, sheltered architecture of the grand portico, hugging your wool coat tighter around your frame to ward off the damp chill.

Then, the low, aristocratic purr of an engine interrupted the steady roar of the rain.

A sleek, midnight-black Rolls-Royce glided silently through the mist, coming to a flawless halt directly before the portico steps. Your heart stumbled, a sudden, frantic pulse leaping into your throat.

The heavy rear door swung open. And he stepped out.

Tonight, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal cashmere overcoat layered over a bespoke black evening suit, he looked every bit the unapproachable patrician you had imagined. Mist and stray droplets kissed the broad, commanding line of his shoulders, yet his bearing remained entirely unbothered by the squall.

He was exceptionally tall—far taller than you had realized in the fleeting chaos of your first encounter. It was the kind of height that seemed to effortlessly master whatever space it occupied. He was elegant, intimidating, and flawlessly beautiful. Every sharp plane of his face and the quiet, innate confidence of his movements whispered of an inherited, ancient wealth.

His dark, luminous eyes swept upward through the rain, settling instantly upon you.

"Miss Y/n."

Your breath caught in your throat, the sound of your name on his lips feeling far too intimate. "You... you know my name."

A faint, nearly imperceptible smile ghosted across his lips. "I have watched you perform for a very long time. It would be impossible to not know."

An immediate, breathless heat flooded your cheeks. Of course he knew. He had a decade of your history memorized.

With practiced grace, he opened a large, black silk umbrella, stepping out into the deluge to close the distance between you. He ascended the marble steps, bringing the shelter of the umbrella over you, effectively cutting off the rest of the world.

"You will never find a carriage or make it home in this weather," he noted, his voice a low, melodious baritone.

You glanced helplessly at the sheets of rain obscuring the street. "I shall manage, I'm sure."

"You won't."

You blinked, looking up at him. There was no arrogance in his declaration—only a quiet, absolute certainty that brooked no argument.

"Allow my chauffeur to drive you home," he murmured, his gaze holding yours.

"Oh, no." You immediately shook your head, your fingers nervously tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as propriety warred with desire. "I could not possibly impose upon your evening, sir."

"It would be entirely no imposition."

"I really do not wish to be a trouble to you."

For a brief, suspended moment, his dark eyes slowly swept over your figure. Beneath his deliberate, heavy attention, you became acutely, agonizingly aware of your appearance.

You had changed out of your heavy stage costume, opting instead for a soft, blush-pink satin tea dress that fell elegantly around your silhouette. Beneath his quiet scrutiny, the delicate, fluid fabric suddenly felt embarrassingly exposed, as though he could perceive every erratic beat of your heart.

"You could never be a trouble," he said, his tone dropping an octave, softening into something dangerous. "Besides, I would much rather not leave you standing here in the dark alone."

Your heart betrayed your outward composure with a violent flutter.

A few moments later, the spell was cast, and you found yourself seated beside him inside the luxurious, insulated cabin of the vehicle. The interior was a sanctuary of old-world opulence, rich cream leather, highly polished walnut paneling, and soft, amber ambient lighting that kept the shadows close.

And him.

His presence immediately enveloped the enclosed space, carrying a distinct, intoxicating scent. Sandalwood, rare cedar, and something deeply rich and masculine. You found yourself helplessly inhaling the fragrance before forcing your lungs to still.

"Forgive me," you said quietly, the silence between you stretching thin and heavy with unsaid words. "I only know you as... J."

His eyes flickered toward you in the dim light, a sudden depth in their corners. "J?"

You reached into your purse, your fingers tracing the crisp edges of the cardstock before retrieving it. "The note. From..."

Understanding dawned in his expression, a quiet satisfaction relaxing his features. For a moment, he simply looked at the elegant script held between your slender fingers. Then, finally, he spoke the word.

"Jimin."

The name settled with an exquisite, warm resonance inside your chest. "Jimin," you repeated softly, testing the syllables.

He looked away first, his eyelashes casting long shadows against his pale cheekbones. "You may call me that."

As the car glided forward into the rainy night, you reached across your lap for the seatbelt, but your fingers, still trembling slightly from the sheer proximity of him, fumbled awkwardly with the clasp.

"Allow me."

Before you could offer a word of polite protest, Jimin leaned across the narrow space separating your seats.

Your breath caught entirely.

He was suddenly, breathtakingly close. The world narrowed to the mere inches between your faces. At this distance, you could perceive the tiny, delicate mole resting just beneath his left eye, and the impossibly long, dark sweep of his lashes. He was close enough that his warmth radiated against your bare collarbones, close enough that his scent became an overwhelming, dizzying wave. Your lungs entirely forgot how to function.

With a deep, resonant click, the heavy metal seatbelt locked into place across your lap.

Yet, neither of you moved.

For one agonizing, suspended second, the only sound in the universe was the frantic, uneven rhythm of your breathing and the heavy patter of the rain against the glass. His dark eyes rose, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle with a delicious, terrifying thrill. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a heartbeat before rising back to your eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, Jimin withdrew, returning to his side of the carriage, though the charged air between you remained thick enough to cut.

"Comfortable?" he asked quietly, his eyes never truly leaving you.

You could only nod, entirely unable to trust your own voice.

By the time the car left the city limits, the rain had only grown heavier.

Thick curtains of silver lashed against the heavy glass windows, reducing the world outside to little more than blurred lanterns and shadowed silhouettes. You had expected Jimin’s chauffeur to pull up outside your modest apartment complex. Instead, nearly forty minutes later, the vehicle turned sharply through towering, intricate wrought-iron gates.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Beyond them stretched a long, winding driveway lined with ancient oak trees, their grand branches swaying violently beneath the force of the storm. Soft, low-voltage amber lights illuminated perfectly manicured hedges and marble fountains, guiding the way toward an estate so magnificent that, for a moment, you genuinely believed you had stepped into a different century altogether.

The manor emerged through the mist like a living piece of history.

It was enormous. Built from weathered pale stone and crowned with ivy-covered turrets, it stood proudly atop a gentle hill, every illuminated window glowing warmly against the surrounding darkness. Grand, imposing columns framed the entrance, while towering French windows reflected the jagged flashes of distant lightning.

You simply stared, utterly speechless.

Jimin caught the wonder in your eyes. "It has been in my family for generations," he explained quietly, his tone indifferent, as though he were discussing something far less extraordinary than a palace.

Generations. Of course it had.

In an instant, everything about him fell into place. The bespoke suits. The effortless, innate refinement. The quiet confidence that required no volume. The old-world manners that seemed entirely second nature. Jimin belonged to places like this—places built on time, legacy, and silent power.

The car rolled to a seamless stop beneath the grand portico. Before you could gather your scattered thoughts, Jimin had already stepped out into the damp air, opening his large silk umbrella and extending a gloved hand toward you.

You hesitated only briefly before placing your hand in his. His grip was warm, steady, and incredibly strong. He guided you carefully through the sweeping rain and up the sweeping marble steps, shielding you perfectly from the damp chill.

The enormous, iron-studded oak doors opened before you even had the opportunity to knock.

The grand foyer stole what little breath remained in your lungs. Flawless marble floors gleamed beneath massive crystal chandeliers suspended from impossibly high, vaulted ceilings. Large, oil-painted portraits of stern-looking ancestors lined the walls, their gilded frames catching the soft, flickering glow of antique sconces. Everything smelled faintly of cedarwood, old books, and expensive, polished mahogany.

The manor was breathtakingly beautiful. And impossibly silent.

There was no distant laughter. No echoing conversation. No signs of ordinary life. Only the soft, rhythmic echo of your own damp footsteps against the stone.

"Do you live here alone?" you found yourself asking, your voice a small whisper in the cavernous space.

Jimin glanced down toward you, his expression unreadable. "For the most part, yes."

Something about the absolute solitude of his answer made your chest tighten with a strange, sudden ache.

He led you through a series of dim, elegant corridors before finally stopping outside a cozy, firelit sitting room. "I shall have something warm prepared for you immediately," he said, his eyes scanning your bare shoulders. "You must be freezing."

Before you could offer a polite protest, he stepped away briefly, returning moments later carrying a plush, heavy cream towel. He extended it toward you.

You accepted it quietly, your voice catching. "Thank you."

As the fabric transferred between you, your fingers brushed against his. The contact lasted scarcely a second, yet a sharp, electric warmth lingered on your skin long after his hand withdrew.

Shortly afterward, a maidservant entered the room silently, carrying a heavy silver tray. She placed a steaming cup of tea and a crystal glass of water upon the mahogany coffee table before offering Jimin a deeply respectful, practiced bow and departing without uttering a single word.

The room fell into absolute silence once more.

Only you and Jimin remained.

The storm battered softly, relentlessly, against the tall windowpanes. You wrapped the thick towel more securely around your shoulders, suddenly acutely aware of how terrifyingly intimate the situation had become. You were sitting alone, draped in satin, in the heart of his ancestral home. It was midnight.

And sitting directly opposite you was the mysterious man who had spent ten years watching you move through the shadows.

Jimin sat back, impossibly composed as always, his long hands folded neatly over his knee. His dark, piercing eyes met yours across the small expanse, holding your gaze captive.

For a long, agonizing moment, neither of you spoke. Neither seemed willing to break the exquisite, agonizing tension that stretched between you.

For several moments, the room remained suspended in that breathless quiet, the storm outside providing the only tether to reality as it lashed against the tall windows. You cradled the porcelain cup, the heat of the tea seeping into your palms, while your gaze repeatedly drifted to the gentleman opposite you.

Jimin appeared entirely unruffled by the intimacy of the hour. To him, inviting a ballerina he had covertly adored for a decade into his ancestral home seemed as effortless and natural as breathing.

You, meanwhile, felt as though your heart were executing a frantic, undisciplined tempo.

"So," you began, carefully setting the saucer down upon the mahogany table, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "Who exactly are you, Park Jimin?"

A faint, localized smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "That is rather a broad inquiry, is it not?"

You tilted your head, a touch of playful defiance entering your eyes. "You happen to know practically everything about my life, sir. I think a little reciprocity is only fair."

Jimin leaned back against the plush velvet of his armchair, his dark eyes regarding you with quiet, unmistakable amusement. "And what precisely is it you wish to know?"

"Everything."

The demand earned you a soft, low laugh. The sound startled you; it was the first time you had heard it. It was warm, resonant, and terribly beautiful.

"Everything?" he repeated, the syllables lingering between you.

"Your family. Your position. How you spend your hours when you are not mysteriously materializing in theater wings."

Jimin’s smile deepened, though his gaze remained guarded. "My family has been entrenched in banking and high philanthropy for several generations, Miss Y/N."

"That is all you intend to offer?"

"For the present moment, yes."

You frowned slightly, unconvinced. "And your own pursuits?"

"A little of this. A little of that. I oversee the family's arts endowments."

"That is hardly a proper answer."

"It is the answer I am prepared to give."

You huffed softly, turning your face toward the hearth, which only elicited another quiet, captivated chuckle from him.

"You are a very secretive man, Jimin."

"So I have been told by many."

You turned back, studying the sharp, aristocratic contours of his face under the firelight. "Then tell me this. Why me? Out of all the dancers in city, why have you stayed?"

The question hung heavily in the air, shifting the entire atmosphere of the room. For the first time that evening, Jimin’s composed facade slipped, replaced by a profound, sudden stillness. Outside, a low rumble of thunder vibrated through the floorboards.

"You truly wish to know?" he asked, his voice dropping to a private, reverent murmur.

You nodded, holding his gaze.

Jimin’s eyes lowered briefly to his elegant, clasped hands before rising to lock onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "The first time I saw you take the stage, I was nineteen years old."

Your pulse quickened.

"It was a minor variation, but halfway through, you smiled," he continued softly, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your face. "In that singular moment, you forgot the grandeur of the hall. You forgot your nerves. You forgot the audience even existed. There was only you, entirely surrendered to the music."

You remained perfectly motionless, captivated by the cadence of his words.

"I have attended countless performances in my life," Jimin murmured, stepping into the memory. "Operas in Paris, symphonies in Vienna, ballets across the world. But until that evening, I had never seen anything so purely beautiful."

A sudden, breathless heat flooded your cheeks. "Jimin—"

"You possess an extraordinary, terrifying gift, Miss Y/N," he interrupted gently, his tone laced with a decade of unspoken devotion. "Your artistry. Your fierce discipline. The absolute poetry of how you move." His eyes softened impossibly. "And you are quite beautiful."

Your breath faltered entirely. No director, no critic, and certainly no suitor had ever spoken of your dedication in such a manner. No one had ever looked beneath the performance to see you.

You lowered your gaze, suddenly fascinated by the intricate gold filigree of your teacup, purely to hide the depth of your emotion. "Thank you," you whispered into the quiet.

A thick, charged silence settled over the room once more. Then, you detected the subtle rustle of fabric.

Looking up, you realized Jimin had crossed the expanse between your chairs. He stopped directly before you, his tall silhouette blocking out the rest of the firelit room. Your heart stuttered violently against your ribs.

Slowly, deliberately, he sank to one knee before your chair, his movements possessing the fluid grace of an aristocrat. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently taking hold of your hands.

"You wore them," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the silk.

"The gloves?" you breathed, your throat dry.

He nodded, his thumb lightly tracing the smooth fabric covering your wrist.

You swallowed hard, the proximity making your head spin. "I wanted to. For tonight."

Something dark and utterly unreadable flashed through his eyes, a hunger mixed with absolute reverence. Carefully, almost tenderly, Jimin began to slide the opera gloves from your hands. He peeled the silk away inch by inch, his touch agonizingly slow, leaving your skin tingling as the cool air of the room kissed your bare arms.

When the fabric was completely discarded, he did not let go. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted your bare hand toward his face.

And pressed his lips softly, lingeringly, against your knuckles.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips. The touch lasted only a second, yet a fierce, intoxicating warmth bloomed from the point of contact, racing through your veins and settling deep within your chest.

Jimin withdrew slowly, his head bowing slightly, though his eyes remained anchored to yours. "Thank you," he murmured against the quiet room. "For granting me that."

Your pulse thundered like the storm outside, a dizzying, reckless thought taking hold of your mind as you looked down at him—that perhaps the rain should never stop, and the carriage should never take you home.

The lingering heat from your earlier proximity followed you like a phantom as you stepped into the corridor, your fingers still tingling from where his skin had pressed against yours. The silence of the manor felt heavier now, charged with a quiet, seductive gravity that pulled the two of you closer with every step.

When the grand double doors swung open, the sheer romance of the room took whatever breath you had managed to reclaim.

The floor-to-ceiling glass ran the entire length of the far wall, a massive canvas of weeping silver and fractured moonlight. Against this backdrop of untamed storm sat the obsidian grand piano, its polished wood gleaming like liquid silk under the amber glow of the chandelier.

"It is beautiful," you whispered, the sound velvety in the vast space.

Jimin did not look at the room. His dark eyes remained anchored entirely to you, tracking the way the soft light caught the exposed curve of your collarbone. "I am glad you think so."

"You play?"

"A little."

You offered a slow, knowing smile, the flush still warm on your neck. "Somehow, I do not believe your modesty, sir."

A low, captivated chuckle escaped him. Crossing the parquet floor with effortless, predatory grace, Jimin settled onto the bench. His tailored charcoal coat parted slightly, revealing the crisp line of his waistcoat. Then, his gaze lifted, heavy and dark.

"Dance for me."

The command sent a sudden, thrilling shock straight to your core. You laughed nervously, the satin of your blush-pink dress rustling as you shifted back a step. "Jimin, I... I cannot simply dance on command. Not like this."

"You can."

The absolute certainty in his baritone felt like a physical touch.

"It is different," you protested softly, your eyes locking onto his. "There is no stage. No grand auditorium. There isn't an audience."

"There doesn't need to be." His fingers hovered just above the ivory keys, his focus narrowing until the rest of the world ceased to exist. "Tonight, I do not wish to share you with a crowded house. Dance for me alone."

The air in the room grew thick, suffocatingly warm. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild, reckless rhythm.

"I have already performed tonight," you murmured, a weak defense against the pull of his presence.

"And yet," Jimin said quietly, his voice dropping to a seductive, raspy register as his hands descended onto the keys, "I don't believe you have danced for yourself. Or for a man who truly sees you."

The first chords drifted into the air—rich, melancholy, and achingly beautiful. You froze, your breath hitching. It was your favorite piece, a melody you only listened to in the absolute solitude of your room. Of course he knew.

Slowly, helplessly, you stepped into the center of the room.

At first, your movements were tentative, heavy with a delicious shiver of shyness. But as the dark, swelling rhythm enveloped you, your body surrendered. The fluid satin of your dress clung to your silhouette as you turned, arching your spine with a fierce, desperate grace that was entirely raw.

You forgot the constraints of the theater. You forgot the rules of propriety. There was only the music, the storm, and the man pulling the strings of your soul.

Again and again, your eyes locked onto his across the expanse of the room. Every single time, his gaze was already waiting, burning with an unshielded, intoxicating hunger. It was a look that stripped away the wealthy benefactor and left only a man utterly consumed by what he saw.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You spun, the pink satin swirling around your thighs like liquid fire.

Jimin’s fingers faltered, missing a minor chord.

The tiny, uncharacteristic slip sent a jolt of pure, wicked adrenaline through your veins. He was affected. Unstrung. Without a word, you held his gaze through your next extension, stretching the movement out, tilting your head back deliberately to let him see the pulse leaping in your throat.

A dark, heavy flush crept high onto his aristocratic cheekbones. His jaw clenched, his hands pressing into the keys with a renewed, fierce intensity.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The dance ceased to be a performance and became something intensely carnal—a silent, breathless conversation between his hands and your body. Neither of you spoke. You didn't need to. The agonizing tension in the room said everything.

When the final, resonant note faded into the rafters, neither of you moved.

The rain continued its frantic assault against the glass. You stood breathless, your chest heaving beneath the satin bodice, a stray lock of hair damp against your cheek.

Jimin remained at the piano, his long fingers still resting on the keys, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own frantic breathing. He stared at you through the shadows, his eyes wild with a decade of suppressed longing, as though he had finally claimed the phantom he had chased for ten years.

And as you looked back at him, your pulse thundering in your ears, you realized you were entirely caught in his web.

Your eyes remained fixed on his, tracking the deliberate, heavy swell of his breathing and the way his tongue swiped across his lower lip as the tension in the room thickened to a suffocating weight. Guided by a reckless, intoxicating impulse, your hand reached behind your back, your fingers catching the small metal tab of your zipper.

With a slow, deliberate tug, the satin parted.

The fluid fabric of your blush-pink dress pooled around your feet, leaving you standing in the center of the polished floor wearing only your delicate, cream-toned silk undergarments.

Jimin’s breath caught completely, a low, ragged sound escaping his chest. The immaculate melody of the piano faltered, a deep chord dropping sharply out of rhythm before his hands instinctively forced themselves back into the notes. His gaze broke away from your eyes, dropping instantly to the exposed, luminous expanse of your bare skin—the curve of your waist, the long, sculpted line of your legs, and the frantic, heavy rise and fall of your chest.

A dark, fierce hunger flooded his features, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscle leaped beneath his pale skin. He couldn't believe what his eyes were showing him.

For ten years, he had imagined you in every light, but having you here, in the absolute privacy of his ancestral home, dancing for him half-clothed, felt like a beautifully wicked dream he never intended to wake from.

The final barrier fell away, and your bra slipped from your shoulders, joining the satin pooled at your feet.

Jimin let out a sharp, ragged gasp, the sound echoing loudly through the cavernous music room. The sudden, violent movement of his hands caused his fingers to slam against the keys in a harsh, discordant clash that shattered the melody entirely. The music stopped dead.

He didn't move to start it again. His hands froze over the ivory, his knuckles white as his chest heaved, breathing hard, his lungs starving for air in the suddenly suffocating heat of the room. His dark eyes flared, widening with an unshielded, almost feral intensity as they tracked the unrestricted movement of your body.

The aristocratic mask was entirely gone, burned away by the raw, intoxicating sight of your bare, luminous skin under the amber light of the chandelier.

Yet, despite the sudden silence, you did not stop.

Surrendering completely to the quiet rhythm of the storm, you continued to dance. Every movement became a masterclass in elegant seduction. Without the music, the soft rustle of your bare skin against the cool air and the quiet, rhythmic scrape of your feet against the polished parquet floor became the new melody.

You extended your arms, your spine arching with a fluid, mesmerizing grace that highlighted every taut muscle and delicate curve.

You moved with absolute, unbothered poise, a siren in the shadows of his ancestral home, keeping your eyes locked onto his unstrung, breathless form as you pulled him deeper into your spell.

Unable to endure the agonizing distance a second longer, Jimin stood up. The heavy piano bench scraped sharply against the parquet floor as he abandoned the instrument, his tall silhouette immediately overtaking the dim room.

He closed the distance between you with slow, predatory strides, his dark eyes never breaking contact with yours. As he stepped directly into your space, the sheer heat radiating from his large frame brought your elegant movements to a breathless halt.

He didn't speak. He simply reached out, his long, warm fingers wrapping possessively around your wrist, anchoring you in place. His touch was heavy, trembling slightly with a decade of suppressed hunger.

Without a word, he lifted your bare hand toward his face, his gaze locking onto yours as his lips met the sensitive skin of your wrist.

He kissed you there, a slow, searing press of his mouth that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.

Then, he began his ascent. His lips moved seductively against the soft, bare skin of your inner forearm, each kiss deliberate, hot, and agonizingly slow. You let out a quiet, trembling breath, your fingers automatically curling into the crisp fabric of his waistcoat to keep your balance as your knees grew weak.

Jimin’s other hand slid up the curve of your waist, his palm resting firmly against your bare ribcage, his thumb tracing the frantic, erratic rhythm of your heart. He didn't rush. He lingered in the soft crook of your elbow, his tongue tracing a fleeting, intoxicating path upward along the delicate skin of your upper arm.

By the time his mouth reached your shoulder, your head had tilted back, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He pressed his lips firmly into the slope where your neck met your shoulder, inhaling the raw scent of your skin mixed with the lingering trace of your stage perfume.

"Ten years," he rasped against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly growl of pure surrender. "Ten years, and you are finally here.”

Jimin’s hand shifted from your waist, his long fingers trailing a slow path up your ribcage before his palm settled gently against your shoulder, applying a firm, persuasive pressure. He guided you downward with a deliberate grace, his gaze holding yours captive until the cool, polished parquet floor met your back.

The contrast of the cool wood against your feverish skin drew a sharp breath from your lips. Jimin hovered over you instantly, his large, tailored frame blocking out the light of the chandelier, trapping you in a sanctuary of his own making.

He settled between your thighs, the heavy fabric of his trousers pressing intimately against you as he braced his weight on one forearm. His free hand reached up, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your damp cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that felt entirely sacred.

"You have completely undone me," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy confession against your skin, his gaze dropped.

Slowly, agonizingly, Jimin leaned down, his breath blowing hot across your bare chest before his lips made contact with the aching fullness of your breast. A soft, breathless gasp escaped you, your fingers instantly tangling into the thick, dark strands of his hair as his mouth moved with a slow, agonizingly seductive intent.

He didn't rush. He traced the soft contour with his lips, his tongue dipping out to leave a searing, wet trail across your skin that made your core ache with a sudden, restless heat.

Every touch was deliberate, designed to unstring you just as you had unstrung him at the piano. When his lips finally brushed the sensitive, tight peak, a quiet, helpless moan broke through the silence of the room.

The sound seemed to fuel the fire consuming him. His grip on your hip tightened, his palm warm and possessive against your bare skin as his mouth trailed across to your other breast, repeating the slow, torturous adoration.

He coaxed another ragged sound from your throat, his name slipping past your lips like a prayer. The storm outside raged on, entirely forgotten, as you melted completely into the bruising, intoxicating reality of his touch.

The sound of your breathing was a ragged melody in the vast, quiet room, entirely matching the heavy rise and fall of Jimin's chest as he remained draped over you. The old-money composure he usually wore like armor had completely evaporated, leaving only a raw, unyielding focus centered entirely on your pleasure.

Slowly, his lips parted over the sensitive peak of your breast. He drew the tight bud into the heat of his mouth, sucking on your nipple with a slow, agonizing rhythm that sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to your core.

Your hips twitched off the polished floor, your fingers tightening frantically in his dark hair as a breathless, fractured moan escaped your lips. Just as the pleasure became overwhelming, his teeth nipped against the sensitive peak—a sharp, wicked bite that made you gasp, your back arching off the wood.

"Jimin..." your voice was a broken whisper, a plea for something you couldn't quite name.

"Shh," he rasped, his breath burning hot against your damp skin. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his dark eyes dilated, heavy with a decade of unshielded desire. "Stay still for me, my darling."

His mouth began a slow, torturous descent, leaving a trail of searing, wet kisses down the center of your ribs and across the flat expanse of your stomach. Every press of his lips was a deliberate worship, making the muscles of your abdomen quiver beneath his touch.

His long, elegant fingers found the waistband of your silk shorts. With a smooth, practiced movement, he slid the final barrier down the length of your legs, casting them aside into the shadows of the parquet floor. You were completely exposed to him now, trembling beneath the amber glow of the crystal chandelier.

Jimin hovered over you, his gaze sweeping over every inch of your bare, sculpted form with absolute reverence. A dark, knowing smile touched his lips as he leaned down, his mouth brushing right against your ear.

"Ten years I watched you under the stage lights," he murmured, his voice a gravelly, deeply seductive purr that vibrated through your entire body. "So perfect. So untouchable. My beautiful Odette..." He pressed a hot kiss to the sensitive skin just behind your earlobe. "My sweet, perfect Odette. You are finally entirely mine."

The name sent a shiver through your veins, blurring the lines between the stage and the reality of his possessive touch.

Before you could gather your thoughts, Jimin slid further down, his large hands cupping the backs of your knees, lifting them slightly to open you up to his gaze. He pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the inside of each knee, his thumbs tracing the long, elegant lines of your calves.

Then, his mouth moved higher.

He kissed his way up the soft expanse of your outer thighs, his touch maddeningly slow, before his lips moved inward. His hot breath fanned across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, ghosting over the heat gathering between them.

As his mouth pressed firmly against the tender flesh just inches from your core, a soft, helpless cry broke from your throat. Your thighs clenched instinctively around his broad shoulders, your body turning entirely slick and wet with a desperate, heavy ache that demanded everything he had to give.

Jimin slowly parted your thighs, his eyes fixated on your slick folds as he could smell the tender perfume of yours, the one he gets from your clothes and bag everytime.

He pressed his nose against your folds, slowly inhaling the pure flowery scent of your mound. You arched slightly, feeling the graze of his soft lips against your folds, aching to be kissed by him.

He held your thighs apart, enjoying himself slowly. "I can't believe you are real." He whispered yet again. You whined in response and moved closer to his mouth. He pressed his mouth against your folds, slowly sucking on your folds and licking the inside of your folds, slowly giving a long lick down to your wet hole.

You moaned out his name, feeling the ghost of touch of his mouth everywhere suddenly as he latched his lips against your mound. Your eyes rolled back in utter pleasure. "Jimin...." You gasped.

Jimin slowly kitten licked your clit, flicking it with his tongue few times before rubbing your enterance with two of his fingers. He circled it, spreading the wetness everywherre. You were a mess of moans and gasps, tugging his hair and arching into him.

He slowly pulled up. He felt a protective instict looking down at you. Under him, naked and a mess, leaking all over his floor for him. He was so turned on. You were his ruin. His obsession. He slowly dragged his eyes down your squirmy body and unbuckled his belt.

He wanted to ruin you. Make you his wholly. Make you feel the very obsession he has with you.

You gasped as you saw the tent forming in his pants. He removed his pants and boxers, his cock sprung free with pre cum leaking. Your mouth watered.

Your lips parted slightly. He fisted his cock and rubbed the pre-cum to your clit and slowly pushed inside your hole. You gasped, feeling him everywhere. Your eyes rolled back. It burned but it felt so good.

Jimin groaned, feeling how warm and welcoming you were, he almost lost it. You were his pure happiness and right now he was on cloud nine. He watched your reaction, the way your eyes watered, the way your chest panted up and down and the way your nipples were begging for attention. He leaned down and licked your nipples, sucking them slowly into his mouth and nibbling with his teeth a few times as he waited for you to adjust to his length.

“J-jimin.” You whimpered, holding onto his shoulder for support.

Jimin hummed and slowly moved, his eyes closing for a second before he locked them to your hazel eyes, drowning into the deep water. He gasped as he felt you squeeze him.

He pressed his tongue against your neck and slowly licked down to your cleavage. You felt him move, your body responding to his thrusts.

He slowly increased his pace, thrusting slowly deeper until he knew he was hitting your spot. He was going slow but deeper everytime. You were seeing stars at his pace. You wanted more.

“M-more.” You whined.

Jimin hummed again, finding your mouth to kiss you hungrily before licking your tongue with his, slowly sucking it and making you moan into his mouth. He moved his head back and smirked, the glint in his eyes unapologetic as he thrust harder this time. You let out a scream, your grip tightening on his shoulder.

“Ahh.” You whined, letting out muffled noises against his shoulder. “Please…j-jimin!”

His thrusts were faster and harder, he was panting and growling. Your eyes rolled back in pleasure, tearing trickling down the corner of your eyes. You felt the unfamiliar knot form in your stomach, feeling it tighten and snap.

Jimin felt your release. He kissed your neck, marking you and growled as he came inside you, filling you with his hot seeds.

You gasped as he pulled out completely and laid next to you. You were his utter obsession and he was sure he couldn't get rid of it now at all.

The lingering warmth of his touch still simmered beneath your skin, a heavy contrast to the sudden stillness that settled through the west wing.

As the tall mahogany doors creaked open, the air inside the room felt different—cooler, thick with the scent of aged paper, cedar, and dried lavender. You stepped over the threshold, expecting perhaps a gallery of family history or a private study.

Instead, the ground beneath your feet seemed to dissolve.

The moonlight slicing through the arched windows illuminated the space piece by piece, and with every detail that emerged, the blood in your veins slowed to an icy crawl. It wasn't horror that gripped you, but a profound, disorienting vertigo. The sheer scale of what surrounded you was staggering.

Your eyes tracked the walls. The framed programs weren't just a handful of memorable nights; they were an unbroken lineage of your entire career. Rows upon rows of ticket stubs, perfectly aligned, dated back to afternoons you had long forgotten—matinees performed to half-empty houses where you assumed no one was truly paying attention.

But he had been there.

You walked slowly toward the glass cabinets, your fingers trembling so violently you had to tuck them against your stomach. Inside lay objects that felt intensely, almost embarrassingly intimate. Your retired performance gloves, the silk still bearing the faint creases of your knuckles.

The ivory gown from Giselle, its delicate tulle preserved so perfectly it looked alive. These weren't things a casual patron could buy. These were pieces of your life that had vanished backstage, items you assumed had been discarded or lost to the theater's chaotic wardrobe department.

He had rescued them. He had treated the remnants of your exhausting, grueling labor as holy relics.

"Jimin..." The name was nothing more than a breathless exhalation, catching in the back of your throat.

He didn't defend himself. He didn't offer a charming, aristocratic excuse. He simply stood near the desk, his silhouette dark against the silver moonlight, letting you witness the full, crushing weight of his silence.

Your gaze fell to the newspaper clippings spread across the mahogany desk. When you saw the date on the central article, a sharp, familiar ache bloomed in the center of your chest. The year the world went dark. The year the plague of grief had threatened to swallow you whole, leaving you to raise your sister on nothing but sheer willpower and broken dreams.

"You disappeared for seven months," Jimin’s voice cut through the quiet, stripped of all its usual polished composure. It was raw. Fragile. "The papers called it a sabbatical. But I knew. I saw the way you had been dancing before you left—like you were trying to break yourself against the stage."

You turned around slowly, the satin of your dress whispering against the silence.

"I thought you would never return," he confessed, his dark eyes fixed on yours, completely defenseless. "And for those seven months, the world felt entirely dark. When you finally stepped back into the wings... I was in the box. I didn't care if you missed a step. I didn't care if you ever reached the principal title. I just needed to see you survive."

His voice faltered, a rare fracture in his immaculate bearing. "The first night you smiled during a variation again... I knew you were going to be alright. I kept that program in my jacket for a year."

You looked around the room one last time, the sheer magnitude of it pressing down on your chest. This wasn't the obsession of a collector. It wasn't the passing fancy of a wealthy man spending his inheritance on a beautiful dancer.

This was an entire life built quietly, reverently, in the shadows of yours. Every triumph, every heartbreak, every silent tear you had wiped away in lonely dressing rooms—he had sustained himself on it. He had anchored his soul to your movement.

"You were never supposed to see this," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I know how it must look."

But as you stared at him—this powerful, unapproachable aristocrat looking so utterly undone before you—the initial chill in your blood gave way to something overwhelming and heavy. It was a terrifying, beautiful truth that rewrite every lonely night you had ever spent doubting your worth.

You had never truly danced in the dark. Even when the theater was empty, even when you felt entirely abandoned by the world, Park Jimin had been holding his breath, keeping the light alive for you.

The silence that followed his confession was not the warm, intoxicating quiet of the music room, but something heavier—a dense, suffocating stillness that made the air feel thin.

Your gaze remained fixed on the open chest, your eyes tracking the rows of velvet boxes. Each one represented a night you had bled for your art, a night you had collapsed into bed with aching muscles and a hollow chest, entirely unaware that a man was driving back to this colossal manor to lock a piece of his soul away in your honor.

"Every opening night," you whispered, the words tasting like lead on your tongue.

"Every one," Jimin confirmed. He hadn't moved. He stood so perfectly still he might have been one of the marble statues in his foyer, yet the tension radiating from his frame was palpable.

You looked down at the breathtaking diamond pendant resting against your collarbone. It felt impossibly heavy now, less like a gift and more like a beautifully forged anchor, pulling you down into the depths of a history you hadn't consented to be a part of.

The romance of the evening was fracturing, the smooth facade of the fairytale giving way to a jagged, disorienting reality. You had thought he was a man captivated by a dancer; you were beginning to realize he had built an altar to a phantom.

"Jimin," you started, your voice trembling as you took a half-step back, your bare heels brushing against the edge of the plush rug. "This... all of this. If I had never agreed to get into your car tonight... what were you going to do with these?"

His dark eyes lifted, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no shame. Just that devastating, quiet certainty that had fascinated you from the moment he stepped out of the Rolls-Royce.

"I would have kept buying them," he said softly.

A cold shiver rippled down your spine. "Forever?"

"Until you stopped dancing." He offered a faint, almost melancholic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And perhaps even after that."

The honesty was what unnerved you the most. If he had been a monster, if his intentions had felt predatory or cruel, you could have fled. You could have screamed for his chauffeur to take you home. But there was a profound, agonizing tenderness in his devotion that made it impossible to hate—and that was exactly what terrified you. The boundary between love and a beautiful, gilded madness had been entirely erased.

You reached up, your fingertips fumbling slightly as you touched the cool diamonds at your throat. "It's too much," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Jimin’s smile faded, his posture stiffening imperceptibly. The shadow that had crossed his features in the west wing returned, deeper this time. He took a slow step toward you, his hand rising as if to comfort you, before he caught himself and let it drop back to his side.

"Does it frighten you?" he asked, his baritone dropping to a private, fragile register.

You looked at the chest, then at the man who had spent a decade harboring a quiet, impossible longing for a woman he didn't even know.

"I don't know," you confessed, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "It feels... as though I am stepping into a story that was written long before I arrived. I don't know where the dancer you've imagined ends, Jimin, and where I begin."

For the first time since you had met him, Jimin looked entirely at a loss. The quiet, inherited confidence that seemed to master every room he entered cracked, revealing something desperate and profoundly human beneath.

"You are the only reality I have ever cared about, Y/N," he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a raw, pleading hunger.

The rain outside suddenly seemed louder, a relentless drumming against the glass that underscored the sudden, terrifying distance opening up between you in the center of the room.

----

The rhythmic, sharp clack of pointe shoes against the linoleum floor suddenly sounded incredibly loud, slicing through the hazy remnants of your fairytale.

Mina’s words hung in the air between you, heavy and toxic, instantly tarnishing the bright morning sunlight that flooded the studio. You looked down at your hands, your knuckles white against the wooden barre. The diamond pendant hidden beneath your loose rehearsal leotard suddenly felt blistering hot against your skin, like a brand rather than a gift.

"He isn't dangerous, Mina," you said, your voice sounding defensive even to your own ears. You hated how small it wrapped around the vast emptiness of the room. "You didn't see the way he looked at me. It wasn't... it wasn't malicious. He was entirely undone."

Mina stopped stretching, turning her full body toward you, her expression laced with a fierce, protective gravity that pulled you right out of the clouds.

"Every stalker in history thinks they're a romantic, Y/N," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, urgent whisper so the other dancers wouldn't overhear. "Undone? He’s a billionaire who has spent a decade treating your life like his personal gallery. He bought your costumes. Do you have any idea how much money and influence it takes to bribe a theater’s wardrobe department to smuggle out principal pieces? That isn't just admiration. That is a calculated, quiet insertion of himself into your existence without your consent."

A cold, creeping numbness started at the tips of your toes and traveled upward, settling right in the pit of your stomach.

Your mind flashed back to the music room—the dark, intoxicating friction of his skin against yours, the bruising intensity of his mouth on your collarbone, his low, gravelly whisper calling you. Odette. His Odette. At the time, it had felt like the height of passion, a beautiful surrender to a ten-year-old melody.

But looking at it now, under the sterile, unforgiving fluorescent lights of the practice studio, a sickening question took root, Had he been kissing you, or had he been kissing the phantom he had spent ten years curating in his mind?

"He said he was just a man in the audience," you murmured, desperately trying to anchor yourself to the vulnerability you had seen in his eyes when he opened that chest of unopened gifts. "He said he didn't want to presume familiarity."

"But he did presume it," Mina countered sharply, reaching out to grip your forearm. Her touch was grounded, a stark contrast to Jimin's reverent, ghostly caresses. "He collected your grief, Y/N. He watched you suffer through the worst year of your life from a dark box, keeping score of your smiles like they belonged to him. If he truly cared about you as a human being, he would have stepped out of the shadows when you were drowning. He didn't. Because a fantasy is easier to control."

The studio clock ticked relentlessly, marking the seconds as the ground beneath your feet continued to fracture.

The image of the west wing room flashed behind your eyes—not as a holy relic of his love, but as a beautifully gilded cage. The countless velvet boxes, the meticulous chronologies, the sheer weight of a man's entire life built silently around a woman who had no idea he was there. It was a terrifying realization. You hadn't just stepped into a romance; you had stepped into an altar where you were the prize.

"What am I supposed to do?" you whispered, the butterflies that had animated your morning turning into a flock of trapped, frantic things inside your chest.

Before Mina could answer, the studio doors swung open, and the sharp, authoritative clap of Madame Cornettee’s hands echoed through the space, calling the company to order.

You forced yourself to stand, your legs feeling strangely disconnected from your body as you took your place at the barre. As the piano music started, you moved automatically, your body executing the familiar geometry of the choreography. But for the first time in ten years, you didn't feel the comforting, invisible warmth of a dedicated gaze shielding you from the dark.

Instead, every time you turned toward the mirrors, you found yourself looking past your own reflection, wondering what else was watching from the shadows—and exactly what it expected you to be.

°

The heavy scent of scorched petals and smoke hung like a shroud in the small dressing room, completely suffocating the sweet, floral perfume of the remaining bouquets.

Jimin tossed the blackened, skeletal remains of the lilies into the waste bin. The metallic clang echoed through the room like a gunshot. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, the light from your vanity bulbs catching the stark, sharp lines of his face. The aristocratic gentleman who had played the piano with such devastating tenderness a week ago was gone. In his place stood someone cold, unyielding, and utterly territorial.

"What was that?" your voice trembled, a thin thread of sound against the deafening quiet.

"They were unnecessary," he replied, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any inflection whatsoever as he adjusted the cuffs of his tailored shirt.

"They were a gift from a patron, Jimin," you said, your fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of your costume, your knuckles white. "It is common courtesy to accept them. You had no right—"

"I have every right," he interrupted, his baritone dropping to a dangerous, gravelly low that seemed to vibrate the very air between you. He did not shout. He didn't have to. The quiet force behind his words was enough to make your breath falter.

He moved closer, his tall shadow stretching over you, completely boxing you in against the vanity. The proximity, which had felt intoxicatingly seductive in his manor, now felt predatory. Your back pressed against the edge of the wooden table, the lightbulbs casting a harsh, unforgiving glare over his dilated, dark eyes.

"Jimin, you are acting insane," you whispered, the small voice of doubt that Mina had planted blooming into a full, choking panic in your chest.

"Am I?" Jimin leaned down, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips. But there was no passion in his gaze now—only a consuming, unblinking focus that made your skin crawl. He reached out, his long, elegant fingers wrapping firmly around your chin, forcing you to look at him. His grip wasn't brutal, but it was unyielding. A reminder of the strength hidden beneath his expensive silk and wool.

"For ten years, I have protected you from the dark, Y/N," he murmured, his gaze tracing your trembling lips, then moving to the diamond pendant still resting against your skin. "I watched you bleed for your art. I bought the very clothes that touched your skin. I built an entire world to keep you safe, to keep you mine. Do you truly believe I will allow another man to leave his mark on what belongs to me?"

"I don't belong to you," you breathed, a tear of pure, suffocating realization slipping down your cheek.

Jimin’s thumb caught the tear, wiping it away with an agonizing, gentle slow motion that felt entirely threatening. A dark, chilling smile touched the corners of his lips.

"You have always belonged to me, my beautiful Odette," he whispered, his voice a seductive, terrifying purr against your ear. "You simply didn't know it until tonight."

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours one last time, ensuring you understood the boundaries of the gilded cage he had built around you.

The heavy scent of the scorched lilies still suffocated the small dressing room, but the air between you had turned bitterly cold.

Jimin stood frozen in the center of the room, his long fingers tightening around the thorns of the white roses you had violently thrust against his chest. He didn't seem to feel them piercing his skin. His immaculate, aristocratic bearing had cracked entirely, leaving behind a jagged, hollow emptiness. For ten years, he had been the architect of a flawless world where he was your silent guardian; in a single breath, you had torn the foundation out from beneath his feet.

"You cannot ask that of me," he whispered, his baritone fracturing, stripped of all its terrifying authority. The sound was thin, bleeding with a raw, desperate agony that vibrated through the quiet room.

"I am asking it, Jimin," you said, your voice shaking with a volatile mixture of fear and hot, boiling anger. You stood by the open door, your knuckles white on the brass handle, your chest heaving under your costume. "I want you out. Out of my dressing room, out of my theater, and out of my life."

He stared at you, his dark eyes wide, dilated, and drowning in a pure, devastating disbelief. He looked down at the pristine white roses in his hands, then back up at you, as if waiting for the punchline of a cruel joke. He had survived seven months of your absence by living on memories, but this—this explicit, visceral rejection from the goddess he worshipped—was a mortal wound. You weren't just banning him from a building; you were ripping away the only light he had used to navigate his own darkness.

"Y/N..." he stepped forward, a blind, instinctive reach toward you, his lips parting to plead.

"Don't," you choked out, flinching away from his advance.

The movement was worse than a physical blow. Jimin stopped dead in his tracks. The realization that he—the man who had dedicated a decade to keeping you safe—was now the source of your terror seemed to age him in an instant. The unyielding, possessive predator from moments before withered away, leaving only a man profoundly, utterly broken.

A suffocating, deafening silence settled over the corridor.

Slowly, his head bowed. The man who mastered boardrooms and held the theater's fate in his hands looked small. Trembling, he clutched the rejected bouquet closer to his chest, the white petals bruising against his tailored waistcoat. Without another word, he finally took a step backward, crossing the threshold into the dim hallway.

You didn't hesitate. With a sharp, desperate motion, you slammed the heavy wooden door shut, throwing the deadbolt into place.

The sharp click of the lock echoed like a final verdict. On the other side, through the thick mahogany, there was no sound of retreating footsteps. No engine revving in the alley. There was only a heavy, lingering silence, leaving you alone in the smoke, wondering if you had finally broken the phantom who had held your world together.

°

The rain outside the west wing had slowed to a miserable, rhythmic weeping, mimicking the hollow silence that now filled the room.

Jimin sat on the cold parquet floor, slumped against the base of the glass cabinet that held your debut dress. The pristine white roses lay scattered around him, their stems broken, a few petals stained with the dark, sluggish drops of blood from where the thorns had pierced his palms. He didn’t notice the pain. The ache blooming in his chest was a vast, suffocating gravity, collapsing his entire world inward.

In his trembling hands, he held your retired performance gloves.

Slowly, reverently, he lifted the delicate silk to his face, burying his nose into the fabric. He inhaled deeply, his chest shuddering as he sought the faint, lingering phantom of you. It was all there—the scent of the stage powder, the crisp hum of the theater air, and that distinct, flowery perfume that had haunted his senses for a decade. He drank it in like a dying man in a desert, his eyes closing tight as a single, rare tear slipped down his cheek, dampening the silk.

"Y/N," he rasped into the fabric, his voice a broken, fragile string of sound.

He looked up, his dilated eyes sweeping across the dark, silver-lit room. The framed programs, the meticulously aligned ticket stubs, the towering portrait of you as Odette—everything he had built, everything he was, existed solely because of you. He hadn't just built a collection; he had constructed a sanctuary to keep himself anchored to the living world.

“You are my life,” he had told you, and it wasn't a hyperbole. It was a terrifying, absolute truth.

For ten years, his existence had been calibrated to the rhythm of your breath before a leap. He had learned to breathe when you smiled; he had learned to survive the winter of your grief by counting the days until your return. To be cut off from you, to be banned from the dark corner of the box where he spent a decade guarding your light, was a sentence worse than death. It was complete erasure.

A ragged, desperate breath escaped him. He couldn't do it. He couldn't simply stop existing. The thought of an opening night arriving without him there to protect you, without his eyes tracing the line of your spine, made his lungs seize with a pure, agonizing panic.

He didn't need to touch you. He didn't even need you to look at him again. The memory of your skin beneath his mouth, the soft, desperate whines you had made on his floor—they were a beautiful, fleeting luxury he had never dared to dream of possessing permanently. But he needed to watch.

Even if he had to hide further in the shadows. Even if he had to buy the entire upper tier just to sit in the furthest, darkest corner where the light couldn't catch the reflection of his eyes.

Clutching the silk gloves tightly against his heart, Jimin leaned his head back against the glass, staring up at your portrait in the moonlight. The polite, aristocratic mask was gone, replaced by a raw, eternal yearning. He would obey her rules. He would stay away from her door. But he would never stop watching his Odette. He couldn't.

°

The auditorium of the Grand Theatre was completely dark, a vast chasm of hushed breathing and anticipation. Way in the back, past the luxury boxes, in the deepest shadows of the highest tier where the velvet curtains met the cold stone wall, a figure stood.

Jimin did not sit. He stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, his tailored coat blending seamlessly into the dark. He had bought every seat in the last three rows under an assumed name, ensuring that no one would stumble into his sanctuary. He was a ghost in his own theater, keeping his promise to stay out of your sight—but he could not stay out of your world.

Then, the stage lights flared to life, a brilliant, blinding wash of gold and ivory.

And there you were.

Jimin’s breath caught, his chest tightening with an ache so profound it made his knees weak. This was the *Cornettee* variation. Your dream dance. The piece you had talked about with quiet, burning passion during the brief hours you had shared in his manor.

The orchestra swelled, the first notes rising like a tidal wave, and you moved.

A quiet, reverent exhale escaped his lips. You were magnificent. Any doubt, any exhaustion from the harrowing week behind you had vanished the moment your pointe shoes struck the floor. You floated across the stage with a fluid, impossible geometry, every extension a masterpiece of discipline and raw emotion.

Standing in the shadows, a fierce, overwhelming sense of pride bloomed in Jimin’s chest.

The aristocratic composure he usually wore like armor dissolved, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated awe of a man watching his universe expand. He didn't look at you with the possessive fury of that night in the dressing room; he looked at you with a pure, humbling admiration.

Your form was flawless. The delicate arch of your back, the effortless grace with which you suspended yourself in the air during a grand jeté, the absolute elegance of your landing—it was poetry in human form. You were no longer just a woman; you were the very definition of art.

He watched the way the stage lights caught the sweat glistening on your collarbone, the fierce determination burning in your eyes as you neared the climax of the piece. You were dancing for yourself tonight, completely untethered, entirely free.

And as the final notes resonated through the rafters and the auditorium erupted into a deafening, standing ovation, Jimin didn't applaud. He simply closed his eyes, a soft, melancholic smile touching his lips. He let the thunderous praise of thousands wash over him, content in the absolute darkness of his corner.

You had won. You had conquered your dream. And even if he could only ever love you from the deepest shadows of the room, he was there, holding his breath, utterly consumed by your grace.

The final, echoing chords of the orchestra were suddenly cut short by a violent, tearing screech from the rafters above.

Jimin was already turning to slip out of the exit when the grand chandelier flickered once, twice, and died, plunging the upper tier into a terrifying shadow. A heartbeat later, the first scream tore through the auditorium, sharp and piercing enough to curdle the blood. *Fire.*

Panic erupted like a physical shockwave. The audience surged toward the doors in a blind, deafening frenzy, but Jimin stood entirely frozen, his eyes locked onto the stage. Smoke—thick, chemical, and pitch-black—was already billowing from the heavy velvet wings backstage, illuminated by the sudden, angry orange glow of a roaring inferno.

Y/N.

Without a single thought for his own safety, abandoning his promise, Jimin lunged against the terrifying current of the screaming crowd. He sprinted down the stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal. In his right hand, he still gripped the bouquet of white roses he had brought to the theater—a habit he couldn't break, even if he had only intended to leave them in the alleyway.

He burst through the backstage doors. The air here was a suffocating wall of pure heat and gray ash. Dancers and stagehands fled past him, sobbing, their faces smeared with soot. He ignored them all, shouting your name into the blinding, toxic fog, his voice tearing raw.

He reached the corridor of the dressing rooms. The ceiling above was already a lattice of roaring flame, dropping chunks of burning plaster. And there, at the very end of the hall, he saw you.

The heavy wooden door to your dressing room had warped from the intense heat, jamming you inside. You were coughing violently, trapped behind a screen of rising fire, your small hands desperately clawing at the frame.

"Y/N!"

Jimin slammed his weight against the burning wood. The heat was blistering, searing straight through his tailored wool coat. He didn't care. He kicked the door with a desperate, savage force until the frame splintered and gave way. As he lunged into the roaring heat of the room to pull you out, the edge of the collapsing ceiling rained embers down upon him.

The white roses in his hand caught instantly, the pristine petals curling into black ash, the fire licking directly across his palms. The skin of his hands blistered, a sharp, white-hot agony tearing up his arms, but his grip on you never faltered. He dropped the burning stems, wrapped his long arms entirely around your trembling, fragile frame, and shielded your head against his chest as he carried you through the gauntlet of falling debris.

By the time he burst through the final exit into the cool, rain-slicked alleyway, your head was lolling against his shoulder, your body half-unconscious from the smoke.

Jimin collapsed against the side of his waiting Rolls-Royce, his chest heaving as he carefully laid you onto the leather backseat. Looking down at your pale face, at the soot smudging your cheeks and your closed eyes, a cold, paralyzing terror seized his soul. He felt his entire life dying right there in his chest.

The universe was going silent. You couldn't leave him. You were his air, his sanity, his very reason for drawing breath. If you died here, he would simply walk back into the flames.

With trembling, blistered hands, Jimin lifted a crystal flask, pouring cool water into a glass. His fingers were shaking so violently that a few drops spilled onto the leather upholstery, but his focus never wavered from your face. He carefully hovered over you, supporting the back of your neck with the uninjured crook of his arm as he pressed the glass to your parched lips.

"Drink," he pleaded, his voice a low, ragged rasp that sounded entirely unraveled. "Please, Y/N. Just breathe."

The cool water hit your throat, washing away the bitter, scratching taste of the smoke. You coughed weakly, your chest heaving as the fresh oxygen finally revived your senses. The blurred, chaotic world of the alleyway began to steady, and the very first thing that came into focus was the stark, terrified silhouette of Jimin looming over you.

You stared up at him, your voice nothing more than a tiny, breathless thread. "You came..."

A soft, bruised smile touched your lips, defying the absolute ruin surrounding the theater. Because the devastating truth was, tonight during your dream performance of the Cornettee, the thunderous standing ovation had felt hollow. Walking backstage to an empty vanity, without his pristine white roses waiting to anchor you, without the heavy, protective weight of his shadow lurking in the back of the auditorium—you had felt stupidly, agonizingly incomplete.

You had realized, in the quietest depths of your soul, that your art had become inextricably bound to his gaze.

But seeing him here, you knew. He had watched you tonight, too. He had never left.

Your eyes drifted downward, falling onto his hands resting on the leather seat.

The skin of his palms was severely burned, blistered and raw from where he had shattered the burning door. Right beside his hip lay the blackened, charred remnants of the roses he had carried straight through the inferno just to reach you.

A profound, quiet certainty settled deep into your chest, chilling and beautiful all at once. Mina was right. This was madness. It was a terrifying, consuming, unyielding obsession that defied every rule of a sane world. But looking at the man who had willingly walked into hell just to ensure you kept breathing, you realized you didn't care about a sane world anymore.

Whatever this dark, intoxicating thing was between you two—his obsession, his insanity, it wasn't just his anymore.

It was yours.

For as long as he could remember, Sebastian Sallow had carried the biggest weight on his chest.

No, it wasn't something dark nor mysterious. It wasn't something that could destroy his life, or something he necessarily had to be as stressed about as he was.

For the longest time, Sebastian Sallow had simply had a crush on his best friend.

You.

Well, crush was putting it lightly. It started that way but he's pretty sure at least a year ago it developed into true, romantic feelings.

He not only liked you. He loved you.

He fantasised about you in any, and every way, and with you both now eighteen, and about to leave Hogwarts, he felt that he was running out of time to tell you.

Despite his other best friend, Ominis Gaunt demanding that he calm down, because you had already reassured him that you would no longer be perusing your dreams of moving away, you'd instead be staying here, so he'd still get to see you. Ominis was adamant that Sebastian needn't rush to confess his feelings to you, because simply, he had all the time in the world.

Deep down, Sebastian knew Ominis was right, because Ominis was right. All Sebastian had was time, so he knew that he had to stop the worrying, the stressing.

But each and every time he saw you, it got harder and harder to keep his mouth shut. The temptation to blurt those seemingly forbidden three words was sometimes so overwhelming that he would feel physically sick, forcing them down.

And an incredible example of that was this current moment. He had been invited to the weekly trivia down at The Three Broomsticks, Sirona, the pub owner expected their weekly arrival, now pleased that she'd no longer have to sneak them in drinks illegally, thanks to them now being of age.

The table they had chosen to sit at, was the exact same table in which they chose every single week.

It was always the same round, log table, with ever so slightly comfortable, padded stools, accompanied with a bench.

It was always the same six people as well.

Sebastian, you and Ominis on one side, they always took the bench as you found it easier to curl up. The stools were always occupied by Poppy Sweeting, Garreth Weasley and Imelda Reyes.

The group was tight-knit, inseparable, a bustling friendship, and magically, everyone in the group knew about Sebastian's crush on you, everyone but you, yourself.

You were utterly clueless it was starting to destroy Sebastian.

Especially tonight. He couldn't help himself from sneaking little glances towards you. He kept finding himself smiling, whenever you'd talk, or laugh.

In his eyes, you were the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on.

"Sebastian? Did you not just hear a single word that I said?" You ask, breaking Sebastian out of his trance. He meets your gaze, smiling gently, his eyes instantly softening at the pure sight of you as you stir your fire whiskey with a straw, a habit he'd caught you doing almost every time you drank.

"Sorry I was lost in my own head for a second there, what was it you were saying?" He asks, trying to seem calm and collected. You roll your eyes, grinning. You stand up, dramatically wrapping an arm around Sebastian's shoulders.

To you, it was a casual friendly gesture, something familiar between the two of you, but to Sebastian, that one ounce of contact was absolutely everything.

"I was saying that I genuinely believe we'd lose this trivia every single week if you didn't join us. You're like our groups muse, if you're not there, we all suffer." You say giddily, leaning closer to Sebastian's face unintentionally. Sebastian chuckles softly, taking a sip of his drink. He nods. "I suppose you're right, I do hold the team together." He murmurs, meeting our gaze.

You grin. "That's that big headed ego I love." You joke, but Sebastian can't help but react as though you has flirted. His cheeks blushing, heating up. His heart beginning to race as that all too familiar feeling like butterflies fluttering in his stomach starts.

"Just for you." Is what he wants to say. But he doesn't.

He simply just smiles at you instead.

"Sallow. I think it's your turn to buy the next round." Garreth suddenly announces, patting him dramatically on the back, trying to break the obvious tension, which you were completely oblivious to. Sebastian groans in protest without any actual annoyance, before standing up with a dramatic sigh.

"Fine." He murmurs, beginning the short trek to the bar, not expecting to hear a set of softer sounding footsteps from behind him.

He turns, finding you approaching. You're smirking. "Thought you'd need the hand." You suggest. Sebastian can't help the blush that forms across his cheeks. "Is that so?" He says, staring directly into you eyes, quickly cursing himself out silently.

Don't be a creep Sallow. He reminds himself. He opens his mouth to say something else to you but is cut off by the rough sound of someone clearing their throat. You both snap your heads across to the bar to find the source of the noise.

"What can I get for ya?" A shabby looking bartender asks. His beard long, and slightly matted in places. He eyes you up instantly making you uncomfortable. You shift slightly closer which Sebastian catches onto immediately.  He automatically shuffles closer, fighting the urge to wrap an arm around your waist, knowing that he can't overstep but the relieve that fills you at the closeness of him is palpable.

You glance at him, with an almost grateful look. Sebastian offers you a smile before turning back to the man. "Four fire whiskeys, and whatever-." Sebastian starts but you cut him off, slamming a few galleons onto the bar. "Make that five fire whiskeys, please." The man nods, with a slight grunt, scooping up the galleons before turning his back to them, to make the drinks.

"You know you didn't have to pay, I was going to do it." Sebastian states. You just smile, with a subtle shrug of your shoulders.

"And?" You quirk an eyebrow at him, waiting for his reaction, like a challenge. He shakes his head softly, smiling at you. "You're a dork." He mumbles. "Your dork." You respond without even looking.

God help me. He thinks, as the bartender slides the drinks onto the counter. You and Sebastian are quick to gather the glasses, heading back to the table.

You place the drinks on the placemats scattered around the flat surface, slumping back into your seat with a soft sigh. Sebastian sneaks one last glance at you before taking a seat himself.

~

The rest of the evening spent at the bar was filled with laughter and playful banter. Mostly from Sebastian and Garreth who kept bickering over who had the correct answer to a certain question, just to find out that both were wrong.

As the night closes to an end, yourself and the rest of the group stumble out into the cold, night air. Your heads are all fuzzy from the beer, your tummy's were warm and full.

"Right, shall we head to that nightclub near the corner of Hogsmeade? It should open soon." Garreth suggests enthusiastically, met with excited nods. But to you, that sounds like a nightmare. All you want to do is go home and go to sleep.

"No." You suddenly blurt, causing all eyes to cast down on you. "What do you mean no? It's a Friday night. We're here to get pissed. You never say no to getting pissed." Imelda complains but you shake your head.

"I'm tired, I had a long day. I just want to go home and go to bed." You respond. Imelda groans in protest, tugging at your arm. "Stop being lame. You are coming out with us." She demands but you refuse even further, shaking your head.

"Seriously, Imelda. Can't you guys just walk me back to the dorms, then go do your clubbing or whatever shit you're gonna go off and do." You suggest, desperate to shower, then lie in bed until you fall asleep.

Your feet hurt, you felt sweaty and disgusting and exhausted.

"Stop being boring!" Imelda pushes, your patience now beginning to wear thin. You glare, beginning to grow genuinely annoyed at her. You open your mouth to argue back, protest further but a voice stops you.

"I'll walk you." Sebastian offers loudly.. You glance towards the source of the noise, your lips curling into a smile as you meet his sincere gaze, lacking any doubt in his brown eyes.

Sebastian always did the right thing. He always wanted to help and protect everyone.

He looks slightly nervous, which was unusual for him but you brush it off, narrowing it down to the alcohol, and probably lack of sleep.

"Thank you!" You say gratefully, gesturing wildly with your arms, already taking a step towards him. He nods, burying his hands deep into his pockets. A nervous habit of his. Maybe it's the cold?

"Of course."

"Oh come on Seb. Don't encourage this boring behaviour." Garreth protests, reaching a hand out to seemingly stop Sebastian from stepping back any further.  Sebastian shakes his head, throwing up a hand at Garreth, dismissively.

"Nah mate. She wants to go home, and honestly so do I. You guys continue, go to the club, have more drinks, have a nice time. We're fine, truly. You don't need us in order to have a good night." Sebastian explains.

Garreth rolls his eyes. "Seriously?" He interjects. Poppy swatts Garreth's arm. "If Sebastian wants to go home, let him." She says softly, offering Sebastian a shy smile.

You were convinced that Poppy had a thing for him, she was always taking his side, or trying to be close to him.

Sebastian returns the smile she directs at him, before Poppy pulls him into a gentle hug. Sebastian awkwardly returns the hug, patting her gently on the back, a friendly gesture. "Be safe." She murmurs. Sebastian nods, pulling away, turning to you.

Then, you were both gone, walking away from the group and down the cobbled path towards the exit of Hogsmeade and back onto the long path to Hogwarts.

"How come you didn't want to stay out? You're always the one who wants to stay back and get pissed?" You question him. Sebastian offers a quick glance to you, without slowing his pace. He seems to tense up slightly, his movements stiffening.

He shrugs. "I'm just tired." He tries. You scoff, not buying it. You stop in your tracks, directly in front of him, causing him having to stop too.

"What?" He asks amused, his lips curling into a tiny smile. "Sebastian Sallow. Quidditch star. Sebastian Sallow who can out drink the entire school faculty. You are telling me that rather than going out, to get absolutely shit faced and probably laid - you'd rather go home, to sleep?" You question, as if it's the most obscure thing you'd ever heard of in the entire world.

Because, in your mind, it was. Sebastian Sallow never got tired. Sebastian Sallow never wanted to just go home to sleep. So naturally, this version of him had you wondering.

Really wondering.

"Why, is it such a bad thing that a man just wants to sleep for once?" He feigns offence. You grin at him, taking a single step backwards, then another, and one more as you pick up a pace, keeping your eyes on his as you move.

He slowly follows you. "It's not a bad thing, it's just not something you do so it's weird." You explain. He smiles.

"Or maybe, I just wanted more time with my best friend." He whispers, quietly, almost too quiet that you barely register what you'd heard.

But you'd heard it and you instantly scrunch up your nose. "Ew. That was cringe, don't say that." You scold.

You absolutely hated sappiness. You didn't want anything bittersweet and him saying that, was cringey for you, and he knew that.

He chuckles, mockingly throwing his hands up either side of his head in defence as he speeds back up, to rejoin you by your side.

The rest of the walk is peaceful, mostly in silence asides from the shuffling of shoes against wet cobbles and concrete from the previous rainfall earlier that day.

"Alright." Sebastian murmurs as he stops in front of your dormitory door. "This is you, get some sleep, alright?" You nod, smiling. Sebastian shuffles from one foot to the other.

You turn around, your hand finding placement in your dormitory door. "Wait." He calls out. You pause, turning your head back to meet his gaze. "Yeah?" You respond. He sighs.

"You-. I mean-. There's a new cafe opening up, and I was thinking that maybe you and I, could go? Like during the week maybe?" He asks, nervously. You chuckle softly.

"You're such a dork. You want me to go to a new cafe with you?" He nods. "Yeah. I mean! You don't have to of course, if you're busy. Wait of course you'll be busy, you're a busy person. Ignore me I'm so stupid." He rambles to himself, frantically.

"Seb, you're rambling." You state softly. He doesn't relax though, he fidgets more insistently.

"I just-. Yknow what? Forget it. Forget I said anything." He quickly says, turning around.

In that moment. You knew you had to ask him. The one question that had been corrupting your mind recently, based on his behaviours.

"Sebastian, do you like, like me or something?" You ask, matter-of-factly. Sebastian freezes, his face contorting into pure panic.

"What? No, of course not. I just think we're great friends. That's all." He quickly rushes out. You raise an eyebrow, not fully convinced but you let it slide, nodding slowly.

"Okay." You breathe out. "Good." You then finally unlock the door, stepping inside, closing it.

Meanwhile, Sebastian, still stood outside of your door, palms his face, groaning in frustration.

"Sebastian you fucking idiot. Why did you say that. You had your fucking chance." He mutters to himself as he trudges back to his own dormitory, down the corridor.

He opens the door, and a soft glimmering captures his attention. He locks his door, before turning his attention towards the shining object.

He bends over into the corner between the windowsill and his desk, leaning down to retrieve the item.

It was a relic. An ancient magic relic.

Some ancient artefact he and Ominis had found a few weeks ago whilst searching the schools undercroft, desperate to recover anything of value before they left the school for good.

The relic had looked mysterious, and interesting at the time and thus, Sebastian had picked it up, without any ounce of an idea as to what you could even do with it.

When he'd picked it up at first, all those weeks ago, it had been plain black, boring, with engravings on it.

Yet now, it was shining an unmistakable white light, as if it was calling out to him.

Naturally, as anyone would, Sebastian bends down to retrieve it. A loud, sharp, musical tone starts almost the second Sebastian's hand makes contact with it.

He retracts, having had a slight fright from the sudden noise. But he bends down again, picking it up fully, analysing it.

"What the fuck?" He mutters, tilting the small object, to read the back.

There, in obvious, bold, white letters, were instructions. Instructions which one hundred thousand percent hadn't been there before.

One wish relic. Open the relic with delicacy. Once opened, simply state your one wish, then slam the relic shut. Everyone gets one wish only, there's no reversing your wish, so use it well.

Sebastian's eyes widen. He'd heard about these, in ancient runes. An old myth, filled with tales of voodoo and demonology, linking the wishes to something evil, but Sebastian was pretty sure that he didn't believe any of that.

How did they expect him to believe that an old random triangular thing

He bites his lip, thinking for a moment. He knew deep down it wasn't real, just a tale, and he needed anything to get his mind off of the fact he'd just destroyed his one and only chance of admitting to you how he felt.

So he grabs the relic again, opening it with ease, and a gentle care. He takes a deep breath, the impulsivity taking over.

"I wish that Y/N would love me more than anyone in the whole entire world."

Then he slams it shut.

At first, nothing happens, and he chuckles darkly to himself, thinking of how pathetic that was.

Eighteen years of age and he'd just used an ancient artefact to wish that his best friend would love him.

That was the kind of behaviour expected from a first year, who's just developed their first ever crush. Not an eighteen year old quidditch star in his final year.

He turns towards his mirror, to begin undressing for bed, completely unaware of the complications of what he had just done.

As he's pulling off his shirt, he almost swears that he can hear a creak, almost sounding like a door slowly opening, but he brushes it off, knowing deep down that it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

He closes his eyes for a second, breathing in the cool air of his dormitory, before opening them again, to take off his trousers.

But when he glances back at the mirror, his face falls, his heart rate rising, and he feels like he's suffocating.

His door, which he knew for a fact had been closed, and locked was now open ajar, and behind it, a figure.

You were stood there, in the same outfit as before. The shadows from the darkened doorway were hiding the features of your face, but you were unmistakingly you.

Sebastian's body reacts before his mind does, jumping at least a few feet in the air. He turns around abruptly to face you.

You're abnormally still.

"Y/N?" He asks, hesitantly. "Why did you leave me alone?" You whisper, so quietly, so unlike you.

Sebastian gulps. "Y-you said you wanted to go to bed." He responds, his voice shaking. You tilt your head, smiling, but it didn't feel right.

"But I don't want to be alone, not away from you." You repeat, in that tone again. "Listen, you're drunk, go to bed and we can talk in the morning." Sebastian tries to reason.

You take one small step inside his dorm, Sebastian finds himself instinctively backing up. "Oh don't back up sweetie. Why don't you come back with me? We can have some drinks, hang out." You suggest, your voice unwavering.

Sebastian takes another step further back. He was utterly confused, and truthfully, he was ever so slightly terrified.

"What? You literally-. Listen, it's late, you're drunk, do you need me to walk you back to your dorm?" Sebastian asks. Your eerie smile directed towards him widens by a fraction.

"No sweetie. Unless you'd like to come in?" You offer.

Sebastian was starting to feel extremely uncomfortable now. "Look, just, go back to your dorm, and to bed, please." He presses on.

You take two firm, certain steps inside his dormitory, closing the door behind you.

Then, slowly, you turn, to face him fully, your face contorted into a horrifying frown. The type that makes Sebastian flinch in fear, practically throwing himself up against the wall.

"Y/N?" He croaks out. "Come on Sebbie. Don't make someone as sad as me spend tonight alone."

He gulps, his hands trembling at his sides. "But you said you wanted to go to bed, I don't understand. You're starting to genuinely freak me out."

You approach him further, closing in on him. Your hand reaches out, to slide down his chest. "Come on, just a few drinks, a few laughs." You encourage. He shakes his head.

"Seriously, go to bed." He's stern now, voice firm. Your face hardens, as does the grip on his chest. Your frown intensifies as you lean in closer to him.

"Noooooo." You whine, face falling, your eyes were dark, darker than usual and Sebastian couldn't understand why.

All he understood in this very moment was that you were not acting normal. You were acting strange, and he didn't like it.

"Why not?" He breathes out. A tear falls from your face. "I can't be alone tonight. Please." You practically plead. Sebastian's face falls. He's utterly defeated.

He feels as though he no longer has a choice, for the first time in his life since he had met you, he was terrified of saying no to you, scared of what your next move would be.

He nods his head, so slightly that it was hardly noticeable.

"You can have my bed, I'll take the couch." He murmurs but you snap your head back to him, that same old sinister frown back.

"No! No no no no." You ramble, stamping your feet. Sebastian furrows his eyebrows, the fear was making itself at a home in a large lump in his throat. "Listen, I'm just being respectful, you're not in the right headspace right-." He tries to reason but you step even closer, jaw clenched so tightly.

"NO!" You roar, the walls practically trembling under the force of it. He scrambles back again, swallowing harshly. He nods. "Okay. Okay." His hands fly up, either side of his head for surrender. "Okay, just, it's okay." He reassures, slowly approaching the bed, never taking his eyes off of her.

"Do you need a fresh-." He starts but the focused glare she offers him cuts him off. His hands are shaking frantically as he pulls back the covers. "Whenever you're ready." He mumbles. You walk towards the bed, your movements quick, sharp. You sit down, kicking off your shoes, and curling into the bed, close to Sebastian.

Sebastian is practically frozen, his mind and heart racing. He has no idea what to even do or think. His best friend, his very drunk best friend was in his bed, close to him after getting weirdly aggressive at the idea of doing anything else that wasn't sharing a bed with him.

The same best friend who not even an hour ago had practically friend zoned him. To say that Sebastian Sallow was confused would be an understatement, but selfishly enough, he wasn't going to complain.

He'd always wanted this.

It doesn't take long for you to grow sleepy, your eyes drooping. You back yourself up further until Sebastian has no option other than to spoon you.

His hearts still racing, breathing heavily. He holds you tentatively.

"Goodnight." He mumbles, voice wavering. "Goodnight." You respond, drifting off.

~~~~~~

The clock reads 3:37 am when Sebastian first stirs. Something hadn't felt right, like he was being watched.

His eyes slowly flutter open, blinking against the sleep in his eyes, everything that had happened, rushes back to him. He turns, to check on you, but you aren't there.

A cold dread begins to seep through his bones as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He glances around, before noticing a slight black shadow in the very far corner of his dorm.

His heart beats out of his chest, his hands suddenly feeling clammy, sweaty. He feels like he's suffocating, every ounce of his body's nervous system is telling him to get the fuck out of there.

But he stays planted exactly where he was. He was way too terrified to move.

He was sure it was you, but that brought him zero comfort, because the idea of it being you, and doing something this creepy, this strange was even more terrifying than the idea of the figure being some form of entity.

"Y/N?" He calls out hesitantly, voice cracking ever so slightly.

There is no movement, nothing, the figure stays in the same position.

Sebastian shifts slightly. He's uncomfortable, his skin feels hot, and clammy, his shirt now sticking to his chest and back.

Sebastian Sallow was scared.

"Y/N?" He calls again, voice more steady this time. The figure shifts. There's the faint sound of something clinking.

"Y/N, seriously, it's late. What are you doing?" He asks again, voice raised. He was getting irritated.

You both had classes the next morning, and he was losing sleep because of whatever act you where pulling.

A terrifyingly low giggle erupts from the figure in the corner. Sebastian gulps, palms sweaty again, he shifts back against the headboard.

"Y/N, please-." He starts but he's cut off by a sudden step forward by the figure. "Shh." The figure says softly. The clinking noise starting back up again, this time louder.

"I'm watching you sleep, you're spoiling it." The figure murmurs, un-mistakingly your voice. Sebastian's blood runs cold, his suspicions correct.

"You're watching me sleep?" He asks nervously. You nod. "Go on, close your eyes, otherwise it won't work." You say eerily. Sebastian's eyes widen in fear. "What won't work? You're freaking me out here!" He yells.

You sprint towards him. Your hair dark, you're wearing his quidditch jersey, and you're holding a vial.

Not any old vial, it's a draught of the living dead vial.

"What the fuck?" Sebastian gasps in horror, springing out of the bed. You cock your head to the side, smirking. "What's wrong, afraid of the long nap? I just want to watch you sleep." You try to reassure, but your expression is as sinister as your intentions.

"Y/N. Please, let's just, talk about whatever this is, in the morning?" He pleads.

You seem to think about it for a moment, before dropping the vial, trudging back to the bed, flopping onto it and smiling directly up at him from where he was standing.

"You look so pretty when you sleep." You whisper. Sebastian can't even smile, or be grateful over the compliment.

You were scaring the complete and utter shit out of him, and Sebastian Sallow never got scared.

He stays still, as he stares down at you, in his bed, smiling like a madman, twirling the vial in your hands.

"Can you at least drop the vial please?" He asks kindly. You pout instantly. "Why?" You ask, challenging him. He sighs. "Please, you're scaring me. Just put the thing away." He asks again, this time less patient.

You offer him a cold stare, before dropping the vial to the floor, next to the bed, smashing it to pieces.

"Whatever you say." She murmurs, before turning into his chest, and her breathing evening out.

~

Sebastian doesn't sleep for the remainder of the night, terrified.

When you had woken up, you acted normal, as though nothing was wrong. You got up, left his dorm to go and get ready for the school day in your own.

You felt weird all day, funny, as though things had happened over night that you couldn't fully remember.

All you knew, was that you'd shared a bed with Sebastian and your heart had spent the entire morning fluttering over it.

The thought of seeing him, in class, in the halls, made your heart skip a beat. His messy hair, his brown eyes, his freckles, all of him.

You just wanted him to-

Wait. What the fuck. What the fuck was wrong with you.

Your brain begins to fight with you, because you had never shown interest in Sebastian Sallow and you most certainly wouldn't do it overnight.

Something was terribly wrong, you weren't thinking straight.

But then, like a switch, those thoughts vanish, and your head fills with images of Sebastian again, almost like you were possessed by a ghost .

It wasn't impossible, with the school being as big as it was.

You manage to make your way to potions class, Sebastian is already there, sat next to your good friend Poppy Sweeting. They always sat together, it was the seating arrangement made by Professor Sharp, but you didn't like this, one bit.

Your eyes narrow to Poppy, who's smiling at something Sebastian is saying. She's watching his hands closely as he stirs their cauldron.

The anger flares up inside your chest like a hot iron. You were absolutely livid, and betrayed by Sebastian.

How.

Dare.

He.

You storm over towards them, your arms folded, your face harsh like stone.

Poppy notices first, glancing up to you. Sebastian follows her gaze, his body tensing, and you notice the way he subtly pushes back his chair, as if he was afraid of you.

What on earth did you do last night and why couldn't you remember?

Better, why on earth were you so bothered about Poppy's presence.

"Oh, hi Y/N." Poppy says cheerfully, smiling softly at you but it isn't returned. You glare at her.

"Why are you sitting here?" You ask, harshly. Poppy flinches, staring at you, flabbergasted.

"W-what do you mean? I've been sitting here since the start of the year." She explains but you let out an abrupt, humourless laugh, cutting her off.

"And why? So you could get in his pants? I'll give you one second to fucking move away from my Sebastian before I hurt you." You mutter.

By now, at least half of the class was staring at you, confused at the outburst. You weren't usually like this.

"Y/N. What the fuck is your problem?" Sebastian asks angrily. You frown at him. "Don't shout at me." You say sadly, trying to show him how sad it made you that he was annoyed by you. Your eyes were now glistening with tears.

He rolls his eyes. "Seriously, I don't know what you've taken but you're acting insane. You need to chill, relax. Go have a day off." He pleads. This only fuels your rage.

You narrow your eyes at him, shaking your head slowly, laughing again, still devoid of any humour.

"And risk you locking lips with her the second I do? No thanks." You mumble. He groans in frustration. He opens his mouth to speak but you raise a hand, to silence him.

What he had to say wasn't your worry anymore.

Your worry was the fact that Poppy Sweeting had the nerve to remain seated on that stool, and you were done with it.

In one, brief, short-tempered moment, it was as though something takes over your hands, controlling them and you flip the cauldron over, the Smokey sickly green contents spilling over the desk, and directly into the hands of Poppy Sweeting.

At first, there's no reaction, then a sharp gasp emits from her, before a gut wrenching scream as she abruptly stands up, holding her hands in front of her.

Her once, pale, small hands had enlarged in size by at least two masses. They were a deep crimson red, and rather swollen. It looked painful and judging by the raw reaction emitting from the lungs of Poppy Sweeting, it was.

Everyone was staring at her in horror, then at you with disgust, and something close to fear. Everyone except Sebastian, who was staring at you, with a look of disdain.

He wasn't fussing over Poppy, ignoring the quick efforts by Professor Sharp to get the girl escorted over to the hospital wing. He doesn't move. He just stares, his hands trembling, likely from fury.

Your brain doesn't seem to register any of this. You don't respond to anything, not the reactions, not even the usual methods to help you become responsive. You don't even react as a student from your class spits at you, shouting something incoherent.

You respond to absolutely nothing.

Except one thing.

One little detail about the attack that had just taken place. The main outcome you'd hoped for.

The stool next to Sebastian Sallow was now vacant and that was mission accomplished. You smile in victory, stomping over to the now empty space, and dropping yourself into the seat, turning your head to smile at Sebastian.

He doesn't turn it, he backs his chair away slightly. "What the fuck was that?" He spits out in terror. You don't seem to care about his tone, continuing to smile at him, your stare unwavering.

He tries to move away, but you firmly grip his hand, your stare turning deadly. "Don't you fucking move." You grit. He flinches violently and he seems to think about it for a second, before he submits, moving his chair back close to you.

You roughly place your hand over his on the table, forcing him to intertwine his fingers with you. He can barely face the rest of the class, he feels humiliated, and terrified.

This was the most embarrassing moment in his entire Hogwarts career.

He had let himself be controlled, not by anyone. But by you, who was until this very moment, thought of as the sweetest girl in the school.

That reputation was out of the window.

~~~~~~~~

Sebastian Sallow had been in absolutely every single rush to get himself out of the potions classroom after it had finished. He hadn't even given you time to speak to him, he had simply bolted out of his chair and gone.

For him, everything was incredibly confusing. You were perfectly normal yesterday morning and all day, leading up to going out, and at the three broomsticks you'd been fine.

Until he dropped you off and-.

Sebastian suddenly jumps out of his bed, his eyes wide in fear, and sheer horrified realisation.

The relic.

He had fucking caused this.

He doesn't end up sleeping that night, he spends the entire time in the restricted section of the library, desperately checking ancient texts for any information on the relic and how it worked.

There happened to be an entire section, based on the matter. The relic was part of some very ancient magic, a voodoo, designed to grant your deepest darkest wishes.

Sebastian's heart had plummeted to the pit of his stomach at the announcement of the unwanted news.

This was all his fault.

He never should have made that stupid wish, he got ahead of himself, and now he'd messed up, badly.

He scans the aisle again, searching for any title that's related to ancient voodoo magic. He feels warm, too warm. His hands are clammy, he was nervous.

Nervous to discover more. He was terrified that he'd find another historic text which would reveal what exactly had happened to you for you to change.

His hands graze the different spines softly as he paces the restricted section, until, he one stands out to him. He pauses, his finger remaining on the spine as he leans closer to take a look.

The book is large, and quite roughly tatted, showing off its age. This book had been around for a long time. The title is slightly faded but it was still decipherable.

'The possession of Voodoo: An Ancient Magic Guide

Sebastian can feel the goosebumps already enveloping his body, he feels tense.

Possession.

That word, that simple fact behind all of this which he had feared most. He had been worried deep down this entire time that he had somehow managed to possess you, whilst still holding onto the hope that it was just him overthinking.

But now, the truth seemed to be dawning on him.

He carefully extracts the book from the shelf, grunting at the weight of it. He trudges over to a table, slamming the book onto it with a loud thud. He yanks open the first page, breathing heavily.

His eyes scan the contents page, before they land on his target.

'The use of ancient relic: The devastating and long lasting implications that come alongside it.'

"Shit." Sebastian mutters, opening the book to page 563, like the content page advises.

The first thing that catches Sebastian's attention when his eyes adjust to the page was the images on the top left corner.

They were of people, looking out of place. They seemed unhappy, like they were being controlled. The images settle an unsteady feeling in Sebastian's chest. "What the fuck?" He whispers as he scans the writing.

''The ancient relic, commonly referred to as 'The One Wish Relic' is a piece of ancient voodoo magic, designed to grant the user their biggest desire for no extra cost, other than one.

To correctly use the relic, one must wait for the flashing lights, then when appropriate to do so, simply open the relic and state their wish. Quickly slam the relic shut and seal it tightly then wait for the magic to do the rest.

If done correctly, the relic will have your wish granted within five to ten minutes. If not, it could take longer, not happen at all or cause devastating effects, so take care.'

Sebastian slumps slightly. He had used it correctly, so it should be fine right? Just some crazy magic shit.

Then he finds the side effects section.

'In order for the relic to grant your wish, one of it's hosts from the underworld takes the matters into their hands. They'll do the work whilst you wait. For example, if the wish includes another human being, the host simply takes form inside of their body and mind for the unforeseeable to ensure that the individual does what was request by the grantor.'

Sebastian's entire world turns upside down, his suspicions being confirmed.

He'd possessed her. He had actually fucking possessed her.

"IFUCK!" He yells, slamming his fist against the table, ignoring the soaring pain it ignites. He slums back down, his head in his hands.

"Fuck fuck fuck. Sallow you absolute fucking idiot. You sick fucking fuck." He mutters to himself.

He rummages through the pages, trying to find a section on cures, or ways to reverse the effects, but there was nothing.

He looks around, breathing heavily, before grabbing the book and rushing out of the restricted section, and back to his dorm.

If he was caught, he could end up in Azkaban for something like this. He couldn't get caught. He opens the door to his dormitory and stops dead in his tracks.

You were there, sat on the edge of the bed. You seemed neutral, in a simple but pretty floral sundress. Your hair was done nicely, curled naturally at the bottoms with slight makeup.

Sebastian gulps, almost forgetting everything else worrying his mind for a moment, despite the fact you were the main source of the stress in his head.

"W-what are you doing here?" He asks softly, as not to spook you, as he sets the book down into a drawer, closing it. You smile, but it's a kind smile, not the sinister one from days before.

"Look. I need to apologise. The other day, people were passing around new substances to try and I didn't want to seem boring so I tried them, and I guess it really messed with me and made me act incredibly weird for the past couple of days. I realise that my actions, in your room that night, and in potions the other day wasn't okay. I don't know what I took that caused those actions from me but I promise you I've gone home, I've reflected on it and I'm ready to move on and be normal." She explains calmly, very respectful.

Sebastian lets out a sigh of relief. His mind wandering. She didn't seem possessed. Maybe it wasn't real? Or maybe she had been possessed but is better now. Either way, Sebastian wasn't going to complain.

"Thank you for explaining. I won't lie, your actions were creeping me the fuck out, but your explanation makes a lot of sense. You were terrifying me, Y/N. You were like a woman possessed." He responds.

You giggle softly, covering your face in embarrassment. "God. I know, I know and I don't why I acted like that, but I'm sorry." You look down, taking a deep breath, one that didn't feel right, but you shake it off.

Not now.

"I need to tell you something." You blurt out, looking back at him. He stiffens, gulping. "O-okay?" He questions, confused and slightly hesitant?

You take another deep breath before approaching him.

"Listen. I am so sorry about how I handled everything the past few days. The truth is Sebastian, I really really like you." You start, not noticing the pure shock that flashes across Sebastian's eyes, and the internal battle that follows.

Instead, you continue.

"I've had these feelings for you, for such a long time." You add. Sebastian's chest is tightening at the words as he stares at you.

He should be happy, delighted and deep down, he was. This is exactly what he'd always wanted to hear but the book was occupying his mind too, the words still haunting his memory.

How he had genuinely believed he had possessed you, and deep down, he knew that the book wasn't lying, that nothing was adding up.

However, the adrenaline of the moment, the pure happiness that he feels just from hearing those words take over and he pushes any thoughts of doubts out of his mind.

He smiles at you, his eyes shining. "Really?" He asks, hopeful. You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Really."

His posture relaxes as the word leaves your lips and he takes a single step closer to you. "I uh. I've been feeling the same way about you, for a really long time too." He admits, even if his mind is screaming at him to stop, and do the right thing.

He can't seem to.

After all, this was his wish. This is what he wanted, what fool would he be if he passed it up? After everything?

So he smiles at you, waiting for your reply.

You don't respond with words, you just step closer, pulling him into a tight embrace, your lips grazing his neck. "I'm so glad." You say, but it sounds blunt. Fortunately, Sebastian is way too happy to notice. He pulls you in tighter, breathing heavily.

He pulls back slightly, cupping your cheeks, a soft private smile, just for you. "I'm so happy." He murmurs, leaning in close, his lips centimetres apart from yours.

He's about to bridge that final gap when a sharp rapping against his dorm door breaks them apart. He curses, groaning in frustration. He gives you an apologetic smile before pulling back, to open the door.

He only opens it a slither, his face tensing when he sees none other than Poppy Sweeting. "Hey, Pops, are you okay?" He asks, trying to sound neutral.

"We need to talk. It's about Y/N." She says urgently. "Look, it's really not the time." Sebastian says sharply but Poppy seems to be unrelenting.

"I'm serious Sallow. Something is seriously fucking wrong." Your jaw drops slightly S you eavesdrop on the conversation.

Poppy Sweeting never swore. Ever.

"I know you've liked her for the longest time, but it's all weird Sebastian. She has literally friend zoned you, multiple times, then one night you walk her back to her dorm, alone and suddenly she's all over you? Like she's been smitten since she first met you. It makes no sense, it's like a switch flipped over night." She exclaims.

"For fuck sake Poppy. Why are you making it weird? I don't know why it's suddenly happened, but what I do know is that I won't question it because this is all I've ever wanted! She probably just felt shy, and has only just grown confidence."  He tries to reason but Poppy scoffs.

"Don't be fucking thick Sebastian! She burnt my hands. She's not violent yet she was that enraged by the sight of us talking, and having a laugh that she purposely spilled a cauldron over me! Don't you realise how fucking insane that is?" She is yelling now, properly.

Sebastian sighs. "Look, I don't know what's happened okay, I'll talk to her." He murmurs and then he's stepping outside, closing the door fully so you can no longer hear the words, just the muffled sounds of their tense conversation through the thick wood.

But inside the dorm, you were stuck in your own turmoil, because Poppy Sweeting had been right.

That was not like you. At all.

You had never been a violent person, and you hadn't even registered what you'd done to Poppy until hours later and now looking back, it all felt weird.

Why had you done that? Why had you felt so enraged at the sight of them together. Especially as you had never seen Sebastian that way, and you had always respected Poppy.

Sebastian was your best friend but yet, you had shared his bed, you had almost kissed him.

Wait a fucking second. You had almost kissed him.

You internally gag as you suddenly remembered the brief interaction from moments before.

You try to rack your brain for any memory of the night he walked you home but you come up short.

All you could remember was the three broomsticks, the quiz, then Sebastian offering to walk you home. He'd gotten you home safely, and you had made it inside your dorm. You could even remember flopping onto your bed, exhausted.

Then it had felt like something else, something greater had taken over your mind, and your body.

You can remember moving, walking back to Sebastian's dorm. You could remember talking to him, how scared he looked. You could briefly remember getting into his bed, then closing your eyes to sleep.

Then, the next thing you had remembered was how you'd somehow teleported to the corner of his dorm, watching him as he slept.

What the fuck? Why had you even done that?

None of it made sense. It felt like whenever you were with Sebastian Sallow, your mind wasn't yours but when you weren't with him, everything was fine, normal.

You shriek in disgust as you register the room you're standing in, how close you had been to kissing him and you feel the violent urge to throw up and get out.

You had to make up an excuse, and you had to do it quick.

You rack your brain for ideas, just as he opens the door, entering the room again. His face was pale and he looked guilty, his shoulders stiff with a tension you couldn't name.

"Sorry about-." He starts but you abruptly cut him off. "I have to go, sorry. Professor Sharp wanted to see me, it was about the incident the other day." You quickly lie, not giving Sebastian a chance to respond before you're practically sprinting out of the door.

You had only half-lied. You were going to Professor Sharp's classroom, but not to be scolded. You need something.

Ingredients.

You knew that the only person who could potentially have answers for your sudden change in behaviour was Sebastian. He was the last person to see you before everything went strange.

And you knew just the thing for that.

The Legilimency Potion.

A potion designed to see into the mind of your chosen victim, but the victim must not be aware of taking it in order for it to be of effect. So you had to play this smart.

~

And you do, for the next few days, you avoid Sebastian Sallow at all costs. You knew that every single time you went near him, your mind took over and you did something awful.

It's easy enough to find the ingredients, the harder part was brewing the potion. It took time, a lot of time, something you were unfortunately short of.

Whilst it spend its days brewing, you conducted the rest of the plan.

You had to figure out a way to give him the potion without him actually knowing. You had to ensure that he drank the entire thing.

You had gone through many ideas, slipping it into his breakfast tea, but since the potions incident, you couldn't even enter the great hall without someone pushing, or spitting at you, calling you a psychopath, so that idea was quickly out of the window.

You had thought about during his Quidditch practices, but thought better of it.

Finally, your plan comes into place on a Tuesday, after defence against the dark arts class. A class you luckily hadn't shared with Sebastian. You'd endured an entire hour of bullying and was on your way to your dorm when you first see a flyer.

It's an open invitation, to a Slytherin common room party. Your own house, of course you hadn't been invited officially, as no one was talking to you. Not even Ominis, Garreth, or Imelda would pay you any mind, not after the Poppy thing.

They were worried you would simply attack them for even being friends with Sebastian.

The party was being held on a Friday evening, at eight pm. Bringing your own alcohol was deeply encouraged and you knew for a fact that Sebastian would attend, and bring his own fire whiskey as he always did.

You just had to make sure the potion was finished by then.

~

Luckily for you, the potion finalises its brewing four hours before the party was due to start.

You destroy any evidence that it was ever brewed and you store the potion in your bra, so no one could detect it by accident.

For your outfit, you opt for a simple black denim skirt and a dark red crop top, a stark contrast against your skin.

You looked good, really good.

Your logic was, that if you were about to potentially ruin a man's future as karma, you should at least look hot whilst doing it.

You also had to prepare though. You knew that in order to lace his drink with the potion, you had to get into close proximity with him again, which meant that you'd end up doing some weird shit again.

But to you that didn't matter, all that mattered was getting the truth out of him.

~

You arrive at the party a few minutes past seven, fully aware of the horrific stares you are met with as you tread your way through the common room.

You catch a glimpse of your old friend group, who quickly advert their gazes, wishing not to even look at you.

You find a place in the back corner to stand whilst you scan the room for your target. It doesn't take long for you to find him.

You spot him near the drinks station, looking older, as if he hadn't slept in days. He probably hadn't, as you'd been avoiding him and you knew that he had been asking about you.

He'd even tried your door multiple times, begging for you to let him in to talk and fix whatever it was that was going on.

If only he knew.

You take a deep breath, knowing that this was your best and only chance. You prepare yourself for the personality change as you approach him, sneakily extracting the potion from your bra and popping off the cap, you position it correctly in your right palm before reaching Sebastian.

"Hey." You say softly. His head snatches up and he looks pleasantly surprised, a shy, hesitant smile graces his lips.

"Hey, w-where have you been?" He asks. You smile, that usual fake smile you offer him every time you're close. "I'm so sorry! I've been attending daily detentions with Sharp as punishment for what I did to you and Poppy." You reassure him, leaning close. He relaxes slightly.

"Thank god." He breathes out in relief, his hand coming up to touch your left arm. He places his firewhiskey on the table in front of you.

Perfect.

"I was so scared you were angry at me." He admits, vulnerably, staring into your eyes. You smile. "Why on earth would I be angry?" You question, although it had spiked up your suspicion.

Because why else would he be worried that you were angry? Unless he knew something that you should be angry about?

He shrugs, suddenly nervous. "I-I I don't know. J-just overthinking." He stutters.

You clench your jaw.

"Oh my gosh, is that Ominis chatting up a girl?" You ask, pointing to Ominis Gaunt who was most definitely chatting up a girl. Sebastian follows your finger and he grins. You take this few seconds long opportunity, and you quickly tip the vial into his drink, watching as it dissolves into the same liquid as the whiskey.

Phew. It was done. All he had to do was drink it.

You shove the vial into your bra again before he can notice, and you smile at him innocently as he turns his head again.

He picks up the drink.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

He takes the first sip, his face scrunches up and for a second you grow worried that he could somehow taste the difference, but then he relaxes.

"That's a strong one." He simply states before taking a bugger gulp.

"Yeah." You say cheerfully, fighting with every fibre of your being to keep some of your mind, so you could execute this.

You turn to make a drink when you hear footsteps. "Sallow! It's nice to see you here." A feminine voice announces and your blood runs cold. All of your control fraying.

You turn around, to source the voice.

It's Samantha Dale, from Ravenclaw. She played quidditch, hence her connection to Sebastian.

But quite frankly you couldn't give less of a shit where she knew him from. She was in your space, near your man.

"Fuck off Dale." You grumble. Her eyes widen in fear. "I was just saying hi!" She says, confused but you shrug. "I'm serious." You glare but she doesn't move. She'd likely heard the rumours about your behaviour towards anyone talking to Sebastian.

She scoffs. "Anyways, Sebastian. I know we're on opposing teams but we were thinking of having a meet up, all four teams at The Three Broomsticks. Could be fun, a few drinks." She says friendly. Sebastian doesn't even have a chance to react before you're on Samantha Dale.

Your hands fly out to grasp at her throat as you pin her to the drinks table. "What did I fucking tell you, you bitch?" You spit. Her face is pale, her cheeks pink in contrast as she frantically swipes at your hand to stop.

No one moves to help her, not even Sebastian. Everyone was afraid of you, and what you'd do if they intervened.

"See, Sallow. Not even helping her are you?" You bark at him. "What the fuck have you done to me huh? This isn't me! We both fucking know that this ISN'T me. Yet it's my hands doing this. WHY?" You plead with him as you continue to pin Samantha to the table.

Your mind was coming back but you still lacked control of your hands.

Sebastian freezes, his face turning ghostly white as his mouth opens unwillingly.

"It was the relic." He blurts, face paling further as he fails to stop his mouth from betraying him. You stare at him, flabbergasted. "What fucking relic?" You ask, heaving as you let go of Samantha roughly, shoving her to the ground before beelining to your next victim, Sebastian.

You grip his shoulders dragging him through the common room and into an alcove, pinning him to the rough stone wall.

"An ancient one, that Ominis and I came across some time ago. It had seemed useless but that night I walked you home, and you sort of friend zoned me and god, all I'd ever wanted was to be yours. I got to my dorm, and it started glowing. It instructed me to make a wish. So I did. I didn't know what implications it would have! I swear! I was just a dumb idiot in love!" He tried to defend.

You push him further into the stone wall, your grip unrelenting.

"What did you wish?" You ask bitterly. He shakes his head. "Does the details matter?"

You lean closer, seething. "Yes it fucking matters! What. Did. You. Wish?" You plead, your demeanour breaking.

"I wished for you to love me, more than anyone in the world." He admits in shame. You scoff, dropping his shoulders.

"You're serious? You've destroyed my life! My reputation, so you could feel what it was like to be loved by me? Do you know how insane, how desperate that is!"

You were completely livid, now pacing. He pants softly, staring at you guiltily. "I know, god I know and I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking." He pleads.

"Of course you weren't thinking! You're a selfish piece of shit! I can't be fucking near you, without losing my mind, having no control over my actions. That's not normal! And it's most certainly not fucking love Sebastian." You exclaim.

He slumps to the ground, his head in his hands. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, forgive me." He pleads, looking up at you, brokenly.

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head.

"You ruined my life, you coward." You mutter. He lets out some sort of pathetic whimper as you back away from him.

The reality that he was losing you, after everything seemed to finally be registering within him.

You turn, to exit the alcove. You only had one destination in your mind.

And it was to get to wherever on earth was furthest away from Sebastian Sallow.

"Wait. Please." Sebastian pleads, still on the floor but you ignore him, breaking out into a sprint as you exit the common room, ignoring the disgusted looks from your peers.

You sprint down the corridors of the castle, until you reach the courtyards, then the gates, then you keep running.

You didn't know where you were gonna go, or how your future would pan out.

All you knew was that as long as you were as far from Sebastian Sallow as possible, then you'd live a normal life.

You just wouldn't be able to face Hogwarts, or anyone you'd known from that part of your life again, not after all you'd done.

But that was okay as long as you were away from him and his wish.

~~