Scar 🍓ྀིྀི

“Now, now,” Slughorn drew the attention of students just walking in with barely concealed excitement. “A special lesson, just in time for the season of romance! Today, we’ll be studying the most powerful love potion—,” a ripple of giggles spread across the room, “—in existence,” he finished with a grin.

“Purely academic, of course,” Slughorn had declared, lip twitching along with his mustache in delight as he presented the shimmering contents of his cauldron he had prepared himself before the beginning of class. “One must understand the theory of such things in order to defend against them. Amortentia, my dears — the most powerful love potion in existence. Banned to distribute in Hogwarts, naturally, but perfectly permissible to brew under supervision according to the curriculum.”

As if that was a plausible excuse.

The potion glimmered like liquid mother-of-pearl on the wooden workbench, spirals rising from it in hypnotic coils. One by one, the students (mostly consisting of girls) leaned over to inhale, unable to help but be pulled in — as was the nature of the brew. Amortentia carried a different scent to each person. You watched some of your classmates continue to crowd around it eagerly, faces flushing, expressions turning curious. Some laughed whilst some went oddly quiet in consideration.

You didn’t think much of it personally, staying in your seat, wafts of clean linen and chocolate drifting in your direction. Love potions were rather grotesque things — manufactured obsession masquerading as affection. There was something fundamentally wrong about them, no matter how pretty they looked or how good they smelled. You still felt it was wrong that they weren’t outlawed, or that they were sold in shops at all, making them accessible to the public.

Knowing how reckless some teenagers were and how insidious the minds of some worked, it made itself an easy solution in order to prey on the vulnerable. It was — “naturally” — a recipe for disaster.

Completely and utterly barbaric, in your opinion.

Now, the classroom buzzed with chatter and the scrape of ladles against cauldrons as students got to work. Your peers talked over one another, arguing over measurements or comparing notes in low voices.

The potions professor wandered around the room, observing each student at work and complimenting a few on his way through. His waistcoat strained over his stomach as he waddled between tables. “Observe the pearlescent sheen — yes, exactly! That’s what we’re aiming for. And the steam should rise in spirals. Spirals, Mister Avery, not— oh dear.”

You wiped your hands on a cloth and leaned over your own brew. The cauldron in front of you shimmered faintly, the surface of the Amortentia swirling with a soft, luminous glow. It was beautiful in a way that made your skin crawl. You leaned in closer despite yourself. The steam brushed your face, warm and sweet with notes you were very pleased with.

Decadent and creamy white chocolate, the scent of cleanliness, your favorite perfume, sugar, and obviously more sugar. Your mouth curved slightly, both in satisfaction at your successful potion making skills and amusement at the predictability. You liked simple comforts. You liked things that made you feel safe.

You swallowed and straightened at the insidious prospect of that.

“I bet you smell a candy shop,” your best friend, Cadence, murmured from where she stood beside you, leaning over your shoulder.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m saying,” she smirked, “that anyone who ends up giving you sweets may have a chance,” she sang.

“Or they could try a conversation,” you shot back lightly, throwing Cadence an unimpressed look and an arch of the brow.

“Ah, yes. Conversation. How revolutionary.”

You rolled your eyes. Around you, students were murmuring and nudging one another. Giggles broke out near the Hufflepuffs. A Ravenclaw boy turned pink to the ears as he stirred quietly. Even a few Slytherins were smirking more than usual as they hovered close near their cauldrons, unable to resist the temptations. No one seemed particularly concerned about the fact that what they were brewing was so dangerous that it was prohibited to use inside of these walls. There were different types of love potions, but Amortentia was the most potent.

“Honestly,” muttered a flushed Gryffindor, stubbornly, in hearing range. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she peered into her cauldron, “what possessed him to teach this now? It’s practically Valentine’s.”

What possessed him indeed. Slughorn was clearly having way too much fun with this lesson, doing rounds and asking each student what they smelled, smiling knowingly at the flustered ones who stumbled over their words as if this all had been a ploy, a gentle nudge to some to confront their feelings for a special someone right before the holiday of love — which he would deny and deem it was for research purposes only, of course.

“I think it’s romantic,” the Gryffindor girl’s seat mate sighed almost dreamily.

You almost snorted. Romantic wasn’t the word you would’ve chosen. Your potion reached completion faster than you expected. You glanced up, searching for Slughorn to signal that you were finished. The man was currently bent over another station, fussing over someone’s “almost adequate” consistency before going to the next batch, circling like a pleased bee.

Your gaze wandered mindlessly now that you were done with your brew, and you knew it’d be a while before Slughorn made his way over here. So, you slowly dragged your eyes over the students around you before they collided directly with another’s.

Across the room, through rising steam and flickering torchlight, a boy stood at his station. His sleeves were neatly rolled to his forearms, revealing pale skin and long, steady fingers guiding the ladle through his potion. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes immaculate as always. There wasn’t a single fleck of ingredient out of place near him. Even here, in the damp heat of the dungeon, he looked composed — untouched by the chaos around him.

And he was staring at you.

Tom Riddle was staring at you.

His expression was calm, almost blank, a void that sent shivers down your spine. It was unlike any expression you’ve ever seen him make, completely unnatural on a face as handsome as his — not that you’ve watched him much. His eyes did not falter even when you met his unblinking gaze, not flustered whatsoever at being caught gawking so noticeably.

Riddle didn’t look away. The steam rose between you like a thin veil and still — he held your gaze.

The noise of the classroom seemed to dull, your pulse stuttering. For a moment, you forget to breathe, his dead stare like a hand on your throat.

This look wasn’t one of interest in the way other boys sometimes looked at girls. There was something unnerving there unlike the easy charm he wore so well, the one that he showed professors and students alike.

This felt almost… predatory.

Creepy.

Your fingers tightened and whitened around the edge of your desk, body frozen from the uneasiness that washed over you. Then, just as quickly, his gaze flicked away. Riddle adjusted the flame beneath his cauldron with a smooth, unwavering movement as if he’d merely been lost in thought, face now taut in concentration.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, though you weren’t sure why.

He probably zoned out, you told yourself. People stare without realizing it. It doesn’t mean anything, right? Why would he be looking at you? It was easy to drift in a class like this. And you had never spoken more than a passing word to him. You weren’t one of the girls vying for his attention. You didn’t trail after him in corridors or sigh when he walked into a room.

If anything, you made a point not to. You barely paid him mind beyond the general awareness everyone had of him. It was impossible not to at least notice someone like him. Riddle was top of every class. Professors adored him. Students either worshipped him or resented him for numerous reasons.

And yes — he was handsome. Painfully so. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But admiration from afar was one thing; interest was another. You preferred to know someone before you decided how you felt about them.

Even if he had dark hair that fell just slightly yet perfectly over his forehead. Blessed with sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and tiny beauty marks on pale skin that added to his devilish looks. Pink lips that seemed permanently on the verge of a polite, measured smirk that made girls swoon. Riddle was the kind of boy that had them whispering and preening and inventing foolish excuses just to brush arms with him in corridors.

But at that moment, he looked like he was out for your blood. Like you were nothing more than an animal in the wild and he was the hunter, pinning his sights on you.

You had better things to think about. So, you forced your attention back to your station, exhaling slowly and capping the flame beneath your cauldron. You willed your shoulders to relax with the release of breath before you frowned faintly to yourself.

You wondered, annoyingly, how long he had been staring before you had even noticed.

Across the room, Professor Slughorn beamed, hovering near Riddle like always.

“Splendid, Tom! Simply splendid. Textbook perfection. A natural talent, as always. Twenty points to Slytherin!”

Different reactions swept the room — admiration and heart eyes from some, irritation and jealousy from others. Riddle only inclined his head modestly, unbothered by all the attention. “Thank you, sir.”

His voice was smooth, distinct from everyone and anyone else’s, and positively heart throbbing in itself. You risked another glance at Riddle, just to reassure yourself that you’d been mistaken.

He was no longer looking at you, thankfully. Slughorn stood at his side while Riddle wore that soft smile that made people melt. He nodded his head at precisely the right moments, listening attentively as the professor praised the clarity of his brew of Amortentia, how it was the perfect viscosity and shade. He didn’t even seem all that delighted, more so expectant like he was used to it and confidently knew he would’ve had the best one in the room before walking in; like clockwork.

Nothing about his demeanor suggested he had just been staring at you like he wanted to devour you alive. You felt faintly foolish for thinking like that. Perhaps, you hadn’t seen him properly? After all, the abundant amount of steam in the room did make it rather difficult.

Lost in your thoughts, you briefly think about what Riddle must have smelled. Tom Riddle had never shown any interest in dating anyone in all his time at Hogwarts, much to the dismay of many pretty girls. Maybe he had a muggle girlfriend outside of school?

You remembered, faintly, a memory from a few months ago.

A girl you knew, Wendy, had asked him out and like always, he politely let her down. He had declined each and every love confession he had ever received with courtesy. And yet, people still had the audacity to be slighted, as if they were entitled to him and his feelings.

She had regaled to you and a few other girls the story in the library. You were all supposed to be studying, but the topic eventually drifted, like always — to boys.

“And then he said, “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m occupied.” Occupied with what?!” Wendy scoffed, clearly hurt that she decided it’d be better to gossip badly about Riddle, red in the face.

“Honestly, he acts like he’s above everyone. It’s exhausting. And not natural.” Then, her eyes widened in realization. “You don’t think he’s… you know?”

It had bothered you, what she said.

You don’t know why to this day. Maybe it’s because you imagined a boy talking about you like that just because you didn’t feel the same way, and how it wouldn’t sit right with you, how it wouldn’t be fair for them to speculate. That you shouldn’t be forced to like specific people because that’s what was socially acceptable.

So, you defended him without thought.

“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to go out with you specifically,” you mutter, flipping a page.

Three heads turned toward you.

“That’s not the point,” Wendy scoffed, offended by your words but trying not to show it. “It’s rude. He acts like no one’s good enough for him.”

“Or,” you started, “he isn’t obligated to entertain you.”

“You defending Riddle now?” A familiar voice asked in an amused tone after a moment of silence — your best friend, you realized, when looking up from your book at last.

“I’m just saying, you can’t call someone arrogant for having boundaries.”

“We’re just talking,” another one of them snapped, some girl you didn’t know the name of to this day.

“So talk,” you replied calmly. “Just don’t act like he owes you his attention.”

A few of them exchanged glances. One shrugged. Then, the conversation shifted.

You shook your head faintly, dismissing your thoughts. It wasn’t your concern.

The bell chimed faintly in the corridor beyond the door just in time — five minutes to the end of class. Slughorn clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Time, my dears! Cap your potions, label them, and leave them on this table right here. And remember — no sneaking a sample. I’ll know.”

That resulted in a few groans and bits of laughter.

Students began tidying their stations, including you — corking bottles and wiping spills. Slughorn’s back turned as he hurried to inspect a few remaining students brews of the love potion. In the chaos — with robes swishing, chairs scraping against the floor, chatter rising — no one paid attention to Tom Riddle.

His back was angled toward the class, body shielding his cauldron from view. Slughorn was still preoccupied, none the wiser.

Tom moved with hurried precision, covered by the ruckus and cluster of students. One hand slipped into the inner pocket of his robes. The other lifted his ladle. A small, glass vial appeared between his deft fingers. He tilted the utensil ever so slightly and a thin ribbon of pearlescent liquid slid into the container. Not enough to be obvious and change the level in the cauldron, the right amount for him to take.

He corked it carefully and quietly before it vanished into his robes. By the time Slughorn turned back around, Tom busied himself with packing up his things unhurriedly; entirely innocent. He gathered his books neatly, cleaned up his area with a flick of his yew wand, and stood waiting for dismissal like the exemplary student everyone believed him to be — even bidding a polite farewell to the Professor like he does at the end of every class, receiving an oblivious smile from the man in return.

Slughorn clearly did not know.

Soon enough, you’re next to step out into the corridor with your friends.

As you walked with them, curling a strand of hair behind your ear whilst complaining about your next class — behind you, footsteps followed at a distance.

Tom Riddle was staring at you again.

And you walked away, unaware.

Valentine’s Day arrived like a fever spreading inside Hogwarts.

The dormitory had been awake before dawn. You awoke to whispers around you and the rustle of tissue paper. The sharp, sweet scent of perfume clouded the air. Ribbons were tied, taken down, and then retied into hair to perfection. Girls were already sitting cross-legged on their beds in silk nightgowns and perfectly brushed hair, opening velvet boxes and parcels tied in satin ribbon. One girl squealed while another flushed and tried to pretend she hadn’t been waiting for this day all week when opening her package. Someone even shrieked when an owl tapped the window with a parcel of sugared candies.

You rolled onto your back with a sigh, lying still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above your bed as you listened to the excitement around you.

It wasn’t that you cared about today or longed for a boy. It was your decision, countless times, to not have a boyfriend. And you wouldn’t want just any boy approaching you today with trembling hands and a rehearsed declaration of love. In fact, the thought of a public decree made your stomach tighten since you would have to gently decline — and that was humiliating enough for one party. You had no desire in entertaining feelings you did not share like some of your acquaintances.

Still.

It would have been… nice. To be chosen.

You smiled when appropriate as other girls showed off their Valentine’s gifts; a small, traitorous pang in your chest. Ridiculous. You weren’t interested in anyone. You shook it off, rising from the mattress to wash up in the restroom and get dressed for classes that day.

Your uniform was pristine like always, white blouse pressed and colored tie straightened. You smoothed your skirt over your thighs, stockings reaching just below the knee, shoes polished. You brushed your hair until it shone and left it down before fastening your cloak. You dabbed a faint touch of your everyday perfume on your wrists because for you, it was just another day.

When you made your way into the common room, you saw girls clutching bouquets of all different types of colors and chocolates wrapped in boxes.

The corridors were no different, buzzing like a beehive. And by the time you reached the staircases, the castle was alive more than it has ever been — even during the Christmas holidays. Enchanted cupids flitted about and abundant laughter echoed against the stone walls of the castle.

You adjusted the strap of your satchel and eventually met up with your friends at your usual spot, walking towards the Great Hall together, their chatter echoing around you about the latest drama: who got what and from who or who hadn’t gotten anything and ended up splitting on today of all days. You tuned them out until a different name cut through the noise.

“Did you see him?” a pair of Slytherin girls hissed in hushed excitement as you passed. “With a whole bouquet of flowers, I swear! And chocolates too — the expensive kind.”

“Who?”

“Tom Riddle.”

Your steps faltered before you could stop yourself.

The other girl gasped. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not! He was coming up from the dungeons. He had them transfigured so it wasn’t obvious, but I know what I saw.”

You didn’t turn your head. You kept walking before you could linger too long and appear obvious. You had no right to be curious. You barely spoke to him. And you most certainly were not one of the girls who trailed after him like moths to a flame.

Tom Riddle with roses.

With chocolates.

It was almost absurd.

It sounded absurd.

You truly hadn’t meant to listen, truly. Riddle had never shown interest in anyone publicly. He seemed the private type and further more, was single to the point he had never even been rumored to have dated anyone because everyone would know it to be untrue in a heartbeat. But, perhaps he did have someone this entire time. Someone worth keeping a secret of.

You found, to your irritation, that you were curious. It must be someone in school, then.

But who? Who had finally stolen his heart and had the Tom Riddle so enamored?

The Great Hall doors opened to an alive spectacle of owls swooping low through the high windows and dropping parcels into waiting hands, charmed doves fluttering between floating hearts that drifted lazily beneath the enchanted ceiling which had been charmed to a pale pink sunrise with pearly light despite the real one outside being dull and grey like it had been for the last few days, anticipating a storm.

The House tables were louder than usual, scattered with unwrapped sweets and floral arrangements that clashed with everything else in a nearby vicinity.

You scanned the Slytherin table without meaning to.

Riddle wasn’t there.

You exhaled harshly through your nose, annoyed with yourself for searching.

You took your usual place at your table — the same bit of bench you had claimed since first year with your friend group, the same place anyone could find you in the mornings. Predictable. Safe. Like everything you choose. You spooned whipped cream onto your waffles, adding sliced strawberries and a drizzle of syrup on them.

Cadence lightly nudged you with her elbow, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “If someone asks you to be their Valentine today — hypothetically — you’re saying yes, aren’t you?”

“I would hypothetically decline,” you retort dryly, cutting through your waffle.

“How cruel you are to every boy who would be lucky to have you.”

You lifted an unimpressed brow. “I have standards.”

She laughed. “You’ll end up alone at this rate.”

“I’m not afraid of being alone.”

That much was true.

You were about to take your first bite when a shadow fell across your plate.

You looked up, pulse jumping.

A Slytherin boy stood there. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him before. Cute, but not your type. And he looked… nervous. His fingers flexed at his sides with a kind of strained urgency. For a fleeting, mortifying second, you imagined him clearing his throat and announcing — loudly — that he would be honored if you would accompany him today. In front of all these people.

Your heart gave one uncomfortable thud.

Please don’t let him do this here.

“Yes?” you asked slowly, lips drawn in a tight line, already preparing the polite apology on your tongue.

He swallowed. “Er— sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you said, your fork hovering midair, frozen like a statue as you wait for the inevitable.

“Professor Slughorn would like to see you.”

Relief washed over you instantly, your features softening and shoulders relaxing. Thankfully, it wasn’t a love confession. Still, your brows knit together. “Now?”

“Yes. In the courtyard.”

You glanced instinctively towards the staff table. Slughorn wasn’t there. Though, a flicker of doubt continued to brush against your mind.

“What for?” you asked, turning your head back to the boy.

He hesitated. “I-I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

Your friend chimed in. “That’s odd.”

You agreed.

Still, there was no obvious reason to refuse. You hadn’t done anything wrong. And if it were truly important, you couldn’t very well ignore it. Maybe it was about schoolwork. You set your fork down with visible reluctance, eyeing your plate with mild mourning and a pout. The whipped cream was already softening into the waffle, syrup pooling at the edges.

A waste.

“If I’m not back in ten minutes, eat that,” you told your friend, gesturing with a tilt of your chin.

“So selfless,” one of them replied solemnly.

“I know.”

You rose, smoothing your skirt, adjusting your cloak over your shoulders before leaning down to grab your bag from the wooden seat and hook it around your shoulder. The boy stepped aside at once to let you pass, relief evident in his posture — as if he had been afraid you might refuse. Though, you can’t imagine what was so frightening about Slughorn that made him tremble so.

The corridors beyond the Great Hall were quieter now, the morning frenzy thinning out as you stepped out into them.

Chatter faded behind you, replaced by the echo of your own footsteps against the stone hallways of the castle. Light filtered through the high windows as best it could with dark skies as you walked further down. When you made your way to the courtyard however, your steps slowed at the sight that greeted you.

You stepped through the arched doorway into the open space. The cold bit at you at once, stealing the warmth from your cheeks. The fountain at the center trickled faintly as water spilled over marble into its basin. Grey clouds sagged overhead, heavy with unshed rain, the stones beneath your shoes damp.

It was completely vacant.

There was always a student or two loitering around, but now, it was unnaturally silent. Not like the peaceful kind you preferred. And there was no Professor Slughorn bustling about. You frowned, uneasiness coiled low in your stomach and sliding beneath your ribs. The courtyard was never empty — even on a day like this.

You shifted your satchel higher on your shoulder, glancing toward the archways as if the professor might appear from behind a column.

You found yourself almost turning back. For reasons you couldn’t explain, you wished you were still at your table in the Great Hall, surrounded by your friends, scarfing down sugary waffles. Thunder clapped overhead like a bad omen.

“I’m glad you came.”

You startled violently despite yourself, breath catching, spinning around too quickly. It unsettled you more than you cared to admit that you hadn’t heard him approach at all.

That voice was unmistakable.

Tom Riddle stood a few paces behind you as though he had always been there. Your heart leapt traitorously in your chest.

Riddle looked striking and flawless as always. Dark hair combed neatly with a curl falling deliberately over his forehead. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes falling straight and sharp along his lean, slightly muscular frame. The faintest flush from the cold touched his pale skin, but he did not seem to feel it.

In one hand, he held a box of chocolates wrapped in ribbon. In the other — a bouquet.

Your favorite flowers.

Your breath caught.

It could be coincidence, you told yourself. Flowers were flowers. Anyone could like them. Perhaps he had chosen them at random. Perhaps he was waiting for someone else and you had merely wandered into the scene by accident. Your mind scrambled for reasons because you had a feeling this situation was headed a certain direction that you weren’t sure how to deal with.

Riddle held your gaze steadily, as if he could see each frantic thought as it passed through you.

“I’m waiting for Professor Slughorn,” you said too quickly, the words tumbling out before he asked anything. “He sent for me.”

Why were you explaining yourself?

You avoided his eyes, studying instead the collar of his robe, the way his fingers curved around the base of the bouquet. You felt awkward and absurdly aware of how alone you were with him. Riddle’s gaze rested on you, assessing. There was something faintly amused in the curve of his mouth — and not the warm kind. More like, he knew something you didn’t.

“I’m afraid,” he started gently, “that Professor Slughorn will not be joining you.”

The words prickled at your skin like a bite.

You blinked, looking up at that.

“What?”

“I asked Nott to fetch you.” He tilted his head slightly like he had a habit of doing, studying your reaction with dark brown eyes, ones that felt too intense on you. “I wanted a moment alone.”

For a second, you could only stare at him.

“You lied?” The accusation left you before you could soften it.

Riddle did not falter. If anything, that faint amusement deepened on his gorgeous features, dark and unfairly perfect brows lifting a fraction. “Would you have come if I had asked you myself?”

Your lips parted automatically, ready to retort with something sharp or clever, that he didn’t need deception or to intimidate someone enough to do his bidding — but the truth remained stuck in your throat.

Because no. You wouldn’t have.

You didn’t know him. Not really. You had exchanged perhaps a handful of words in passing. If Tom Riddle had approached you openly in the Great Hall, with half the school watching, you would have declined out of instinct alone.

You pressed your lips together in defeat.

Riddle’s smirk deepened with satisfaction.

“I thought not,” he murmured. He stepped closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could feel his intensity.

Then, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said suddenly.

It wasn’t a stammering confession you had braced yourself for from some nervous boy. His voice was steady, like a statement rather than a request. He extended the bouquet and chocolates toward you, waiting.

The gesture was immaculate, private, considerate. Exactly the sort of confession you would have preferred without a spectacle or an audience.

The courtyard felt even quieter. Somehow, you couldn’t even hear the single chirp of a bird.

You were acutely aware of the space between you. The way Riddle’s eyes did not leave your face, as if he was deciphering your every thought just from your expressions like how a snake would assess its meal before lunging. He seemed entirely certain of himself.

Then, it hits you that he must have been the one to clear the courtyard. Of course. Who else could have that type of power? Your pulse thudded in your ears, heat creeping up your cheeks. He had orchestrated this entire thing.

And he had done everything right.

For a tiny moment, you imagined accepting. You imagined walking back into the castle at his side, flowers in your arms. You imagined the looks. Too many looks. Too many whispers. Because Tom Riddle was always being watched. Either out of admiration or envy. If you stepped into his orbit, you would not be permitted anonymity again. There would be jealous girls, speculation, and endless scrutiny from every direction. The resentment from those who had tried and failed to get close to him. Your life would no longer be quiet at school.

And beneath that practical reasoning, there was something else — the simple truth being that you did not know him.

And under that, the memory of that look in class — the way he had stared at you through the steam as if claiming something that did not yet belong to him.

And Tom Riddle did nothing without purpose.

So, why you?

You were not one of the girls who trailed after him in corridors. You didn’t blush when he entered a room. You didn’t whisper about him.

Perhaps… that was precisely why.

“Tom,” you began carefully, fingers tightening around your bag’s strap like a lifeline as you swallowed. “Riddle, I mean,” once you realized how familiar you sounded unintentionally. You noticed he straightened a little at that. “I-I’m sorry.”

And you truly meant it. But the next few words caught in your throat when you saw the flicker of the same expression from the dungeon — the one that had frozen you in place. His cold eyes sharpened with displeasure and something possessive. A chill shot down your spine. But, then it was gone, vanishing almost instantly — as if it’d never been there. The polite mask slid back into place so seamlessly that you almost doubted you had seen his other face at all.

“I can’t accept this,” you finished softly. “I didn’t know… I mean, we’ve never even—” You huffed, frustrated with yourself. “It wouldn’t be right.”

A silence so deafening stretched between you.

You couldn’t meet his eye. Riddle hadn’t moved at all from your peripheral. But then, he spoke at last, “I see...”

Surprisingly, he hadn’t looked embarrassed or wounded. There was not a hint of a tremor in his voice or a trace of bitterness — and somehow, it unsettled you more than pure anger might have.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

He sounded thoughtful. So, you found your shoulders loosening.

“I hope there aren’t any hard feelings,” you added carefully, brows furrowed.

“None,” he assured you with a flutter of his dark lashes, polite and unbothered as ever like the proper gentleman he was. Then, almost as an afterthought, Riddle lifted the box slightly to you. “At least take these.”

You hesitated.

“I know how fond you are of them,” he continued, tone mild. “It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

Your brows drew together faintly. “How did you—”

He gave the smallest shrug. “It isn’t a secret.”

It wasn’t. You were rarely without something sugary in hand. Anyone observant enough could notice. And Tom Riddle was observant. You studied him one last time before slowly reaching out and accepting the chocolates, the edge of the box cool against your sweaty fingers.

“Thank you,” you said, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Truly.”

His gaze dipped briefly to your hand as it closed fully around the container of chocolates, a small smile on his lips.

“You’re welcome.”

“And… I am sorry,” you added once more for great measure.

Riddle smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing to forgive.” Then, he adds with a tone that sounded innocently hopeful, “But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”

The statement seemed so casual that it hadn’t even hit you that it’ll be storming all week, that the skies wouldn’t be visible for the next few days. But, you nodded anyway just to be nice. You had just rejected his feelings after all…

With a step back, hands folding neatly behind him, the bouquet remained there, hidden from your view. He inclined his head with quiet courtesy. You nodded in return, already turning, eager for the warmth and noise of the Hogwarts corridors. With each step away from him, your lungs seemed to fill more easily. You slipped the chocolates into your satchel and adjusted the strap over your shoulder. By the time you reached the archway, you had almost convinced yourself the entire encounter had been harmless. Unfortunate, perhaps — but civil.

You were lucky Riddle was so understanding.

As you walked off, behind you, Tom did not move. He watched you until the stone walls of the school swallowed you from sight as if he could still see you through them.

The polite expression dissolved the instant you disappeared. His jaw tightened, broad shoulders becoming rigid beneath his robes. And behind his back, his fingers tightened around the stems of the bouquet until his knuckles turned white. They bent and snapped under his unforgiving grip. The pretty flowers blackened at an unnatural pace right at the edges before gradually bleeding inward at an alarming speed. The delicate petals wilted, reduced to something lifeless and small.

Tom’s remained eerily calm other than that. A petal fell soundlessly, and he watched as it reached the wet stone at his feet.

He smiled.

Then, he threw the bouquet to the ground like dirt before turning, his cloak sweeping behind him.

Thankfully, the rest of the day passed by in a haze.

The castle’s Valentine’s fever broke slowly but surely. By afternoon, the romance had dulled. Very few couples still walked too close in the corridors, smiling and holding hands. Girls with broken hearts huddled with blotchy eyes while their friends stroked their hair and whispered assurances. The enchanted decor had long since tired themselves out.

You drifted through it, lost in your own head as your mind wouldn’t stop circling back to him.

Tom Riddle had wanted you.

It still felt crazy, but you knew it now. That in Potions, he must have smelled you.

“Are you even listening?” A friend hissed at you during Transfiguration, nudging your knee under the desk.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze, quill hovering uselessly above parchment, dripping ink from the tip in large blots and ruining your work. “What?”

She stared. “Professor Merrythought just asked you a question.”

Heat flared in your cheeks, eyes darting around the class and then apologetically to the Professor.

“Right. Sorry.” You forced your attention forward, ignoring the low ripple of snickers.

Your mind felt like it was moving through syrup, and you kept it all to yourself. In Arithmancy, you lost track of numbers you usually handled with ease. In History of Magic, you stared through Professor Binns as if he were smoke.

You had never truly noticed how many classes you shared with Tom Riddle before today. Now, it felt excessive. Potions, Transfiguration, Defense, Ancient Runes. He had always been there — but you had never catalogued the frequency of his presence until now. Riddle always sat with his back straight. His quill moved with elegant strokes as he took notes. He answered every question asked of him and was always correct.

And he did not look at you once.

Not even once.

A part of you bristled.

It bothered you more than if he had glared across the room because he was unbothered as ever. It was as if the courtyard had not happened. As if he had not offered you your favorite flowers and waited for your answer. Why ask if he did not care?

You caught yourself watching the side of his face during Transfiguration, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the faint hollow beneath it, the way his long and skillful hands worked his wand. You noticed he liked to fidget with it a lot — running his fingers along the side, caressing, holding it delicately like it was an extension of himself. Riddle suddenly shifted slightly in his seat, and you looked away at once, heart pounding madly in your chest.

You should be grateful. This is what you wanted, you reminded yourself. You would have hated his scorn. You would have hated whispers and pointed stares. This was the better outcome. You didn’t want to be known as the girl who rejected Tom Riddle even when your chest tightened unpleasantly each time he gathered his books without so much as glancing your way.

So, why did it feel like something was terribly wrong?

By the time late afternoon crept in and you finished your classes for the day, you were already making your way to the Hogwarts library.

It was quieter than normal. Valentine’s Day had drained the castle of its usual studious population. Lamps glowed in warm, cozy pools of gold across long wooden tables. The smell of ink and old books welcomed you like an embrace. The tall windows were darker than they were before now. And most of all, it was silent in the way you liked. The library had always been your refuge.

You passed a few stragglers who also had nothing better to do on Valentine’s Day as you made your way to the back of the huge reading area, shrugging off your cloak and draping it over the armrest before sinking into a wooden chair.

As the minutes passed, books started to accumulate around you on the table. You diligently studied for your next exam, burying yourself in the library as evening settled over Hogwarts. The light outside the tall windows dimmed so slowly that you hadn’t even noticed until you took a glance and realized how much time had passed. You rolled your shoulders, flexed your aching fingers, and leaned back over your notes. You read the same line three times, finding yourself unable to focus as hunger gradually gnawed at your stomach.

It hit you that you had not eaten at all today.

Your plate at breakfast had gone unfinished, and you skipped lunch entirely to come here. The dining hall would be closing soon. You considered getting something from the kitchens later. Though in truth, your appetite had vanished after the encounter with Riddle, your mind preoccupied with other things.

Then, you remembered.

The chocolates.

You stilled, hand hovering over parchment. A small feeling of guilt bloomed in your chest. You had nearly forgotten about them.

At least I won’t starve, you thought dryly.

Thanks, Riddle.

When you reached into your satchel, your fingers brushed against something smooth and rigid. After a second of hesitation, you drew out the box. It was elegant, with dark packaging and a perfectly tied ribbon. It felt nice and cool against your warm fingers that had been working for hours.

You set it on the table, undoing the carefully knotted bow, and lifted the lid almost excitedly. You loved chocolate, and you were always curious about the taste of different ones. A container like this would surely hold varying types that you were interested in trying. Some could have a filling of jam, or caramel, or a different flavor chocolate inside. The possibilities were endless.

Where others sought spontaneity in their real lives, you found it in chocolate. Because chocolate was the one thing that could never hurt you.

When you set the top aside, you saw that inside lay neat rows of white chocolates, each one ornate and delicately crafted, faintly glossy under the light. Your breath caught at how stunning they were, and you inhaled. A smile curled onto your lips despite yourself, giddy in your seat like a child.

They smelled exquisitely divine. They looked like the sweet and rich type, very expensive — just as the Slytherin girl from this morning had claimed. Too pretty you didn’t even want to eat them. You didn’t question how he knew of your preference. Because you rarely went a week without white chocolate; anyone paying enough attention could have noticed.

And Tom Riddle paid attention.

Your stomach gave a sudden, sharp pang at the enticing scent.

With the grace of an eager child, you picked one up and brought it to your mouth. The smooth chocolate melted instantly on your tongue, silky and decadent. A soft, pleased moan escaped from your lips before you could stop it. Embarrassed heat rushed to your cheeks, and you glanced around.

Merlin.

You hope no one heard that.

You swallowed quickly, your hunger starting to satiate bit by bit, before your fingers reached for another without thinking. The second tasted even sweeter. A warmth like no other continued to spread in your chest, like something had been wound tight and was now loosening itself. You leaned back slightly in your seat, tilting your head and humming in satisfaction as your eyes shut for just a moment.

Tom’s face suddenly surfaced in your mind with startling clarity, but not with the typical unease that came with it before.

You only remembered the charming curve of his soft, pink lips. The single, adorable curl that always falls over his forehead like it’s dying to be tamed, fixed back into place by your gentle hand. His strong, broad shoulders and the confident, attractive way he carried himself. The way his voice had dipped almost sensually, eyes smoldering when he told you Happy Valentine’s Day.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box.

Why had you said no?

You were confused.

Tom had been awfully considerate earlier today. He had known exactly what you would prefer. He had arranged everything so carefully. The lie, the empty courtyard, the timing to give you peace of mind.

Your pulse quickened.

Tom had looked at you like you were the only person in his world.

A soft, almost aching pressure built beneath your ribs. You could picture him so vividly now that it made your breath shallow. He was extraordinary. Brilliant in every class. Admired by professors. Feared, even, by some. There was something absolutely magnetic about him — something no one else had.

And he had chosen you.

A sharp wave of regret washed over you, sudden and consuming. How foolish you must have seemed. How cold. You had rejected him without even trying to understand him. You wanted conversation, you told yourself. You wanted to know someone first.

Tom had been trying to give you that chance.

And you had hurt him.

The realization struck with surprising force.

He had stood there — perfectly composed — while you rejected him. Tom had offered you your favorite flowers and you felt a pang of regret now at not taking them when you had the chance.

Your heart began to race in earnest, a dizzying rhythm that made your fingers tremble slightly. The warmth in your chest deepened, spreading into your throat and then to your limbs like fire. You felt unsteady and lightheaded. The thought of him alone somewhere in the castle, alone because you had sent him away—

No.

The idea of it twisted painfully in your heart like a knife.

“But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”

You glanced toward the tall windows of the castle library. The sky outside was darkening rapidly, clouds thick and dark grey. It might storm soon tonight. Tom had said the stars would be beautiful. But perhaps he had only meant it as an excuse. An offering. It didn’t matter.

You had been so careless. Of course you had feelings for him. How could you not? Every glance he’d ever given you now felt charged in retrospect. Potions class — earlier, you figured out he had smelled you. That was why he’d stared. Tom was drawn to you. He hungered for you.

You released a soft gasp, your heart thudding harder.

Better yet, he understood you like no one else did. You were sure of it now. He had watched quietly, learned your preferences and your habits. The thought of him doing just that, of staring at you for long periods of time without you even realizing just to understand you made your heart soar, a flush blooming on your cheeks. Taking his time, he had waited for the right moment to confess. You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, trying to steady your rapid breathing that sounded almost like panting.

You needed to see him. A need that felt important above all else.

You needed to go. You needed to fix this. Not tomorrow. Now. He must have thought you didn’t care. He must have believed you dismissed him as easily as the other boys who tried.

Standing abruptly, your chair scraped loudly against the floor. A few students glanced up from distant tables, annoyed — you even earned a soft shush from somewhere to your right — but you barely registered it. Your pulse hammered in your ears now, loud enough to drown out reason. Every thought circled back to him — his voice, his eyes, the way he had said your name.

How had you not seen it before?

Tom was perfect.

Handsome. Intelligent. The very idea of him made your stomach flutter and your pulse quicken. Of all the girls who trailed after him, who whispered about him, who would have fallen at his feet if he so much as glanced their way — he had only looked at you.

A soft ache spread beneath your ribs. You had mistaken him. He hadn’t looked unbothered today because he didn’t care. Tom was giving you space.

Your throat tightened.

Tom was waiting for you.

He had said he would be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. It was evening. He might leave. The idea filled you with an unreasonable urgency. What if he thought you truly meant your refusal? What if he decided you were not worth pursuing? What if someone else—

No.

Your stomach twisted at the notion.

Your books and parchment lay forgotten as you close the lid of the chocolate box with careful, trembling hands and slipped it back into your bag, clutching it close as though it were something precious. You didn’t even bother with your cloak. The thought of missing him made your chest constrict. He would understand. He always seemed to understand. Tom was always so understanding.

You loved him.

The realization felt less like a question and more like an admission of truth you had been avoiding. It explained the awareness of him and the irritation at his composure. You had been afraid of wanting him. But he wanted you.

And you wanted— needed to see him desperately. If you didn’t, you think you’d die. You may have wasted the day, but you won’t make the mistake of wasting the night. You belonged with him. And you would not let him slip away.

The staircases seemed endless.

You didn’t remember leaving the library. You barely felt your feet striking stone as you ran, the slap of your shoes against stairs you nearly missed, fingers clutching freezing stone banisters to swing yourself around corners. Students cursed with startled protests as you shoved past without apology; one boy nearly dropped his books.

Someone may have called your name. You weren’t sure. The only thing you were sure of was Tom. Nothing mattered in the moment except him.

The castle was extremely chilly after sunset. Cool wind slipped through narrow slits, raising goosebumps along your bare arms through your thin blouse, yet heat pulsed under your skin — feverish and burning. You had left your cloak draped over the library chair. It did not occur to you to go back for it. So, you had forgotten it. Forgotten your books. Forgotten everything except him.

Tom.

Every minuscule and unimportant thought curved back to him. Your mind whispered his name like a prayer. Your breath tore in and out of your lungs as though you had been running for miles. Up spiral staircases. Through corridors and past suits of armor. The storm had begun outside; you could hear it building — wind battering the windows, distant thunder rolling like a warning.

None of it mattered.

There was only one fixed point in the world, and it was at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

You took the final staircase, breathing shallow in uneven gasps, heart rate frantic and desperate — fingers gripping the metal railing to steady yourself. The tower door loomed ahead, iron latch glinting at you mockingly. You shoved it open with strength you weren’t even aware you possessed just to get to him.

The wind struck you fully at once, brisk and furious, carrying the faint scent of rain washed stone. It whipped your hair around your face, but you paid it no mind. The sky was ominous and frightening, nothing like what he had promised.

Yet, amidst it all was your North Star. Your guiding light. Funny, wasn’t it? That he was in the Astronomy Tower of all places.

The clouds hid the heavens, but Tom glowed as he stood in the dark of night at the balcony’s edge, facing the horizon with his back to you, hands resting lightly on the railings. The storm swallowed the sky, but in your vision he was lit from within. The only thing illuminated. The only thing that mattered. His dark robes stirred with the breeze, the fabric clinging and releasing against his lean frame. You could only see the elegant line of his neck and the sharp angle of his jaw. He looked carved from shadow and pale marble, perfectly still against the raging weather.

You could only stare in awe.

He looked like he belonged to the night.

The beauty of what lay in front of your eyes made your breath catch in your throat.

“Tom.”

The name left you with reverence and breathlessness, almost disbelieving — like you had stumbled upon something sacred.

He turned.

At that moment, thunder cracked overhead. Lightning split across the sky in a violent flare of white, bathing Tom in a sudden light. For a heartbeat, your world froze with that flash. He looked like an angel. The light carved his high cheekbones, hollowed shadows beneath them, kissable lips curved in something that was not quite surprise.

His brown eyes found yours instantly before the faintest smile touched his lips — and somehow, you felt like you could breathe again. Like your entire world had rightened itself under your feet. Because Tom looked so happy to see you.

Rain began to mist in the air, cool against your flushed cheeks.

“I wondered how long it would take,” he finally spoke, voice carrying easily through the harsh winds. Your heart trembled at the melodious sound.

The implication in his tone flew right over your head. You only heard his voice, smooth like velvety chocolate on the tongue. It wrapped around you like warmth which you were in desperate need of.

Tom knew you would come. And he waited, so patiently. He knew you better than you knew yourself.

You stepped toward Tom before you even realized you were moving, like he was a magnet. Then again. And again. The distance— the separation between you felt unbearable.

And Tom watched closely the entire time, tracing over you slowly in a way that made you shudder from the intensity. He took note of everything, studied you. The lack of a cloak and your thin blouse which did nothing against the chill as if you had rushed over here. The flushed cheeks and your heaving breasts. The wild shine in your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly at your sides.

Tom’s gaze darkened with something akin to pleasure.

“You’re cold,” he observed, though his voice carried no real concern.

“I don’t care,” you whispered.

Every step closed the space and yet it was never fast enough. The wind tangled your hair across your face, but you did not brush it away. You could not look anywhere except at him.

“You were right,” you choked out, your voice unsteady. “About the stars.”

Tom paused for a moment, faintly confused before his lips tugged at the corners in amusement at your state of delirium. It was, after all, an effect of the Amortentia he put in the chocolates you took from him this morning. It was also the last thing he had said to you in parting, and so, it wasn’t surprising you would be fixated on it.

“I’m usually right.”

You know that now, down to your marrow.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathed instead, unable to help yourself from commenting on it. Up close, he was overwhelming. And that smile on his face was devilishly handsome. It gave you butterflies. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes — eyes like dark chocolate. You loved chocolate and you loved Tom.

You reached for him to steady yourself as though you had been falling all along. And the second your fingers touched the fabric of his robes, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. He was real. And he was yours. Tom stood at the center of your universe — like the stars, burning and eternal.

“I—” Your voice trembled suddenly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see it,” your words tumbled over one another. “I didn’t understand earlier. I was foolish. I thought— I thought I didn’t know you. But I do. I must. I just— didn’t want to be… like the others.”

A huff of amusement came from Tom.

“You are nothing like the others.”

By the look on Tom’s face, he seemed to be telling the truth, so sure of himself and what he had spoken to you. Of course he was. Tom would never lie to you. He did earlier today, but that was because he knew you’d be too stubborn to listen then. Again, an example of how well he knew you.

Another roll of thunder swallowed your words.

You closed the final, treacherous inch between you and collided into him like a supernova, fingers fisting into the fabric of his robes, pressing yourself against his chest as though proximity alone could steady the storm inside you. Your arms wound around his waist, clutching him tightly as though he might vanish into a black hole.

Tom went rigid beneath your touch.

A subtle tension rippled through him as if your unrestrained contact took him by surprise. But it was gone almost instantly. His arms came around you with one hand settled at your lower back, the other sliding possessively at your nape, fingers threading lightly into your hair.

You melted into his burning touch. His hands felt like a furnace on a cold night. You took advantage of the situation, inhaling the scent off his clean clothes. And God, he was the best thing you ever smelt — better than chocolate. Better than the ones he had given you that tasted sweeter with every bite you took. You wondered if Tom’s lips tasted the same.

“I thought I didn’t need anyone,” you continued, your voice breaking as hot tears streamed down your cheeks. “But when I left you this morning, i-it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” Your fingers tightened in the fabric at his back. “It felt like something was crushing my chest.”

Tom’s hand at your neck flexed with subtle pressure, guiding you closer. His chin lowered slightly — so tall, so tall — resting against the crown of your head. He did not hush you. He only listened. Oh, Tom. He was perfect in every way.

“Did it?” He murmured softly in return, voice near you ear. His thumb brushed upward along your spine in a slow, absent movement. Safe. You felt safe in his arms. You only nodded against him hysterically, fingers clutching at his robes, wrinkling the immaculate fabric.

Tom’s gaze lifted to the stormy, dark horizon in the background as you spoke into his chest. He had known you would come. The amount of love potion he put into the chocolates were enough to tilt you gently in the direction you were meant to face. Toward him.

“I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t think. I kept seeing you. And I realized…” Your breath hitched. “I realized I can’t be without you. I don’t want to be. I need you,” you finally confessed, cheeks hot, fisting his shirt. The words trembled as they came out of you, but they were certain. You were afraid for him to leave you, to be alone.

“I need you like I need air, Tom.”

The wind howled faintly around the tower, tugging at your hair and at his cloak with fiercer ferocity. The storm clapped mercilessly above, rain starting to pouring heavily into the balcony which you both stood near at an angle. Tom stepped closer inside to avoid being hit much by it, leading you backwards with him.

You barely noticed, eyes locked on his face like you couldn’t look away; entranced.

Tom tilted your chin up with two fingers. You looked at him through tear blurred vision, cheeks flushed, lashes wet, lips parted and wobbly. Devotion was written plainly across your face. Worship and unwavering loyalty. Tom’s gaze swept over you slowly, drinking you in. He couldn’t help but swallow, pale throat bobbing.

Perfect. You were… perfect like this.

“You want me? You need me?” He repeated very quietly, voice raspy as he cupped your cheek. It sounded like gospel to your ears. You leaned into his hand. Honestly, you could hear Tom speak all day. You almost hated yourself for having to respond because he went silent just to hear you. But Tom wanted you to talk to him, and you would do anything to make him happy.

“Yes,” you gasped, your response immediate and absolute.

Tom’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the edge of a tear as he collected it onto his finger. He examined the moisture on his skin briefly before letting his hand fall.

“I don’t give my attention lightly,” Tom hummed. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“And when I decide something belongs to me…” His eyes held yours, unblinking. You inhaled sharply. “I do not let it go easily.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered.

Tom’s hand slid from your jaw to the curve of your waist, fingers spreading there as though testing the shape of you, claiming you. You leaned into him further. He drew you impossibly closer than that, your body pressed against his fully now. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. It wasn’t beating erratically like yours.

Your fingers slid higher along his chest, curling near his collar. He doesn’t stop you.

“I want you.”

The statement hung in the air as Tom simply looked down at you.

“You have me,” Tom said at last, and your heart swelled painfully at that. He understood. He always understood. You buried your face against his chest again, tears barely dampening the front of his rain soaked clothes. His hand moved to the back of your neck once more.

“And you won’t run again,” he murmured, and it sounded like seduction.

“No.”

His thumb pressed lightly at the base of your throat, just enough to feel the frantic pulse there, tilting your head back up ever so slightly to meet his eyes.

“Say it.”

You swallowed, and he felt it against his finger. You were completely vulnerable in this position. And yet, your breath shook wildly, eyes dilated.

“I won’t run from you.”

The faintest hum left him, almost content.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitched at the praise. Good girl. You wanted to hear it again and again until it was etched into your bones. Your lips parted instinctively as if asking for more without words. Lightning flashed again, closer now. The harsh breeze mauled at your damp hair, whipping it across your face again. He reached up and smoothed it back with unsettling gentleness.

“You belong with me,” you practically begged. “Don’t you see? I belong with you.”

“I was hoping,” he started carefully, pausing to look over your expression, “that you would come to that conclusion on your own.”

Your heart seized at that. He had believed in you. He had waited.

“I love you,” you hiccuped, the words tumbling out without hesitation.

Silence followed. Droplets of rain striked the stone around you.

“You couldn’t live without me?” Tom asked.

You shook your head helplessly, enamored with him and hanging onto his every word.

“No.”

A faint exhale left him — almost a laugh, but not quite. For all his contempt of love potions, Tom could not deny their elegance.

He had always despised them — weak little instruments for those too pathetic to command any type of devotion on their own merit. The irony of his own conception had burned that hatred into him early. A foolish girl from a crumbling line, infatuated with a filthy Muggle, desperate enough to drug him into counterfeit affection. A love potion slipped into a drink. A Muggle man ensnared. And from that humiliating farce — him. His mother had begged for love. And when it slipped through her fingers, she had withered.

Lord Voldemort would never wither.

Lord Voldemort would never be weak.

He would never beg a filthy Muggle to stay. He would never cling to someone who did not choose him freely. He would never lose control of himself the way his mother had. Tom did not feed you this potion because he lacked control over you. He brewed it because power — which was neither good nor evil — meant using every bit of magic available.

Tom Riddle was nothing like his stupid mother.

Merope had dosed Tom Riddle Sr because she feared he would leave. Tom had dosed you because you would not have the good sense to stay. Because you were stubborn in that infuriatingly, principled way. Because you required… encouragement.

And now?

His hand tightened subtly at your nape, thumb pressing into the pulse at your neck just beneath your skin as if testing it. You trembled for him. You burned for him. You had run through the castle, abandoned dignity, abandoned sense, abandoned warmth — because you needed him.

A memory flickered through his mind.

It would be months ago from now. He had not meant to linger in that aisle longer than necessary, running a simple errand for a professor before he heard his name. Now, Tom was by far not an uncommon name, he admitted to himself with bitterness. But, he recognized the voice. Out of pure instinct, he peeked through the shelves, curious and silent, gaze sharp through the narrow, emptied out spaces between spines of ancient books in the castle library.

Tom saw one of the girls who he had turned down the day before. Clearly, she was not as okay with it as she had pretended to be and would gladly tear him apart for sport in front of her pathetic friends. Not that he cared about such trivial matters. The concept of love was the least of his concerns. He knew what to expect. Tom could read people like an open book. Resentment and hurt; he had grown accustomed to nurturing it in others every time he said the word no.

But then, he heard you.

Defending him.

You hadn’t known he was listening. You had no idea he stood on the other side of that shelf, watching you. You had simply said what you believed to be true. That he owed no one his affection. That boundaries were not arrogance. You had sounded sincere, not a single trace of want in your tone.

It had stuck with him.

At first, he assumed it was typical teenage girl pettiness. A little rivalry using a clever remark to wound another for competition… until he realized you never once looked at him in class or in corridors. You did not smile at him shyly. You did not linger near in hopes of getting his attention. You did not even seem to care that he existed.

It wasn’t always obsession.

That was when curiosity took root.

Then, curiosity became irritation.

Tom Riddle was accustomed to being watched. To the whispers. To the desire and lust in other people’s eyes. But you — infuriatingly — refused to orbit him. Never preened. Never sought him out. You rejected boys without hesitation, as if their offers were minor inconveniences. Including Tom too, apparently.

What did you want, then? What standard did you hold that so many failed to reach? He couldn’t figure you out as easily as anyone else. And ironically, Tom Riddle hated riddles.

After closely watching you for months, he had figured out plenty about you. You lived quietly, guarding your privacy like treasure. You liked silence, he did too. But not the eerie kind like Tom did. You preferred the type that consisted of at least some natural noise. You disliked spectacles, stiffening at anything that would draw attention to you. Like him, you valued control. In some ways, you and him were not so different.

You tucked your hair behind your ear when irritated. You frowned faintly when concentrating, a look he’s seen many times when you never noticed him staring right at you. You were kind. Tom first saw it in the way you protected his name in conversations that did not concern you and he hasn’t forgotten it since.

And then, there was the chocolate — always white chocolate. It was your weakness. He had catalogued it months ago, when you unwrapped one absentmindedly. The faint smile you wore when you thought no one was looking, how you so easily lost yourself in it, brain going numb — the sight made him hungry in a way he never was growing up as a poor orphan. It made him want to ravish you where you stood. He had been looking. He was always looking at you. And you were blissfully unaware.

Tom had known you would eat what he gave you. Your sweet tooth was abominable. How could something so simple bring you so much joy? You lacked restraint when it came to sugar. He had measured the dosage of Amortentia carefully — enough to turn the tide of your stubbornness, not enough to dull your mind completely. He did not want a puppet. He wanted something that felt real, that sounded real — as real as a love potion can get.

Tom had given you the illusion of choice; in a manner of speaking. And when you still rejected him in the courtyard — just as part of him knew you would — cold fury had flared inside him, bright and violent, beneath his composed exterior. You had dared to believe there was someone better suited to you than him? How dare you find him insufficient? Who could possibly surpass him?

No one.

No one would have you.

He had orchestrated every detail to make you comfortable.

And still, you said no.

How ungrateful you were.

He had even planted the seed with Slughorn weeks before, during a late Slug Club gathering. It was a casual suggestion, an offhand remark about the curriculum timing what with Valentine’s Day approaching. Wouldn’t it be amusing to align love potions with the season? Slughorn had beamed at the brilliance of it, utterly unaware he had been maneuvered.

The pieces had arranged themselves beautifully. As they always did, the stars shone in his name — for he was the universe’s favorite. Everything would work out for Lord Voldemort in the end.

As you clung to him now, pliant, Tom felt no guilt. Only confirmation that you were not like the others — he had been right about that from the beginning. You had defended him when you owed him nothing. You had shown him something dangerously close to loyalty before he had even asked for it.

And loyalty deserved to rewarded.

In all honesty, your trust had always been your flaw. You defended him when you did not know him. You believed in goodness where others would not. You believed in him.

You were too good for your own good.

And goodness, in this world, required protection. He would be that protection. Deep down, even a god like him craved to be seen as a man from time to time. So, you would love him like one. Tom would show you how. And you would never stop.

Tom’s lips crashed onto yours with bruising force, a hand fisting in your damp hair. Deep and claiming, his tongue swept into your mouth like he was starving for the taste of you. Like he’d been starving for weeks, months, years. Like this was his first taste of life and death all at once. You gasped against him, overwhelmed — and Tom took the opportunity by deepening the kiss, your body arching instinctively into his chest, a hand gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

He backed you against the stone walls of the Astronomy tower, thigh nudged between yours, pressure settling exactly where heat pooled most desperately. You whimpered, a broken sound swallowed by another searing kiss.

Tom’s hands were everywhere — rough, impatient, possessive. He shoved your skirt up past your hips without breaking the kiss, wand calloused fingers dragging over bare skin before finding your panties soaked with slick. He growled into your mouth at the feeling. A dark, satisfied sound that made you even wetter.

Tom didn’t let up, your whimpers going straight to his groin. He fed off every breathless sound you made, every tremble that ran through your frame at his touch. When he finally pulled back an inch, his brown eyes burned down at yours, flashing red almost. They were feral.

“So wet,” he rasped against your lips, tone thick with something between disbelief and satisfaction with you. “For me?”

You could only nod frantically as his thumb circled once over swollen flesh like a loving caress one would absentmindedly give an animal, a slow tease, before taking them away. Before you could complain however, without warning, Tom dropped to his knees before you on those cold stone floors drenched by windblown rainwater pooling near your feet and gently pushed up your soaked skirt once more. The second his cold, powerful fingers brushed your inner thigh, you shivered.

Tom looked up at you through dark lashes. Droplets of rain streaked down his pale face. His hands were steady, skillful— too calm for a prodigy that was about to do something so filthy on a magical tower where anyone could find them.

But then again, Tom had never cared about rules when it came to getting what he wanted.

And right now?

He wanted you.

With deliberate slowness, torturous, he hooked one long finger under your soaked panties before he pulled them aside. A cool gust of wind swept over your exposed heat just as his warm breath ghosted across sensitive skin. A soft gasp left your throat at the sensation before your lips parted further in surprise.

Tom had licked once — a long, slow drag straight up your slit — and groaned like it was honey on his tongue, the sound making you clench around nothing. He was starting to understand why you lost control of yourself when it came to sweet things.

All you could focus on was the mouth suddenly sealing over your core like a man possessed. His tongue worked in ruthless circles, relentless and straight to the point, plunging inside before licking back up again with just the right pressure to make your knees buckle.

You cried out, a high pitched and desperate sound as one hand fisted in his hair while the other braced against damp stone wall behind you. You wanted him. You wanted all of him. Anything he’d give you, you’d take in a heartbeat. The wind continued to howl around you, drowning out your noises, rain slashing sideways onto your faces — but neither of you cared.

All that existed was Tom’s mouth devouring you like ripe fruit offered to a god — the wet sounds obscene as he sucked at your clit between sharp nips of his teeth — a low growl vibrating from his chest and against your folds, sending shocks through the sensitive flesh every time another whimper escaped your lips.

Everything about this was borderline animalistic, something you never expected from Tom.

Tom.

Tom.

“Tom, Tom, Tom—!”

Your voice was a broken melody as you worshipped his name like it was the only word left in your world, dazed and drunk from the love potion’s magic. He was the only thought in your head. It confused you how you could love someone so much so suddenly. But you guess that’s what it meant to love someone so great. Each utterance of his name dripped with reverence, laced with the love potion’s haze and raw pleasure as his tongue worked magic between your thighs. And though he despised that name — Tom Marvolo Riddle — hearing it fall from your lips like this? Like you were praying to him?

It undid something in him. Tom reveled in it.

His eyes stayed locked on yours even as he feasted on you, dark pools of hunger and possession flashing with each clap of lightning outside. Rain slicked every inch of his face. His cheeks dusted faintly pink from exertion — but it hadn’t compared to how utterly wrecked you looked above him.

Fingers tightening further at your hip while the other curled under your thigh, lifting it effortlessly so he had a better angle. Tom was relentless. Every lick, every suck — each one was born to ruin you. His tongue dragged up your slick folds with agonizing slowness, the tip playing with your tiny clit just enough to make you whimper before pulling away completely and doing it again. And again; like he had all night.

It was just them, like it was always meant to be — the breeze whooshing around their bodies that were pressed together — and Tom was worshipping at the altar of your cunt like it truly was sacred ground only meant for him.

Tom groaned against you when you ground down harder onto his mouth, hips rocking helplessly as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly. One hand shot out instinctively to brace against his shoulder while the other still clung desperately to his hair — pushing his face deeper without meaning to.

The vibrations of another low growl rumbled through his lips straight into your throbbing bundle of nerves. You were so close, rutting against his pretty face in tandem.

“Tom,” you whined pitifully. Tom knew. He always knew.

He could feel it, from the way your thighs tensed to how your breaths turned into frantic little gasps that dissolved into moans. From the moment you tilted your head back, baring that delicate throat to the sky, breaking eye contact with him although he knew it pained you to do so. Because all you ever wanted to do was look at him now.

Without breaking rhythm, his tongue circled your clit while two fingers suddenly pushed inside you without warning, long and deft, finding that spongy spot deep within instantly, filling you up deliciously.

“Tom— oh! Oh God—”

Tom smirked up at you. Your back arched off the wall while thighs shook around his invading hand. It burned, stretched you too fast — but god it was good, especially when Tom curled them upwards just right. He sucked hard on your puffy little nub and the combination of everything all at once was too much.

A scream tore from your throat, his name ripping out of you in a sob as the orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You didn’t even recognize your own voice.

Your back arched violently off the wall. Your hips jerked against Tom’s mouth and fingers like a delightful seizure as pleasure washed through every nerve ending in your body. You could see it behind closed eyelids — flashes of light, stars bursting across your vision just like he’d promised.

Tom didn’t stop.

He let you ride out your high, feeling every pulse of your pussy as you clenched tightly around his fingers, slurping gently now to prolong it while his digits kept pumping inside you at an achingly slow pace meant to wring every last drop of ecstasy from your trembling body. You let out a shaky breath, hands carding through Tom’s wet strands endearingly, the wet look making him look even more attractive.

From the rain or your juices, you didn’t know. All you could do was gasp for air and whisper his name again between shuddering gasps as Tom kept going until the last tremor had faded from your body, ignoring the strain in his trousers for now.

Only then did he finally pull his fingers free with a wet pop — lifting them to his lips and licking every drop of you clean without breaking eye contact. Your cheeks grew hotter, eyes glassy and dazed as you peered down at him, pupils dilated and practically the shape of hearts. His expression was pure sin, dark eyes heavy lidded and mouth glistening with your slick and cum.

“Delicious.”

You were still slumped against the wall, legs weak and breath ragged, completely wrecked.

But Tom was far from done with you.

In one fluid motion, he stood up — towering over you again before he yanked off his soaked cloak in one impatient tug. The fabric hit the wet floor with a heavy splash as rain dripped down every sculpted inch of him. His thick cock already painfully hard beneath his pants. Your gaze devoured him, tracking his bulge specifically as he begins to unbuckle his belt without breaking eye contact.

You barely had time to acknowledge how your back ended up on the cold stone floor, or how your clothing now lay torn in shreds, exposing your entire body to him — Tom looming over you like a predator about to claim its prize. His eyes looked wild and free. Your heart skipped a beat.

The cold stone bit into your bare skin but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of Tom’s body when he blanketed yours, even when his clothes were soaked and you lay entirely bare in contrast before him. Rain pounded down harsher than before as he positioned himself between your thighs. His cock, his beautiful cock already glistening at the tip from precum, pulled out from between his zipper. It tapped against your soaked entrance before circling it almost teasingly. You don’t remember seeing him taking it out.

One hand gripped your hip tight while the other braced beside your head. Tom’s breath came ragged now too, control fraying at every second spent not inside you.

Tom didn’t give you time to overthink as his hand guided himself between your slick folds already swollen from his earlier attention. His mushroom tip pressed hot and heavy against your hole and you clenched involuntarily, eager to suck him in. It leaked precum onto your sensitive skin. So close. You could feel how big he was, thicker than your wrist, longer than expected — and a pit grew in your gut before it went away like it had never existed.

“Breathe,” he murmured, not unkindly. He must have sensed you were nervous. But, Tom was also impatient as he proceeded to press the tip inside without warning.

As his cock pushed in, stretching you impossibly wide — a groan, deep and guttural, was wrenched from his throat. You were tight. So tight it nearly stole his breath.

“Mmnn—”

You whimpered at the burn. Every inch of him was slowly sheathing itself in your slick heat, gooey walls fluttering around him like a heartbeat. Virgin cunt untouched until now. Until him.

His glorious cock speared into you further like a divine sword until he bottomed out inside you fully. Full. Your lips parted in a silent scream, brows furrowed and eyes fluttered shut. You never felt this good, this full, even though it stung a little in comparison, when you ate chocolate.

You were delirious, lost in your head. On top of you, Tom didn’t move again right away.

Couldn’t.

Just braced above you with trembling arms, your nails digging crescents into his pale skin, drawing a hiss that sounded unnatural for a human to make but it made you clench around him all the same. His forehead pressed to yours as rain dripped from his face onto yours like holy water. His hips twitched involuntarily — a shallow grind that dragged a whimper from your lips.

Then slowly. So. Fucking. Slowly. He pulled back, your head tilting as your eyes rolled back to your skull, toes curling, until just the tip remained before pressing in again.

Thunder and lightning clapped in your ears, splitting the sky in jagged bursts that lit your upturned face for a few seconds. The world above was chaos, black storm clouds swallowing the sky as the heavens raged. Rain hammered down mercilessly, turning the stone floor beneath you into a slick mirror. Your soaked hair splayed across the stone floor like a halo.

You stared up at that upside down horizon with hazy eyes, each thrust from Tom rocking your head back further against wet rock as he rutted into you.

And yet, all you could think about were those stars that you saw behind closed lids whenever pleasure crested too high — the ones only he had shown you.

You smiled dreamily.

Tom was right.

You had seen the stars tonight.

And they were beautiful.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

“You want me to do what?” Michael asked, reading glasses perched on his nose as he read over the proposal for the third time.

“I know this is out of your comfort zone, but this could really work in your favor, Michael.”

He raised an eyebrow at his PR manager as he flicked through the documents, positive that this had to be some kind of joke. He hated PR— absolutely fucking loathed it. Though necessary given his line of work, something like this seemed so… arbitrary.

“You want me to pretend I’m dating this woman?” he waved the document around, a picture of you at a red carpet event paper-clipped to the front. “How old even is she? I thought this was supposed to help my image, not make me look like I’m hitting a midlife crisis.”

His manager winced and Bill laughed, hiding the sound poorly behind a cough.

“I understand your hesitancy, but the people and press absolutely adore her. She’s a lovely woman, just give her a chance. You don’t have to marry the girl, just… look happy. Be happy. You deserve that.”

“I’d prefer the real thing over whatever the hell this is.”

The man shrugged, “you never know. You two might hit it off.”

Michael’s eyes danced back down to the picture of you.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You lit a cigarette, your anxiety pulsing harder than your heart as you sat in the waiting room of a random office building you’d been dropped off at.

This was absolutely insane.

When your manager first brought the idea to you, you thought it was prank.

Fake date Michael Jackson, it’ll boost your record sales.

Not that you were doing poorly, far beyond that.

But you were the next It Girl in the industry. Everyone wanted to be you or be with you but you had garnered a sort of untouchable reputation.

You had trust issues even before your name started to pop up in tabloids and you had completely taken dating off the table.

You just didn’t have the time or headspace for it.

And now here you were because how on earth were you supposed to say no to something like that?

Even if it didn’t end up working out, you were admittedly excited to just meet the man.

Michael fucking Jackson.

You felt like headed as you inhaled another wave of tabacco.

A door then opened, a woman in formal attire smiling warmly at you. “Mr. Jackson is ready for you.”

Christ.

You snubbed the cigarette out into the ashtray and stood on shaking legs, suddenly regretting your decision to wear heels as you followed the woman down a hallway to what you assumed was a conference room.

This was all… very formal. You supposed it was, this was technically a business transaction despite how outlandish it all seemed.

PR relationships weren’t anything new by any means. Celebrities did it all the time for promotions but still, this was Michael Jackson.

Part of you wondered if he even knew who you were, likely so far off his radar of people who actually caught his attention in the industry.

The door opened and you met his eyes immediately, or at least you thought so, given he had aviators perched on his nose as he sat in a chair, lounging in it as if it were a throne.

You faltered for only a moment, not being able to help the starstruck feeling that hit you in the chest.

You sat down across from him, acutely aware of the way he was watching you. His expression skirting along the lines of clinical and your mouth felt painfully dry as you managed a small smile.

He was intimidating. Not in any way that felt threatening, but his presence was a lot.

Like his soul was too big for his body and fighting its way into the room, greedily taking all the oxygen and leaving you a little breathless.

A beat of silence passed and your eyes flicked down to the papers spread out on the table. An array of contracts to amend and sign and you took note of the carafe of orange juice off to his side.

Michael then lowered his sunglasses down his nose, looking at you over the edge of them and they were such a dark brown it felt like you were looking into two pools of ink.

He assessed you, at least that’s what it felt like. His expression flickering faintly, appearing to reach some sort of conclusion as he then set his sunglasses on the table and switching to a pair of reading ones.

It struck you then how attractive he truly was. Something you’d always been aware of, but to be this close to him in person felt surreal.

“I’m Michael.” He said plainly, voice even but it had that gentleness to it that he was known for as he reached a hand across the table.

You nearly laughed at the formality of it but bit your tongue, reaching your own hand across the table and trying not to stumble over your name as his warm skin met yours.

His hand was large, fingers enveloping your own easily.

The next hour was a drone of legal speak. Discussing boundaries and limitations. How many events each of you would attend. A projected end date for this whole endeavor. You tried and failed not to blush when the topic of PDA came up, but it morphed more so into embarrassment as Michael was adamant he barely even wanted to hold your hand.

It was evident he didn’t want to do this and you weren’t entirely sure how you felt about that.

On one hand, yes this was just a business deal. But would it really be that bad? He made it seem like you were a child he was having to babysit.

So you rolled your jaw and echoed an agreement— “I’d rather just hold hands.”

“That’s going to make it hard to sell the whole relationship thing, especially given Michael’s track record of women he’s been with—“

“Meaning?” Michael raised a brow.

Both your managers looked at each other, realizing the poor wording.

Your manager cleared their throat. “It’s just, well, Mr. Jackson, the women you have been public with, you’re known for being a very affectionate man. And you know how the press are, they’re likely going to sniff out insincerity.”

Michael sighed, the sound low and barely carrying across the room as he tapped a rhythm into the table. His eyes slated towards you briefly, and it had to have been a trick of the light because you could’ve sworn he fleetingly looked at your lips.

“Fine,” he muttered, scratching his signature across the page in dark ink. “A kiss every now and then.”

“Don’t sound too thrilled,” you said quietly, the words slipping out without warrant as you signed your own name.

He laughed lightly, the sound caught between an exhale as he shook his head.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It was your first event together, the official debut of your… your relationship.

The word tasted sour on his tongue as he adjusted his cuff links.

“I feel like I’m dropping you off at prom,” Bill said, tone laced with amusement as he looked at Michael through the rear view mirror.

“Way to make me feel old.”

His friend shook his head at that as the car pulled up to a large, albeit ordinary house.

Michael wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting, but he supposed he was used to more lavish properties.

Yours looked… warm. Like a proper home.

It was nice.

Bill then cleared his throat.

“What?”

“What do you mean what? Go knock on that young lady’s door.”

Michael nearly rolled his eyes, in disbelief he was being told to do this at his grown age. “It’s not like I’m actually dating her—“

“Get your ass out of the car and go be a gentleman.”

Michael bit the inside of his cheek and obliged despite the stubbornness that was stirring in his chest. He was a gentleman, something he was rather proud of, but in all honesty he had been expecting Bill to be the one to go get you.

With an annoyed huff he didn’t quite mean, he stepped out of the car and made his way up the steps, eyes trailing along all the different flowers you had in what was clearly a well maintained garden. A loving touch evident in each section and he spotted a bucket next to your front door with gardening gloves draped off the side of it, your initials stitched into the hem.

The image of you gardening was rather endearing but he knew better than to dwell on it.

His eyes turned to your door, staring at the red painted wood for a moment before he bit the bullet and knocked. Suddenly feeling like he was going to prom, even though that had never actually been something he had gotten the opportunity to experience.

He knocked sharply twice before folding his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels as he waited.

Only a few beats passed before he heard the lock turn and the door opened, meeting your slightly surprised gaze— you clearly weren’t expecting him to be to the one to get you either.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It was odd.

That’s the only way you could think to describe it. Your fingers laced with his as you made your way down the red carpet of the charity event you two were attending that night.

Your ears were still ringing a bit, given how loud people had gotten when Michael stepped out of the car— only to double when he reached a hand down to help you out of the car.

It had thankfully been rather easy, letting photos do the talking as his arm gently rested around your waist as you posed for photos. His smile easy and well trained with decades more experience than you.

It felt comical that the main thing your mind kept trailing back to was how good he smelled. His cologne felt grounding as your heart finally began to calm down.

You could do this.

But then the questions came.

“Are you two working on a new song together?” A reporter asked.

“Oh, no we…” Christ, speak.

“We’re together.” You felt Michael tug you a bit closer, making you briefly lose balance and to catch yourself, you rested your hand against his chest.

You almost let a laugh slip at the speechless expression of one reporters face. “Together?”

You hummed, because you didn’t know what else to do and thankfully Michael seemed to get the hint and he moved the two of you down the line.

The next morning, it was all over the news.

Your eyes squinted tiredly at the newspaper as you sipped on a cup of coffee, taking in the large headline— THE KING AND QUEEN OF POP, and just below were an array of photos. Michael helping you out of the car. His arm around your waist. A photo of when he had leaned down to whisper that you were doing a good job.

And then your hand paused as you lifted your mug, eyes finally landing on the photo of where his lips were pressed to your temple as you smiled at the camera.

You ignored the fluttering in your stomach, deciding then and there you were absolutely not about to be that reckless and stupidly fall for him knowing damn well that this entire thing was a ruse. You could find him charming and attractive all you liked, but actually falling for him? You were smarter than that.

The butterflies simply had to be a side effect of loneliness.

You kept telling yourself that as the weeks went on.

Told yourself it didn’t mean a damn thing every time his arm tightened around your waist as he guided you through a crowd. That it was nothing when he’d brush hair out of your eyes when it got messed up by the wind. That he was simply a gentleman when he would help fix your dress, fingers gliding lightly against your skin. When he’d light your cigarette even though it was painfully obvious he hated the fact that you smoked.

Because it meant absolutely nothing.

You hadn’t even kissed yet.

Something neither of your managers were thrilled about given they wanted it to be convincing. But Michael reserved himself to pressing chaste kisses to the side of your head or running his lips along your knuckles. Keeping the press at bay for the time being.

The fake dates you two had were both your favorite and something you also loathed. Because he seemed to hate them and that always, always immediately soured your mood the moment you sat down across from him.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Michael eyed your irritated expression over his glasses as he briefly read the menu of the restaurant Bill had suggested. Not missing the paparazzi who were littered like ants outside, trying to get a decent photo through the windows from across the street.

He wasn’t all that hungry, simply wanting the night to be done with so he could put an end to the charade.

Admittedly, you were easy to be around. Something he was trying not to let himself find comfort in. Maybe it’s because you never asked him for anything. There were no expectations, just contractual agreements and a means to an end. Simple. After each disastrous relationship he’s had, he needed simple.

These fake date nights weren’t entirely opposable at first but every time you two went on one, you seemed absolutely miserable.

He wasn’t used to people acting like they despised his presence, it was usually the opposite.

“You okay?” He eventually asked, finding himself to be a little lost for words which was also entirely new for him.

“Fine,” your tone was clipped as you sipped on your wine.

His eyes flicked down to the bracelet you were wearing— the silver and diamonds glinting in the low light and he faintly traced out the letter M that was engraved into it. A custom Vivienne Westwood piece.

Telling himself for what felt like the hundredth time that he didn’t like the sight of it all that much. Perhaps just a little bit. Trying to not seem too pleased every time someone made a comment about it.

It didn’t mean anything.

Michael pulled his gaze back down to the menu, “you look like you’re trying to shoot my head off my shoulders with your eyes.”

“I’m just looking at you.”

“With an attitude.”

You scoffed. “I do not have an attitude.”

He raised a brow at you, eyes catching on the stain of red wine on your lips. “The way you just said that, says otherwise.”

Your jaw rolled. “Maybe I wouldn’t have an attitude if you didn’t sit there brooding all the goddamn time.”

“I—“ his exhale was caught around a laugh. “I am not brooding.”

“And I don’t have an attitude.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Alright, I’ll bite,” he set down the menu and leaned back in his chair, looking at you pointedly. “What’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem—“

“Honey, you look like you’re about to crawl over this table and slap me.”

You laughed into your wine glass. “Tempting, but this dress is too tight for that.”

“Tempting? Why on earth would you want to slap me if there’s no problem?”

You clicked your tongue, eyes meeting his and your pupils were so blown he nearly forgot what you two were even talking about.

“Am I really that difficult to be around?”

Michael blinked at you. “What?”

“You act like you can’t fucking stand me.”

His brows furrowed as he leaned forward, looking at you like you had two heads. “What on earth gave you that impression?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said with a sarcastic lilt that was coated in a little too much alcohol. “Maybe all the brooding?”

“If I am brooding, it’s because you’re the one acting like you can’t wait to go home and do literally anything else.”

“Yeah, because of you—“

“How is this because of me?”

“More wine?”

Michael turned to the waiter who had approached the table, completely forgetting he was even in a restaurant as his eyes slid back to you. Both of you had leaned in over the table and he had failed to realize how close he’d gotten, just a few more inches and his nose would’ve brushed against yours.

You leaned away first and held up your wine glass, smile tight but polite. “Yes, please.”

The air was definitely different around you from that point on, most of your conversations slipping into arguments that never found an end and would leave Michael frustrated to the point where he was tempted to just… he didn’t know. The thought of grabbing you and kissing you just to shut you up crossed his mind, but he shoved it away.

Shoved it into the dark corner of his mind where he kept all of his improper thoughts of you.

Dreams he had woken up from, telling himself he had most definitely not been grinding into his mattress in his sleep as he dreamt of you. Telling himself he didn’t look at your ass every time you walked by him. That he didn’t think about bending you over his knee every time you got an attitude, which was always, and slapping your ass raw until you cried. Told himself he didn’t love the way you smiled every time a fan told you how much your music meant to them. That he didn’t find dirt under your nails from gardening the most endearing thing in the world.

And Michael told himself he wasn’t about to smack the absolute shit out of his brother as he watched him stand there and shamelessly flirt with you— because Michael wasn’t a jealous man. There wasn’t even anything to be jealous of. You weren’t even his.

Yet his jaw ticked as he watched Marlon make you laugh. A real laugh. Not the pretend one you used during interviews when you tried to act like you were in love with him.

He wanted to hear it again and bottle it away.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your feet padded across your room as the phone rang, the hour late and you were freshly showered, the air cool on your damp skin.

You pressed the phone to your ear, wondering who the hell would be calling at this time.

“Hello—“

“It’s Michael.”

You froze, feeling as if the world momentarily stopped before violently hurtling forward again through space, your mind short circuiting a little.

He had never called you before.

“What do you want?” You winced the moment the words left your mouth, realizing how rude you sounded even though you were genuinely just taken off guard.

There was a brief pause and you half expected him to hang up.

“Are you free?”

You blinked, eyeing yourself in the mirror and looking like a drowned poodle. “Tonight?”

“That was in fact the implication of my question.”

Your eyes narrowed at the empty space in front of you. “You’re not really selling me, who’s to say I don’t have better plans?”

He laughed, “do you?”

“I’m hanging up—“

“Wait.” He rushed, “wait. Sorry, forgive me but I’m used to us arguing all the time and this is me trying to amend that.”

You sat down on the edge of your bed, already eyeing your closet because you knew you were going to say yes. You always said yes to him, even though it annoyed you.

“I’m listening.”

Two hours later you were standing on the front steps of his house. If it could even be called a house.

You adjusted your skirt, telling yourself you definitely didn’t pick it out for him and you definitely didn’t almost cry out of frustration when you couldn’t get your hair to cooperate.

Before you even had the chance to knock on the door, it swung open and you were greeted by the sight of Michael in a simple button up and slacks. Probably the most casual attire he was capable of.

You had no idea what the night held in store for you, no idea what he had planned. And when he guided you through the labyrinth that was his home and your eyes adjusted to the low lighting of the kitchen, your heels came to a sharp halt against the marble flooring.

“What…” your eyes slowly pulled away from the table to him. He looked shy all the sudden, something you weren’t used to seeing on him and it made your stomach do an odd flip. “Michael, what is this?”

He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “A truce, I suppose.”

Spread out on the table was an assortment of your favorite foods. Things you had mentioned in passing and not even directly to him, so the knowledge that he had actually been paying attention to you the entire time made blood pool into your cheeks. There was also a bottle of your favorite wine and in the middle of the table was a vase full of Peace Lilies, Hyacinths, and you nearly laughed at the avant-garde arrangement of Olive branches.

You bit your cheek as you tried not smile. “Subtle.”

Michael tsk-d, “you know I’m incapable of subtlety.”

You hummed, hesitantly stepping further into the room, testing the new waters of whatever this was that he was offering.

Michael followed in after you, watching you carefully, intent to read each change in your expression to make sure you liked it.

“I don’t want to spend all of our time arguing anymore and I’d like to clarify that I don’t hate you.”

“I never said—“

“And I would also like for you to hate me a little less.”

You paused at that, finally looking at him. How nervous he seemed, which was outlandish to you.

“I don’t hate you,” you said quietly.

The way your heart thudded when you were around him meant you probably felt the exact opposite.

He pulled out a chair for you, gesturing for you to sit down and you obliged only after a moments delay.

“I’d like for us to be friends,” Michael said as he sat down next you, uncorking the wine and pouring you a glass.

Friends.

You rolled the word around on your tongue as you debated on whether or not you liked the taste of it.

Friends had a finality to it. A boundary. Limits. Lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Thoughts that shouldn’t be had. Words that should never be spoken and promises that were made to be broken.

You didn’t want to be friends at all.

The realization hit you violently, making your chest tight and head spin with nausea but you swallowed it down with wine and smiled at him.

You could pretend. After all, that’s all you had been doing.

“Friends?” You asked, the word tasted bitter.

Michael nodded, fingers drumming a beat into the table as he looked at you. Appearing to have an internal debate of his own for a minute before he offered up his own smile. Soft at the edges and not quite meeting his eyes, but maybe that was just the lighting.

“Friends.”

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He had to have messed up, because how was this worse?

Somehow, he was more miserable.

The fake public dates for press coverage morphed into quiet evenings where you showed him how to take care of plants or late evenings when he’d show you a favorite movie of his. Being more distracted by your head lolling off to the side and slumping against his shoulder, your eyes heavy as you fought to stay awake and watch. The plot of the film long lost in his mind even though he had probably seen it a hundred times.

When you did eventually doze off, he lost against his better judgment as his fingers would twirl some of your hair around his digits. Trying not to take too much comfort in the weight of you against him and the warmth.

His heart leapt to his throat when he carefully stood up, gently laying you down so you’d be more comfortable. About to step away and grab a blanket when your hand suddenly caught his, muttering a stay before you were back to dreaming.

Michael felt like he couldn’t even fully appreciate these moments with you because there was a ticking in the back of his head. The end date of the contract looming behind his eyes and counting down like the doomsday clock. Worried even though he shouldn’t have been that the moment the day came about on his calendar, you’d disappear out of his life. Gone in a moment like breath on a mirror, because why would you stay? What could he possibly offer?

You were in your golden years and he was just—

Michael shook his head at himself.

He had definitely dug himself into a deeper hole.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Each day you looked at the calendar you felt sick.

Time seeming to pass quicker the one time you wish it didn’t.

But it was tangible. A thing, a creature between the two of you begging to be addressed and growing agitated at being ignored.

You briefly considered scribbling out the date. Maybe ripping the entire month out. Anything to not acknowledge what was approaching.

The shift in energy between the two of you lately had been sweet. The kind that leaves a sticky after taste on the tongue, but you didn’t mind. You cherished them, the small moments you got with him that you knew no one else got.

Your heart swelling in your chest as you watched him kneel down in your garden, dirt staining his expensive boots and pants but not appearing to care as he listened to your instructions.

He was always so careful. In everything he did, there was an art of precision one only had with years of practice. Years of trying to be gentle because he knew he would be rough if otherwise.

You adored him.

Truly you did.

He’d catch you on multiple occasions just watching him. Your eyes intent and open, admiring him just being when his gaze would land on yours and he’d smile. That shyness slipping out and he’d mutter a what? and you always said nothing, before turning away.

The thought of moments like those slipping through your fingers made you panic, a kind of anxiety that made your bones itch and make walls look like their breathing.

When the day arrived, you had completely holed yourself up in your house. Mind spinning and not wanting to deal with it at all, an array of insecurities swirling in your head— because why in the world would Michael actually want to be your friend, your anything, so in a panic you went around the entire house and unplugged every single phone.

If your manager didn’t call you, it didn’t happen.

A completely irrational thought, but knowing the phones wouldn’t ring provided you a little solace.

You even taped over the clocks.

God, you laughed at nothing as you burrowed underneath blankets as a thunderstorm rolled in, you were going insane.

You had no idea how much time passed but you flinched when there was a knock on the door, the sound nearly hidden underneath a boom of thunder.

You wondered if you just didn’t answer, whoever it was would go away. You didn’t want to be perceived. You wanted the entire world to go away because today was not happening.

Another knock followed by the doorbell.

You groaned into your pillow.

More knocking, now sounding urgent.

With a heavy heart, you dragged yourself out of bed, feet making your way through the house and when you opened the door you felt like the lightning streaking across the sky had just struck you.

Because Michael was standing right there. Completely soaked from the rain, dark hair sticking to his forehead and the look on his face.

He looked livid.

“Did you block me?”

You pulled your tongue from the roof of your mouth, still stunned at the sight of him.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to call you.”

You then blushed, embarrassed as the dramatics of your actions started to dawn on you.

“I unplugged all my phones.”

Michael blinked, his lashes heavy and clumped together with water and stars, his eyes were so beautiful.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

Your fingers gripped the handle of your front door, treating it like a lifeline. “I didn’t want to deal with today.”

“So your bright idea was radio silence?”

“Even if I did have them plugged in, I wouldn’t have answered.”

Michael took a step closer, “that’s not—“

“I didn’t want to deal with today, Michael. And you being here isn’t helping, so please leave.” You went to shut the door but his hand came up and easily stopped you.

“Michael.”

“No.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, no?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“But I told you to.”

“And I’m not listening, do keep up.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

You’d hardly realized how close he had gotten, his shoes now scuffing along your own feet and his chest nearly pressed to yours as he looked down at you, your mission to slam the door on his face long forgotten.

“I don’t want to deal with today.”

“You said that.”

“Then why are you here?”

His jaw tightened as he looked at you, eyes flicking between yours and you felt like your heart was rotting out of your chest.

You couldn’t do this.

Not now or ten years down the line. It was torture.

“Listen, I know we said we’d be friends but—“

“I don’t want to be your fucking friend.”

The words left him in a way that nearly sounded painful, his eyes never leaving yours as you stood there and stared at him with your lips parted, whatever you were gonna say dying then and there on your tongue.

Your eyes searched his, how dark they were and the intent behind the ferocity in them.

The moment you looked at his mouth, it was over.

His hands found the sides of your face, fingers sinking into your hair as he pulled you to him and then his mouth was on yours. A lighter thrown into a gasoline soaked fire pit because finally— the snap of months of self restraint engulfed you immediately in flames as your own arms wrapped around him, fingers twisting in his wet clothes and desperate to pull him closer as his tongue slipped past yours and you moaned.

Fucking finally.

The sound that left you seemed to set off some trigger in him because not a moment later Michael dipped down and picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you back into your house. Mouth never leaving yours as he stumbled his way through the front entry and into the living room. Lowering you onto the couch but following suit, hips settled against yours and grinding.

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Your next public appearance together, the contrast was frankly jarring.

Michael couldn’t keep his eyes or hands off of you.

His arm tighter around your waist, hand sitting lower on your hip and nearly possessive anytime you started to lean away from him.

And good lord, he was practically eye fucking you the entire night, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he watched you talk.

Even the reporter looked embarrassed as if they were interrupting something.

“Michael, stop it.” You muttered, not meaning it all as he kissed you, one of his hands resting against the side of your throat, not giving a damn that you were in public.

He didn’t care at all as you two walked into the venue and his hand lightly slapped your ass as you walked through the door first. Smiling to himself as you blushed, his eyes catching on the M bracelet you now never took off.

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michael jackson masterlist

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The warehouse smelled like rust and sulfur. Dean's head rang as he slammed into a concrete wall, his knife sliding somewhere across the floor too far to reach. "Dean" Sam shouted from his spot on the ground– too hurt to move, too worried not to say anything.

A demon's hand closed around the eldest Winchester's throat before he could recover from the crash, black ink swirled inside its eyes as he grinned. "No guardian angel this time" The hunter’s chest tightened because he was right– Cas hadn't answered a single prayer in the last three days. He was probably stuck dealing with another shitload of drama God knows where. The demon squeezed hard enough that dark spots flooded Dean's vision.

Then warmth flooded the room– not heat, not power. Warmth, the kind that wraps around like the sun on your face in a mid-july night. Like a blanket waiting for you after a long winter day… The demon froze in its tracks, the pressure around the blonde’s throat vanished and he collapsed to his knees, coughing. "Dean?" Soft hands settled on his shoulders, he looked up– you. Standing in front of him, your brows furrowed with concern, hair slightly messed up, there was blood on your sleeve. "Are you hurt?" You asked quietly.

Dean stared, the demon behind you looked terrified. "Sweetheart…" He croaked, throat still raspy from the previous choking. "Little busy admiring the miracle right now"

You blinked, suddenly remembering the threat still very much present right behind y’all. "Oh" The demon lunged– without even standing up, you looked back over your shoulder, lifting a hand. White light spread across the warehouse, bright and sharp. The scream lasted less than a second before there was nothing left. Silence settled over the room and your attention immediately shifted back to the man in front of you. "You're bleeding"

Dean looked down– his shirt was soaked with blood from a nasty gash across his side, already mixing up with the dirt and grime that covered his clothes. "Huh"

"Huh?" You repeated, head tilting with confused disbelief. If there was one thing angels had in common, apparently it was that puppy-like head tilt whenever y’all were trying to understand something.

"Yeah, that's usually my reaction"

Sam walked over, limping slightly. "Good to see you too" He said, letting out a tired, soft chuckle at your overbearing worry for his older brother.

You smiled brightly– the kind of smile that always made Dean's stomach do stupid things. "I'm sorry I was late" The Winchesters exchanged a look. ‘Late’. You had arrived in time to vaporize a demon and quite literally save both their lives and somehow you were still apologizing.

Back at the motel, Dean sat shirtless on one of the beds while you patched him up. (Sam had conveniently disappeared to get food) Though the blonde suspected his brother knew exactly what he was doing. The traitor. You sat beside him with a first-aid kit in your lap, sure you could heal him with a snap of your fingers but for some reason the hunter insisted on doing it the old fashioned way. Despite his stubbornness, your fingers still glowed faintly as they hovered over the wound– not quite healing him, but easing his pain.

Dean sighed half in relief and half in amusement. "That's cheating"

You glanced up from what you were doing, soft eyes meeting his sharp green ones. "What is?"

He huffs, gesturing vaguely at your hands. "The whole… being an angel thing"

A small laugh escaped you– Dean loved making you laugh. The sound was rare, not because you weren't happy, but because you always seemed surprised that anything could be funny– like every joke was a wonderful gift you got to experience. "You should still rest" You hum softly.

"Y’sound like Sammy"

"That's not necessarily a bad thing"

Dean gasped dramatically, ever the extra man he was. "Since when are you on his side?"

You rolled your eyes and he nearly melted– he'd known you for almost two years. Two years of hunts, two years of movie nights, two years of watching you quietly help strangers whenever you thought no one else was looking. For God’s sake you carried injured animals off roads, you left money for struggling waitresses, you remembered every birthday, every favorite snack, every tiny detail. And somehow you still didn't understand why Dean stared at you like an awestruck idiot. "Why are you looking at me like that?" You asked.

Speak of the angel. The hunter smirked to himself, softer than his usual teasing, smug smiles he always carries. "Busted"

You frowned, head tilting once more. "I don't know what that means"

"Means you caught me"

"Oh"

You returned your attention to his bandages and Dean couldn't stop smiling. Cute– ridiculously cute, dangerously cute actually. "Y’know– " He said, " –most people at least buy me dinner before they start taking my clothes off"

Your hands froze– Dean regretted nothing. A blush spread across your cheeks, an actual blush. From an angel. Dean Winchester had just made a literal angel of the Lord blush. "I—"

"You walked right into that one, sweetheart" He hummed proudly.

The next hunt should have been simple. Should have– which meant it absolutely wasn't. Dean was halfway through investigating an abandoned church when everything went sideways. (Why do these two idiotic brothers always split up in the worst possible situations?) The sigils on the floor activated, power surged through the room and suddenly he couldn't move.

"Dean" You appeared beside him instantly, having sensed his distress from miles away and quickly running to him.

The witch responsible smiled, stepping into the church. "Perfect" Dean's stomach dropped (God he fucking hated witches) the trap wasn't for him– it was for you. Chains carved with glowing enochian letters shot from the floor and wrapped around your wrists. You cried out at the grip, the metal squeezing your skin–  the sound hit Dean like a knife to the chest. Never in all the time he’s known you had he ever heard you scream like that.

The woman laughed, dismissive and sharp. "You angels are so easy… Always rushing to save somebody, loyal little puppies you are"

Dean fought against the paralysis spell but nothing happened, his feet still firmly glued to the ground.. You struggled against the chains, the usual glow of your skin flickering down. "Hey" The hunter shouted in a desperate attempt to shift the witch’s attention from you onto him– ever the savior complex.

The witch ignored him, your knees hit the floor– fear twisted ugly inside Dean's chest. Not for himself (never for himself) for you. Because despite all the power angels had– you never fought like angels were supposed to. You didn't enjoy violence, didn't enjoy hurting people. You always held back. Always chose mercy. "Please" You said softly, trying to get her to reason and not force yourself into killing.

She just sneered. "No, dear. I don’t think I will stop just yet– I have big plans for your human pet" The witch’s steps echoed inside the abandoned building as she approached y’all. Dean saw the exact moment something changed– you looked at him, really looked at him. At the blood on his clothes, at the tension in his frame, at the panic in his eyes… Your whole demeanor flipped, your usual softness sharpening into protectiveness. Not angry, determined. The room shook, enough to make the witch's smile disappear, confusion flooding her face. Dean had only seen your true grace a handful of times– each occasion had been utterly unforgettable. Golden light burst from beneath your skin, the shadows of your wings stretching across the room behind you, the chains that held you shattered and fell, every window exploded in shards of glass, the building’s foundation groaned… The hunter could feel power vibrating through the air– ancient, terrifying, beautiful. For one breathless second, you looked like every single story humanity had ever told about angels.

Then it was over– the witch was on the ground, the light vanished and you swayed on your feet. Dean lunged forward just in time to catch you, your body felt frighteningly cold in his grasp. "Hey, hey, hey" His hand carefully taps your cheek to try and keep you awake.

You blinked slowly. "Dean?"

"Yeah, sweetheart m’ right here" You looked exhausted, drained of your usual light. "Gave quite the show"

A weak smile tugged at your lips. God, you were half out of it and still you managed to smile at him. "Sorry"

"Stop apologizing for saving my life"

By the time he drove y’all back to the motel– you were barely staying awake, your head resting against the Impala’s window and eyes fluttering open and closed every couple seconds. Using that much grace had drained everything out of you. The moment y’all stepped into the room, Dean sat beside you on the bed while Sam grabbed supplies. (What could they even use to heal a burned out angel?) Your head rested against his shoulder– for once, you weren't arguing or stubbornly insisting you were fine. You just looked tired and he hated it.

"You scared me" The words slipped out before he could stop them, soft in a way that was rare in a man like him, let alone in a Winchester.

You lifted your head, looking up at him. "What?"

"Scared me" He repeats, shifting to get a better look at your face from where it rested against his shoulder.

Your expression softened. "Oh"

"Yeah, oh" His hand gently reaches up to brush the side of your head, gently caressing your messed up hair.

Silence stretched between you. "You scare me too sometimes"

Dean laughed, a breathy, deep rumble from his chest. "What?"

"When you're reckless"

"Excuse me?" He scoffs, feigning offense despite the fond smile tugging at his lips.

"You jump in front of monsters"

"Occupational hazard"

"You pick fights with things much stronger than you" The hunter opened his mouth– closed it, opened it again. Okay, you had a point. Fair enough. "I worry about you"

The confession was so quiet he almost missed it, his chest tightened at the honesty behind your words. "You worry about me?"

"A lot"

Dean smiled. "Y’know, most people would call that caring"

Looking down at your hands, you murmured softly. "I know"

Something shifted– small, fragile, important.

The blonde reached over and wrapped his arm around you, pulling you even closer into his side as if you weren’t quite literally glued into him. "Good"

You looked back up at him and Dean forgot how breathing worked. (Again) Apparently it was becoming a recurring issue whenever he was around you. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Your voice was barely above a whisper, genuine and soft. "Why do you always flirt with me?" It wasn’t supposed to be awkward or pressing him– you just didn’t know any better, social cues weren’t exactly an angel of the Lord’s forte per se.

Dean nearly choked– across the room, Sam immediately looked up from what he was doing, quickly extracting himself from the situation. "Nope"

"Sam–"

"Leaving"

"Sam"

"Good luck" The door slammed shut behind him. That traitor.

The blonde rubbed a hand over his face, stubble scratching against his skin. "You really wanna do this now?"

"Did I ask something wrong?"

He lets out a breath, soft chuckle/breath, nervous and fond all at once. "No, sweetheart, ‘course not" You waited patiently for him to continue talking. Dean hated how impossible it was to lie when you looked at him like that– because you actually wanted the answer. Not a joke, not an excuse, but the actual truth. So he gave it to you. "S’cause I like you" He decided to power through before he could chicken out. "Actually, scratch that. I really like you– like hopelessly in love, chick-flick kind of feelings"

You stared, eyes wide with awe and confusion, lips softly parted in a quiet breath. Then: "Oh"

Dean groaned. "That's not exactly the reaction a guy hopes for after opening up like this, sweetheart" There he goes, leaning back into humor and jokes as a defense mechanism– very on brand for him.

"No, I–" You looked flustered, he could (and will) treasure the sight forever. "I just didn't know"

"Sweetheart, I've been flirting with you for two years"

"I thought you were being nice…"

Dean covered his face with his free hand, barely hiding the embarrassed smile on his stupidly handsome face. "Un-fucking-believable"

A laugh escaped you– a real one, bright and warm. "But you were nice"

"I was trying to date you" He huffs softly, glancing down at your face, still gently pressed against his shoulder.

"Oh"

"There it is again"

The laugh grew louder. Dean thought he could listen to it forever, God that sound was better than any Zeppelin song to ever exist. Then your fingers found his hand and the room suddenly felt very quiet, smaller in that comforting, private kind of way. "I like you too"

The hunter froze– sure, he’d just confessed to you. But it was a helluva lot different when you did it to him. "You do?"

"Very much"

A grin spread across his face. "Y’know, that would've been useful information"

"I didn't know humans said those things out loud to eachother…” Dean laughed so hard his side hurt– worth it. Absolutely worth it.

The drive home to the bunker was peaceful. For once? There were no monsters, no emergencies, no world-ending disasters… There was just the Impala rolling down a dark road beneath a sky full of stars, Sam asleep in the backseat, Dean sat behind the wheel and you curled next to him– your head resting on his shoulder, the radio playing softly in the background. Dean had one hand on the wheel, the other intertwined with yours. A comfortable silence filled the car– your voice cuts through it in a quiet murmur. "Humans write songs about this"

The hunter glanced down at you. "What’s that?"

"This feeling"

His smile softened, something warm and amused flicking over his expression. "Yeah"

"I understand why now" The admission was so sincere it nearly broke him. The big bad Dean Winchester, on his knees for a soft spoken angel. You looked back up at him– sleepy, safe, happy.

Dean leaned over at a red light and pressed a kiss to your forehead and your smile appeared instantly. There it was– the thing he'd spent years falling in love with. Not your grace, not your power, not the fact that you could destroy demons with a thought. Just you– gentle-hearted, kind, good. The light turned green and Dean started driving again– for the first time in a long time, everything felt right. The road stretched endlessly ahead, the stars shined above them… And the angel who kept saving his ass was asleep beside him.