dont you want to be just like us?

Maybe could have made a better impression with that one. But you were a young woman living alone in a country where the only person you knew was at the American embassy in Edinburgh, 300 miles away. A stranger knocking on your door was bound to raise some suspicion.

On the other hand, it was nice to know a man that could repair things.

He asked very little questions as he took the large shattered mirror off of the wall for you. Repeating in your head the whole time the words “okay fine mom, you were right. But for the record I could have done it myself!”

You come to find out that the kind older man’s name is Charlie, and while you were perturbed by his presence at first, he has come to be one of your favorite neighbors. (The word neighbor is used lightly. They live a 6 minutes drive away.)

His wife is lovely as well, only having met her in passing however. He says she doesn’t like going to others’ houses, and in a way, that’s wholly understandable.

You now sit at the new wooden coffee table — that you managed to order online and build yourself (take that mom) — eating reheated pasta that you made the other night.

The sun had set long ago and you begrudgingly decided that some work needed to get done. Your solve rate was… admittedly not the highest since you had moved (your latest rating from your manager just said the word abysmal written across the top. It was not looking good). And you really doubted that you could find another remote forensic investigator job that would supply you with a visa in a short amount of time.

So work you must.

Pulling up a recent case file, you open the crime scene photos to start from the very beginning. There’s a nude woman laying on the large bed, her hands are covered in something green and her body is littered in defensive marks. Bruises, gashes, stab wounds, etc. But the biggest wound on the woman is the words carved into her chest. It reads “a debt is paid.”

The photo makes your stomach hurt.

The next photos are of the room surrounding the woman. It’s pristine. “No blood pooling under the body, implies victim was positioned post mortem,” you write in your notes.

Clicking on the description of the victim, the case files read “Genevieve Smith. 25. Female. Mexican-American. Apparent homicide.”

That’s it? That’s all they’ve got?

You freeze at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Hello?” you question at the sound, sure you didn’t have any guests. But nothing ever rounds the corner.

Assuming it was just the house settling, you continue with your work. Pulling up Instagram and typing in the victim’s name into the search bar. A couple of accounts come up but it’s not long until you’re staring at the social life of the victim.

The last picture is of her and her wife on their honeymoon 6 months ago.

“Talk to wife” you write down for the investigator.

You pull your cardigan closer around your shoulders at the sudden chill of the room and continue your sleuthing. The woman worked as a relationship therapist.

“Request redacted client notes.”

Nine months ago she posted a photo at a family reunion, she’s holding a swaddled baby. The caption reads “hopefully soon for me, but before the title of mama, I’m happy to be an auntie.”

“Check local fertility clinics. Victim appears to be seeking fertility treatments in order to conceive. Talk to family and friends to determine a motive.”

When you look at the clock you see that it’s ticking closer and closer to two. You had told yourself that you would be going to bed by 10 tonight. You sigh and run your hands over your face, the rough skin of your palms feels scratchy against your cheeks.

“Lotion” you write on a separate page. A grocery list, you decide.

Pulling out your phone, the cool metal blinks the battery symbol at you.

“Of fucking course.” You pull up messages on your computer instead, typing in your best friend’s number and hitting record on the voice memo button.

“Hey babe. I know it’s dinner time there but I wanted to let you know that I’m alright. It’s been a few days since we’ve talked and I just wanted to let you know that I’m livin’ la vida loca.” You pause, taking a deep breath before continuing. “How are you doing? How are the kids? Tell Diana that her favorite auntie misses her! How did your doctor’s appointment go today? Anything juicy? I love you, and that’s all. I just wanted to check in real quick.” You hit the stop button, and then send without listening to it.

The read receipt is immediate.

“Hey love! I’m glad you’re okay, you know I worry for you when you’re alone up there. Speaking offffff… wanna tell me who the man you’ve got there is?

And the kids are fine. Diana’s an angel, finally sleeping through the night. Damian just lost his first tooth. He keeps asking if auntie is gonna be there for Di’s birthday.”

You smile at your computer at the reminder of your godchildren. Texting her back, you quickly type:

“Girl what man would I have over? Charlie? James? I’m pretty sure everyone in this town is married and over the age of 40.

I’m gonna try to make it out for Diana’s birthday! I don’t want to miss my girl turning one!

And tell Damian that his favorite auntie is very happy he’s thinking about her.”

The FaceTime call is immediate. You answer on the second ring.

“Hello?” you start, more than a little confused as to why she was calling, but happy to talk to her regardless.

“Just wanted to see who was worth lying about,” she jokes. She’s folding laundry while she talks. The sounds of her house bringing an odd comfort.

“Girl who do you think I am? You think I pull bitches? I’m home alone. I’m sitting at my kitchen table doing work.” Picking up the laptop and turning it around so she can see that you are indeed alone.

“Girl I swear to God… also plug in your phone. I got the Life360 notif like two hours ago that it was about to die. I’d appreciate being able to contact you since you insist on living across the world.” She scolds you in only the way a mother could. “Go listen to the voice memo you sent me. There is very distinctly a man talking to you. I don’t know why you think you can lie to me. You know I know things.”

You laugh but are set on edge a little bit. You hadn’t told her about the mirror incident yet, and weren’t sure if now was the time to do so. Maybe she was just mishearing. Renavigating out of the main call screen and back to her messages, you hit play. Your voice comes through the speakers slightly muffled from the sounds of your best friend folding laundry in the background.

“Hey babe. I know it’s dinner time there but I wanted to let you know that I’m alright. It’s been a few days since we’ve talked and I just wanted to let you know that I’m livin’ la vida loca.” You take a breath, you remember the silence throughout the house when you recorded this. The footsteps, house settling earlier, and your typing being the only sounds in the house over the past few hours.

“Come to bed, my love. It’s late,” a man says and you nearly jump out of your skin. He sounds so close. Like he’s speaking directly next to you. You swivel your entire body around to look at the wall behind you, but nothing is there. No man has been in this house since Charlie left.

The voice memo continues without problem but you’re too busy attempting to reason with yourself. There had to have been a technical malfunction or something. Yes, that’s what it had to be. A technical malfunction.

You switch back to the call tab and tell your friend, “No. I’m alone. I heard him, but I’m alone. I’ve been alone since my neighbor left earlier today. I don’t know what that is. It’s weird.” You say, attempting to hide the tremor in your voice.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she says. “Who was that?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Breathing is suddenly impossible as you gasp for air. “But uhm. I think I need to tell you about this thing that happened the other night. So I regrouted the master bathroom the other day.”

She laughs. “Yeah because that’s a secret. You’re always doing something.”

“No listen dude. So I couldn’t take a bath in that bathroom and I don’t have a shower installed yet, so I went into the other bathroom. The one that feels weird. And I was—can anyone else hear me?” you interrupt yourself to ask and when she shakes her head you continue. “ I’ve been having these really vivid wet dreams about this guy that I’ve never met? I don’t know. It’s the best dream sex I’ve ever had though. I would say I’m kidding, but I’m not. Some of the dreams are weird but I think that might be from looking at crime scene photos too late at night. Anyways so I’m taking a bath and out of nowhere my phone flies across the room and the mirror of the vanity just shattered. Charlie had to come help me tear the whole thing off of the wall today and I’m not even kidding, we could not get this mirror off in a piece larger than like 4 inches at a time. This mirror reaches from the counter to the ceiling. It’s not a small mirror. I have no idea what made it shatter like that.”

“Girl” is the only thing she says.

The hopelessness really was drowning you. Why was this happening to you of all people? You don’t believe in this shit. And now you’re, what? Being haunted? No. There had to be another explanation. You don’t believe like your best friend does. Like your mother did. But you can’t explain away the fear.

“Hey, I’m gonna go to bed actually. Can you call me when you wake up? The time difference is getting to me and I think I need to sleep on this before I start believing whatever you’re about to pitch to me.”

She looks disappointed when she says, “Baby, I love you. Please don’t hurt yourself with this. If going to bed is what you need then I understand, but please don’t brush this off. If this…” she hesitates, “thing, is violent, then you can’t just ignore that.”

“Can we talk about this when it’s light outside, please?” you interject. The feeling of being watched intensifying as you walk the narrow steps to the second floor with the computer in tow. Your bedroom is lit up, trying to not think about if you were the one to turn on the light or not, you get into your pajamas and climb into bed with her still on the phone. Playfully kissing your hand and pressing it to the camera, you hang up. Closing your laptop and plugging in your phone, setting it on your nightstand.

You pull out The Portrait of Dorian Grey. and make it through about three pages before you’re falling asleep.

He came to you again tonight.

You’re cooking in the dream, though you’re not sure if it’s a dream after all. It’s so vivid. The dust particles are alive in the bands of light that stream into the kitchen window. The sounds of children and dogs playing in the yard. It was breathtaking.

And when you turn around it’s made better. The man from your dreams sits on the kitchen island with a baby swaddled in his arms. He looks up at you and smiles.

“Is this what you wanted? I saw you looking at that woman’s photos earlier. You looked sad at first. But when you saw the kids… happy. And when you were talking to your friend I could hear her children in the background.” he says. His smooth British accent fluttering something in your heart.

“I’m sorry I cannot give you this” he says, and you feel your face fall. He had already given you everything. Your reoccurring dream husband. Boyfriend? You weren’t sure honestly, but the term husband seemed more fitting. He looked like a husband.

You reach for him, the skin of his arms warm when you caress his forearm under the baby. “What do you mean? Look at what you’ve already given me. How could I ask for more?” You grab the baby from him so he can hop off of the counter. Looking down from the man and at the baby, you’re immediately stunned. The baby looked just like him. The prettiest little boy ever. Your finger moves to gently caress the child’s face.

“What is his name?” you quietly ask the man, who is now standing behind you, his chin on your shoulder as he watches the baby as well.

“Whatever you want. He’s yours. This is all yours. Whatever I can give you.” His arms wrap around your waist from behind, his left palm coming to rest protectively against your lower stomach. It takes you tearing your eyes away from the little boy to realize that he’s stroking small circles against what you now see is a baby bump.

“He’s mine?” you ask quietly, turning your head to look at the man.

“Ours,” he corrects.

The feeling is indescribable, to be loved like this.

“What’s your name?” you dare to ask quietly.

He looks a little sad as he says, “Lorenzo. Lorenzo Berkshire. I wish I had told you this upon our first meeting. I apologize.”

“There’s no need to apologize. It’s nice to know who I’m dreaming about. It’s nice to meet you, Lorenzo.” You lean deeper into his chest, the baby snuggled in your arms fusses a little bit, and you shush the little being. He slowly opens his eyes and your breath catches in your throat.

He has your eyes.

Waking up alone the next morning had you silently crying in your bed, as you tried your hardest to fall back into the dream.

There’s a new cafe in town. Well… “town” is used loosely, but regardless, there’s a new cafe twenty five minutes from home. (You’ve taken to calling it home. For all its intricacies and terror, it’s all you have. And putting any spare moment into any reno you can has, in a weird way… bonded you to the house. Seeing where it came from vs where it is now? You could see yourself here relatively long term. So… “home” it is.) The cafe was bought off artists from Edinburgh and resold at a higher price to “maximize profits” for a corporate conglomerate. Unethical, but you couldn’t deny that they could make the fuck out of a latte.

You were out looking for a new bookshelf for your living room. Having recently commissioned a nearby carpenter, you had a bench built to fit inside the bay window. You were planning on turning it into a place where you could drink your coffee every morning while reading. Reading required books. Books required a bookshelf. So here you are, looking for a shelf to store the books.

After venturing into the coffee shop, ordering a medium iced vanilla latte and a warmed slice of lemon poundcake, then struggling to find a place to sit amongst the other patrons, you squeeze into a small table in the corner. Opening your computer that you brought for the sake of doomscrolling Facebook Marketplace, and putting your off brand AirPods in to listen to a podcast.

A horror podcast is automatically queued and the irony is not lost on you as you hit play anyways. Whatever these podcasters are going to say cannot be worse than what is already happening to you at home, you suppose. Though it does strike you as odd that a podcast you’ve never listened to is what Spotify chose to play today.

The podcasters begin talking in your ears. Conversing as if they’ve been comfortable in front of a mic for their entire lives. The first story is a ghost story, some American haunted house that tourists claim is far more haunted than it probably is. The Sally House, they call it. A demon apparently haunts it.

You continue scrolling Facebook Marketplace as the podcasters continue to talk. The scary story really isn’t that scary, and their banter has you laughing against your will. Probably looking like a maniac in the corner of this cafe.

You send a message to someone with a bookshelf that looks kinda like something you want. Not perfect.

The podcast switches to its second topic. A true crime segment. The American podcasters laugh as the woman says, “Okay guys I’m sorry if I butcher this. English isn’t my first language.” The other podcaster chuckles as the first continues, “This is in Scotland. And the village is called… Gairloch? I’m sorry if I’m mispronouncing that. I’m sure you’ll tweet me about it later if I did.”

You freeze, hearing the name of the town you’re in. Your head shoots up, scanning the room. Someone has to be fucking with you, you decide.

“They call it the mercy killings of Scotland.” the woman says, her tone suddenly serious as she continues. “Our story begins in the early 1940s. The war had just started raging throughout Europe, and Great Britain had put in place a draft. Drafting men ages 18–41 into World War Two boot camps across Europe. Nine young men in this town of only 130 would later mysteriously die before they could be taken to France.”

The podcasters converse a little, bantering with inside jokes about theories and motives.

The woman continues, “So anyways. Listen, I’m not saying they were murdered. But I don’t believe the draft dodger story. Nine 18–22 year old men have never agreed to do one thing simultaneously in their lives.” She laughs. “Iiii… think it was murderrrrr,” she says in a singsong voice. You switch tabs, quickly typing “Scotland mercy killings” into Google. Scrolling past the AI result because you refuse to allow your brain to dissolve, you see the first article. It’s titled “What really happened to the 9 Scottish boys that died in the small town of Gairloch in October of 1940.”

You click on the sketchy website. Beyond the pop ups and the ads, there’s a story. You continue listening to the podcasters speak.

“Okay, so listen, I want to try to be as sensitive as I can when I’m covering this because I’m aware that it is a mass casualty. But I don’t think anyone from this story is still alive so bear with me. So these nine young men all from the ages of 18 to 22, are drafted into World War Two. They’re ready to go fight, there are journals and letters from a few of the boys detailing their reluctance but acceptance of being deployed to Nazi occupied France. They have enlisted, they are ready. And then the day they’re meant to leave, none of the boys in town get on the bus to Edinburgh.” The podcaster breaks to sip from her glass of wine.

“Sorry. Wine break!” she exclaims before clearing her throat and continuing, “So none of these boys show to the enlistment bootcamp thing. The military sends a notice to the town, and the mayor later finds all nine of them have died of arsenic poisoning.”

The other podcaster — who you’ve come to learn through their banter and commentary, is nonbinary — gasps and the woman responds, “I know right! So—”

A man taps you on the shoulder and you nearly jump out of your skin. He apologizes but the damage is done, you’ve spilt your entire latte into your lap. Telling him it’s not a problem when he begins apologizing profusely.

He doesn’t help you clean up and then doesn’t look away when you catch him staring down your shirt as he asks your name.

You have been a forensic investigator for only 6 months. But you know better than to give your name to strangers in a cafe.

“Genevieve Smith,” you say, lying. Sending a quick mental “sorry” to the victim of the case you’re working on.

“Well Jenny. It’s lovely to meet you. I was just here with a few of my mates and we were speaking about how we haven’t seen you around before. It’s a pretty small town and everyone knows everyone, so I was just coming over to introduce myself. And I— well I was wondering if you’d like to go out for a pint sometime?”

Would it be rude of you to say ew to this man’s face?

“Oh I’m sorry, I don’t drink.” You settle for. Standing and attempting to gather your things.

“Alright, then dinner!” He beams. God this man was not taking the hint.

“Okay. Sure. But uhm, my phone is dead right now so can I give you my email address instead? Would that be alright?” You rush out. He stands there looking stupid, not helping in the slightest while you’re obviously struggling with all of your things. Yeah there’s no way in hell you were giving this dude your phone number or real email address.

You make it out of the cafe in one piece, your dress only partially covered in coffee. Getting in your car you decide to just go home. Between the spilled coffee and the fact that you had been looking for this damned bookshelf all day, to no avail, it was turning out to be a medium shitty day. Buckling your seatbelt, starting the engine and immediately turning onto the street that you came from. Apple Play connects and you hit rewind a few times when you reach a stoplight.

Picking up from where they left off, the nonbinary podcaster says, “Arsenic? And they thought this was a mass suicide? Yeah that’s like men. I thought there was that thing that like… men commit grizzlier suicides. Arsenic seems like a tame way to go.”

You take a deep breath, knowing what arsenic does to the human body.

“… I see what you mean, but it’s important to me that you know that arsenic is so much more painful than I think you think it is.” The woman telling the story says, “A few of the boys documented the early symptoms in letters and journals. Here, listen to this.” The sound of her pulling the written notes from her bag echoes through the car. “A boy named… Seumas? — again I’m sorry if I’m mispronouncing that — wrote the day before he died, that he was quote ‘in insurmountable pain, the stomach cramps enough to render any man completely immobile. My soul feels like it’s trapped in a birdcage of a body. Longing to be free from this torment.’ And he was reportedly hospitalized a week prior with similar symptoms but they dismissed it as an attempt at draft dodging!”

“Ow.” You think aloud, driving along as they continue reflecting on the story that she is telling.

“Another boy, named Eachann… — you know what, German is my first language, sorry if I’m fucking all of this up. I should have chosen a story with names easier for me to pronounce, but it’s too late for that — he reportedly came home from his friend’s house and told his mother that he was worried for his friend. Some… Lorenzo?” The name has your brain slamming to a halt. “And by the next night both men were dead.” She audibly takes another sip of her wine. The sound of the glass clinking against the mic, ringing throughout your car.

The nonbinary podcaster laughs a little. “Christine. Lorenzo? Seriously? All of these old timey Scottish names, and a Lorenzo?” They gasp. “Oh my God wait was he Italian? Were they going to put him into an Allied war against the Axis powers, WHEN HE WAS ITALIAN!?”

“Oh my God Em no calm down,” the woman — Christine — laughs. “I don’t have many notes on him. I don’t think he was Italian, I think that was just his name. I don’t want to speculate. All that I have on him is that he was very popular in town. A ‘sweetheart,’ noted one of the boys’ mothers. And apparently a total bachelor. To the people watching this on YouTube, I got a picture. Spotify listeners I’m sorry.”

Em gasps. “Wow. No because if I was into men—” they let the sentence hang and you and the podcasters laugh at the joke. “I’m sorry for making fun of his name now. Damn.”

“He looks like he whimpers.”

“CHRISTINE THAT’S FOUL.”

“Whattttt he’s dead!!!”

Their banter has you giggling aloud and absolutely making a mental note to look this up on YouTube so you can be sure you’re not insane for connecting the dots. As you turn onto the main road that leads to your house, the long road stretches ahead of you and you hope absently that the UV rays aren’t too high today. You were hoping to get some gardening done.

A man standing in the trees on the side of the pavement pulls you out of your own world, turning your head to look at him as you drive past.

Your head turns back to the road and you’re met with a deer staring at you from 10 feet away.

The squealing of the tires is deafening as you attempt to slam on the brakes and swerve your car all at once. You scream when you feel gravity tilt on itself. Rolling with the car as you land in a ditch.

The ground is moist above you, and when you stick your hands up to steady yourself against the roof, the glass from the windshield shattering digs into your palms.

The pain in your hands is disregarded as you try to move them to feel around. Your hands are met with warmth. The wet fur scraping across your bloody palms. Peeling your eyes open against the pain in your head, you’re immediately hit with overwhelming nausea.

The deer’s decapitated head sticks into the windshield, inches from your face.

The metal groans when you attempt to flail backwards. Terror radiates from you, and you can’t scream. No matter how hard you try, the air won’t come out of your lungs.

You attempt to press the emergency button on the ceiling of your car, but your hands are weak, giving out as you slam your palm repeatedly against the buttons.

A man’s voice carries throughout the car. “You’ve reached 999, what is your emergency?”

“I’ve uhm. I’ve hit a deer,” you say between gasps, “and I can’t get out of my car.”

“Okay ma’am, slow down. You’ve got to breathe. Can you do this for me?” You can hear him typing in the background.

“Y-yeah. I’m trying. Sorry. The deer is in my car with me and I can’t move.” You think you’re beginning to hyperventilate.

That fateful night replayed in your head, more bitter than any bottle of alcohol. You had just gone off to use the loo when you realized you had left your purse, and was about to retrieve it until you overheard their conversation.

“Can’t believe you actually pulled it off,” Cormac’s friend slapped him on the back, handing him another bottle of beer.

“Dating the most unavailable girl in our year,” his other friend chimed in. “Well, a bet’s a bet,” he continued, as he reached for his Galleons.

“I told you I could do it,” Cormac smiled smugly. That charming smile that once unleashed butterflies in your stomach, now looked wrong. It made you want to hurl your insides. He held his hand out and proudly closed his fist around the gold coins. 

Everyone laughed good naturedly, toasting beers with Cormac, as if it was just a silly little prank. It seemed like everyone was in on the joke, except for you. You stormed in, grabbed your purse and splashed a cocktail on his face.

The only thing you could do to save your last shred of your dignity was walk away. The past week had been a blur of tears, sleepless nights, and pity parties, you were pretty sure you were only standing out of spite.

You felt so delirious in fact, that you swore you could see Cormac from the distance. He had his arm around a pretty girl and they were headed towards you. ‘How much have I drank?’ Your eyes wandered to your empty hand in confusion.

You hadn’t even gotten the chance to drink anything before the tears caught up with you. So…your hallucination? Oh, it was real. Heat rushed to your cheeks in realization and even without having drank alcohol, you sobered up anyway and stood straight. You swiped at your tears ferociously and thanked the makeup gods for waterproof mascara and eyeliner.

‘How the hell is he even here?’ You wondered as you searched for the exit. He never went to Slytherin parties, yet there he was.  As you frantically searched across the room, your eyes landed on Lorenzo Berkshire who stared back at you. You smiled widely wanting to pretend everything was normal, but in your panic you looked like a serial killer clown who was out to get him. Your eyes fell to the floor in horror.

Just when things couldn’t get worse, two very familiar shoes stepped in front of you. Cormac. Your heart thumped against your chest, each beat carrying a memory that burned like acid. Promises you once believed in, hands intertwined everywhere you went, secrets shared in the quiet of night. It was all a lie. 

You took a deep inhale. “No,” you spoke before he could say anything and spun so fast, crashing into a hard chest that smelled like expensive cologne. You froze, until you felt strong hands wrap around your back.

“There you are, I’ve been looking for you,” a warm voice said above you, and the way his chest vibrated was as comforting as a purring cat. You looked up and blinked in confusion, it was Lorenzo Berkshire.

Before you knew what you were doing, you heard yourself respond, “I’m here.”

“Come on, let’s dance,” he said, moving his hand around your shoulder and guiding you deeper into the dance floor. 

He held you close and whispered in your ear, “Hi, I’m your hero. It’s nice to meet you.”

You laughed at his audacity, the tightness in your chest loosening for the first time in days. “And I’m the girl with the serial killer clown smile. Aren’t you afraid I’d murder you?”

“If I were to get murdered, it wouldn’t be so bad if the last thing I saw was your pretty face,” he quipped.

You scoffed, “I find your sense of self-preservation alarming.”

“Well perhaps I need saving too.”

You stared at him and he continued, “this night has been a bore. Focus on me,” he took your hand and brought it to his side. “Cormac’s looking-”

“Then kiss me,” you tell him, determination burning in your eyes.

Enzo smirked, he didn’t need to be asked twice. His lips crashed into yours, soft and warm, as his cologne enveloped you. You explored his mouth with curiosity, excited to feel something other than sadness or shame for the first time in a week. You could get lost here, wrapped in his strong arms, and forget everything. But you couldn’t let yourself be that foolish again.

You broke the kiss first and saw Cormac staring dumbly. It felt like a win, though what the game was, you weren’t sure. Enzo held your hand, “come on, let’s get out of here.” You followed him, walking briskly, exhanging stupid smiles. 

You giggled when you reached the door of his dorm room. “Thank you,” you looked at Enzo. “We have actually met before, we had potions together.” 

“Ah,” Enzo nods, fumbling with the door of his dorm room. “Well, I could get to know you in lots of ways,” he winked, holding the door open.

You crossed your arms around your chest and slowly walked into his room, suddenly conscious now that you were alone with Enzo. He seemed sweet back when you were classmates in potions, but his reputation told a different story these days.

 “Why did you save me, back there?”

“I saw a gorgeous girl with a wild smile, how could I resist?” he shrugged with a playful glint in his eye.

You chuckled, “it’s just the two of us, you can drop the act. And you know what happened, huh?” Your eyes dropped to the floor again, shame burning your cheeks pink.

“Hey,” he said, holding your chin and gently lifting it up to look into your eyes. “I wasn’t lying, you are very pretty. And yes, I’ve heard but you shouldn’t be embarassed. What Cormac did to you was really shitty. He’s the one who should feel terrible, not you. ”

“But I was the stupid one who fell for it,” tears welled in your eyes again and you took a deep inhale, willing the tears back. 

Enzo swiped his thumb across your cheek, wiping off the tear that escaped.

“I can make you feel good,” he offered, looking intently into your eyes. “Get lost in me tonight, like that kiss earlier. Don’t tell me you felt nothing.”

You laughed despite the heat that burned in the pit of your stomach. “You’ve done enough for me tonight. Thank you, I’m sure it’s amazing. I’ve heard stellar reviews and everything,” you put two thumbs up to punctuate the statement. 

“Stellar reviews?” Enzo smirked, “don’t you want to find out for yourself?”

“But it’s all a mess, I don’t know. I don’t want to drag anyone else into this.” You stood to leave, but Enzo placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Okay, that’s fine. Let’s at least see this through, give it a couple more minutes. Can’t have anyone thinking I’m a quick shot, don’t want to ruin my stellar reviews.”

“The least I could do is keep your reputation intact,” you agreed, sitting beside him again. 

“So,” he said, clapping both hands together. “Tell me everything shitty about Cormac, so we can hate him together.”

You grinned at him, took a deep breath, and launched into it. You spoke about his annoying habits. You gagged together at the way he’d use his fingernail as a toothpick and then eat whatever food he got out. Scowled at the way he forgot about plans you made, and made fun of the way he obnoxiously referred to himself in third person.

“I’m insulted,” you said as the laughter died down, “that I got fooled by him.”

“Doesn’t it just make you angry instead of sad?”

You nodded, and he continued. “You saw how shocked he was earlier, he probably thought you’d be crying over him. What if we stuck with this for a while and made him suffer?”

“Sounds fun, but what’s in it for you?” you examined him.

“Like I said earlier, I’m bored. Let’s cause some mischief.”

You held your hand out, “deal.”

“Deal,” he agreed, but instead of shaking your hand, he kissed the back of it. 

“S-so, got any ideas?” you asked, ignoring the shot of electricity from his kiss.

“If Cormac wanted so badly to be the center of attention, then so be it.” Enzo smirked and you leaned in, intrigued by his idea.

“You know, there is a Gryffindor party tomorrow where he’ll be celebrating his birthday,” you chimed in, scheming revenge together.

“That’s it then,” you both grinned at each other minutes later, your plan in place.

Enzo moved closer and you closed your eyes instinctively. You held your breath as your heart beat faster. His fingers gently brushed your hair, messing it up slightly. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you to your dorm,” he said, holding out his hand to help you up. 

Enzo zipped up the dress he got for you and you marveled at your reflection. In your color coordinated outfit, you truly looked like the perfect couple.

Hand in hand, you strode into the party and innocently smiled at the shocked faces that stared at you. Just last week, Cormac and his friends were laughing at you. By the end of tonight, you’d have the last laugh. 

With Enzo, you danced and chatted the night away. It was surprisingly easy to tune out the crowd when you were with him. Alarm bells went off in your head, and as long as you heeded their warnings, you reckoned you’d be fine. You spoke about the latest gossip, current events, and discovered a shared interest in fashion. A fresh heartbreak was all the reminder you needed to keep yourself safe and distant. 

Cormac’s cake was lit and everyone around him sang happy birthday, you and Enzo shared knowing smiles and you barely suppressed a giggle. Just as Cormac blew out the candles, you cast wingardium leviosa, causing the cake to levitate and smash onto his face. He quickly threw it away, sputtering icing and cake.

“Happy birthday, Cormac!” you clapped cheerfully, piercing through the stunned silence around you. “I’ve got another gift for you,” you declared, throwing a gift box onto his feet. “Here’s to getting what you deserve,” You tapped your wand and glitter exploded beneath Cormac, spreading across the room. All around you, there was shrieking and coughing as the pesky glitter shone and lodged itself everywhere it shouldn’t.

“That’s my girl!” Enzo raised his hand and you gave him a high five, except he caught your hand upon contact and led you sprinting forward, away from the chaos. With his other hand, he snagged a bottle of champagne. Your maniacal laughter trailed behind you, you had never felt so free. 

The night air greeted you as you caught your breath, providing a cool relief from all the excitement. 

“Look at you, bad ass,” Enzo beamed at you proudly.

“Did you see his nostrils flare in disbelief? He couldn’t even talk because he was busy sputtering cake and glitter!” 

“Everyone else got a fright with that explosion. That’ll show ‘em not to mess with you,” he agreed, leading you into the garden, where he sat comfortably on a bench.

“Thank you,” you said, settling down beside him.

“As much as I love a good revenge plan, this was mostly your idea,” he said, popping off the cork of the champagne. “So let’s celebrate!” He handed you the bottle and you took a swig, the bubbles fizzed and warmed you.

“To revenge,” you said, handing him back the bottle.

“So there is credence to that serial killer clown smile,” he commented, amused.

“Should have run when you had the chance.”

“Too bad, I’m stuck with you now,” he said, handing back the bottle with a huge grin that said it was anything but.

“So next week, you’re playing a match against Gryffindor. I have an idea,” Enzo leaned in as you proposed your plan.

Draco clutched the golden snitch in his hand, thrusting it in the air to signal victory. The crowd cheered wildly and you found yourself sprinting towards Enzo, who was already headed towards you. You crashed into his outstretched arms and he lifted you up, echoing your laughter.

“Congrats!” You managed to say, in between catching your breath.

“Only the best for my girl. We won because of you, though don’t let Draco hear that,” he winked at you as he placed you back down. “A kiss for the champion?” He leaned in closer and whispered in delight, “Cormac’s fuming.”

You felt giddy with pride and triumph. Cormac was so used seeing your creative signs dedicated to him, that he lost focus when he saw your sign was for Enzo this time. So much so, that he flew into Harry by mistake, giving Draco the space to catch the golden snitch.

You giggled and closed the distance between you, tasting sweet revenge on his lips. Enzo responded skilfully, living up to his reputation as he wrapped his arms around you again, one hand cupping the side of your cheek.

It still felt surreal to have someone in your corner, yet it felt too good to question or analyze too much. Things just felt easy with him. Besides, it was all pretend. Was this how easy it was for Cormac to fool you?

“Are you okay?” Enzo said, pressing his forehead against yours. 

You blinked, not sure when you had broken off the kiss. “Yes,” you assured him, even though your tone was unconvincing. “Congrats again,” you beamed and in a lower tone, “thank you. One day, I’ll find a way to repay you.”

“Oh?” Enzo said, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, “n-not that way!” You said defensively.

Enzo laughed off his hurt. “Just kidding, dummy,” he messed up the top of your hair again like he did last night. You stuck your tongue out in response and Enzo laughed for real this time. “I’ll figure it out,” you said vaguely, and he brushed it off with a wave as he left for the showers.

Turns out, Enzo was the perfect fake boyfriend. He showed up every morning with flowers, walked you hand-in-hand to all of your classes, and you alternated meals between yours and his friend group. You cheered for him in all his quidditch matches. He even bought you a necklace with his initial and made out with you in hallways whenever you saw Cormac.

On weekends, you partied together, had brunch in Hogsmeade, and went shopping together. Little by little, you acquired trinkets. Scented candles that helped you relax, a jar of candy you mentioned that you liked in passing, and stickers he got just because they reminded him of you. He was starting to take up more space in your room and in your life.

You hadn’t even realized a month had passed. And with that, the talk changed from Cormac’s bet to your glittering revenge, and Enzo’s dedication. He had never been with anyone for this long before and everyone stared on curiously, some bitter with jealousy.

Tonight’s party was underway, everyone buzzed with alcohol and excitement, when Mattheo had announced a game of 7 Minutes in Heaven.

Wanting to avoid being on Enzo’s bad side, he naturally paired you two together, while he spun a bottle for everyone else.

“Go on you two love birds, show everyone how it’s done,” he smirked, motioning towards the closet, starting the game with you two.

You and Enzo shared a knowing smile as you closed the closet door behind you. It was more snug that you thought, Enzo laid down a coat from the closet so you could sit together, bodies pressed side by side.

“So, how have you been?” Enzo asked, pressing his shoulder against yours.

“Not too bad,” you admitted, giving him a wide drunken smile. When he didn’t say anything else, you continued, “The whole thing with Cormac feels like a lifetime ago. The betrayal stings, of course, but it’s more of a dull ache than a sharp, stabbing pain. Does that make sense?” You chuckled self consciously.

Enzo nodded, you had been closed off for most of the time you spent together, he was pleasantly surprised to hear you open up. It didn’t hurt that alcohol also did its work to grease your wheels. “Time heals wounds?”

“More like, sweet revenge and a fake boyfriend.”

It was his turn to laugh, “that, I do understand.”

“You know, they targeted me because they assumed I was unavailable. I mean, it’s true, I didn’t really date before. But I was honestly just waiting for the right person to sweep me off my feet. I thought I was being smart about it. Instead, I was knocked down my feet,” you sighed bitterly. “It really helped, the whole revenge thing, because then I was no longer the victim. I was someone who learned to fight back and stand up for myself.”

“My bad ass,” Enzo said proudly before going quiet again, listening. “So why didn’t you date much?”

“My mom and I love romance novels. So I had high expectations. You know, grand gestures and declarations of love. Cormac did it all and I thought ‘this is what I was waiting for’. Until of course I realized, it was all for show, just how we did. Even romance novels, they were written for entertainment.” You paused.

“What do you think now?” Enzo asked, wanting to hear more.

“I think love is subtler. It’s this sneaky little bastard, just comes up on you when you least expect it. It’s not some flashy expression, it’s who is there when you need them. The person you could be friends with, and feel safe with. You have fun together and have these inside jokes. No matter how long you’ve spent together, you still want more. Kind of like-” you. You never said the last word aloud.

Oh. Realization dawned on you at that moment. It had taken a drunken night for you to realize what your sober mind had been running away from for weeks. You had fallen in love with Lorenzo Berkshire.

Your heart beat quickly, drumming up uncertainties and fears. Resident play boy who could act love so well, there were times you had believed it. Fooled yourself into thinking you were more than just good friends. 

You got lost in his laughter and drowned in his sweet, vibrant presence. His sharp edges made you feel brave. Like you could fully be yourself, and more - a bolder version of you. 

“Enzo, I” you started, then jolted together when a knock resounded. “Last two minutes,” Mattheo announced, “make sure you’re decent when we open this door. Or not,” he snickered.

The interruption seemed fateful, knocking some sense into you. You couldn’t, would not, risk getting hurt again. Sure, you had survived Cormac, but it was mainly with Enzo’s help. What would happen if he hurt you? Who would help you then?

You didn’t dare think about it. Enzo reached out to toussle your hair, bringing you out of your thoughts. You leaned in and painted your desires on his neck, your lipstick marking him as yours, if only under the guise of fake dating.

“What did you want to say?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.

You cleared your throat, buying time to switch topics. “You don’t really remember me from potions class?”

Enzo smiled sheepishly, looking left and right, while he thought of his response. “Actually, I do. It” he began.

The air suddenly grew cool as light filtered through and Mattheo opened the closet door. He grinned at your toussled hair and Enzo’s lipstick stained neck. “Nice one,” he gave Enzo and then you, a high five.

“I’m not feeling very well. Don’t worry about me, you should stay and enjoy the party,” you mentioned to Enzo and before he could reply, you quickly walked back to your dorm room.

“You really tired out Y/n,” Mattheo told Enzo, wrapping an arm around his. “Come on mate, help me with this game. It’s rare to see you a free man these days.”

Enzo looked longingly at you, wanting to follow, but figured you’d be fine tomorrow. Besides, someone needed to make sure Mattheo didn’t get into too much trouble.

Enzo kicked himself inwardly for letting you go that night. In the days that followed, he hardly saw you despite going to your usual spots. It was almost as if you were ignoring him, but he couldn’t for the life of him, figure out what he had done wrong.

By the fifth day, Enzo was losing his mind. With his charm and some skilfull bribing, he had managed to get your location from one your friends.

At the library, you scribbled your notes onto parchment until your pencil hovered idly at the words. You couldn’t stop thinking of Enzo since your big realization, but didn’t know what to do with your feelings.

Your longing had been so intense, you swore you could smell his perfume as if he were right beside you. An unseen force knocked your pencil to the table, clattering and rolling away.

Oh. Enzo was right beside you. 

“H-hi,” you greeted him with a whisper, pasting on a wide smile that didn’t reach your eyes, pretending everything was fine.

“The serial killer clown smile is back,” Enzo commented curiously.

“As you can see,” you said, picking your pencil back up. “I’m busy, let’s talk later” you went back to writing when your pencil was knocked off again by his pencil, like an impromptu fencing match. 

“Sure, I’ll come back never,” he said sarcastically.

“You are such a stubborn boy,” you whispered, annoyance creeping its way, as you picked up your pencil and continued ignoring him again, hoping he would get the hint and leave you.

“I am a stubborn boy,” Enzo agrees, knocking the pencil off your hand again.

“Oh that’s it, shove it just one more time,” you started, picking it up again, “and I swear-”

He knocked your pencil off your hand again, but you were ready this time. You parried and clashed your pencil with him.

“I-is this because you haven’t had it for a while? You know, you can go on nightly trysts with other women, right?” you whispered agressively.

“Oh come on, you’re reading too much into this. Stop ignoring me, what’s wrong?” he responded, combatting your pencil.

“The pencils are…very phallic,” you said, determined to knock his pencil from his hand.

He made a disgusted face, “you pervert! I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“You’re the one waving that pencil around,” you replied, not responding to his question. The more off topic you could keep things, the better.

“Do you want it?” Enzo said, smirking and thrusting his pencil suggestively.

“No, I don’t!” you screamed, pushing your chair back as you quickly stood up. It clattered on the ground and echoes resounded through the bookshelves.  Heads turned towards you and curious stares swarmed from all corners.

The librarian walked towards you and just before she opened her mouth, you held a hand up. “I’m sorry, Madam Pince,” you kept your tone cool despite the emotions bubbling in you. You calmly picked up the chair and slid it back in, then grabbed your things, “I’ll see myself out.”

Enzo followed in tow, giving Madam Pince an apologetic smile.

Once you were out the library, you turned towards Enzo. “Great, now I can’t study.”

“Great, now you have time to talk to me,” he said in triumph.

When you walked away in irritation, he matched your steps. “Did I do anything wrong?” he asked and the sincerity in his tone caught you off guard.

“No, I just don’t understand,” you muttered, almost to yourself.

“Understand what? Let’s talk about it,” Enzo persisted. “Come on, Y/n, don’t make me beg. Please, please, please, ple-”

“Why are you being so kind to me? Why is it so complicated? Why do I feel so much?” The words tumbled out.

Enzo blinked, gathering his thoughts. “What I wanted to tell you that night, was that of course I remembered you from potions. If anything, it’s me you don’t remember, at least not fully.”

“What do you mean?” you tilted your head to the side in confusion.

“During exams, I accidentally dropped a vial of ingredient. It was a mixture of two other ingredients, that I didn’t have. It was over for me, but you were there in the next table. You discreetly handed me your vial with a generous smile.

I asked if you were sure. You just casually shrugged and said you could make it again. I asked if you wanted anything in return, and you just told me to do my best and not to drop anything else, of course.”

He studied your surprised expression,  and the memories flooded back at once.

Enzo contined, “I was floored. All my life, everyone always wanted something in return. Even the girls that gave ‘stellar reviews’. They were after it for the prestige and so I played, it was all a game.

But not with you. You wanted nothing in return. You even forgot about the whole incident. So all this,” he motioned between you, “it’s my way of returning your kindness all those years ago. You never owed me anything.”

Your eyes teared up at the sincerity of his words. “I messed up,” you admitted as a lump formed in your throat. “I know it’s all pretend, but somewhere along the way, I fell for you.”

It was only right you laid your cards on the table, since Enzo did it. He made you feel brave, strong enough to push past your worries and fears. You realized then, deep in your romance-loving heart, some things were worth the risk. Some people were worth the risk.

You shook your head. “I know, it’s foolish. I told myself I wouldn’t. I know your games and your reputation, but then I got to know you beyond that. The lines blurred and it felt real. I hid because I was embarassed.”

Enzo cupped your cheek. “Thank fuck it wasn’t just me.”

“What?” a small laughter escaped your lips.

“I liked you since potions class, Y/n, but I didn’t want to pursue you. Those other girls wanted something in return, it was different. I didn’t want to cheapen your kindness by…approaching you that way. I didn’t know how it could work, so I just watched you from afar.

Fake dating…this whole thing…it was my way in. But somewhere along the line, it stopped being fake to me too. I even told Blaise about our arrangement, and he laughed. He said ‘why do you think it looked convincing? Because you weren’t acting, you idiot.’ But I didn’t know how to tell you, until now.”

“You mean to tell me, the only ones we were fooling, were ourselves?” you scoffed, shaking your head at the irony.

“So let’s stop being fools,” Enzo declared, “and do this for real?”

“For real, this time,” you reached up and hugged him, letting yourself get lost in his embrace and his cologne that now smelled like home.

“You like me, even with my serial killer clown smile?”

“Especially with your serial killer clown smile.”

“Shut up,” you punched him playfully on his shoulder. “No actually, tell me more,” you grinned up at him.

He grinned back, took a deep breath in, and launched into it.

✿ Masterlist | ✿ Lorenzo Berkshire Masterlist

It hasn’t even been a month since the new school year started, only two weeks. Two weeks got you utterly exhausted, and even that was an understatement. It felt like you had forgotten to talk, taking a little too long to answer, to process things – to think. Your head felt heavy with emptiness, your entire body ached as it didn’t seem to be able to release stress, holding onto it deep in your bones, low in your back.

It wasn’t just fatigue, it was emotional and mental exhaustion that made you want to lie in bed all day, yet your sensible side made you get up every day and go to your classes.

Those damn lessons.

You went to all of them, tried to siphon in as much of each subject as you could but your mind was elsewhere all the time.

At how sick you were.

At how tired you were.

And in the afternoons you did nothing other than lie in bed, trying to convince your mind that it was okay, there was nothing wrong with you, and that you needed to study.

Just five more minutes.

Oops, It’s been ten minutes ago.

Anyway.

You’re gonna start studying at next-hour-o’clock.

You didn’t.

At dinner you were only pushing your relatively small portion of food back and forth on your plate, your mind foggy with very negative thoughts as the chatter of your friends next to you blurred into an indistinctive mess of different voices over your head.

You were silent,

and lethargic,

all the time.

It was after dinners when you lay in bed, hoping this was a phase or something you’d eventually get over. But in the back of your mind, you knew you wouldn’t.

And you didn’t really want to, either – you felt so down, so numb that you felt like you couldn’t move in the direction of getting better.

Not properly.

Not permanently.

Lying there, alone, you couldn’t think of anything better than causing your own pain, physically – at least you’d feel something, wouldn’t you? Even if it’d hurt – maybe you’d deserve it. Maybe you’d deserve it because you had spent your entire summer not doing anything valuable, pushed down these feelings of despair, hurt, pain, depression. You didn’t study saying you couldn’t pay attention and you were tired – of course you were when you kept staying up endlessly, only getting mere hours of sleep and not eating enough.

Maybe you did deserve to feel this way.

You missed the affection, just a hug at least, from your friends. But you have been so withdrawn from them and they were all beating around the bush, not knowing how to corner the question of your visibly deteriorating mental health.

It was Enzo though, who paid the most attention to you; he knew you like the palm of his hand, even if you hadn’t realised it. He cared about you, probably more than he should’ve. He’d known all your mood swings, and even when you had better days, he knew you were going to be just as down, if not even worse in just a matter of days.

He couldn’t bear seeing you like this, he missed the carefree, loving Y/N you were. He missed his Y/N. Every word you spoke felt like a dagger to his heart as your tone only made it obvious just how tired and ill you were. Every time he saw you scribbling into your notebook he knew contained your poetry his heart ached, even when it was just two words.

He knew you were starting to give it all up.

Life.

You didn’t cry, and that was obvious – you’ve never been one to cry much or cry immediately when something relatively bad happened, or when it was something that you took too personally, nor when one of the bandages you thought were securely protecting your wounds were ripped off, not suddenly but slowly to hurt even more as it stuck to the surface of your heart. No, you took it, held yourself together, trying to maintain the facade you built so well and perfected over the years of suffering from whatever game your mind was playing with you.

Because the more people knowing you’re hurt the more able to hurt you.

Because the more pain you show the less people will think of you.

Because the more you trust the more leaving you and hurting you in the end, the more betraying you.

You were more on the bottling-up side, but the bottle always spilt in the end when it couldn’t hold more.

More suffering, more floating, more silence, more pain.

So, two weeks after your seventh and last year at Hogwarts had started, here you were, writing a new poem in the Astronomy Tower.

I find nirvana; I’ll exist in eternal peace, you wrote the last two lines, the cool autumn breeze in your hair.

“Y/N?” Enzo’s voice echoed through your ears, and closing your notebook, you looked up at him. This was the day the bottle broke – you’ve been crying before writing your poem.

Startled by your red eyes, he looked at you with concern. “Y/N, were you crying?” he immediately crouched down in front of you, and as he took your face in his palms gently, you could feel the dam break again. You didn’t like this. No, you couldn’t be crying in front of him.

“Just, uh, tired,” you answered in a low tone, trying to convince him – or yourself, rather.

He looks down at the notebook and shakes his head, “Liar. Let me see.”

You hesitated – how could you possibly show him what you were feeling? It took you weeks to be able to put it into words, and it’s not too happy. “Please,” he asked softly, one hand caressing your cheek, the other reaching down for the notebook in your lap. And you let him, knowing he’d get what he wanted anyway.

You saw his facial muscles twitch and tense up as he read its title, his hand falling off your face: ‘goodbye.’

His eyebrows knotted in a frown at first, glancing up at your once lively eyes, now missing the bright, pure shine they used to have.

You watched as his expression became sad and even more concerned as he breezed through your lines written.

these lines; I plan them to be the last ones I write and speak, so that I can be free in a world where pain doesn’t exist, where no clouds disfigure the sky. I go tonight; I don’t regret and don’t look back, I’m not afraid to leave anymore, I give up the fight, I end the war. i lie down tonight and drift to sleep, I unite with nature forever, and release the built-up hurt and pain. I find nirvana; I’ll exist in eternal peace.

“Y/N, you–” he shook his head as he lifted his head again, meeting your eyes. But you, you couldn’t look into his, you felt like you’d break immediately. You were afraid of what emotion would look back at you. Hurt? Sadness? Disappointment? Or would he look at you differently?

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking your head, keeping it hanging low.

He cupped your face again to make you meet his gaze, gently yet forcefully tilting your head upwards. His eyes, as always had that caring look in them, mixing with concern, and a sense of fear that he’d lose you washed over him.

He’d lose you, before it was nature’s job to cross your path together, before he could even confess to you.

“...Why haven’t you told me?” he asked in a low, broken voice. Fuck, he couldn’t lose you.

You couldn’t answer him at first – how could you tell him that you’d been feeling like shit for weeks again? That the longer you’re alive the less you’re living? The more days you survive the more of your want to live, and the more of your shine you lose. you took a long breath and with a tremble tugging at your lips, you shook your head while a stray fat tear rolled down your cheek.

“Y/N, darling…” he pulled you in for a hug and as his arms enveloped you tightly, your salty tears started raining down your cheeks again, lading on the fabric of his hoodie.

“I’m sick…” you sob into his chest, not able to hold anything back anymore, not in front of him as your fists clutch the fabric on his back. “And I’m tired too.”

You weren’t fireproof, that was for a fact, and he knew it too, probably better than anyone. You didn’t want to burn in your own flames but you felt it, felt it burning you and spread over onto him, burning him too. You were holding on to him for dear life, hoping your own miserable state of mind wouldn’t murder you.

“...I hope I don’t burden you,” you trembled against his body and he held you tighter.

“You could never,” he assured you, shaking his head. “Never, honey. You’re not a burden.”

You didn’t need to say much, he’d known almost everything already. He just held you tight against him, as if you could just slip away and disappear if he wouldn’t – and the truth is, you could’ve, especially in this state. And you kept gripping his hoodie as you slowly calmed down in his arms, while his heartbeat gave yours a soothing rhythm to follow. 

You were slowly coming to your senses that felt numb all this time – his cologne was a nice mix of sandalwood and citrus which filled your nostrils and made you feel at home, even more at ease, his touch warm and soothing under your sweater, rubbing your skin through the thin layer of your shirt, his voice sending your mind into a state of contentment as he kept whispering sweet nothings into your ear, and yet again, you couldn’t help but wonder what his lips would taste like. You’d been friends for a long time and you didn’t want to ruin the relationship you two have built up over the years.

Then the three little words left his lips involuntarily; “I love you.”

You felt him stiffen against you as the realisation that he indeed said that out loud hit him, and coming down from your surprise, and trying to control your rapid heartbeat, you lift your head from his chest and meet his eyes. How could he love an emotional wreck like you?

“Y-you what?” you asked as if you hadn’t heard it right.

He gulped, trying to swallow his fear of rejection before repeating his words, “I said I loved you,” he led his hands onto your waist under your sweater as you pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, but kept drawing you in lightly.

Without any further hesitation, you crashed your lips against his, afraid this was only a dream, hence wanting to enjoy every second of it and take it to the fullest.

His lips were so soft and moved so in sync with yours, and you wanted nothing more than to stay like that forever, wrapped in his embrace, with your lips connected, your tongues dancing around, making your mouths a ballroom, available for only them.

You pulled back just to come up for air and to clarify one thing. “I love you too.”

Your words sent a jolt of electricity and happiness down his spine, and he leaned his forehead against yours before reassuringly whispering to you, “I’m not leaving. We’re in this together and you can count on me, anytime, anywhere. Just- don’t shut me out. Please… I need you here with me.”

You nodded against his skin and let out a heavy sigh. You knew it would be a long way, a really deep dive. But until it was him swimming with you it didn’t matter that you were out in the open. It wasn’t a sudden light, a newfound wave of relief taking you out to the shore, but the beach seemed closer than ever. 

Mattheo

Mattheo is the messiest eater

Mattheo picking you up and fucking you after a quidditch game

Mattheo breeding you in the nastiest arch

Draco

dry humping him until you both cum in your underwear

backshots and dirty talk with Draco

Draco reaching all of your favorite spots with his fingers

Blaise

sleepover with bestfriend!Blaise

Barely being able to take any of Blaises cock

car sex with Blaise pt1. pt2.

Theo

Theo fucking your clit and cumming in your panties

Theos fingers fit so well inside of you he cant help it

Theo bought you a new pretty toy. the least you could do is let him help you put it in.

Lorenzo

overstimulating himself with his pocket pussy

creaming around Lorenzo like your life depends on it

The house was nice. Old, expectedly, but nice! And cheap, which was admittedly the best part. It had a few acres you could plant a nice garden on. You had heard the dahlias and peonies grew well out here. Maybe you’d cave and plant your mother's favorites if you could find them in the local stores. The realtor was weird, but nice, and you brushed it off as cultural differences. An American moving to rural Scotland was bound to attract a few… characters, after all. The initial tour of the house went without a hitch, she let you explore relatively alone, and the closing of the house was uneventful. The previous owners seemed… eager to sell, but with the nearest town being thirty minutes away it really wasn't that surprising. Isolation was the name of the game out here, and that's partially why you were looking for houses in this area to begin with. The goal was to get a house in an english speaking country as far from dictatorships, and civilization, as you could find, and it had seemed like you hit the jackpot. …until the dreams began.

The stairs creak as you ascend, fresh cup of coffee in hand. The stairs back home were never so steep or narrow. Here, you have no choice but to watch your step. If you weren’t staring at your feet so diligently, you may have spotted the figure at the top landing. Watching you as closely as you were watching those thin steps. A cold chill envelopes your spine as you climb the last stair into your bedroom. Figuring you had found yet another draft in your new (to you) house, you roll your eyes and make your way to the balcony, throwing the doors open, and embracing the warm August morning. Cool air hits the back of your neck again, your hand immediately coming to cover the spot but it disappears fast, and you figure it was probably just from the gust of opening the balcony to begin with. Little do you know, he’s watching. Breathing over you. Aching to taste. To touch. To feel human again. To anything.

Your first renovation was small, cleaning, repainting, and caulking the bathroom. You had been on your hands and knees all day reworking the grout in the tile, listening to a mix of Jeff Buckley and the Smiths while you worked. The floor practically white with how much extra grout you unintentionally spread across it. The tile creaked and groaned under your knees, protesting the upgrade. The hard work over the past couple of days has proved to be grueling, but rewarding, you suppose. Your mom would have told you you needed to find a man out here to do this. And the accomplishment of moving countries all alone was going to fuel your ego until the end of time.

You stand, brushing your hands on your shorts as you set the bucket of excess grout on the bathroom sink. The wet sponge you used to clean off the film over the tile drying on the edge of the clawfoot. 72 hours until you can have a bath in here, you decide to risk the spare bathroom. That room felt… off. Cold. But your mama, may her soul rest in peace, didn't raise a pussy. So you grab a towel out of the linen closet, and make your way across the hall.

The second you step into the bathroom, you feel the energy shift. You remind yourself that you don't believe in that shit, and begin taking your hair down. The claw clip lands on the counter, your phone and chapstick coming out of your pockets as well before you reach for the handle to turn on the water. This bathroom is still kind of grimy. You had tried to clean everything to the best of your abilities before you started remodeling, but something in you had told you that this part of the house needed to be left alone. Your shirt hits the floor, followed by your bra. A soft, warm breath on the back of your neck startles you out of your thoughts. You turn around, ready to be faced with a squatter, a burglar maybe. But there's… nobody.

You look around yourself before slowly unbuttoning the top two buttons of your shorts and hooking your thumbs in the waistband of them and your underwear. Pulling them down and stepping out before you can question yourself again. You feel the cool golden medallion around your neck, and it reminds you that whatever is happening is in your head. Praying to St. Anne felt too close to practicing again, so you just stand in the cool air holding your saint medal until the fear ebbs.

The bath water is relaxing as you sink deeper. You realize now that your first big installation needs to be a shower. This house was built in 1839. Frankly, you're lucky that there's updated plumbing at all.

Trying to think of anything but the house, you close your eyes and gently rest your head against the warm copper.

The memory of last night's dream is the first thing that comes to mind. You were lying on your bed, in soft white lace. The man at the end of your bed spoke in a soft English accent. He was dressed older. Very…Mr. Darcy. His deep voice echoed in the stone room as he spoke, “Hello,” he said hesitantly. Your eyes met his. A gorgeous honey color, his pupils blown wide, nearly eclipsing his irises. “You are incredibly beautiful.” You feel yourself blush. This man had no right being this smooth. He looks at you. His entire face changes when he acknowledges your lingerie. “Is this for me?” You nod, your dream allowing indulgence. You lean backwards onto your elbows, propping yourself up on the bed as you watch him walk around the bed and sit beside you. The whole bed dips. This feels real, you absently think, as his cold hand begins to spread up your thigh.

“May I?” he asks, stroking your thigh sweetly. And who in their right mind would deny themselves a wet dream with this man? You breathe out “yes” in barely more than a whisper. He leans into you, his breath warm against your neck as he says softly, “It's been a long time since I've received any visitors. Do tell me if you require any additional attention”.

His hand comes to find its stopping point against the center of your underwear, running a teasing finger along the seam of your folds.

“Is this okay?” he speaks against your neck. Your eyes close as you feel his cold fingers dance over your clit through the fabric of the lace.

The dream hadn't gone much further. Ending as abruptly as it began. But now… now you had the time.

Your right hand sinks below the water, softly teasing your skin, tracing the path of kisses against your neck that the dream man took. His lips were so soft, the memory still vivid. The burning desire unfulfilled.

Your fingers find your clit below the water. The sound of your soft moans echoing in the empty bathroom. It's not enough. It's never enough. The feeling pulses in your abdomen as your eyes stay closed. Your fingers move to press into yourself, and suddenly your phone is no longer on the counter and the mirror above it, the one lining the entire wall of the vanity, is shattered. Your hands fly to the edge of the bathtub, steadying yourself as you try to process what just happened. Your legs close as you quickly find your body wash and shampoo. Forgoing conditioner for the sake of getting the fuck out as quickly as possible.

Needless to say, you haven't gone into that bathroom in days.

At first you would wake every morning, dripping in sweat, a dull ache between your thighs. The dreams were never overly explicit, the unknown man on top of you, just barely making contact. Lips ghosting over your skin, his touch cold as he writhed on top of you. The dream man would approach your bed, cradle your face, call you beautiful, look at you as if you were the only person in his world. And then he would ruin you with his soft touches and selfish pleasure.

You had once heard something about faces in dreams never being made up. Your brain cannot create new faces. Everyone you had ever dreamt about, you had seen in some way, even if just in passing. There was no possible way that this could be true. You would remember ever seeing his face while awake. He was devastating. Utterly, ruinously gorgeous. It's safe to say you would remember him.