Writing for You

“It’s so small that everyone feels…close. Like, I don’t know.” Your cheeks warm. “It’s really nothing. I’ve just been busy with work here and…” and nothing, really. The town just seems so close-knit that there’s no room for you. The drink’s done, though, so you have an excuse to trail off. “Here,” you say, setting the drink in front of him. “One of my personal favorites.”

He picks it up gingerly. You’d made it to-go, since few of the town’s residents ever lingered in the tiny lobby, with its two tables and single booth, but the man seems in no rush to leave. Because of the storm outside or your company, you’re not quite sure.

“It won’t hurt you,” you say as he carefully takes a small sip. “So?”

“Delicious,” he says, though he’s unable to hide his grimace.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s…strong?”

“I’ll put less cinnamon in next time.”

“It’s not that. It’s the coffee.”

“Espresso,” you correct.

“Espresso?” He raises his eyebrows. “Oh no.”

“It’s fine. It’s not that much. I can use coffee next time, too. That’ll be weaker.”

“No. No.” He squares his shoulders like this is some fight with the drink. “I need to get used to drinking coffee.”

“Why’s that?”

His cheeks tinge pink. “I just…it’s something all my friends like to drink,” he says, though he stares determinedly at the drink.

“Where do they get their coffee from?” Most of the people you see rushing through here are older, harried fathers and mothers rushing to work. Not many younger adults. “I haven’t seen many younger people come through.”

He rubs the back of his neck again. “Down the street?”

“There’s a coffee place down the street?” You must’ve failed to have seen it, then, because you could swear this is the only shop in the small town.

“Yeah. It’s small. Nothing, really. Do you, uh, do you like coffee?”

“Well, I do work at a coffee shop.”

He sighs and looks down to his drink. “I’ll like it. Eventually.”

You pick up a rag to wipe up the espresso that had splashed on the back counter. “Are you staying here long? Because I’d be careful sitting on those chairs if I were you. I don’t think anyone’s used them in years.”

He seems about to say something when he notices the clock above the espresso machine. “Is that the time?”

You glance at it. It’d been broken earlier, but you’d managed to dig some batteries out of the back of a drawer in the office and set it this morning. “Yep.”

“Shoot. I’m late.” He begins to back up, stepping toward the door. “Thank you,” he says, raising the cup.

“I hope you end up liking it!” You shout after him as he pushes the door open and rushes back into the rain.

Alone again, you settle down with your book, but the thought of that cute guy and his drink makes it hard to focus, until you give up and just grab the mop, cleaning the store before the post-work rush can begin.

****************************************

He doesn’t show up on Tuesday, but on Wednesday, at two forty-five, when you’re bored out of your mind, he shows up. The bells chime, alerting you to someone’s presence. Expecting Mrs. Keene to be early, you hop to your feet, but when you set your book down, you see it’s instead the cute guy from Monday. His hair’s still messy, but he’s grinning at you, and he seems a little less lost.

“Back so soon?” You tease, leaning against the counter as he makes his way to you.

“I told you, I need to get used to the taste of coffee.”

“I don’t blame you. Same thing?”

“Same thing, please.”

You smile. “Do you remember what it was called?”

He opens and closes his mouth twice, then, with a sheepish smile, shakes his head. “It was cinnamon.”

You laugh. “You’re halfway there. Cinnamon latte.”

“Cinnamon latte,” he says quietly to himself, and you have to hide your small smile. “I didn’t expect to be tested.”

“Well, you should’ve, because now you’ve failed.”

“How can you fail me if you don’t even know my name?”

You glance at him over your shoulder. His smile’s handsome, especially as he toys with a useless stack of business cards piled on the corner of the counter. “Touché.” A pause. “So?” You ask, returning to making his drink.

“Cedric,” he says. “Diggory. I would’ve introduced myself earlier, but you have the name tag and I didn’t even think…”

“That I couldn’t just read your mind?”

He bows his head, chin dipping against the warm orange of his sweater. “Sorry.”

You set his drink in front of him. “You apologize too much.”

He snorts. “I think this is the first time I’ve apologized.”

“And it’s unnecessary. Honestly, you’re one of the first people to introduce themselves to me.”

“They don’t introduce themselves?”

“Well, some of them do, but they’re in such a rush to get to work that it’s hard to place name to face. But Mrs. Keene certainly has.”

“Oh, I bet. She loves to talk.” He takes a sip of the latte. “Delicious.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” and he forces a smile after taking another sip.

“You’re one of the worst liars I’ve ever met.”

“You have no idea how happy it would make my dad to hear that.”

“He’s a stickler for rules?”

He hesitates. “No? Not really. He just…thinks a lot of me. Expects a lot of me.”

It’s your turn to hesitate now. You’ve only known Cedric a couple of days. What are you supposed to say about his family? That you’re sorry? That doesn’t seem right. Nor does pressing the issue and asking further about his family dynamics. He’s cute, but you’re not sure you want to hear about that just yet.

Thankfully, he spares you from any attempt at answering with a soft laugh. “Sorry, that’s a lot to tell you.”

“There you go apologizing again.”

“Sor—” he catches himself. Pressing a hand to his forehead, he shakes his head. “It’s a curse.”

“Apparently.”

You continue chatting, discussing your old hometown, your families, the way the weather has jumped from cold to hot in only a few days. When he finally takes his leave, citing a meeting with a friend, you’re surprised to see a full hour has passed, and you can’t stop smiling the rest of the evening.

****************************************

You have the cinnamon latte ready when he walks in on Friday, sitting and steaming on the edge of the counter when the bells chime. He’s smiling already as he brushes his hair from his eyes. He has something under his arm, pressed against his yellow sweater.

“One cinnamon latte,” you say, returning his smile and nodding at the mug. “Ready to go.”

“I’m getting too predictable.”

“Makes my job easier.”

“Hmm.” He grabs the drink. “No pop quiz today?” He asks before taking a sip.

“Not today,” you say, humming as you start on a latte for yourself.

“That’s too bad. I’d actually studied.”

“Oh?” You ask, raising an eyebrow as you pour some coffee into a small cup.

It’s a book tucked under his arm, and now he holds it up for you. “Yeah. Rented a book from the library and everything.”

You bark out a laugh when you see what he’s holding. Gourmet Coffee Drinks and How to Make Them. “You actually did study. Wow.”

His cheeks turn a light pink, but he’s smiling. “I wanted to pass.”

“Okay. So, I guess I can make a quiz special for you. Let’s start easy. What’s in a latte?”

“Espresso and steamed milk.” He rattles the answer off quickly. He saw this one coming.

“For most people, yes. You get coffee and steamed milk. How about a cappuccino?”

“Espresso and…milk foam.”

“Mmhmm.” You grab the cinnamon shaker. “Now…what about an americano?”

“That’s…”

“No cheating!” You say over your shoulder when you hear the flip of pages.

He flips the book closed. “It’s espresso and cold milk?” He asks, wincing, knowing already he’s wrong.

“Close.”

“Really?”

“Espresso and hot water. And not,” you say, setting your drink on the counter and raising an eyebrow, “anything for you.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Doesn’t sound like it. Thank the heavens for your expertise in cinnamon lattes.”

“It’s my job. Oh, and that’ll be two sixty-five again.”

He pulls out two bills and digs in his pocket, counting out exact change. What a thoughtful customer, not forcing you to do math today. “Don’t you ever get bored in here?” He asks.

You shrug, watching as he holds out a handful of coins. You hold out your hand, and he drops the coin in it, the tips of his fingers brushing your palm lightly as he does so. Your own cheeks warm in response, and you internally scold yourself. It was an accident. “Sometimes, but I can read while I’m here.”

“What are you reading?”

“Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” At his surprised look, you roll your eyes and lean against the counter, chin in hand. “I didn’t choose it, really. It was a gift that happened to be on the top of one of my moving boxes. I’ve been too lazy to unpack everything so far.”

“How is it?”

“It’s all right. I’ve read better; I’ve read worse.”

He laughs softly and leans forward, elbows catching the edge of the counter. “A stunning recommendation.”

“Hey, I didn’t recommend it. I just said I’m reading it. My recommendations, as you see,” you say, gesturing to his latte, “are always top notch.”

“Well,” he says, swirling the cup, “you were right about this.”

“I told you. I’m great at recommending things.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

A silence falls in the coffee shop, broken only by the soft acoustic music you have playing over the stereo. He’s leaning against the counter, elbows on the edge, grey eyes crinkling with his smile. The slightest hint of stubble lines his jaw, you notice. When you meet his gaze again, he seems more serious, the easy smile replaced by a searching look, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe, and you realize just how near you are, both leaning against the counter. The smell of his cinnamon latte wafts up to you, and you can’t swallow the knot in your throat. You’re close to him, you realize with a start, very close.

Clearing your throat, you shove away from the countertop, cheeks burning, heart suddenly pounding. Why? He’s just a guy. A cute guy. A cute, funny, charming guy, but just a guy. He leans away, too, clearing his throat and gathering up his coffee book, tucking it under one arm. You know, as he sets his coffee down so he can run a hand through his hair, that you actually just might be a goner for Cedric.

Great.

“Mind if I sit here?” He asks, gesturing to the small booth.

You shrug, turning your back to him to hide your own nervousness. “All yours.”

The booth creaks as he settles into it. Though you take a rag and cleaner to it everyday per store regulations, it’s rarely ever used. In your short time working here, nobody’s used it for anything but waiting for their coffee.

Soft music fills the small shop, and you quietly hum along as you set to cleaning the store again. There’s no need for it, but it keeps you busy, and keeps you from looking at Cedric. Occasionally, he flips a page, but you’re very aware of his gaze and how often it seems to stray to you.

Finally, having rewashed all of the dishes, counted the register’s cash twice, and checked the supplies in the back room, you have no other excuses, and you return to the stool behind the counter and pick up your book. You’re about to sit down, hesitate, then head back to the machines and whip up another cinnamon latte.

“Here,” you say, stepping around the counter and to the booth’s small table. “On the house.”

“For me?”

“I don’t see anyone else here,” you say, setting your own drink and book down. “Mind if I sit with you?”

“Please,” he says, half standing as you go to sit. Some old gesture of chivalry or something. His cheeks redden, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep your nervous laugh from escaping. He settles back into his side and picks up his book. A minute passes, the both of you sipping your drinks, reading, and pretending not to be sneaking glances at one another. He’s virtually a stranger, for heaven’s sake, but you can’t help yourself. He’s cute and charming, and it’s not like you know anyone else in this town. At the very least, you’ve found someone that could be your friend.

You take a deep breath, working up the nerve to finally say, “good book, then?”

“Hmm?” He looks over it at you, then nods. “Yeah. Very good. Riveting stuff.”

“Must be,” you say, fighting a laugh, “if you haven’t even noticed you’ve got it upside down.”

He opens his mouth, then looks to his book. Cheeks red, he laughs at himself. “I do, don’t I? Merlin’s beard.”

“What?”

He shakes his head in exasperation. “I’m sorry. And no,” he says, holding up a finger when you try to interrupt him, “I’m not unnecessarily apologizing. You deserve it this time.”

You set your own book down and lean back in the booth. “Do I?”

“Yeah. I’ve been trying to read, but I keep getting distracted and I just—I think I need to ask you on a date. I’m sorry if this is too forward, or if you’re uncomfortable. I know we haven’t known each other long, and I keep coming to your work, and maybe that’s weird, but you seem nice, and you’re funny, and I really enjoy talking to you. But if you’re uncomf—”

“I’m free at five,” you say, biting your lip in a failing attempt not to laugh at his rambling worry. As if you aren’t interested in him as well. “And I could still use a tour of the town.”

He takes a deep breath, then releases it in a half-sigh, half-laugh of sorts. “You’re not creeped out?”

“Me? No. Why would I be?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing. Just, my friend, Fred, he said I’d be making your nervous, coming in here every day. And getting the book. He and his brother actually have money on whether you’d kick me out or not.”

You shrug. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I need a tour guide, and I don’t really want to hear about every single memory Mrs. Keene has of this place.”

“No, I can’t imagine you do. So, it’s a date, then?”

“Sounds like it.” You smile at him, and just then, the bell rings, and Mrs. Keene and her husband enter. Three o’clock, then. “I should…” you say, gesturing to them, and Cedric nods. His cheeks are a bright red, but he can’t stop smiling.

“Yeah. I’ll be here. Reading, hopefully.”

“Book right-side-up?”

He grins and flips it around. “This time, yes.”

The signature mess of dark curls that drive the girls at Hogwarts mad hang over his forehead, threatening to droop into his dark eyes. He swipes at them with a dirt-covered hand, also wiping away the sheen of sweat covering his forehead. “That I do. I just wish I hadn’t befriended one. It hasn’t gotten me any of the gold I wanted.”

You make a face at him, wrinkling your nose, earning a laugh from Theseus, a kind sound that drifts with the gentle spring breeze. Overhead, birds sing within the tangle of oak branches and green leaves, a chorus in time with the scrabble of squirrels scaling the two trees.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” He asks as he turns back to the tree, tugging once more on the rope, ensuring it’s taut and that the knot he wove with the fraying stuff is strong and sturdy.

You swirl the ice in your glass, watching him work. “But you love me, you know.”

“That I do.” Straightening, he rolls the sleeves of his dirt-streaked white button-down to his elbows, places his hands on his hips, and sighs, studying his work. “Well, halfway there.”

A few minutes of silence between the two of you pass, interrupted only by Theseus’s grunts and quiet curses. You take the moment to stretch out and lay on your back, eyeing the clouds and the streaks of green and lavender that already droop low into the lovely blue of the day.

It’s strange to think that only a few hours earlier, you’d been at Hogwarts, accepting congratulations on the completion of your final year, wishing old friends well and exchanging address for letters. You’d been so worried you’d lose so much, but now, here in the Scamander’s backyard, listening to Theseus let loose a particularly creative string of curse words directed at the rope, with a glass of Mrs. Scamander’s homemade lemonade in your hand, you’re happy. But then, that shouldn’t seem such a shock, you figure. It’s how you always feel with Theseus around.

“So,” you ask, propping yourself up on one elbow to watch Theseus struggle with the final knot, “when do you think you’ll be done?”

“Are you serious?” Theseus calls back, sitting in the dirt, feet pressed against the tree to help him yank it into a tight knot.

“It’ll be sunset soon. I don’t want to miss it, not when you’ve been promising this moment for the past seven years.”

He sighs and gives the rope another tug. The blue cloth of the hammock stretches, and it finally begins to look like somewhere you could relax. “You know, part of me wishes I hadn’t made that promise when we first met. If I’d known you’d never forget, I might’ve kept my mouth shut, found another partner for that potion.”

“It’s not my fault you were the first person I met who was as fascinated with Halley’s Comet as I was. Or that you thought everyone has as bad a memory as you.”

Theseus chuckles, then shoves himself to his feet, letting the end of the rope drop from his hand. “God help the man that marries you.”

You make another face but elect to otherwise ignore his jab. “You dodged my question.”

“Did I? You had a question?”

“Theseus,” you whine.

He laughs. “Don’t worry, the hammock’s done. Ready for comet watching.”

“Finally,” you say, setting your lemonade aside and springing to your feet.

“But,” Theseus says, raising his hands as you stand, “we can’t use it just yet.”

“What?”

A soft breeze ruffles his hair as he makes his way toward you. “I promised my mum we’d have some supper with her first. So turn around and head in.”

You drop your shoulders. “But the hammock…”

“Will stay there.” He hesitates for a beat, then looks over his shoulder at it. “Hopefully. If it doesn’t, we’ll be glad we put off lying in it.”

You sigh but oblige him, letting him loop an arm around your shoulder as he makes it to the porch. You wrinkle your nose as he does. The hot sun and work had not left him in a great position. “Any chance you can fix how bad you smell before supper?”

******************************************************************************************

Theseus is leaning against the tree when you finally manage to escape Mrs. Scamander’s stories and offers of more food.

Ankles crossed, eyebrows raised, and a smirk waiting under the color-streaked dusk sky, he whistles as you hop down the porch steps and land barefooted in the cool grass.

“You’ve gotten slow in your old age.”

“And you’ve gotten mean. Only one ‘thank you’ to your mom? She’s going to be heartbroken.”

He shrugs. “She’s fine.”

“Heartbroken.”

He sighs as you step up to the hammock. “I’ll apologize later. For now, we have a comet to spot, right?”

A wave of excitement bubbles through your stomach. This is it. This is what you’d been waiting for for so many years. “Finally. Now are you going to stand there and smile or help me up?”

Theseus still grins but does help, holding the hammock steady while you roll in. It’s cozy. The fabric soft, the blanket Theseus had dragged out of the chest of blankets even softer, and with the quiet chirps of crickets and soft songs of the birds flying around the house, you think you could spend the rest of your life right here, under the green and pink and yellow and deep, deep blue sky, stars blinking down at you, Theseus standing next to you, and nestled away from the cool of the dusk air in a warm blanket.

“Are you going to move over?”

You clasp your hands behind your head, staring up at the sky, listening to the soft gust of the wind blowing through the leaves above. “I don’t know. It’s awfully peaceful here.”

“You were warned.”

“What—”

You don’t have to time to finish the question as Theseus jumps in, sending the hammock swinging and you flailing wildly, grasping for anything to keep from rolling out.

You only manage to roll face first into Theseus’s chest.

“You,” you mutter, face still against his chest, cheek hurting as the button on his shirt scratches it every time his chest moves with his laugh, “are an ass.”

You peel yourself away from him and roll as far away as you can, which really isn’t far at all, much to your simultaneous disappointment and relief.

Theseus smells better now, like cinnamon and spices, for which you’re grateful. And he’s warm, much warmer than the chill beginning to fall over the yard as the sun creeps out of sight. But he’s also an ass.

He grins down at you, cheeks ruddy, hair messy again. A sight. “But you love me, right?”

“Some days, I wonder.”

He nudges you with an elbow and you roll your eyes.

“So,” he asks after a moment of silence, “what do you want to do?”

“I want to watch for a comet in peaceful silence.”

“Oh, then you definitely picked the wrong friend.”

“Clearly,” you say, returning his sarcasm with ease. It’s always easy with Theseus. Everything is. It’s half the reason you’re still as good of friends as you are.

Theseus huffs after half a minute of silence, flips on his side, and scoots down so you’re nose-to-nose with him. Heat radiates off of him, and it burns your cheeks as he cocks an eyebrow and smiles. “Let’s play a game.”

“Theseus, we’re trying to watch for a comet that only comes around once every 75 years. We only have one chance to see it. If we miss it tonight, you’re going to have to tie up a hammock at 92, and I don’t really want to see that.”

“But I’m bored,” he whines. “And it won’t come out for at least an hour, right? So let’s play a game, have some fun. Come on, please?”

You study his gaze, but it’s earnest, pleading, and you sigh. “Fine. One game.”

His grin widens, and excitement sparks in his expression. “Okay. What do you want to play?”

You want to roll away and groan and ask why he didn’t already have a game in mind, but he’s so near, and so warm, you don’t really want to distance yourself, so you just shrug. “Truth or dare?”

“Boring. Besides, I don’t want to move for a dare. I’m comfortable here.” He moves to brush the hair from his forehead, but his fingertips brush your hand, leaving a trail of heat behind them. You suck in a breath and raise your chin, meeting the challenge you’re not certain he put forth.

“Then just truth?” You know you may regret this, may hate yourself for this, but it’s the only way to get Theseus to stop whining for a little while.

“Why not? Could be fun.”

“Could it? I think I already know everything I want to about you.”

Theseus rolls his eyes. “Ha. You’re hilarious. I’ll start. Let’s see...”

“Why do you get to start?”

“Because this was my idea.” You open your mouth to protest that, but Theseus cuts you off before you can. “You fancied Dylan in the fourth year, didn’t you? And you have to tell the truth.”

“I—” you press your lips together, trying your best to glare at him when he’s so near. “Fine, maybe I did. A bit.”

“Yes! I knew it.”

“But you definitely fancied Tella Storhaven.”

He makes a face and shakes his head. “Not my type. Your turn. Let’s see, what embarrassing thing can I make you admit now?”

You swat at his shoulder, and he laughs. The sound sends flames back into your cheeks, and you want to roll your eyes at yourself. You’re getting ridiculous.

******************************************************************************************

“You don’t really like my mum’s stew, do you?”

“Look,” you begin, “your mom is a wonderful cook—”

“But that’s a lot of onion, isn’t it?”

“It’s a ton of onion,” you say, laughing with Theseus. You’re tucked against his chest, his arm around you, your ear to his heart so you can hear the gentle thrum of its beat. Two hours have passed with no sign of the comet, but you’d fallen into a perfect limbo between drowsy and happy, the sort of space that exists only in dreams. And it certainly feels like a dream, lying here in the hammock, pressed to Theseus’s warm body, legs tangled with his, listening to the crickets chirp around you, staying warm in his arms as the hammock sways in a gentle, cool breeze, but reality still swirls around you in the light still burning in the kitchen, and the visit from Theseus’s little brother an hour earlier.

Still, you imagine you could spend the rest of the night here, tucked under Theseus’s arm, and still not be tired of being here.

“It really is a lot of onion. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my mum’s wonderful, but how can she expect anyone to taste anything other than onion in that? It’s a shock, really. That’s why I feed it to the creatures when she goes to the market.”

You gasp and laugh, smacking his chest. “You told me it was good for them.”

“No, no way. I just wanted it out of the house so we didn’t have to eat it all week.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “You’re the worst. The literal worst.”

“Says you, Miss I-Totally-Didn’t-Add-The-Extra-Ingredient-to-Tella’s-Potion.”

“Okay, but she deserved it.”

“Uh-huh. The literal worst?”

You grin. “Okay, maybe we’re both the literal worst.”

“That sounds better,” Theseus says, quieter now, hand brushing up and down lightly on your back. Your stomach flips at this, but you tell yourself you’re being silly. It’s just that you’re tired, that you’re near him, that you’re laughing so much. But as you think of your next question, Theseus shifts, pulls you nearer, and your heart pounds.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, voice low, nearly hidden by the quiet peace of crickets’ songs and the squabble of squirrels above.

You stare at the light in the kitchen window, considering, but it blows out. Newt’s doing? Mrs. Scamander’s? You can’t tell from here.

“What’s one unrealistic goal of yours?”

“Unrealistic?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum. The hammock sways gently, slowly, rocking the two of you back and forth.

“Hard to decide when I could do anything, really, that I wanted. I mean, have you seen this face?”

“Too much of it.”

You know he’s grinning his crooked grin without needing to look. “Now that was a low blow.”

“You set yourself up for it.”

“True, true.”

You breathe deeply, the smell of spring, of grass, of the remnants of the cookies Mrs. Scamander baked after supper float through the air, mixing with the slight smell of cinnamon.

“So?” You finally prompt, lazily poking Theseus in the stomach. “What’s your number one unrealistic goal?”

Theseus hesitates, and you blink heavily, listening to the beat of his heart speed the slightest.

“Hmm? It is embarrassing or something?” You trace a triangle in his arm, waiting for an answer about dragons or ruling the Ministry or saving the world or something. Nothing comes.

You crane your neck to find that his cheeks are tinged pink.

”It’s embarrassing?”

He stops running his hand up and down your back to instead rub the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Mortifying?”

“No.”

“Dangerous?”

“I—” he stops himself, shrugs, and looks back up at the stars.

“It’s dangerous?” You roll away the slightest to better meet his eyes. His one hand remains on his neck, but the other, the one you’re practically lying on, catches onto your shoulder. “Ooo, now you have to tell me. Come on, this was your game.”

He huffs out a sigh but meets your eyes again andt his time, there’s a hesitance in his gaze, an uncertainty you’ve never really known from Theseus before. Your breath catches in your throat.

“Well?” You ask, a little breathless. “What is it?”

“It would be,” Theseus starts, then stops, then rolls his eyes and starts again, hand still on the back of his neck, cheeks a deep red now. “Well, it would be to kiss you, I suppose.”

“Oh.” You say. Then, “Oh,” again, because what else are you supposed to say in a moment like this?

“Yeah.” He laughs once, but it’s humorless, born of nerves more so than a joke. And though he’s holding your gaze, he’s clearly nervous.

“And that’s dangerous why, exactly?” Your heart pounds in your chest, nerves alight with every graze.

He smiles now, a genuine smile. “You’re my best friend. I don’t want to risk that just to chase after some…some…desire.” He says ‘desire’ as though it’s not quite the right word, but it sends flames into your cheeks.

“Oh. I see.”

Theseus sighs as an awkward silence stretches on. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. I should’ve said something else. Shouldn’t have told you that.”

Your mind is spinning, but as he begins to roll away, you hurriedly assure him. “No, no. It’s okay. But, uh, you do owe me another answer.”

He looks at you from the corner of his eye, frowning down at you. “Why?”

“Well, I asked for an unrealistic goal. You still need to give me one.”

It takes Theseus a moment to understand, to comprehend, and you wait with a held breath and cheeks that are ablaze as he processes. “Wait, you…”

“You really think I wouldn’t kiss you? I mean, even if it’s just to have a story to make Tella Storhaven angry?”

Theseus’s shock morphs into joy then a laugh. “Oh, that’s the only reason, huh?”

“I didn’t say it was the only, but it definitely wouldn’t hold me back. But,” you ask, dropping your voice and raising your eyebrows as Theseus rolls back onto his side to face you, “what will people think?”

Theseus chuckles, and the nerves that had been present are fading now, replaced with his usual calm confidence. “Well, I suppose somebody somewhere owes someone some money. I know there were bets on this.”

“And your mother?” Though you say this jokingly, there’s an edge of honest worry. You like Mrs. Scamander too much to risk angering her.

“Quite honestly, I think it would make the old woman’s year.”

You giggle, relieved and overjoyed, on edge as Theseus brushes his hand against yours again. Your heart pounds hard in your chest, and you know your breaths must sound shaky to Theseus. “What would she say to you calling her old?”

“Hm,” he hums, running his hand up your arm, “I think she’d be grateful that I’m finally thinking realistically.”

“Lucky you,” you manage as Theseus stops his hand at your shoulder, hesitating.

“Are you sure,” he asks, running the tip of his thumb over your jaw, gaze dropping to your lips before returning to your eyes to search your expression, “are you sure you’re okay with this? That you want this?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

Theseus smiles a wide, crooked smile, and your breath catches in your throat as he cradles your cheek in his hand, running his thumb over your cheekbone. “Lucky me,” he murmurs again, and he is near, so near you cannot breathe.

Theseus closes his eyes as his lips lightly graze yours, then pause. A question unspoken.

You answer by deepening the kiss, pulling Theseus closer, your cheeks burning, heart flying.

When the kiss breaks, Theseus leans back, grinning like a fool, still cradling your face.

“Well, not so unrealistic after all. This face really can get me anything. Hey!”

He breaks into a laugh as you hit his shoulder. “Ass.”

“But you love me,” he says with a grin.

You roll your eyes and turn away, looking toward the sky, praying he can’t tell how your face is burning, hear how your heart is pounding, but it’s perfect timing as a streak of white burns above, flying over the two of you.

“Theseus, look!”

He glances up, only a second at the comet blazing through the sky, before looking back to you.

“You’re really going to miss this twice-in-a-lifetime moment?” You ask, nudging his shoulder to try to convince him to watch it take its slow arc through the sky.

He smiles, soft now, gentle, and runs a hand over your forehead, knocking hair out of your face. “It’s nothing compared to what I’m looking at.”

He sucks in a breath, lets the cold freeze the fire burning in his chest as he straightens, faces you. “Just fine.” He gestures toward the doors, toward the ballroom filled with spinning couples inside. “You enjoy your dance?”

You smile a wide smile, and he melts. “It wasn’t so bad. Here,” you shove a glass at him, filled half up with blood-red wine, the wine he’d already become so accustomed to this night. “I tried some. Thought you might like it.” You wrinkle your nose. “It’s disgustingly bitter.”

Theseus stares at the glass, at the offering, and his stomach turns, but he reaches out, accepts it with a strained smile. “Thank you.” It seems inadequate, but he isn’t sure what else he can say. The other glasses he had have already gone to his head, and he cannot think entirely straight, and if he says anything more, allows himself any further room to speak, he risks revealing how it kills him to see you dancing with someone else.

So he says nothing, lets the ‘thank you’ hang as though it is enough, as though it isn’t killing him to say nothing further.

And you beam with that special grin that was once only for him, and he nearly crumbles at the sight of it. He nearly falters completely, nearly asks why you fell in love with someone else. Why you didn’t wait for him.

But that would be unfair, so Theseus simply takes a sip of the wine.

You rub your arms, that smile fading, but only slightly, a hint remaining as you look around. “It’s cold out here. Why don’t you come inside?”

Theseus follows your gaze, up to the stars above. “I like it better out here. Less noise, less pointless chatter.”

You nod. “I know what you mean. It’s exhausting in there.”

Theseus swirls the wine his glass, quiet for a moment. When he does speak, it is quieter, softer, but you don’t seem to notice. “Surely Thomas keeps the worst of it away from you. He seems skilled in this sort of crowd.” Politicians, rich people, those with enough arrogance to host a ball for themselves.

Your smile returns, barely, just a twitch of the corner of your lips that you try to hide by looking down at your shoes, but it is enough to send Theseus’s heart skittering. “He’s certainly…adept at this. Much more so than you or I.”

“That’s certain.”

Silence settles in now. Comfortable, uncomfortable, forgettable. He has so much to say, to tell you. Of his regrets, his fears. Of his love. But the wine stands in the way, making everything a little blurry, a little not-right.

He takes another sip of his wine, and you kick your foot, knocking a stray pebble from the balcony, and nothing is right. There should be easy conversation, not this strange discomfort.

So he sets his glass aside, on the railing, with force, frustration mixed with wine. It rattles, spinning and spinning in place as he lets it go.

He sees a flash of you in there, in the ballroom, looking at another man like you once looked at him.

His chest tightens, and you startle at the slam of his glass.

Theseus draws a breath in, searches for the words, reaches for your hand.

Before he can take it, though, or find the right words, the doors creak open, and Thomas stands there, a smile on his face, a word of welcoming for Theseus on his tongue, though his eyes remain on you, on your sudden smile, shy but excited.

Theseus deflates as you grin up at Thomas, forgetting him completely.

You’re happy. So very happy. He cannot ruin this for, not when it seems he has ruined everything else.

“Care for another dance, love?” Thomas asks, and even a simple pet name on his tongue is a moment of reverence. He loves you as Theseus should have.

This is Theseus’s fault. Not Thomas’s, for giving you what you deserve from a relationship. Not yours for finding someone else, someone better, someone more worthy, able to give you what you deserve.