Then Theo appeared.

You noticed him first by the way the chair beside you shifted, though he didn't sit in it. Instead, he hovered there, quiet and tired-looking, his school tie loosened, dark hair falling messily over his forehead. His eyes, usually sharp with dry amusement, looked heavy today.

You softened immediately.

"Theo?" you asked gently.

He said nothing at first. He only stepped closer, leaned down, and wrapped his arms around your shoulders from behind. His face disappeared into the crook of your neck.

You froze for half a second in quiet surprise before your hand instinctively came up to rest over his arm.

"Bad day?" you murmured.

Theo hummed against your skin. It was a low, unhappy sound.

"That bad?"

He just nodded slightly, his nose brushing your neck, and tightened his hold around you. His body curved over yours like he had been holding himself together all day and had finally found somewhere safe enough to fall apart a little.

You let your quill drop onto the parchment, focusing on him fully. "What happened?"

"Don't want to talk about it," he mumbled quietly, voice muffled against your skin.

"Okay."

He seemed grateful for that. His shoulders loosened slightly, though he didn't let go.

For a while, you let him stay there. You could feel the warmth of him against your back, the soft rise and fall of his breathing against your skin. His thumbs moved absentmindedly over the sleeve of your jumper, slow and soothing, as if he were comforting himself with the texture of it.

You turned your head just enough to brush your cheek against his hair. "I do have to study, you know," you said softly.

Theo went still.

Then, with all the dignity of a wounded prince, he whined.

It was quiet, barely more than a breath, but it was so unlike his usual composed self that you had to bite back a chuckle.

"Theo."

"No."

You laughed under your breath. "No?"

"No," he repeated, voice low and petulant as if he were a 5-year-old. "You studied yesterday."

"That's not how exams work."

"They should."

You tried to turn back toward your notes, but Theo only buried his face deeper into your neck, his arms tightening around you as if he could physically prevent you from returning to your work.

"Theodore Nott," you warned, though there was no real bite in it.

He just made another miserable sound and nuzzled further. "Five more minutes," he muttered.

"You said that fifteen minutes ago."

"That was a different five minutes."

You smiled despite yourself.

Theo must have felt it, because he pressed a little closer, his lips brushing the side of your throat in something too soft to be a kiss and too tender to be accidental.

"Please," he whispered softly.

That made you pause.

Theo didn't beg often. He rarely asked for anything directly in general. Usually, he hovered at the edges of affection, pretending not to need it until you offered it first. But now his voice had gone quiet and rough, stripped of all sarcasm.

You reached back and touched his hair softly. His breath caught slightly in his throat.

"Really terrible day?" you asked quietly, voice laced with a gentle worry.

He nodded once, and it made your heart ached.

With a sigh, you pushed your books away and carefully turned in your chair. Theo loosened his grip just enough to let you move, but not enough to let you go. The moment you faced him, he stepped between your knees and leaned into you again.

You cupped his face. He looked so exhausted as if he'd been running around the Hogwarts since the last you saw him.

"Oh, Theo," you breathed out softly.

His eyes flickered over your face, guarded and vulnerable all at once. "I just wanted to see you."

"You did see me."

"No," he said, frowning slightly as if it was obvious. "I wanted this."

Before you could ask what he meant, he folded himself into you, arms sliding around your waist as he tucked his face back into your neck. You wrapped yourself around him instinctively, one hand at the nape of his neck, the other resting between his shoulder blades.

He exhaled like he had been waiting all day to breathe. "You're warm."

"And you're freezing."

"Mhm."

"You need to take better care of yourself."

"I have you."

"That is not a care plan."

"It's my favorite one."

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers kept moving gently through his hair. Theo melted under the touch. His entire posture changed, the tension draining from him bit by bit. He leaned more heavily into you, trusting you to hold him together, and you did.

The library around you faded into the background. There was only Theo, tired and clingy and soft in a way he showed almost no one else. Theo, who looked like winter to everyone else but felt like a quiet fire when he was this close. Theo, who hid his bruises behind clever remarks and cold eyes, but came to you when the day had been too much.

"You know," you said quietly, "Madam Pince is going to throw us out if you keep standing here like this."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Then you'll have to stop studying."

"You're impossible."

He gave a small, satisfied hum. You felt him smile against your skin.

"There he is," you murmured warmly.

Theo lifted his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to meet yours. "Who?"

"My Theo."

Something in his expression shifted. The teasing disappeared. For a second, he only looked at you, blinking slowly.

Then his face softened so completely that it nearly broke your heart.

"Yours?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. "If you want to be."

His hands tightened at your waist. "I do." No hesitation. No sarcasm. No clever deflection.

Just the truth.

Your thumb stroked his cheek. "Then yes. My Theo."

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch like the words had settled somewhere deep inside him.

"You make everything quiet," he whispered.

You swallowed slightly and softly kissed his head. "Is that a good thing?"

His eyes opened again, darker now, gentler. "It's the best thing."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you simply pulled him closer. Theo followed easily, sinking into your arms until his forehead rested against your shoulder.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You held him while the torches burned low and your abandoned notes lay forgotten on the table. His breathing evened out slowly, his fingers no longer clutching at you quite so desperately. Every now and then, he shifted closer as if reminding himself you were still there.

Eventually, you murmured, "I really do have to study."

Theo groaned.

You just laughed softly. "Theo."

"Five more minutes."

"You are going to say that forever."

"Yes."

"Theo."

He lifted his head, just enough to look at you through his lashes. "Your scent and warmth make me feel at home."

He seemed embarrassed the second the words left him. His gaze dropped, a faint flush touched the tips of his ears. But you didn't tease him — you just can't when your heart was aching so terrifyingly beautiful in your chest at his words. You only pulled him back in and kissed the side of his head gently.

The books could wait.

The essay could wait.

The exam could even wait, at least for a little while.

Theo had spent the whole day being sharp-edged and silent for the rest of the world. But here, with you, he was soft. Here, he was safe. Here, he could bury his face into the crook of your neck and ask for five more minutes like it was the only thing keeping him together.

So you held him tighter.

"Okay," you whispered. "Five more minutes."

Theo sighed, warm and relieved against your skin.

Touch possessiveness

In public, his hand is always somewhere on you — thigh, back, waist, fingers laced with yours. Not to show off, but because it grounds him to know you're close.

Aftercare built into daily life

If you've had a long day, he'll run you a bath without asking, wash your hair himself, and make sure you're in one of his shirts after. All the while murmuring quiet praise like "That's better. My love needs to rest well tonight."

Physical reassurance

He strokes his thumb over your knuckles whenever you're anxious or runs his fingers through your hair when you curl up against him. Most of the time he doesn't even realize he's doing it — it's instinct. He likes to subtly marvel at the difference between your hand size and his when he's holding your hand and looking at it intertwined with his.

Slow dance in the evening

He'll play some quiet music while making dinner and hold you close, hand at the small of your back, the other brushing the nape of your neck. His murmurs hot against your temple as he tells you how perfectly you fit in his arms.

Kitchen game

You try to "help" while he cooks? He presses you back against the counter, caging you with his arms, lips brushing your ear: "Sweetheart, if you touch one more thing, I'll bend you over this counter and feed with something else instead of dinner." Half the time he's bluffing — half the time, he's not.

Good girl trigger

He knows exactly how you react when he praises you, so he uses it often. Sometimes just a soft murmur while tucking your hair behind your ear: "You did great. Good girl." Other times, low and rough against your neck while he works you open. Either way, it leaves you trembling.

Pleasure edge

He loves drawing things out, keeping you hovering while he admiring your every emotion. Sometimes it's hours — his fingers stroking lazily, his voice low: "Stay still. Stay good for me, yeah? Don't come until I say so." When he finally lets you break, it's with tears in your eyes and his name on your lips like a prayer. He thrives on watching you fall apart because of him.

Absolute munch

Loves pinning your hips down when he's between your thighs, holding you still while he devours you. If you try to squirm, he growls into your skin, "Stay still and let me taste you, pretty thing, will you?"

Mirror game

His breath ghosts softly across the back of your neck, slow and even. Completely unbothered by the weather. Naturally. Mattheo sleeps like he fights: stubbornly determined to win.

You shift a little. Not enough to wake him — just enough to peek over your shoulder.

Honestly, you think it's unfair. No one should look this soft in sleep. Mattheo's curls are a mess, falling into his eyes. His mouth is relaxed, none of the usual sharp smirks or snarky comments. Just warmth. Just him. And you feel your chest squeeze with something gentle like every time you see him like this.

Merlin, you're so doomed.

You carefully pull the blankets up to his shoulders. He lets out a faint grumble, burrows closer, and tucks his face into the curve of your neck as if magnetized.

"Don't move," he mutters, voice gravelly and still half-asleep.

You stifle a soft laugh. "You're awake?"

"Mmh, no." His arm tightens around you. "But you're warm."

"You're heavy."

He makes a sleepy, offended noise. "Rude."

You just smile quietly and silly into the pillow.

For a long moment, there's only the quiet rhythm of his breathing and the distant pop of the room's fireplace. The rest of Slytherin is still asleep. It feels like the world is on pause, wrapped in the kind of early-morning hush you want to bottle and keep forever.

Eventually, your fingers drift down to his hand resting over your stomach. You gently trace the lines of his knuckles. He hums again, softer this time.

"Mattheo."

"Mmm?"

"It's freezing."

"You're freezing," he corrects, voice still thick with sleep. "I'm fine."

"That's because you're half-dragon."

He smiles into your skin. "Definitely half something."

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the flutter in your stomach.

"Should we get up?" you ask softly.

"No," he answers immediately.

"Classes start in an hour."

"We'll skip."

"We're not skipping."

"We could," he tries, a lazy persuasion in his tone. "Stay in bed. Hide from the frost. I'll let you steal my jumper."

You pause.

"...The soft green one?"

His chest rumbles with a low chuckle. "I knew that'd get you."

You elbow him lightly, but he only pulls you closer again, tucking his legs around yours like he's trying to cocoon you.

"You're impossible," you say.

"You adore me."

You do. He knows it. You know it. The entire castle probably knows it.

But instead of answering, you wiggle free just enough to turn and face him. His dark eyes blink open, heavy-lidded with sleep, gaze soft. Always soft when he looks at you. He seems younger like this, less guarded — like the world hasn't quite put its claws in him yet.

He studies you with a slow, lazy smile for a moment. "Hi."

"Hi."

His fingers find a loose strand of your hair, curling it around his finger. "Come back here."

"You have to get up eventually," you protest half-heartedly.

"Incorrect. Absolutely false. Propaganda."

You laugh quietly. "Tell you what. I'll make tea."

Mattheo opens one eye curiously. "Tea?"

"With honey."

"Honey?"

"And the cinnamon biscuits you stole from the Great Hall."

"You saw that?"

You raise an eyebrow.

He sighs in defeat. "Fine. Tea it is then."

You push the blankets aside — instantly assaulted by the cold — and Mattheo protests dramatically as you escape his arms.

"Cruel," he calls after you. "Heartless. Abandoning me in my time of desperate need."

"It's been thirty seconds."

"Thirty agonizing and dreadful seconds."

You shake your head with a smile, tossing him a pillow on your way to the fireplace. It hits him in the chest, and he gasps as if mortally wounded.

While you set a kettle charm to heat, you hear him groaning behind you. You glance back. He's sprawled across the bed, hair wild, wrapped tightly in the blankets like some sleepy, sulking serpent.

"Stop being so cute," you say.

He blinks. "I'm not cute."

"You're extremely cute."

"That's slander."

"Uh-huh."

After a moment, you pour the tea, adding honey until it's just the way he pretends he doesn't like it. Mattheo claims he drinks it plain — like a real grown-up man — but every time you slip in honey he finishes the cup without a word.

You bring the two mugs over, and he immediately sits up, patting the space beside him.

You settle in, and the second you do, he wraps the blanket around both of you. His cold toes press against your shin, making you yelp.

"Mattheo!"

His grin is pure mischief. "See? I told you you're the freezing one."

"That's because you're using me as a personal heater!"

"Exactly." He takes a sip of tea, satisfaction spreading across his face with a hint of amusement. "Perfect."

You watch him for a moment. The soft morning light. His messy curls. The way he tilts his head when he tastes something he likes but refuses to admit it. The warmth of the blankets, and his shoulder resting lightly against yours.

It feels... easy, right.

Peaceful, in a way neither of you grew up with.

"You know," you say quietly, "I like mornings like this."

He turns to you. "With me?"

"With you."

Mattheo's smirk falters — just barely — replaced by something warmer, something careful.

Almost shy.

He leans forward until his forehead nudges yours gently. "Yeah," he whispers. "Me too."

The moment stretches, soft and delicate, before he presses a kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek. Then, finally, your lips — slow, lingering, sweet.

When he pulls away, he looks at you like you've single-handedly brought warmth into a place that's always been too cold.

"What?" you ask.

He shakes his head slightly, smiling in that rare, unguarded way you love. "Nothing. Just... stay close today, yeah?"

You nudge his shoulder. "I always do."

"Good," he murmurs, settling contentedly against you again.

The tea cools. The biscuits disappear. The sun finally rises, lighting the room with soft gold.

And the two of you sit there under too many blankets, sharing warmth, sharing quiet, sharing something gentle in the beginning of winter — as if the world outside can wait a little longer.

For now, it's just this.

Just you.

Just him.