starz

Theodore Nott and you had always been just friends.

It began in the late bloom of summer, in a garden lined with white roses and wilting lavender, the air thick with the kind of heat that clung to the skin and made time slow. You were only three when your mother’s hand found yours, soft and firm as she guided you across the gravel path of the Nott family’s estate, your new neighbours. Her voice was light, pleasant, perfumed with diplomacy as she greeted the Notts, who stood beneath the ivy-covered trellis like they belonged there.

But you hadn’t cared about greetings or titles or the sharp way Mr. Nott looked at your father. No — your eyes had found him. A little boy with grass-stained trousers, wild hair that refused to be tamed, and pale eyes the color of steel before a storm. He was squatting in the sandpit the groundskeeper had barely finished raking, dragging a stick through the dirt with the focused intensity of a philosopher.

He looked up, squinting.

You stared back.

And without a word, you wobbled off the path, let your newly polished shoes sink into the dusty sand, and dropped beside him like you were meant to be there all along.

You didn’t speak much at all at the time. Not in full sentences, anyway. There were giggles and grunts, soft babble and bright laughter as you fought over a chipped blue bucket and declared war with tiny shovels. He handed you a broken seashell, claiming it was enchanted. You gave him a clump of damp earth, insisting it was a gift. You left with sand in your shoes and a sunburn on your nose, and he left with a bruised shoulder because you’d shoved him for smashing your castle.

From that day forward, he was your best friend — and you were his.

At six, he caught a wasp in a jar and left it on your windowsill “as a pet.” It was a particularly sweltering July afternoon, the kind where the air shimmered above the cobblestones and even the house-elves seemed too hot to scold you for tracking dirt inside. You’d been sulking on the floor of your bedroom, limbs sprawled dramatically across the cool marble tiles, bemoaning the injustice of being forbidden from visiting the lake because “pureblood children do not splash about like Muggles.” You had just begun a truly Oscar-worthy sigh when you heard the soft clink of glass outside your window. Curious, you padded over and peeked out, nose nearly pressed to the pane. There, sitting in the sunbeam on your windowsill, was a glass jam jar—still sticky with remnants of plum preserve. The lid had been punctured with haphazard holes, and inside it buzzed a single, very angry wasp. Pinned to the jar with a scrap of parchment and a glob of melted wax was a note. The handwriting was wobbly, but unmistakably his:

“I got you a pet. His name is Stingy. Don’t let him out. He’s got issues. —Theo”

You shrieked.

Your mother came running, wand drawn, thinking you'd been hexed or worse. But all she found was you, standing at the window with a jar in your trembling hands, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Theodore left what on your windowsill?”

“A wasp,” you squeaked, still unsure whether to be touched or horrified.

A moment later, you saw him down in his estate’s garden — shirt untucked, shorts ripped, dirt smeared across one cheek — grinning up at you like he’d just delivered a bouquet of roses. He waved. The grin widened. You didn’t wave back.

Instead, you brought the jar to dinner with you the next time the Notts visited. You set it in front of his place setting with all the dignity a six-year-old could muster and whispered, “He’s your problem now.” The wasp was long dead, of course. Theo looked at it solemnly for a moment, then leaned toward you and whispered, “You didn’t feed him.” You almost shoved your mashed potatoes in his face.

Just friends.

At nine, he dared you to climb the sycamore tree at the far end of your garden — and then pushed you off the lowest branch to see if you’d bounce. You didn’t. You landed on your left wrist with a sickening crunch that made your vision swim. He stared down at you, pale-faced and trembling, his earlier laughter dying on his lips.

“I didn’t think you’d actually fall,” he muttered, then knelt beside you, arms shaking as he helped you up. He didn’t call for the house-elf. He didn’t yell for help. He carried you the whole way back himself, his breath ragged in your ear, whispering apologies so frantic you couldn’t tell if he was more afraid of your pain than the inevitable scolding from his father that was about to come.

Just friends.

When your Hogwarts letters came, you were ten and inseparable — always found pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on your estate’s library floor, or curled up in window sills arguing about which constellation was the prettiest. You read potion books together, the same moment, eyes wide and breath caught. When September arrived, you sat side by side on the train, legs swinging and nerves burning, watching the countryside blur into dusk. You were sorted into Slytherin together. He smirked at you as you passed through the Sorting Hat, his eyes alight with mischief and something warmer, softer — something unspoken. You sat beside him at the long emerald-draped table that night, heart pounding, and when the noise of the Great Hall swelled too loud and the silverware felt too heavy in your hand, he nudged your knee with his and leaned in with a half-smile. “Don’t pass out. I’ll have to carry you again.” You rolled your eyes. But your fingers twitched beneath the tablecloth, brushing his. 

Just friends.

As the years passed, your friendship grew in quiet ways. It no longer lived in muddy knees and fake wars in the garden. No, it began to settle into something quieter. Something warmer. It was in the way he handed you a quill when yours broke during Transfiguration without needing to be asked. In the way you always remembered how he liked his tea — two sugars, no milk, even though he always insisted he hated sugar. You grew up together, side by side, inch by inch. Until one day, you stopped — stuck at a measly five-foot-two — while he just kept going, shooting past you. Shared detentions became less about mischief and more about the thrill of rebellion — the two of you sneaking out past curfew not to set traps or prank Gryffindors anymore, but to watch the stars from the Astronomy Tower, shoulders brushing, words soft and slow like the night itself. You'd lie on the cold stone floor with your robes draped like blankets and talk about things you were slowly beginning to understand — fear, pressure, family legacies, and what love might look like if it ever found you.

By third year, Theo had learned how to charm chocolate frogs to sing opera in the library. You nearly choked laughing. 

By fourth year, he’d started noticing girls. You noticed, too.

There was a shift in him — subtle, quiet, but impossible to miss when you knew him as well as you did. His eyes lingered a bit longer in the corridors, tracking the swish of skirts, the curve of a smile. Not brash like the other boys. No, Theo’s gaze was different — quiet, calculating, laced with curiosity and something almost wary, like he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be looking for. You tried not to pay attention. But you did. Of course you did. You watched him as he watched them. And you tried not to wonder if he’d ever look at you like that — with interest. With purpose. With anything other than the familiar softness of childhood comfort. You caught him once, staring at a girl from Beauxbatons during the Triwizard Tournament festivities. She had long, shimmering hair and laughter like bells. Theo’s expression had been unreadable, eyes half-lidded and lips pressed together in quiet observation. You didn’t know why it stung. That night, you tossed in your bed long after lights-out, staring at the emerald canopy above you like it might give you answers. It didn’t.

And then there was that Hogsmeade trip.

You remember the chill in the air that morning — how the wind bit at your cheeks as you tugged your scarf tighter, your gloved hand brushing his as you walked side by side down the sloped cobblestone road into the village. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t say anything either. You spent the afternoon as you always did — sharing a butterbeer, elbowing each other in Honeydukes over who got the last Acid Pop, squabbling over which quill looked the most pretentious in Scrivenshaft’s.

And then it happened. A boy from Ravenclaw — tall, with a sharp jaw and easy charm — stepped forward just as you were shifting your books in your arms. You recognized him from Arithmancy, always smiling, always one too-smooth compliment away from detention.

“Need a hand?” he asked, already reaching.

You hesitated for half a heartbeat, then handed over the topmost book with a quiet “Thanks.” He grinned. Theo stood to your left, silent. As the boy led the way toward the carriages, chatting easily, your eyes flicked back to Theo, who was walking silently by your side.

He wasn’t looking at the boy. He was looking at you. Expression unreadable. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his long black coat, shoulders drawn slightly in. His jaw was tense — not obviously, but enough that you noticed. Enough that it made your heart stutter.

But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t joke. Didn’t tease. Just walked next to you, watching you as someone else was at your other side. You waited for him to say something on the way back. A comment. A smirk. A jab at Ravenclaws and their “hero complexes.” Anything. But the silence stretched. So you said nothing, either. You didn’t talk about it. You never did.

By fifth year, games turned into dares. Not childish ones like “steal Filch’s keys” or “hex someone’s quill.” These were quieter, more dangerous. “Say nothing if you’re jealous.” “Don’t flinch when I touch you.”

Gentle teasing turned into long, lingering eye contact that made your stomach twist and your cheeks flush for reasons you didn’t care to name. The space between you thinned, became charged, electric — like something unspoken was constantly brushing against your skin.

You stayed up later than you should have. In the common room, on slow-burning nights when the fire had turned to embers and the world outside was dead quiet, you’d sprawl across the green velvet couch with your legs draped over Theo’s lap as you read. Sometimes, he’d pretend to be annoyed. Other times, he’d trace absentminded shapes onto your calf while studying. When he was tired, he’d tilt his head back against the cushions, long lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, and your foot would press lightly against his — not quite fully touching, but never far.

Your friend group had solidified by then. Blaise, ever the flirt, always had some girl wrapped around his finger — though he swore he was far too handsome to settle for just one. Pansy bounced between gossip and heartbreak, her eyes always darting to Draco even when her lips swore she was “over him.” Daphne played it cool — indifferent and unimpressed, until someone with strong cheekbones and terrible intentions caught her eye. And Draco... well, Draco had begun entertaining the idea of courtships, pureblood expectations trailing behind every glance he offered. They all noticed something between you and Theo.

Blaise would smirk at the way Theo’s hand rested casually on your knee, always just a little too long.  Pansy would make snide remarks like, “God, just kiss already,” and then roll her eyes when you both scoffed. Daphne said it once at breakfast, loud and plain as day: “They act like they’re married and don’t even realize it.” Draco, for the most part, didn’t say anything — just observed, cool and composed, his gaze flickering between the two of you like he was calculating something. Like he knew.

But you didn’t. Or maybe you pretended not to. That was easier, safer. Familiar.

“Are you two—?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“Come on, you practically finish each other’s—”

“We’re just friends.”

You both laughed. Every time. Like it was absurd. Like the very idea was hilarious. Like the thought had never once kept you awake at night. But it had.

Especially when Theo let his hand rest against the back of your neck during study group, warm and idle, like he didn’t realize what he was doing. Especially when you leaned over to show him a passage in your book and felt his breath on your collarbone. Especially when you saw him flirting — real, obvious flirting — with a girl from Ravenclaw at a party, all charm and smirking eyes, and you laughed too loudly at someone else’s joke just to pretend you didn’t notice. The truth lingered there, always — just beneath the surface of your ribcage, waiting to break free. But neither of you spoke it.

Just friends.

By sixth year, things weren’t so funny anymore.

Not when he was now a whole head taller and he never let you forget it, either. At the school library he’d smirk and lean against the nearest shelf while you dragged a ladder over just to reach a book he could easily pluck with one hand.

“Need help, you grumpy gnome?” he’d ask, eyebrow raised, full of mockery and affection.

You’d roll your eyes and scoff. But still, you let him get the book for you every time.

Not when your breath caught in your throat every time his fingers brushed your lower back in a crowded corridor and stayed there for one heartbeat too long. Not when his gaze lingered on your mouth during stupid, pointless arguments — eyes dark, unreadable, like he was daring you to say something. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d lose his restraint if you said the right word. But you never did. Neither of you did. Instead, he dated girls who weren’t you. Pretty ones, loud ones, polished ones with glossy hair and beautiful smiles. You watched them cling to his arm in the hallways, batting their lashes and whispering into his ear. He let them. He even smiled sometimes, soft and small. But the smiles never quite reached his eyes.You told yourself it didn’t bother you. That this was how things were meant to go. That it was normal. Expected from hormonal teens exploring love. So you let yourself fall, too — into half-hearted flings with boys who smelled like cologne and praise. Boys who told you you looked beautiful when you hadn’t tried. Boys who kissed you behind the tapestry near the Prefect’s Bathroom and pressed you up against cold stone walls with eager hands and promises you didn’t believe.

Your first kiss was with a boy named Callum. Warm lips. Too wet. Too fast. You didn’t feel a thing. You remember telling Theo about it — late one night, legs curled beneath you on the common room floor, the fireplace throwing gold across his cheekbones. He didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked slowly, nodded once, and reached over to pluck a Chocolate Frog from your stash like it was any other night.

“Did you like it?” he asked after a long pause, voice low and unreadable.

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the flames.

“It was... fine.”

When you asked him about his first kiss, he told you it was with a Hufflepuff named Eevee in a broom closet during a game of Truth or Dare. You’d laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you needed to. Because something in your chest twisted too tight at the image of it. She wasn’t the last. He had girlfriends. Some of them stuck around longer than others. You had boyfriends. Or flings. Or long, drawn-out mistakes. But the pattern was always the same. The stupid teenage love fights. The fading affection. The silence that followed.

And then — always — the comfort.

It was Theo who found you on the Astronomy Tower the night Callum told you that you were “a bit too cold for his taste.” You’d gone there to scream. Or cry. Or disappear. Instead, you found him leaning against the railing like he already knew you’d come. He didn’t ask questions. Just handed you a flask of pumpkin cider and stared up at the stars with you until the burn in your chest eased. It was you who knocked on his door the night Eevee dumped him for a Quidditch captain, claiming Theo was “too emotionally unavailable.” You sat beside him in silence while he drank hot chocolate out of a chipped mug and muttered about how feelings were overrated anyway. You wiped his tears when he didn’t realize he was crying. You held his hand under the table during breakfast the next day, hidden by the edge of the bench. None of your friends ever commented on it anymore. They just knew. That no matter who either of you kissed —No matter whose hand you held, no matter whose name you would mention — It was always Theo who walked you back to the dormitory when your head hurt and your patience wore thin. Always Theo who sat beside you in Potions and handed you your knife before you could even ask. Always Theo who noticed when your laugh wasn’t quite real, and who said nothing — just slid a chocolate bar onto your desk before class and looked the other way. It was him. Always him.

Just friends.

Toward the end of sixth year, things began to shift again — subtly at first, then all at once.

The pressure outside the castle walls was building. Whispers of war and disappearances. You all felt it. The tension in the air. The silence between classes. The way the professors began watching too closely and speaking too softly. The letters from home didn’t help — cryptic, urgent things from your families, warning you of family histories you were still too young to fully understand, but old enough to know you couldn’t ignore. So naturally, your friend group did what young, privileged, reckless and extremely sheltered Slytherin teenagers do when the world starts to feel like it’s cracking at the edges: You partied.

Not the kind of parties that ended with polite kisses and quiet laughter. No — these were wild, clandestine things hidden deep in the castle, behind abandoned classrooms and in forgotten corridors that smelled like dust and danger. The Slytherin common room became a haven after curfew, drenched in contraband Firewhisky, stolen weed, and various shrooms someone always managed to sneak out of Herbology under their robes. You’d sit on the velvet couches with a half-empty bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other, your legs swung over Theo’s lap like always — both of you high enough to forget the ache, drunk enough to laugh at things that weren’t funny. It was a new kind of thrill. A way to feel something. Or nothing.

You all craved distraction. And you found it — in drinks that burned too quickly, in spells cast sloppily, in the shadows of darkened rooms and the heat of someone else's hands. You were seventeen. The first time it happened — with someone who wasn’t Theo — it had been at one of those parties. A boy with a charming smile and a crooked jaw, whose name you barely remembered and whose touch never quite settled into your skin the way you thought it would. It was rushed. Clumsy. Forgettable. Afterwards, you sat on the edge of the bed and pulled your skirt back into place while he slept, your head foggy and your heart hollow. You never told Theo. Not really. But he must have known. He always knew.

And him?  He had his own moments. A new girl in Ravenclaw. Then a Hufflepuff with a thing for older boys. He’d return to the common room with his collar wrinkled and his smile sharp — like he was trying to prove something. To himself. To the other boys. To you. Blaise and Draco boasted the loudest, of course. Like it was a competition. Like sex was a rite of passage rather than a sacred, complicated, awkward thing. Theo joined in just enough to keep pace, tossing out smirks and one-liners that didn’t quite sit right in his mouth. You always rolled your eyes at him, your expression unreadable. And when the others talked openly — about who had done what with whom, about what they liked or didn’t — you always brushed it off with a dry smile and a shrug.

“Overrated,” you’d say.

It made them laugh. But not Theo. Theo would watch you quietly when you said things like that. Like he was trying to read between the words. Like he wanted to ask if it had meant anything. He never did. And you never told him how it really felt. How you laid in bed that night, staring at the canopy above you, feeling… nothing. Not dirty. Not broken. Not sad. Just… empty. Because you’d always imagined that moment differently — softer, quieter. With someone who made you laugh until your ribs ached. With someone who knew your favorite constellation and the exact way you took your tea. With someone who handed you chocolate on bad days and never let your silence go unnoticed. With Theo. But it wasn’t him. So you drank. You danced. You smoked. You played your part in the grand distraction of teenage rebellion while the world outside grew darker. The laughter became louder. The nights longer. The dares more dangerous.

But even in the chaos — in the smoke and the spells and the forbidden kisses — it was always Theo who found you when the party quieted and the ache returned. Theo, who tucked your hair behind your ear when your mascara smudged and pretended not to notice. Theo, who held your hair back when you threw up behind the Quidditch stands after too many drinks and handed you a stolen bottle of water with a quiet, “Idiot.” Theo, who helped you sneak back to your dorm and whispered, “You good?” in that low, rasped voice that always meant more than it sounded like.

Just friends.

Late Summer before year Seven. Your house. Empty. Quiet. Haunted.

Your parents were gone — flown off in the dead of night like shadows dissolving into deeper shadow — and so were Theo’s. Both families off to do the things Death Eaters did when they thought their children were old enough to be left behind. Old enough to fend for themselves. Old enough to understand what silence meant. Except you didn’t understand. Neither of you did. No one cared to explain, or no one dared. There were no long goodbyes, no answers — only the tremor in your father’s voice when he kissed your forehead too fast, the way Theo’s mother clutched his hand like she might not get to again. You could hear the fear in them, feel it coiled tight beneath their words, and it left you both too paralyzed not to listen. They gave no return date. Just a hushed goodbye, a stack of protective wards, and an order not to leave the manor grounds. So you didn’t. Neither of you did. For two weeks, it was just you and Theo. Two dark manors. Various dark rooms. Two cigarette boxes steadily emptied under skies that never felt light again.

You never asked why he came over that night. You didn’t have to. He showed up at your gates with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an unlit cigarette between his lips. You let him in without a word, just stepped aside, heart heavy and hands cold. And when night came, and the house began to feel too vast, too hollow, too still — you didn't even consider sleeping in your own bed. The shadows were too deep in your parents' absence. The corners too loud. Even the house-elves had begun moving differently, quieter, with soft, sad eyes that followed you down the halls. You found him on the balcony of the guest room, where the view stretched over moon-drenched gardens and perfectly polished stone. You didn’t speak at first. Just passed him a new cigarette, your fingers brushing his as he took it from your hand and lit it with a flick of his wand. It was your worst habit — something your other friends still did for fun, to look cool. But for you and Theo, it was different. It had become a ritual. A comfort. A shared vice in a world that kept demanding too much.

The smoke curled between your faces, silver ribbons twisting into the thick August night air. You leaned against the railing, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders — school, war, the mark on your forearm that had yet to be carved, but already burned in your blood. Neither of you laughed anymore. Not tonight. The conversation was slow. Muted. War. Obligation. Death. You spoke about the things you didn’t say to anyone else — the shadows you carried, the things that kept you up at night. What you were afraid of. What you couldn’t stop dreaming about. The moment you saw your father with blood on his sleeves and realized it hadn’t come from him. The way he looked at you like he wished you hadn’t seen. The moment Theo overheard something he wasn’t supposed to — whispered names, punishments, plans — and couldn’t forget the sound of someone screaming for mercy, the way it echoed in his ears for days. It wasn’t light conversation. It wasn’t gossip. It was real. Ugly. Twisted. You couldn’t fully grasp what was happening — how could you? Your families did their best to shelter you both from knowing too much. But you weren’t stupid. You weren’t children anymore. You could read between the lines. You could see the cracks in your parents’ facades, the fear beneath the orders. You didn’t know everything, but you knew enough. You knew it was bad.

When the cigarette burned low between his fingers, he flicked it off the balcony, watching as the ember spun through the dark like a dying star before vanishing into the garden below. His hand lingered in the air for a moment… then twitched. Just once. Like it wanted to do something — reach, touch, say what he couldn’t — but didn’t yet dare. And then… he said your name. Soft. Frayed. Like a warning. Or a question. You turned to him slowly. His eyes were tired. Bloodshot. Smoke-kissed. There was something fragile in them — something raw and unspeakable. His hand reached out, tentative, resting at the curve of your hip like it had every right to be there. Like it had always belonged there.

And then he kissed you. No hesitation. No smirk. No snide remark to follow. It was slow — achingly slow. A drag, not a spark. Warm, smoky and quiet. His lips tasted like tobacco and the kind of grief you didn’t talk about in daylight. His hand cupped the side of your jaw, gentle, reverent, like he wasn’t sure you were real. You didn’t pull away. You leaned in. Because this wasn’t like the others. This wasn’t messy or desperate. It wasn’t clumsy or rushed. It was honest. The air around you was thick with everything unspoken — years of glances, brushes, laughter turned hollow. All of it igniting between your mouths, breath and fire and need. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. He said nothing. Neither did you. You never spoke of it again. Not the kiss. Not the touch. Not the way your heart had stuttered in your chest like it wanted to break free from your ribs and press itself into his hands.

You stayed friends. Just friends. Because it was easier to stay quiet than to risk the ruin of what little comfort you still had.

Seventh year began.

A painful, unnatural thing — a year painted in false smiles and tight dresses, wild parties and louder laughter, all masking the dread clawing up your throat. You danced like everything was fine. You drank like the world wasn’t ending. You smoked more. Slept less. Your body began showing the signs. By winter, your reflection had thinned. Your long hair was gone, shorn to your shoulders on a whim you couldn’t explain. Something about feeling too heavy. Too soft. You’d watched the strands fall in the bathroom mirror with numb eyes and a blade in your hand. Theo said nothing about it. Not really. Just passed you a cigarette and lit it for you. His eyes lingered, though. Longer than they used to.

Christmas that year was a cold affair. Not in weather — the manor was spell-warmed, the fireplaces roaring, golden flames licking at logs stacked too perfectly. But in every other way, it was frigid. A small gathering — just your family and his. All stiff robes and colder smiles, Death Eaters trying to mimic holiday cheer like they hadn’t spent the past year cloaked in blood and secrets. Laughter sounded wrong. The wine was too red. You sat at the end of the table beside Theo, both of you silent, staring into the candlelight like maybe — just maybe — you could burn away the guilt growing beneath your skin. Your mother had over-baked the dessert. A blackened crust. Filling hardened into something between toffee and tar. She served it anyway, and nobody commented. Not even Theo. No one had the heart to point out the obvious flaw, too busy picking at their plates with quiet detachment, eyes flickering with things they couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t. The air was suffocating — names not mentioned, events not acknowledged. You were both dressed in your finest, but your eyes were tired, your posture slumped. The candlelight only deepened the shadows under your eyes. It felt colder than it should’ve. You felt duller. Like something inside you had hollowed out to make room for fear. For the weight of everything unspoken. You hadn’t heard from some of your cousins in weeks. Your uncle’s name had been whispered in one of those horrible letters that arrived in the dead of night — the kind your parents never read aloud, only burned. Next to you, Theo didn’t touch his food. Just held his glass loosely in one hand, his jaw tight, his eyes even tighter. His thigh pressed lightly against yours under the table, an anchor in a sea of ice. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You were both waiting for the storm to break — and trying, in the quiet between bites, not to shatter first. After dinner, presents were exchanged in a strained attempt to soften the air. Brightly wrapped boxes appeared under the flickering lights of the drawing room — gold foil, emerald ribbons, all perfectly tied. You watched as your mother handed Theo a silver pocket watch engraved with runes, her smile too wide, her hands too pale. His father gifted you a jeweled hairpin, something old and ornate, set with a blood-red stone in darkened silver. Delicate. Sharp. Useless. The gifts were expensive. Carefully selected. Nothing was done halfway in your world — not even in times of looming dread. But they were unnecessary, irrelevant things. Symbols of a normalcy that no longer existed. Still, you and Theo were polite. Practiced. You murmured soft “thank you's” and offered faint smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. He rested his hand on your lower back as you said your thanks and you mirrored the gesture later as he nodded his way through a compliment about the watch’s engraving. It was theater. Every movement rehearsed. Every breath strained. Your families tried. You could give them that. They did their best to pretend, to shield you both with tradition and false warmth, with gifts and crackers and familiar carols playing quietly from the phonograph in the corner. But the cracks were showing. You could feel it — the unraveling. The way your parents glanced toward the windows too often. The way Theo’s mother fidgeted with her rings. The way none of them mentioned what was happening just beyond the wards. As if silence could keep it all at bay. But you and Theo knew better. You accepted the gifts. You smiled, you played along, because it was easier than breaking. Because it was Christmas. And because pretending — even for one night — was all anyone had left.

Later that night, in a house too dark and too quiet, you found yourself in your room. But this time, there was silence. You sat across from each other on the edge of his mattress, shoulders barely touching, shadows flickering from the hearth across his jaw.

“I have something for you,” you said softly, reaching into the folds of your robe and pulling out a small velvet pouch.

Theo raised an eyebrow, but took it without question. When he tipped the contents into his palm, a ring rolled into his fingers — smooth, darkened silver, cool to the touch. His initials were engraved on the outside, delicate and precise.

He turned it slowly between his fingers. “You got me a ring,” he said, voice unreadable.

You shrugged. “I know you always lose things…don’t you dare lose this too.”

He huffed a laugh, but it was warm. He slid it onto his finger without hesitation. “Fits perfectly.”

Your throat tightened. “I measured your finger while you were asleep last month.”

Theo’s smile faltered — just a little. But something gentler took its place in his eyes. “You’re insane.”

You smiled. “You’re welcome.”

A beat of silence. A shift in the air.

Then he stood up, walked across the room, and pulled something from his own discarded robe. A small black box, no ribbon, no card. Just a quiet offering. He held it out to you.

Inside was a silver necklace — a fine chain and a charm shaped like a safety pin. But wrapped tightly around it was a delicate serpent, fangs bared, emerald eyes glinting like secrets.

“It reminded me of you,” he murmured, voice low. “Sharp. Clever. Dangerous when necessary.”

You said nothing — just turned, lifted your hair, and let him clasp it around your neck. His fingers lingered, not just to fasten it, but to feel you. The slope of your neck. The warmth of your skin. The quiet, steady beat of your pulse beneath his touch. His lips hovered there for a second. Then touched. A soft, slow kiss at the base of your throat — not rushed, not greedy, but full of something tender and dangerous and unspoken. You turned to face him and he looked at you like he didn’t know where to begin. Or maybe like he already had began in his mind. You reached for him, pulling him in by the hem of his shirt. He didn’t speak. Just leaned down, laying you gently across the mattress, pressing his lips to yours again — slow, deep, meaningful. The kind of kiss that trembled with everything you were both too afraid to say. Your fingers slid over the warm skin of his back as his shirt hit the floor. Yours was halfway undone, the clasp of your bra slack, the necklace still gleaming between your collarbones. His hands traced your waist. Yours tangled in his hair. Breathing unsteady. Kisses turning more urgent. But you didn’t go further. Not yet — not because you didn’t want to, but because the moment never gave you a chance.

Because just then, voices rose from the corridor beyond the bedroom door. Muffled at first. Then clearer. Sharper. Urgent. Your name. His. Whispers of the unthinkable. Turning you into Death Eaters. Marrying you off to each other. Hiding you away — to protect you, to save face, to give you a chance of survival. They spoke of it like strategy, not lives. Like your bodies were pieces on a board. Two heirs. Two bloodlines. Two names too valuable to risk. The proposal wasn’t romantic. It was cold. Practical. Transactional. There was too much to lose — the shared business, the old money, the ancient reputations so carefully kept intact. If the world crumbled, you had to be kept safe. Together. Away. Somewhere nobody could touch you. Behind the thick oak doors, your mothers argued with your fathers — voices rising, brittle and desperate.

“They deserve to know!” his mother snapped, sharp with grief already blooming beneath her stern voice.

“They’re not ready,” your father bit back, voice low, tight with the kind of fear he never let you see.

“Then make them ready!” your mother had hissed — and it stopped you cold. She never argued with him. Never raised her voice. Not like that.Her words trembled on the edge of panic. “Or do you want the shock to kill them if we don’t make it back?”

A sharp bang followed — Theodore’s father slamming his glass down, his voice rising over all of them.

“Nobody is dying.”

Silence. Sudden. Staggering. As if, all at once, they realized you and Theo could hear everything. As if your names had been spoken too loudly. As if the truth had bled too far. The silence that followed was louder than the shouting had been. A silence that said what none of them would admit out loud: They didn’t expect to survive.

Your body went cold beneath him, every nerve taut. Your fingernails dug into his bare chest as he sat frozen above you, his jaw clenched, his muscular arms flexing with either fury, fear — or both.

You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

The rest of the night was silent. The air too still. The fire burned low in the hearth, the shadows long and unforgiving. You curled into his side, shivering despite the heat of his skin. He held you. Kept his arms wrapped tightly around you as you cried into his chest — quietly, steadily, until sleep took you both like a mercy. From that night on, you never spoke of it. But he always wore the ring you gave him, like it anchored him to something. And you — you never took off that necklace. Like it might protect you from a world that had stopped making sense. Like it might remind you that for one moment in time… you were his.

Just friends.

March. Your eighteenth birthday.

A blur of green lighting, music thumping through the common room walls, and Firewhisky burning a path down your throat like it was trying to cauterize the ache in your chest. Everyone was there — Blaise with some girl on his lap, Pansy dancing barefoot on a table, Draco brooding with a drink in one hand and a sharp grin on his face. Theo didn’t leave your side all night. He watched you with unreadable eyes as you laughed too loud, danced too close, leaned into someone else's touch just long enough to make him angry. When the party finally thinned, and the halls emptied of smoke and song, you pulled him into your room without a word. And this time— This time you didn’t stop.

You kissed him hard, your hands yanking him toward you like you were starved. His shirt was gone in seconds. Yours followed. Your back hit the mattress with a thud, and the rest was heat and whispered curses. Raw. Lust-filled. Unapologetic. His name fell from your lips like a sin. Yours left his like a promise he never got to keep. It was the kind of night that could've changed everything. But it didn’t. Because the next morning, you woke up tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, and he was already pulling his shirt back over his head. Already avoiding your eyes. Already retreating behind that same careful silence.

Your friends teased, of course.

“Oh, they’re at it again.”

“Just make it official already.”

You both laughed it off. He smirked like he wasn’t dying. You rolled your eyes like you didn’t care.

Just friends.

But by the time the final term rolled around, everyone knew what you were. A twisted kind of constant. A pattern. A secret with no secrecy left.

Oh, they just fuck.

That’s what they said now. Not with venom. Not with judgment. Just... with a shrug. As if that explained all the nights you spent in his bed, half-clothed and quiet. As if that explained the way his hands found your hips like they belonged there. As if that explained why neither of you could look at each other for too long in the daylight. Just sex. Just lust fueled from fear and frustration. Just friends. And yet, sometimes — when your lips met his in the dark, and your hands clutched the back of his neck like it was the only thing keeping you secure — it felt like something more. Something that could wreck you. But you never said it. Neither did he. As if speaking it would make it too real. As if the fragile, unspoken thing between you would shatter under the weight of honesty. Because that was the one rule you never broke. Don’t call it love. Don’t make it love. As if you were afraid — terrified — of ruining what had always kept you tethered. The friendship. The shared childhood. The years of unfiltered existence. The quiet comfort of someone who knew you before the world got to you.

By the end of that final year, the harsh reality of life got to you both. Your sheltered upbringings cracked like porcelain dropped on stone. No amount of wealth, no inherited status, no pureblood pride could shield you from the way war hollowed people out and left nothing but ruin behind.

Theo’s mother — Gone. Just… gone. No body. No explanation. One day there, the next, a missing name whispered behind locked doors. The Nott estate hung a black veil over its gates, and no funeral was ever held. There was no point. Grief like that was wordless — just cold halls, two untouched teacups and a father who stopped speaking altogether. Lord Nott, once sharp and cruel with his lectures, had gone fully nonverbal. Not by curse — but by choice. As if silence was the only form of control he had left.

Your father — alive, yes. Barely. He came back from that damned mission, but not the same man who had tucked you into bed with stories about ancient magic and told you to always think three steps ahead. His body was broken beyond recognition. The medics didn’t let you see him at first. They said it would be “too distressing.” Eventually, you did. And they were right. He was unrecognizable. Wheelchair-bound. Spine bent at an unnatural angle. One leg gone from the knee down. His wand hand — once so steady, so sure — was now a twisted, useless claw curled permanently against his chest. His face was gaunt and pale, skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones. Scars like lightning bolts slashed down his neck. His eyes were sunken and wild. You remembered staring at him in silence, unable to move. Because he terrified you. Not in the way an enemy would. But in the way a nightmare does when it looks like someone you love wearing the wrong skin. A ghost in a body that wasn’t built to hold him anymore. He couldn’t speak at first — not from any injury to his throat, but from shock. From trauma that settled into his bones and refused to leave. And when he finally did speak again, his voice was rough. Short. Cold. Barked orders and fragmented thoughts. No longer your clever, strategic father — the man who once gently corrected your spellwork and taught you how to read people like books — but something else entirely. A man stitched together from grief and pain. A shadow with too many memories and too little future. Your mother — still healing from her own wounds — became his nurse. She rose with the sun and fell asleep in chairs beside his bed, hands blistered from potion bottles and bandages. She stopped wearing jewelry. Stopped painting her nails. Her posture slumped. Her laugh disappeared. She aged years in mere months — not from time, but from the weight of it all.

You heard her crying once, through the door of the grand kitchen. Quiet. Shaking. Then silence. Then the kettle boiling like nothing had happened. You stayed away from your parents' room as much as you could. And hated yourself for it. But every time you looked at him… you didn’t see your father. You saw what war did.

Your mothers had been right that Christmas. The fear in their voices, the tension in the way their hands had trembled as they poured wine and tried to smile — it had all been true. They had known what was coming. And still, no one prepared you.There were no instructions. No easing in. You and Theo were thrown into it — contracts, vaults, magical properties, shared estates, heirlooms, taxes, infernal negotiations with families older than stone. The joint businesses, the web of wealth spun between your last names, all fell into your hands. You were expected to just know — to manage, to lead, to represent, to preserve legacies that were already falling apart. You had to learn everything in a matter of days. Not weeks. Not months. And you did. So did he. Because what other choice was there? You were no longer just students. You were heirs to something crumbling. You were survivors of something that never truly ended.

Theo, who once smirked during Potions and drew obscene doodles in the margins of your notes, now wore tailored suits and pinched the bridge of his nose over budget ledgers. You, who used to skip class to nap in the sun, now read estate law by candlelight and signed contracts that made your stomach turn. Shared business. Shared history. Shared ruin. And yet, in the quiet, in the moments between meetings and estate visits and painfully public galas, you still found each other.

At night, when you thought everyone was asleep and the world had gone quiet, you’d meet in the corners of your decaying privilege. His study. Your greenhouse. The stables at the Greengrass estate during a black-tie engagement party neither of you wanted to be at. You’d find each other in the dark. A familiar rhythm. The same kiss. The same desperate hands. The same way your body knew his, like you’d been made for this, even if you never got to officially claim it. It wasn’t passion anymore — not really. It was survival. Because without it — without him — you weren’t sure you’d still be standing. School officially ended. Graduation came and went without you. While your classmates celebrated the start of a new life, you were already buried in the old one.

As the months rolled on, it began to change you. Not just inside — not just the fatigue, the sleeplessness, the weight of responsibility. But outside too. Theo grew leaner, his sharpness no longer boyish but sculpted by loss. His stubble always present now — not because he was trying to impress anyone, but because he didn’t have the energy to care. And you —You’d grown colder. Still beautiful, but distant. Your fingers slender and always stained with ink, your voice quieter, but never unsure.You moved like a woman who knew how to survive. Together, you navigated endless meetings; estate conflicts and public appearances — always seated side by side, always quietly aligned. Like a married couple. Like a power duo. Like something real, even if it wasn’t.

You’d been in the Nott estate office for hours. Stacks of parchment, ink-smudged records, bloodline documentation, contracts, estate transfers — all tangled up in the web of shared legacy that neither of you had asked for, but now had to untangle. The windows were drawn. A single lamp flickered, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. Above you, the yelling started again. Theodore’s father — a once dignified, articulate man — now reduced to ghostlike fury, roared behind closed doors. You could hear him stumbling, the scrape of wood against stone, a loud crash as something shattered. And then again — cries. Muffled, broken. You couldn’t tell if they were from pain, grief, or madness anymore. You and Theo had long stopped reacting to it. You sat across from each other, bent over opposite ends of the desk, searching desperately for one specific scroll that had vanished in the chaos. Your hands trembled. Theo’s jaw was tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The silence was heavy. Suffocating.

“You filed it wrong,” he snapped finally, voice low but sharp.

You looked up, exhaustion fraying your edges. “I didn’t. I double-checked. It’s not here.”

“It has to be,” he growled, standing abruptly. “We can’t afford to lose this one. Not this one.”

You stood too. “Don’t raise your voice at me, Theodore. I’m trying just as hard as you.”

His hand slammed against the desk, papers jumping in every direction. “It’s not enough!”

Something cracked. Not the desk. Not the lamp. You. He moved opposite you, towering over your frame, the air between you tense and buzzing. His shoulders squared, jaw clenched, anger etched into every sharp angle of his face — but it wasn’t just anger. It was everything. Grief. Pressure. The unbearable weight of inheritance and expectation pressing down on both of you.

“You think I don’t know that?” you hissed. “You think I’m not drowning too?”

The silence that followed was dangerous. Alive.

Then, in one breathless movement, Theo swept the remaining papers off the desk with a furious snarl, grabbed your waist, and shoved you back against the polished wood. His hand gripped your neck — not harsh, but firm — his breath hot against your ear as he rasped, “Fuck you.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, voice low, steady. “Do it then, bastard. Fuck me.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed into yours — hard, hungry, desperate. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. But it was real. Raw. You kissed him back with equal force, hands fisting in his collar, dragging him closer as his hips pressed into yours. A clash of teeth and tongues, of fury and grief and longing. Hushed gasps. Scraped sighs. You clawed at his back like it might anchor you to the moment, to something that still made sense — leaving angry red streaks in your wake, some broken just enough to draw blood. His hand slid under your shirt. Yours tangled in his hair. You didn’t care about the desk. The office. The yelling upstairs. For a few stolen minutes, there was nothing but heat — the ache of needing to forget, the need to feel alive, to release anger, if only briefly. And when it ended — when your breaths slowed and your foreheads rested together — you didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Didn’t explain. You simply slid off the desk, tugging your oversized shirt back over your shoulder, smoothing the hem of your loose shorts with trembling hands. Then, wordlessly, you began collecting the papers scattered across the floor. Theo helped, running a hand through his disheveled hair, jaw set and unreadable. Neither of you looked at each other. You smoothed out a torn contract. He re-inked the title line. And you went back to work. The marks you left on his back stayed for weeks — angry, raw reminders of a moment you both refused to speak of. You tended to them in silence, dabbing salve over the scabs with careful hands. Theo never complained, even when the pain made him wince. He just sat still, jaw clenched, as if he needed to feel the sting, to feel something.

People whispered. They always did.

“They’re perfect together.”

“They run their families like they were born for it.”

“They have to be together, right?”

But they didn’t know. They didn’t know how you’d sign the last page of a treaty with your hand trembling and Theo would place his fingers over yours — just for a second — to steady you. How you’d brush against each other on the gala stairs and both flinch, as if the touch was too much. They didn’t know about the arguments behind closed doors, the way grief twisted everything tight. Didn’t see you both unravel — trying to keep up with legacies you were never meant to carry alone.Didn’t see the way your fathers now sat silently in the shared manor farm’s garden, side by side — your father’s hands gnarled and motionless in his lap, Theo’s father pushing the wheelchair in slow, stiff silence during their mandatory daily walks. Didn’t see your mother smoking alone at dusk beside the grave of Theo’s mother — a grave with no body. Just a stone. Just a name. You were still just friends. Still clinging to the label like it might save you. Not because you didn’t want to call it love anymore — but because now, you couldn’t. There was no time. No energy. No room left for soft words and safe confessions. Not with everything else you were carrying.

The peace after the storm came three years later.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Not all at once. It came slowly, like the way bruises fade — inch by inch, color by color, until one day you looked in the mirror and realized the ache was gone, but you still remembered exactly how it felt. You and Theo had learned to breathe again. Not deeply. Not freely. But enough. Enough to survive the meetings. Enough to sleep for more than four hours. Enough to stop jumping when owls arrived unexpectedly. Enough to function in the daylight, to keep your voices steady, to hold a quill without shaking. You were still sleeping in your own homes with your parents, still tethered to the ruins of what had been. But more often than not, you found each other in Theo’s bed — not for passion, not for pleasure, but for stillness. For warmth. For something close to peace. Just holding each other in silence, hearts beating like stubborn clocks in the dark. One morning, you had walked alongside your fathers in the garden. Slowly. Carefully. You had finally gathered the courage — or maybe just the numbness — to stomach the way they looked now. His father guiding your father’s wheelchair, both silent as ghosts, eyes cast low like men already half-buried. It was there that his father first openly pitched the idea of marriage to both of you. Not as a romantic gesture. Not even as protection anymore. But as necessity. Politics. Legacy. A tie to keep everything standing. Theo hadn’t said you were just friends. He hadn’t said no. He had only said, flatly, “There’s no time.”

And your father — your once-sharp, untouchable father — had started crying. Not loud. Just quietly. Shamefully. Because he couldn’t walk you down the aisle without assistance. Because he couldn’t hold a wand. Because he was no longer the man you had looked up to with such blinding pride. You had clutched Theo’s hand so tightly his fingers had gone pale. He hadn’t let go. That same night, you had sat outside in the old tree — the one he’d pushed you from years ago. The bark still scraped. The branches still high. The memory still vivid. You didn’t speak. You just sat in the crook of the trunk, a cigarette burning slow between your fingers, staring out into the dark, and wishing everything would stop spinning — just for a while. Theo had climbed up beside you like he always did, the wood creaking under his weight. And without a word, he’d pulled you gently against his side, his arm wrapping around your back with the kind of ease only years could grant. His lips found your temple — soft, gentle — and he whispered something quiet into your ear. You didn’t catch all of it. You didn’t need to. It was the tone that mattered — low, steady, like an anchor dropped into stormy water. You leaned into him, resting your head beneath his chin, letting the smoke curl upward as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your spine. For a moment, nothing hurt. For a moment, the world stood still.

One summer afternoon, an owl arrived. You were in Theo’s study, both of you hunched over estate plans in silence, the kind of quiet that had become second nature — not hostile, just heavy. The open window let in the distant hum of cicadas and the faint scent of warm stone. The owl cut through it all with a sharp flap of wings, landing on the back of Theo’s chair with practiced ease. You blinked, reaching for the parchment tied to its leg. Pansy’s handwriting. Flowing. Delicate. Dramatic. A vacation. Her beach villa. Two weeks. Sun, sand, alcohol, “and absolutely no business, darling.”

Around you, life had kept moving — faster than either of you could follow. The Malfoys had escaped the war with little more than scratches and enough gold to polish their name clean. Draco had expressed interest in Daphne’s sister Astoria, fallen in love, and now they were expecting their first child as a married couple — a picture-perfect future handed to them on a silver spoon. Pansy had found love in Blaise, of all people, and last you heard, they’d gotten engaged. Daphne had vanished off to some far land, buried in magical research and ancient libraries, sending the occasional vague postcard with too much sun and too few words. Everyone had moved on.Except for you two. You’d declined nearly every group invitation over the years. Some never even reached you anymore. The others came wrapped in awkward politeness — sympathy laced into the phrasing, like everyone knew but no one wanted to say it aloud. Everyone knew your situation. They whispered it behind their hands at galas and in footnotes of society columns: the heirs who stayed behind. The children who became the legacy. Only Pansy had stayed in contact properly. Owls passed between you — sometimes short and sweet, sometimes long and rambling. She never pushed, just reminded you that she was still there. Still waiting. But you’d never gone. Never had the time. Never had the energy to pretend you were whole enough to relax. Until now.

“Is this… a joke?” Theo asked eventually, voice low and flat.

You didn’t answer. Just folded the parchment once more and placed it on the desk between you like it might detonate. A vacation. A real vacation. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had one. No duties. No legacy. No headlines. No contracts. No whispered condolences. No tense galas. No black robes or uncomfortable meetings. Just… escape. It felt foreign. Unreal. Irresponsible. And still —Still, a part of you ached for it. Not the beach. Not the cocktails. Not the idea of rest. But the idea of being you again. Not your name. Not your family’s. Just you. Theo leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, and exhaled slowly. You watched the way his jaw flexed, the way his shirt clung to his collarbones, the way exhaustion lived in his body like a second soul. The silence stretched, heavy and careful, like all things between you. You reached for the letter again, scanning it once more.

 “Two weeks,” you said quietly, setting it back down. “We’d be off the grid. No meetings. No correspondence. No expectations.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. 

“It’s impractical,” he muttered. “We have three estate reports due. I still need to finalize the imports for—”

“We can delegate,” you interrupted, calm. “Take the work with us if we must. But I think—” You exhaled slowly. “I think we need the distance. From all of this.”

You gestured vaguely to the desk, the stacks of parchment, the endless flow of sealed envelopes. Theo didn’t respond immediately. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on a dark spot in the wooden grain of the desk. Then, finally, his gaze met yours.

“We go,” he said. “Just a few days. Nothing excessive.”

“Fine,” you agreed with a slight nod. “I’ll write back.”

No smiles. No jokes. No laughter. Just two people who had grown used to survival. Two people who made decisions like allies, like business partners. Because that's what you did. You endured. Together. 

The vacation came. And for the first two days, neither of you knew what to do with it. You arrived late in the afternoon — salt in the air, the light golden and low, the villa glowing with warm sandstone and the sound of distant waves crashing against the cliffs. It was almost too beautiful. Artificial. Like stepping into a memory you didn’t belong in. Pansy greeted you at the door, her hair twisted into a silk scarf, her grin wide and bright, a new engagement ring on her finger gleaming like a spotlight. Blaise was behind her, hand resting lazily on her waist. He smirked and said something about you two looking “as thrilled as a pair of accountants at a rave.” You didn’t laugh. Theo didn’t either.

Inside, the villa pulsed with sun and music — warm and alive in a way that felt almost foreign. Draco was already lounging shirtless by the pool, sunglasses perched on his nose, one hand lazily stroking the curve of Astoria’s very obviously pregnant belly. She looked radiant, her skin kissed golden by the sun, her laughter ringing out as she tipped her head back at something he whispered. Around them, their friends glowed with the same ease — pleasant tans, light clothes, relaxed smiles. Like the war had never touched them. You and Theo looked like ghosts. Pale. Drawn. Unseasoned by joy. You'd packed three swimsuits, but couldn’t bring yourself to put any of them the first day. You’d grown so slender in recent months that your reflection no longer felt like your own. Your body — once yours, once familiar — now felt like something borrowed and worn thin. You stood in front of the mirror too long. Silent. Theo noticed. He always did.

“It was your idea,” he muttered later, tension clipped into his voice as he stood in the shared bedroom of the villa. “You’re the one who said we needed this.”

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you replied, equally quiet. Defensive. “Like we don’t belong here anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick. Neither of you moved. It wasn’t really about swimsuits. Or sunlight. Or laughter.  It was about what you’d become — and how far you’d drifted from your friends. Then, without a word, Theo stepped behind you. His arms slipped around your waist, pulling you gently back into him. You felt his lips brush the side of your head as he whispered, “You worry too much.”

A pause.

“You’ve always been gorgeous.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You just leaned into him, letting the words settle between the two of you like something fragile.

That same night, after a dinner that felt more like a performance than a meal, you sat curled up with a book in your lap — not reading, not even pretending to. Your fingers gripped the spine too tightly, knuckles white. The pages didn’t turn. Theo was nearby, sprawled on the adjacent chair, one arm draped lazily along the back. His eyes weren’t on you. They were locked on the horizon, sharp and quiet, like he was daring it to say something. Dinner had started innocently enough. Pansy had tried — really tried — to keep things light, even as she sipped from her wine glass with the telltale smirk of someone trying to pull threads back together.

“So,” she began, eyes flicking between you and Theo across the candlelit table, “What finally dragged you two out of your cave? Don’t tell me it was the promise of tan lines and mocktails.”

Theo didn’t smile. Neither did you. It was Blaise who chuckled into his drink.

Pansy tried again. “Still just messing around like you were at Hogwarts? Or did one of you finally grow up and confess something real?”

You had managed a dry, noncommittal smile. Theo stabbed his food with a bit more force than necessary, the clink of silverware sharp in the quiet.

“No time for discussing feelings,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his plate. “Too much work.”

You didn’t argue. You just nodded, barely. Silently agreeing.

Then, after a pause, he added, quieter this time — as if it mattered more than he wanted to admit — “But we’re still close.”

Pansy didn’t push. Nobody did. Then Draco — in a tone too casual to be careless — leaned forward slightly and asked, “How are your families?”

The question hit like a slap. Sharp. Unwelcome. Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers clenched tighter around your fork. Heat flared in your chest — not anger, but something more bitter, more helpless. Like a scream trapped behind your ribs. Your hand slid under the table, gripping Theo’s thigh through his shorts. Your long nails dug in, leaving harsh, red crescents in his skin. A warning. A plea. He didn’t flinch. His hand covered yours — warm, relaxing. He gave it the faintest squeeze, thumb brushing your knuckles once, then said quietly, with no elaboration: “Better.”

That one word hung in the air. Final. Clipped. Uninviting. The conversation moved on, awkwardly, stumbling into safer territory. Someone laughed a little too loudly. The subject shifted to the weather today being unbearably hot, then to Astoria’s pregnancy, and then — mercifully — to dessert. You didn’t mind Draco. You liked him, even. He’d been a close friend for years. But the question — innocent or not — had sliced right through what little armor you still had left. If Theo hadn’t spoken first, you weren’t sure what might’ve come out of your mouth. And so later, when the moon was high and most of the others had wandered off to their rooms or the beach, you sat outside together in a comfortable silence that wasn’t really comfortable at all. Just familiar. The book lay unopened in your lap. Theo’s jaw was tight as he stared at the sea. No one joined you. No one interrupted. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t judgment. It was just... distance. The kind you grow used to when you’ve lived too long behind walls no one else knows how to climb.

Day two bled into heat and salt and sun. The others were scattered — Blaise and Pansy off snorkeling somewhere beyond the rocks, their laughter occasionally echoing over the waves. Draco was seated under a shaded umbrella, massaging Astoria’s swollen ankles with surprising tenderness, the two of them tucked into their own quiet world. Theo had gone for a run. His body moved like he was chasing something — or maybe trying to outrun it. Every flex of his shoulders caught the light like marble. He’d shaved — the first time in what felt like months — and the sharpness of his jaw, no longer hidden beneath stubble, made something unfamiliar twist in your stomach. You’d gone to grab a brush from the bathroom that morning, pausing in the doorway for a heartbeat too long. He stood by the sink, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling around him, his movements precise, methodical. The aftershave he wore — the one you’d given him for his last birthday — lingered in the air, fresh and clean and far too rare. He barely used it. There was never time. You stepped closer, silently, meeting his reflection in the mirror as your fingers brushed the edge of the counter. Then, without a word, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his jaw — soft, fleeting, almost questioning.

“Smells good,” you mumbled against his skin, the words barely audible but thick with meaning.

His hand paused mid-motion. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one tugged at the corner of his mouth. Almost. But not quite.

His hair, damp from an earlier swim, was slicked back, a few strands falling forward as he ran. You sat on a sun-warmed rock a few meters away, hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, Theo’s shirt draped over your swimsuit. You’d burned yesterday — badly — and now his button-down protected your flushed skin. You weren’t reading. You weren’t doing anything, really. Just staring. Watching him like it was the first time you’d allowed yourself to see him. Something in your chest thudded — quiet but impossible to ignore. He caught your gaze mid-stride, his expression softening in the way it always did when it was just you. And then he waved, slowing as he jogged toward you, his breath steady, lips slightly parted. You didn’t wave back. Not yet. You just kept watching him come closer, wondering, without meaning to, what you both could have been if the timing had been right for once.

By day three, something shifted.

It was small. Barely there. You were eating breakfast outside on the patio, legs pulled beneath you, a cup of bitter espresso growing cold beside your plate. Theo sat across from you, hair damp from a morning swim, shirt wrinkled from a night spent tossing.

He looked up from his plate, brow raised at your silence, and muttered, “If you frown at that book any harder, you’re going to scare the author out of retirement.”

You blinked. Then laughed — surprised by the sound of it, startled by the sudden lightness. The rest of the group went quiet. Pansy’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Draco raised an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. Blaise shot Theo a look and smirked. It was subtle, but the reaction was there — like they’d just seen a ghost exhale. No one said anything. Not out loud. Theo didn’t smile exactly, but his eyes softened as he looked at you. That same night, the two of you went for a walk on the beach. It was quiet. A silence neither heavy nor awkward — just there, between footsteps on wet sand and the sound of distant waves. His hand found yours as naturally as breathing. Your summer dress swayed softly with the breeze, the silver serpent necklace still resting cool against your collarbone. He was still wearing the ring. The one you’d given him. It was duller now, a few new scratches cutting through the initials — but he wore it. Always. After a while, Theo glanced at you and muttered,

 “This whole thing’s... not too bad.”

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting.

“No,” you murmured. “It’s not.”

You both stopped near the dunes, where the sand was still warm underfoot. The moon cast a pale glow across the waves.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter.

You didn’t reply — not in words. Instead, you stepped closer, let your head rest lightly against his shoulder as you both sat down. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. You just let his arm wrap around you while you stared out at the sea.

By day four, he threw you into the pool.

You were in the middle of drying your legs in the sun, sunglasses perched on your nose, a rare moment of ease softening your expression. He walked past casually. Paused. Looked down at you. And without warning, without ceremony, scooped you up and launched you into the water. You came up gasping, hair stuck to your cheeks, laughing through a stream of curses. He dove in after you. You splashed him. He dunked you. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was familiar — messy, chaotic, joyful. Like a version of yourselves you’d buried beneath duty and grief. A life before the war, before bloodlines and business, before everything became sharp-edged and quiet.

Blaise had laughed from a deck chair, calling the others out to watch the chaos unfold. “Merlin, they’re alive!” he shouted, grinning like it was the most surprising thing he’d seen all summer.

You managed to climb on Theo's shoulders with pure, stubborn determination, shrieking as you tried to dunk him beneath the water. He grabbed your waist and threw you off again, the splash echoing through the courtyard. But you didn’t go down quietly. You surfaced with a wicked grin, swam up behind him, and yanked his shorts down under the water with a triumphant snort. His bark of laughter turned into a string of curses muffled by your laughter. You gave him the finger, tongue stuck out like a smug child, and climbed out of the pool victorious — dripping wet and absolutely unbothered.

The deadline you gave yourselves — “just a few days” — blurred. Stretched. By the end of the week, you weren’t keeping track of time anymore. Theo spent less time staring into the distance, more time beside you. You weren’t clinging to your book anymore — sometimes it sat forgotten beside a half-drunk glass of wine, your head tipped toward the sun. There were moments now. Small ones. Soft ones. Moments where he laughed without bitterness. Where you smiled without flinching. Where the two of you shared silence without the weight of the past pressing on your chests. You still didn’t talk about what you were. But for once, you weren’t pretending. Not lovers. Not friends. Just two people breathing for the first time in years. Most nights, you’d lay in bed beside each other, sharing lazy, hushed conversations. About everything and nothing. Estate renovations you’d never actually start. Which room had the best light for tea in the morning. The dumb things Blaise said. The even dumber things you two had done as teens. You’d fall asleep mid-sentence sometimes, smiles lingering. After the others went to bed, you always slipped away together for a walk. It became a habit neither of you named — just something that felt necessary. You’d walk along the quiet shore, or wander through the villa grounds barefoot, whispering under the stars. One evening, after Theo joked about throwing you into the sea if you had kept teasing him, you playfully elbowed him and muttered that you’d haunt him in his bath forever if he did. He had chuckled, said “worth it,” and then, with a strange kind of quiet certainty, leaned in and kissed you — soft, slow, nothing like the other times. Theo started waking you early, just after sunrise. He’d tug you from bed with a grumble of “come on, lazybones” and force you to join him for morning workouts. You hated them. You were horrible at most of the exercises he showed you — uncoordinated, sleepy, constantly complaining. But you always outran him. Every time. Barefoot, laughing, hair tangled in the wind, leaving him behind on the sand while he cursed after you with a grin. One morning over breakfast, you found yourself in an unusually animated conversation with the girls. Astoria talked about the baby’s nursery while Pansy passed around wedding brochures and complained about choosing a flower color. You made a particularly crude joke about what labor sounded like, mimicking a hippogriff in heat. Everyone laughed — even Astoria, who nearly choked on her juice. Theo, from across the table, had turned slowly to stare at you, utterly scandalized. You just sipped your coffee with a smirk while Pansy wheezed beside you, clutching her stomach.

Week two had settled into your bones like sunlight. You hadn’t planned to stay this long. Neither of you had. But time moved differently here — slower, softer, like the universe had finally stopped asking you to fight. The morning began the way many had: with Theo doing pushups in the sand. This time, though, you didn’t join. You sprawled on his back as he worked through the set, pretending to be a drill sergeant barking orders. He grumbled, muttering something about poor form and insubordination, but didn’t try to shake you off. The laughter that followed felt foreign. But not unwelcome. You returned to the villa a bit earlier, digging through an old handwritten recipe book you’d packed — one of the few things his mother had left behind. You found the worn page with her pancake recipe, smudged with flour and time. You made them exactly as written. No substitutions. No modern twists. Theo returned not long after, fresh from his workout, shirtless and sun-warm. He walked straight to you, arms slipping around your waist as you flipped a pancake. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring something about how it felt like home. His hands gently rubbed along your stomach, a motion so instinctive, so familiar, it sent a shiver through your spine.

“I forgot how good this smells,” he whispered, nuzzling your hair. “It’s like she’s here.”

You set the table quietly, the others still asleep, the sun casting lazy beams across the kitchen floor. The villa smelled faintly of chocolate and butter — the pancakes charmed to stay warm. Theo was gone, showering but taking uncharacteristically long. Long enough that your stomach twisted. You opened the bathroom door just in time to hear the hitch in his breath — the sharp, silent kind of sobbing that shook his shoulders even under the hot stream of water. His body was curled in on itself, hands braced against the tiled wall like he was holding himself upright on memory alone. This was the first time you’d seen him cry in years. You stepped in, fully clothed in your short summer dress, no hesitation. The steam clung to your skin, your hair already dampening. You didn’t speak. Just wrapped your arms around his back, let the water soak through you completely. He didn’t pull away. He sagged against you like it was the only place he knew how to fall. You kissed his shoulder as best as you could reach. His spine. His jaw. Whispered into the heat and silence:

“It’s okay.”

“You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

“I’m still here.”

“Still breathing.”

“Still with you.”

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed — ragged, wet, broken — into your shoulder. But then, barely audible above the water and the ache in his chest, he mumbled something. Words you couldn’t quite catch. Your brows knit, lips parting to ask him to repeat it — but before you could, he turned. His hands found your waist, fingers trembling. Then your back met the cool tile of the shower wall. It wasn’t the kind of release that came from desperation or fury — not this time. It wasn’t making love either. It hovered in between. There was restraint in the way he kissed you, in the way his mouth trailed your collarbone like a habit he couldn’t unlearn. There was a tenderness in how his hands and hips moved, like he didn’t want to hurt you — not anymore. But it was still tension. Still need. Still the only way he knew how to let go. And you let him — because you felt it too. That pressure in your chest, the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you couldn’t say. You needed the closeness. The quiet violence of it. The comfort of two bodies still reaching for something in the dark. So you gave in, together — not to forget, not to escape, but just to feel something that wasn’t loss.

Breakfast was oddly silent. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, just careful. Respectful. Protective. Theo’s eyes were red-rimmed, his expression unreadable as he focused on his food. His hand brushed yours once beneath the table — briefly, barely — but it was enough. It was obvious he’d cried. Undoubtedly, everyone had heard the stifled gasps and creaking pipes from the bathroom, the low rhythm of bodies against tile despite your efforts to stay quiet. But no one said a word. No teasing from Blaise. No knowing glance from Pansy. Even Draco, usually unable to resist a smirk, simply nodded a silent greeting. Instead, they complimented the pancakes.

“These are… amazing,” Astoria said with a gentle smile, reaching for a second helping.

“Might be the best I've had,” Pansy added, sipping her coffee like it was just any other morning. “You’ll have to share the recipe.”

You’d replied softly, eyes on your plate, “It’s Theo’s mum’s. Family secret.”

Next to you, Theo stilled. Then looked away. And that was it. No more questions. No comments. Just a table full of people choosing kindness over curiosity — the kind of friends who knew better than to ask.

The afternoon was golden. A slow breeze rustled through the tall palms as sunlight shimmered across the surface of the pool. Everything smelled like salt, suncream and fresh lime. Pansy floated lazily in the pool, humming under her breath, sunglasses perched crooked on her nose. Blaise and Draco sat under the pergola in deep conversation, voices low as they argued — again — about Quidditch teams and playoff brackets like they hadn’t aged a day since sixth year. Astoria was curled up nearby on a chaise lounge, one hand resting gently on her stomach, her book half-forgotten in her lap. Too many cocktails had been sipped — fizzy, colorful things with ridiculous garnishes — and the laughter that floated across the patio was light, untethered. Astoria's glass, of course, was alcohol-free, her drink bright pink and sparkling with some enchanted citrus blend. She looked radiant, even without the buzz. You, on the other hand, were tipsy for the first time in years. Giddy in a way that made your limbs loose and your words just a little slurred. Theo was too, stretched beside you on the lounge chair, one arm slung lazily over the side. His cheeks were flushed, his grin unguarded. He muttered something under his breath — probably a complaint about the ridiculous paper umbrella in his drink — and you burst into laughter that wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t remember the last time your bodies weren’t tight with tension. The alcohol loosened something deeper — not just in your limbs, but in your hearts. For once, you were just two people melting into a sun-drenched afternoon, not heirs, not soldiers, not survivors. You returned to the oversized sunbed tucked beneath the shade of the canopy, balancing two fresh cocktails in your hands. The heat clung to your skin, the salt from earlier still drying on your legs. Theo lay sprawled across the lounger, eyes closed, one arm resting behind his head, his chest slowly rising and falling. You sat beside him, careful not to spill the drinks, and leaned over to place his on the small side table. His eyes blinked open lazily, taking you in — bikini, sun-flushed skin, and all.

“Merlin,” he muttered, voice thick and low. “You look too damn good in that.”

Before you could respond, he tugged at your wrist, pulling you down so that your upper body settled across his chest. You giggled, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, and he smirked against your hair. His arms curled loosely around you, one hand idly tracing the curve of your spine, the cocktail forgotten for the moment. He was in nothing but his swim trunks, his skin sun-kissed and damp from the earlier dip in the pool. As you finally settled against him, he reached up with one hand, running it through his messy, wind-tossed hair. The other hand fumbled lazily for the cigarette box on the table. He pulled one out, lit it with a flick of his wand, and took a slow drag, the smoke curling between you. You watched as he exhaled toward the open sky, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, lingering. He turned his head slightly, meeting your lips properly this time, a slow, familiar exchange. When he pulled back, he passed you the cigarette without needing to ask, his fingers brushing yours. You took it, took a drag, and let the smoke drift into the breeze. Your cheek against his sternum, your eyes half-lidded, your body draped over his like he was home as you continued your previous drink infused, lazy argument.

"I am not letting this one go, Theodore. You are the one who insisted we plant that stupid frostleaf in zone five," you murmured, voice slow, lips brushing his collarbone as you spoke.

Theo scoffed, head tipped back against the cushion, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.  "You said it needed partial shade."

"And you said you'd reinforce the dome charms. Which you didn't."

"Because someone forgot to order the runestone stabilizers," he said, turning his head slightly, his voice rough and lazy. "We lost four moonfruit pods because of that."

You hummed, tapping your finger against his chest. "Mm. Still think it’s your fault."

He reached for the cigarette again, took a drag, and handed it back — but this time, his fingers paused around yours. His eyes flicked to your lips. He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to. He leaned in slowly, brushing your nose with his before pressing his mouth against yours. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. It simply belonged. Slow. Warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that started with a sigh and ended in silence. His lips moved with yours like he already knew how — like he always had. You kissed him back just as slowly, shifting your body slightly over his, your hand curling around the side of his neck. His fingers found the small of your back again, grounding you. Not pulling. Just holding.

You pulled back a little, your nose brushing his again. "We're supposed to be relaxing."

He smirked lazily, not opening his eyes. "I am relaxed. You’re the one who keeps bringing up the bloody farm."

You kissed him again. Just a soft press. No tongue, no urgency. Just lips grazing. Lingering. Then again, deeper this time — not heated, not rough. Just there. Steady. Familiar. Like you could spend a lifetime kissing him like this and never get tired.

His mouth parted slightly, and your teeth scraped gently against his lower lip before you pulled away, just enough to whisper, “We should probably hire someone to manage it.”

“Mm.” His eyes opened halfway, gaze heavy-lidded and unreadable. “We could. But then we wouldn’t have anything to argue about while making out in the sun.”

You smiled against his jaw. “So this is your strategy. Pick fights with me to justify the kissing.”

“You caught me.” He kissed your temple. “Shameful, really.”

You passed the cigarette back to him, your fingers running lazily along the side of his ribs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still lying on top of me,” he said, taking another drag. “So I win.”

You laughed, low and warm. His thumb rubbed circles into your back. You rested your cheek against his chest again, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Another kiss. Soft, aimless. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about sex or tension or release. Just presence. And for the first time in years, there was no edge in it. No hiding. Just this. Just now. Your friends glanced over every now and then — not with curiosity, not even with surprise, but with quiet relief. As if they were all silently thinking the same thing: finally.

Pansy made some offhand comment — something about you two being “The best cupid ever.” and “Honestly, I should start charging for my matchmaking services.” — which drew a few soft laughs and a dramatic eye-roll from Blaise. You didn’t react, just gave a lazy middle finger in her general direction without lifting your head.

Theo smirked. “Charming as ever.”

You hummed. “Mhm. Remind me to hex her drink later.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

He kissed your temple again, slower this time, lingering. You could feel his smile against your skin. The warmth wrapped around you like a blanket — the lapping of the pool water, the scent of sea salt and citrus, the weight of Theo’s arm around your waist, firm and sure. You could stay here forever. But some part of you — the part still wired for responsibility — stirred.

“We still have that event when we get back,” you murmured eventually, words barely above a whisper, your lips brushing the space between his collarbone and throat. “The Rosiers’ fundraiser thing. And the estate check-in the day after.”

Theo groaned softly, eyes still closed. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t say anything,” he mumbled, cutting you off mid-sentence. He turned his head toward yours and kissed you again — slow, drawn out, silencing. His fingers slid gently up your spine, grounding you once more in the moment. “We’ll think about it when the time comes.”

You sighed into the kiss, nodding slightly, even as your thoughts tried to drag you back. But he kissed you again. And again. Until you forgot what you were trying to remember. Until there was nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Until the only thing that mattered was the way his hand rested over your heart, as if to remind you: Not yet.

Dinner that night had started with Theo at the grill, shirt half-buttoned, wand tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. Most of the others had wandered off toward the beach, drawn by the promise of a final dip before the sun disappeared. But you and Theo had stayed behind — still very much buzzed from cocktails and sun, swaying more than walking, laughter catching in your throats like bubbles. He was flipping skewers with practiced ease, the flames casting golden light across his cheekbones.

“You know,” he began, eyes narrowed at the meat as if it had personally offended him, “your dad once smacked me in the back of the head with a spatula for salting too early.”

You snorted. “Fifth year, right? He said you were ruining centuries of culinary magic with your ‘lazy seasoning.’”

Theo grinned. “Swore if I ever married into the family, he’d disown me if I served undercooked lamb.”

You leaned on the counter beside him, eyes playful. “Well, lucky for you, your meat’s never undercooked.”

He glanced sideways. “Are we still talking about lamb?”

You grinned, leaning in close, your voice a sultry murmur. “Depends. You planning to show me how well-seasoned it is, Nott?”

That earned you a kiss — rough, sudden, his hand finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. You kissed him back eagerly, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. The heat wasn’t just from the grill anymore. At some point, the tongs clattered to the ground. A skewer nearly rolled off the edge. You both stumbled into the counter, knocking the entire barbecue over, bits of meat splattered everywhere.

“Shit—”

“Fix it!” you laughed, breathless, smacking his chest as he scrambled for his wand.

A quick Reparo saved the dinner. Mostly. You were still breathless with laughter as you floated the slightly-singed peaches back onto the platter.

“Perfect,” Theo declared proudly. “Just how your dad didn’t teach me.”

You winked. “We’ll say it’s rustic. He’ll cry tears of joy.”

Draco, already halfway through his second helping, wiped his mouth with a napkin and said casually, “I’ll give it to you, Nott — your meat’s surprisingly well-seasoned.”

You choked mid-bite, coughing as a piece nearly went down the wrong pipe. Theo patted your back with all the faux innocence of someone definitely not responsible.

Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “Well, she’s had plenty of practice enjoying Theo’s meat in her mouth.”

You groaned, still recovering from the coughing fit, while Theo muttered under his breath, “Can we please stop with the bloody meat jokes?”

Astoria, giggling behind her glass of lemonade, gasped, “Stop, stop — I swear, the baby’s pressing on my bladder, I’m going to pee myself.”

Laughter erupted around the table, soft and honest, the kind that curled around your ribs and loosened something tight inside. Even Theo was smiling, his hand brushing your thigh under the table in a quiet kind of affection.

As the night wore on, the music had slowly faded. The clinking of silverware had long since stopped. The scent of grilled skewers and roasted peaches still lingered faintly in the breeze, but the world had gone soft — wrapped in a silk silence that only came with places far from the real world. You were lying on the same sunbed as earlier, only now a light blanket was thrown over your legs, and the air was cooler, salted with wind from the sea. The pool water shimmered in lazy ripples nearby, catching the moonlight in fractured reflections. Theo was stretched beside you, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped across your waist. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the occasional red glow brightening the line of his jaw. The two of you were quiet, like the night — like the stars themselves had hushed to listen in. You tilted your head back, staring up. The sky was vast. Deep and dark and impossibly full.

“Remember when we used to sneak out just to do this?” you murmured, your voice lazy, full of sun and wine and salt.

“Mm,” Theo hummed in response. “Back when we thought stargazing made us poetic.”

You grinned. “Back when we thought anything made us poetic.”

A pause.

Then you added, voice faintly amused, “Hard to believe everyone’s already asleep. Pansy, especially. She used to threaten to hex anyone who even mentioned bed before 2 a.m.”

Theo chuckled, low in his chest. “Years of partying caught up with them. We’re surrounded by old souls now.”

You turned your head against the curve of his shoulder, looking up at him. “You’re one to talk. You haven’t gone dancing shirtless on a table in at least... three years.”

He exhaled smoke and smirked. “True. But at least I haven’t gone full Draco.”

“Oh Merlin,” you groaned, laughing into your hand. “That man went from brooding teen heartthrob to doting husband and father in record time.”

“And yet somehow, that unborn child is not the product of anything prim or proper,” Theo said with mock seriousness, eyes still on the stars.

You snorted. “Right? There’s a reason Pansy said she heard things through the walls during that holiday they took months ago.”

Theo looked at you then, his grin lazy, eyes shining in the low light. “Poor Pansy.”

“She’s scarred.”

“She deserves it.”

You both fell into another comfortable silence, eyes drifting back up to the stars. The sky stretched endlessly above you — scattered with constellations you used to memorize.

You squinted. “That one’s... the hunter. Right?”

Theo glanced up, unimpressed. “No. That’s clearly the swan.”

You lifted your head, offended. “That’s not even close to a swan.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You forgot everything, didn’t you?”

You jabbed him in the side with your elbow. “I did not. That one—there—is definitely the hunter.”

“That’s the dipper,” he said flatly.

You stared.

“…Is it?”

Theo smirked. “No idea.”

You blinked at him.

He grinned wider. “I just wanted to win.”

You let your head fall back with a laugh, resting against his chest. “You’re the worst.”

He kissed the top of your head. “And yet, here you are. Laying on top of me. Again.”

You smiled into his shirt, your hand finding his under the blanket. Fingers interlaced. No words. The stars stretched on above you. The stars above were achingly bright. Far too distant to touch, yet somehow closer than they’d ever felt before. The warmth of Theo’s body beside you, the quiet hush of waves brushing the shore just beyond the villa walls, the low hum of cicadas in the distance — it all wrapped around you like a second blanket, thicker than air, softer than memory. You let your eyes trace the patterns in the sky. Not that you remembered what they were. Not anymore. There had been a time when you and Theo would stay up late, sprawled in the tall grass behind your estate, naming constellations like you owned them. Now, you could barely tell Orion from a smudge on glass.

“I thought I’d have a child by now,” you said, your voice so soft it barely stirred the air.

Theo stilled. Not completely — his chest still rose and fell beneath your cheek — but you felt the way his breath caught, how his thumb paused its motion against the back of your hand.

You didn’t look at him. “Not because of pressure, or expectation. Just…” A faint, wistful smile tugged at your lips. “I always imagined holding someone small. Someone new. Teaching them how to swim. How to breathe through a nightmare. Loving them in all the ways I wished I’d been loved.”

He was quiet for a beat too long. And then—

“That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed once, dry and amused. “It is. But it’s beautiful, too. You get to start over. To raise someone from scratch. Make sure they know how wanted they are.”

Theo’s voice came slower this time, a little unsure. “Are you—thinking about it? Seriously?”

You turned your face into his chest, letting his heartbeat soothe the strange ache blooming in your ribs. “Not right now. I mean, look at us. We can barely remember to eat when we’re knee-deep in family estate paperwork.”

He gave a quiet huff — not quite a laugh, but close. “So you’re saying you haven’t secured a secret baby deal with some charming wizard behind my back?”

You nudged him playfully with your elbow. “No, but now I’m considering it. Just to spite you.”

“Charming,” he muttered. “Truly maternal energy.”

You smiled. It lingered this time. As the stars wheeled above and the warm night pressed in around you, something shifted. Like a current turning under still water. You felt it in the way Theo’s fingers tightened around yours, the way his breath changed — deeper now, steadier. And quieter.

He spoke again, barely more than a murmur. “What are we?”

The question should have startled you. It didn’t. It just settled, gently — like it had always been there. Waiting.

You shifted slightly to look at him. His profile was half-shadowed, all soft angles and stubble, moonlight catching in his lashes. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first — they stayed fixed on the stars, like he couldn’t bear to look at you if this moment turned fragile.

“I mean…” He swallowed. “We’ve been everything, haven’t we? Friends. Enemies, kind of. Coworkers. Fuckbuddies. Family, almost.” A dry laugh escaped him. “Not in order.”

You said nothing, just watched him quietly.

“I think I’ve always wanted to ask,” he continued, voice even softer now. “What this is. What you are to me.”

“Then why didn’t you?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

His eyes finally met yours. And there it was — that expression you’d seen a thousand times but never understood until now. Something raw. Something bare.

“Because if I asked, and you said the wrong thing… I wouldn’t survive it.”

Your breath caught.

“Because if I gave this a name,” he went on, “it might crack. And I’d lose the only real and constant thing I’ve ever had.”

You stared at him, helpless against the emotion building in your throat. The weight of years between you. Of missed moments. Of long nights and longer silences. You sat up slightly, your blanket falling just low enough for the night air to kiss your bare shoulder.

“The world never gave us a chance,” you whispered. “Not really. There was always something. A war. A legacy. A fire to put out.”

“And we let it,” he said, quietly. “We let it take what could’ve been ours.”

A long pause. His eyes searched yours.

“I don’t want to let it anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, held it tightly between both of yours. Your voice trembled, but your words didn’t.

“I don’t need a name for this,” you said. “I just want something real. Something that’s ours. Not inherited. Not strategic. Not survival.”

His hand rose slowly, brushing your cheek with reverence.

“You’ve always been real to me,” he whispered. “Even when I was too much of a coward to say it.”

He looked at you — really looked at you — like he was seeing the past, present, and future all at once. Like every version of you he'd ever known had folded into the woman before him now, and he didn’t want to blink in case she vanished.His gaze dropped to your lips. Slowly — as if pulled by something older than reason, older than time — he leaned in. Not in a rush, not with intent to conquer or claim, but with the reverence of someone approaching a sacred thing. As if kissing you might unmake him, and he wanted to savor every second before the unraveling began. His breath brushed yours first — soft, uncertain. Then his lips touched yours. And this time — this time, it wasn’t stolen or frantic or desperate. It wasn’t about lust or tension or pretending not to care. This kiss was slow. Reverent. The kind of kiss that settled instead of sparked. That said more than words ever could. Your lips moved against his in the kind of rhythm only years could create — familiar, but new. His thumb brushed your jaw as his other hand curled around your hip beneath the blanket, pulling you in gently, like you were something sacred. When he pulled back, your breath mingled. Neither of you moved far.

“So we stop pretending?” he asked, voice husky, heart in his throat.

You nodded. “Even if we’re bad at this.”

His lips brushed yours again — once. “Even if we’re terrified.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

Another kiss followed, this one lingering like a promise. Your hands found the edge of his shirt, fingers sliding beneath, palms against warm skin. His touch mirrored yours — careful, reverent. Not in a hurry. Not this time. He shifted over you slowly, weight balanced between his arms as the blanket slipped slightly, forgotten in the hush of the night. The stars blinked quietly above, casting their silver light across your bare shoulders, tangled legs, the slow press of mouths and hearts finally moving in sync. Your breath caught as his lips traced your neck — not rushed or claiming, but memorizing. Like he'd kissed you a hundred times before but only now understood what it meant. Clothes became memories. Fingers traced old scars and familiar curves as though seeing them for the first time. There was no rush, no rougness, no anger— only the soft sound of skin meeting skin and the way you whispered each other's names like confessions. He murmured things against your collarbone. You responded in sighs, in gasps, in the arch of your body meeting his. Moans swallowed by kisses, hands in his hair, his stubble against your cheek.

Then — quiet, nearly lost in the moment — came the words:

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, as if he’d been holding them back for years and they finally broke free.

You didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch. You just kissed him deeper, slower, your mouth shaping the same words into his.

“I love you too,” between kisses to his jaw, his temple, his mouth again.

Another kiss.Not a hungry one, not rushed or desperate — but the kind that settled instead of sparked. The kind of kiss that said stay. That asked, without words, are you sure? You answered with your hands, grasping the sides of his bare toned torso, pulling him closer, grounding him with the silent truth that had always lived between you. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. And then, slowly — like time itself had stretched open just for you — he became one with you, his touch reverent, steady. Everything about it felt intentional. There were no boundaries now. No pretense. No performance. Just you, him, and the soft rustle of linen as the blanket fell away fully. Neither of you said anything about protection. The thought drifted by, then vanished, drowned in the slow rise of heat between your bodies — in the way your skin fit his like a memory long buried and finally remembered. You weren’t reckless. Just… undone. Quietly, completely. When he finally fully sank into you, it was with the gentleness of someone who knew every piece of you — and wanted to love them all. You gasped softly, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers tightened in his hair. He didn’t rush. He wasn’t angry or frustrated. Each movement was slow, deep, deliberate. Like you were writing something onto each other, something lasting. A rhythm born not of lust, but of meaning. Of knowing. Of years of holding back finally melting into touch. Your mouths met again and again — between sighs, between whispered names, between soft moans and gentle gasps. You held his face like he might vanish, and he touched your waist like he’d been dreaming of it. And then, breathlessly, his forehead against yours, voice fraying at the edges — “I love you so much.”

You kissed the words into his mouth before saying them back. “I love you more.” Again. Slower this time. Surer. 

You made love under the stars that night, the sleepy villa hushed around you. Tangled in the warm summer night and years of unspoken truth. Touches that felt like questions. Kisses that felt like answers.Hands tracing paths long memorized but never truly explored — until now. The tension unraveled slowly, achingly. Like the final page of a long story you’d both been too afraid to read. Quiet whimpers slipped from parted lips as you reached your peak — together, finally. A soft gasp, a stuttered breath, a whispered name like a prayer. It wasn’t loud.It didn’t need to be. It was the kind of undoing that settled in your bones and stayed there. When the world stilled, when the echoes faded and the waves whispered just beyond the terrace walls, you stayed wrapped around each other — skin to skin, soul to soul. His body pressed to yours, protective and warm, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. You shifted gently, your lips ghosting across the line of his jaw, down the curve of his throat, pressing soft kisses there — lazy, loving, lingering. He hummed low in his chest, fingers threading through your hair, anchoring you to him like he never wanted to let go.

“I think,” he murmured, voice sleep-soft and rough from use, “this is what peace feels like.”

You smiled against his skin. “Then let’s not lose it this time.”

There was no answer at first — just the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and the soft hush of breath against your temple.

“We won’t.”

The next day arrived too soon.

Suitcases thudded closed. Sunglasses were pushed up into hair. The sun hadn’t even reached its peak, but the sleepy villa already felt quieter, heavier — like it knew you were leaving. You stood near the gate with Theo, both of you still in flip flops, skin warm from the last morning rays, the scent of sea salt  lingering on your clothes. There was something different in your posture now — not just exhaustion soothed by vacation, but a softness neither of you had worn in years. A calmness that had finally settled beneath the surface. Pansy noticed it first. She looped her arm through Astoria’s as the two of them watched you from the porch, their silhouettes framed by climbing bougainvillea and the gold-pink of early noon. Astoria, glowing and content, sipped from her glass of water with a knowing smirk. But it was Pansy who spoke, loud enough for all of you to hear.

“Told you this trip would finally get those two to stop acting like sexually repressed soulmates,” she muttered with a smug smile.

Astoria laughed, turning slightly toward her. “You did say that. And you were absolutely right.”

You caught the tail end of it and rolled your eyes with a half-smile. Theo just smirked, wrapping an arm lazily around your shoulder like it was second nature now — as easy as breathing.

“Ignore her,” he said, brushing his lips against your hair in a quick, almost casual gesture. “She just never left her matchmaker phase.”

Pansy raised her glass in mock salute. “I'm just thrilled I don’t have to listen to the will-they-won’t-they saga anymore.And I still hold the title of best matchmaker, thank you very much.”

“Cheers to that,” Blaise added as he joined Pansy and Astoria on the front porch, coffee in hand.

You turned to Theo, your hand slipping into his — warm, steady, real. There was no panic in it this time. No flinching. Just a quiet confidence built on years of falling and finding each other again.

“Ready to get back to work?” you asked.

He squeezed your fingers gently. “As I’ll ever be.”

You both looked back at the villa one last time — at the floatie still drifting in the pool, at the sand clinging to the edges of your towels, at the place where things finally changed. Slowly,  you stepped into the waiting car — no longer pretending, no longer hiding. Just you and him. Finally. But something lingered. Stayed. Buried deep within you, like a secret whispered by the stars. Unseen. Unfelt. But there.  A spark. A beginning. The softest trace of life, already blooming in silence.

A promise made not with words, but with touch. With love.  A wish breathed into the night sky — “I want a child someday” — caught by a falling star, and answered in the heat of that kiss, in the slow, sacred rhythm of that night.

As the sun kissed the horizon and the car carried you both away, a tiny heartbeat — still weeks from its first beat —had already begun to make a home within you. The product of tenderness. Of love. Of everything you'd both been too afraid to say — finally spoken, finally heard. Neither of you knew yet. But the stars did. And they were smiling.

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he was submerged under a fluffy blanket, sprawled across the bed on his side. only his curly tuff of hair was visible, the rest of his body completely covered by the thick covers.

“mattheo.”

you whisper-yelled his name as you inched closer and closer to him, trespassing into his room without his permission yet again.

in your defense, you first gave him a warning of your arrival on his phone, but he seems to have disregarded any sort of message from you to sleep.

“mattheo.”

you tried again, this time with a sharper tone, a bit annoyed that he was not stirring awake from your first call.

he was as unwavering as a log, maintaining his initial position under the covers. his breath was stilled and controlled, only small snores leaving his probably parted lips here and there.

mattheo could have been robbed in his sleep and he would have had no idea.

“matty, c’mon.”

you were bolder now, bending at your waist above the bed and urging him to wake up in a louder voice.

the new, proximal position allowed you to see his face clearly — peaceful, no crease or wrinkle on his sleeping expression. his lips were indeed open, but thankfully no drool slipped away between them. his beautiful chocolate eyes were covered by heavy lids and sealed away by his thick lashes. his curls were partly sticking to his forehead, skin heated from the warmth of his slumber, partly spread all across his pillow in a confusing mess.

“this fool is sweating while i am freezing to death.”

that's why you came to his room — you needed to borrow another blanket as yours did little to nothing to help with the low temperature in your room. your radiator broke during the day and, despite mattheo’s generous offer to sleep in his room, you stood your ground and decided to face the cold on your own.

big mistake.

not even your thickest pajamas and a mountain of blankets did the trick.

“mattyyyyy.”

elongating the vowel at the end of his nickname, you called out to him one last time. you even put on your sweetest voice, somehow sure this time you will succeed in waking him up. and to make odds be in your favour, you even scrunched up the long sleeves of your blouse and poke at his cheek with your bare finger.

once.

…

twice.

…

thrice.

…

“ugh.”

you puffed, annoyed beyond compare when mattheo did not budge. there was no point in pestering him further; you’d only get angrier at his lack of reaction.

promptly straightening your back, you turned around and took a step away from his bed.

maybe you should search for a blanket on your own.

it’s not like the room was in complete darkness, the moon shining brighter than ever through the window. plus, the only logical place for mattheo to store a spare blanket was his wardrobe.

it would be easy to find.

but you completely underestimated mattheo and his dirty pig attics.

his wardrobe was a total mess. his clothes were barely folded, thrown into any drawer — multiple drawers, even. and when you tried to pull something that looked like a blanket, all soft and fluffy, the entire mountain of clothes twitched.

“hell nah.”

you immediately abandoned the so-called blanket, shoving the material back in and rapidly closing the door. challenging the monstruous wardrobe was a bad move on your part; if that thing collapsed on you, you’d have been buried in mattheo’s mess until the end of time.

should i just take the blanket he has on him now?

a devious thought crossed your mind as you were staring at the mirror-like surface of the wardrobe, shamelessly eyeing the blanket covering mattheo.

a devious thought that sounded like a splendid idea.

it wasn’t like mattheo would wake up because of it. he would most likely sleep soundly until morning, and only then he would realize someone robbed him of his precious covers. moreover, that fucker is a walking radiator himself, generating heat and burning like a fire. you’d be more appreciative of his blanket than him.

so, after making up your mind, you drew closer to his bed again. your legs inched quicker and quicker with feather-like steps, and thanks to your long pants, catching underneath your feet, any sort of floor creaking was prevented.

all that commotion with the wardrobe did nothing to mattheo — he was still fast asleep, in the same position in which you’ve found him at the beginning of your intrusion. almost drowning in the covers, it was fortunate that the blanket seems to not be trapped under him.

assessing the position of the blanket and the strange entanglement of limbs that could be lying underneath, you decided that pulling from the very middle of the material would be the best choice. dipping your body downwards, you carefully grasp the edge of the blanket, securing a good chunk of it between your grabby fingers.

and you pulled it towards you. slow. calculated.

a cheeky smiled spread on your face when the blanket slowly began to budge from its place, gliding across mattheo without perturbing his deep slumber. you could already feel the way this very blanket will solve all your issues and give you the best sleep known to man.

you barely managed to peel the blanket halfway when movement halted abruptly. you tugged and tugged at the material, some sharper tugs, some gentle tugs, but nothing happened.

“it’s stuck?”

you whisper-yelled at the sudden realization, terribly infuriated by this stupid impediment. did the blanket catch onto one of mattheo’s pillows? or was it perhaps his leg or arm?

leaning over the bed to scout the area with your eyes, you momentarily lessen your grip on the covers. mattheo was surely too far gone into dreamland to notice your looming figure, so you could survey the area in peace and decide your next move.

yet, with your guard lowered down, a new, foreign arm joined in.

sneaking fastly around your torso and dragging you into the bed, underneath the blanket.

“fuck!” a mere curse word managed to escape from your lips before the strong pull stole your breath away. “you awake?” a half-muttered rhetorical question left your mouth immediately after, your entire body twitching and turning in mattheo’s lazy grasp, trying to escape and assess the new situation.

“shhh, too loud.”

a deep, rumbling voice broke your exasperated protests, snapping you out of your frenzy and bringing your entire attention back to the person next to you. and the proximity between you two.

he was awake. and really close.

“settle down.”

mattheo’s voice was heavy with sleep, his words half-murmured against your forehead. you could feel the warm breath fanning across your face, and if you tried hard enough you could feel his lips themselves brushing over your skin.

“no, let me–”

your little complaints began again, this time fueled by the dangerously short distance between your two bodies. to make matters worse, you were facing each other; mattheo’s face was resting a bit higher than yours, yet still too close to your liking.

you were burning with embarrassment, struggling to free yourself, while he was still as serene as ever.

“–go.”

despite his gentle expression and his half-lidded eyes, true signs of drowsiness, mattheo sharply disobeyed your commands and tightened his grasp around your waist, pulling you even closer.

“ah, wait.”

you had no time to react, your nose bumping into his hard chest in mere seconds. his warm body instantly ignited your cold one, and you subconsciously buried your face deeper, nuzzling against his skin.

 skin?

skin.

bare, hot, unmistakable skin.

you abruptly stopped, face slowly backing away from his body to confirm that he was indeed shirtless — to confirm that your poor tired mind was not playing tricks on you.

“matty?”

you whispered his name, testing whether he has already succumbed to the heaviness of sleep. if he did, there was no point in confronting him. you’d just sneak away and back into your roo–

“hm?”

but he was still awake. his hum of approval was low, barely above a whisper, but thanks to your closeness, you felt the vibrations of his vocal cords shoot through his chest.

“you’re shirtless.”

you hoped a reminder of his bare torso would make him back off, instill some distance between you two. heck, maybe even make him let you go. but mattheo only smirked at your statement, a slight peek of his marble teeth shining together with the moonlight.

contrary to your expectations, mattheo dipped his head downwards, traversing from your forehead lower and lower and lower. his lips made a short stop right above your mouth, and that’s when panic surged inside you.

what is he thinking?

your arms, which were peacefully resting alongside your body, sprung upwards and landed right onto his chest. palms flat against his hot skin, you pushed mattheo with all your might, trying to regain some distance.

but he wouldn’t move.

“mattheo, what–”

he continued his journey, trailing lower, totally ignoring your baffled state. leaving your lips empty, he settled down right against your ear. and, with a low whisper, he corrected your previous sentence.

“i’m naked.”

oh.

your hands completely stilled on his chest. no. your entire body froze up, too stunned by the revelation. only your eyes widened in shock, eyebrows jumping upwards and curving into two crescent moons.

“no. nonononono. no.”

whether he was joking or not, you did not want to stay further and find out. mattheo was your roommate, for fuck’s sake, and even the fact that you were in bed with him was bad. but if he was indeed naked??

you had to get away fast.

pushing at his chest and twisting around, you managed to turn your back to mattheo and even sneak one of your legs outside the blanket.

mattheo might be strong, but he was still sleepy — if you act fast enough, you’d surely escape from his arm.

your plan was good, and with the way your second leg was flying away from the clutches of the blanket, you were sure it will succeed.

sadly, you did not take into consideration mattheo’s second arm.

his other arm dropped across your middle, gliding across your sides like a snake and securely gripping at your body. and slowly, any sort of progress you made dissipated, your body now dragged back in its initial place.

“why run, baby?”

he chuckled against your cheek, low and wrecked with sleep, sending a pulse of heat straight to your core.

“you wanted warmth, no?” his voice was full of arrogance, and you could feel the way his lips curled against your skin in a devious grin.

with both of his arms nicely wrapped around you, mattheo pulled you into him fully. your clothed back hit his chest, all warm and fuzzy, while your lower body made contact with his solid crotch.

something sheltered itself between your asscheeks, and by its twitchiness, it was definitely not his leg.

“i will make you warm all over.”

it was a mistake to tiptoe into his room. it was a mistake to steal his blanket.

it was a mistake to underestimate a sleeping mattheo.

now you were at his mercy.

“ah, matty…”

being engulfed by his warm body did make your hotter. suddenly, your long-sleeved pajamas were too much; the material was itchy and suffocating, making you pant and whine for your clothes to be discarded.

nonetheless, the raising in temperature was not solely due to the covers and mattheo’s body heat — it was also due to your own lustful desire stirring your insides, making you boil with need.

“yeah, baby?”

mattheo knew. he could feel your body quivering against him, he could feel your ass involuntarily pushing against his cock. he could feel the way your hands clutch at his, desperately guiding them underneath the hem of your blouse.

fuck, his sweet roommate needed him.

his hands slid upwards underneath your blouse, warm calloused palms gliding across your tummy all the way to your bare chest. his fingers touched around attentively, waiting for a positive cue from you.

and when a small needy whimper left your lips, he fully cupped your tits in his hands.

“shit, so soft.”

he groaned against your neck, voice all gravel yet honeyed, half-sweet, half-sinful. his lips peppered open-mouthed kisses across your skin, wetting every exposed patch in his wake. his digits, skillful and eager, pinched and pulled at your nipples, teasing them into stiff peaks.

your cute moans of pleasure only stirred him on, and with each and every squeeze of your tits came a snappy thrust of his shaft into your meaty ass.

“you getting warmer, baby?”

each word was punctuated by a short nibble of your skin, his teeth grazing at your neck, hard enough to pleasure, yet not enough to hurt.

he didn’t need an actual response, really; he could feel your body heat — now matching his own temperature — and he could also feel arousal bubbling inside you.

“y–yes.”

your answer was weak, drowned in breathy whines, too overwhelmed by mattheo and his restless attacks. his palms continued their ministration on your boobs, fondling them to his very whim, while his cock drilled faster and faster against your pajama pants, getting them all sticky and wet with precum.

the back of your pants were not the only ones drenched. your panties were long ruined, arousal pooling into them wave after wave from the moment mattheo pulled you underneath the covers.

at the beginning, you tried to resist temptation, but right now you were fully succumbing to lust, clenching your thighs together and pushing back into your roommate.

“m–more.”

you needed more. you needed to feel his hands touch all over your body, to ignite every inch of your skin.

to make you burn raw with desire.

your plea, oh so tiny and broken, made mattheo’s hips jut upwards into your ass faster. a plethora of curses escaped his wet lips as he slowly but surely realized how you had him wrapped around your finger.

your wandering hands reached his own underneath your shirt and, with delicate moves, you now guided them downwards to the hem of your pants.

and, to seal the deal and make mattheo complete putty, you threw the prettiest blown-out eyes at him, silently asking for him to go further.

“f–fuck, baby, i can’t resist you.” his voice cracked against your skin, as even saying the words cost him restraint.

his fingers fumbled at your waist, clumsily pushing the waistband of your pajamas down to your knees. when the pads of his digits encountered your panties, they were immediately hooked and dragged lower too, joining your pants.

“oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, babyyy.”

he started chanting the pet name like a mantra the moment his eyes got a hold of your glistering pussy, all warm and sticky, and so so inviting. and he gladly took the invitation, glossing his fingers between your folds and gathering your arousal, only to stick up his hand and admire the web-like formation of precum.

“so fucking wet, d–damn.”

he breathed it like a prayer, forehead dropping against your shoulder for a moment, so aroused by the reactions of your body. but he had no time to soak into the feeling as he felt your plush, naked ass press against his own bare cock, so impatient and needy.

“mattyyy.”

your mind was foggy, clouded with the thought of immediate release. your hips shifting back into mattheo so deliciously was a clear bodily reaction, and he could see that as well.

as much as he wanted to thrust right into your sloppy hole and fuck you senseless, he couldn’t.

“c–can’t, baby. i don’t have a condom.”

it was difficult to hold back, it really was. to have his gorgeous roommate in his arms, half-naked and begging for dick — that was his ultimate fantasy. yet here he was, cock heavy and throbbing against your ass, refusing to fuck you without a condom.

“but matty–”

“safe sex is ah–… important, baby.”

fuck safe sex, you wanted to scream at him, the achiness between your legs growing stronger and stronger. but mattheo took you by surprise once again, repositioning his wandering hand back on your cunt and slowly circling his digits over your pulsing clit.

“but i will take care of you.”

the sensation was so powerful that your head was thrown back against his chest, a sharp moan elicited from your previously pouting lips. no longer pursed in dissatisfaction, your mouth hanged open, overflowing with whines and moans.

“it feels good, baby, hm?”

“yes, yes, yes, ahhh…”

your voice was high and ruined, hips rutting mindlessly against mattheo’s hand as he played with your swollen bud. his pace was sloppy and wavering, his concentration deterring because of his own needs. his cock, leaking with precum, was still chasing relief between your asscheeks.

but he too wanted more.

“got you all messy and wet…” he mumbled, ragged breath fanning on your skin. “yet i can’t even fuck you properly.”

the arm around your torso tightened, dragging you closer to his crotch. his ministration on your clit got rougher, now matching the desperate ruttings of his own hips.

he wanted so bad to move your leg to the side and just plunge in. he wanted so bad to twist you around and have you spread open across his bed, legs dangling off his shoulders as he restlessly pounds into you.

his cock continued to bully the fat of your behind, leaving a sticky shimmery trail all over it, as he keeps imagining the many ways he could have you if only he had a condom on him.

if only there was an alternative to–

there was.

“baby, let me fuck your pretty thighs.”

he rasped quickly, short of breath, proud of his genius idea. his fidgety hand immediately jumped on your thigh, fingers digging into the plush fat and making it jiggle slightly.

“they’re warm and soft… i will rub your clit, make you cum together with me.”

his other hand resumed its movement on your cunt, poking and prodding at your clit in an attempt to convince you to accept his offer.

“o–okay.”

you hiccupped, voce hazy and dripping with need. you slightly parted your thighs, inviting mattheo to insert his cock. and he wasted no time, thanking you for your cooperation and sliding between your thighs swiftly.

and when you closed them around his cock, squishing it nicely, he though his body ascended to heaven.

“my gooood girl.”

mattheo groaned low at the friction your soft skin provided, hugging his shaft tight and warm. then he moaned louder, his cock grazing past your drenched folds and your quivering hole. he almost gave up and changed the angle, pushing into your cunt, but he stilled himself and completed his thrust, his tip peeking out, red and dripping, on the other side.

“you’re amazing, fuck.”

and with that, mattheo started a stable rhythm of his hips, pulling and pushing against your thighs and using them like a cunt. he also kept his promise, rubbing your pretty little clit and giving you that well-deserved pleasure.

“mattyyy.”

his urgent and sharp thrust affected you as well. you were sobbing now, teetering on the edge, your whole body trembling from the pressure on your clit and the constant bullying of mattheo’s cock against your folds.

“i know, baby, me too.”

he only cooed at you, speeding up his thrusts between your thighs, fingers rubbing with more vigour against your clit.

but it wasn’t sufficient.

you needed more.

you needed him inside.

“matty– inside–… i need you inside.” you babbled between sobs, twisting your neck to gaze at him and enchant him a second time that night.

“r–raw, please, raw.”

his entire body shuddered at your plea, arms stiffening tightly against you. he resisted you the first time, but now? with his own release so close?

fuck.

he cursed viciously under his breath, his self-control on the verge of snapping completely.

“y–you sure? i w–won’t be able to stop.”

if you agree, he will conform. and he hoped you–

“please, matty. i need you.”

with a feral growl, mattheo shifted, guiding the fat head of his cock to your soaking entrance. and he pushed in without a second thought, the tip stretching you out deliciously, warmly welcomed by your hungry cunt.

both of you moaned — loud, primal, shameless.

he bottomed out in one long, shaking thrust, his hips drawn to yours like a magnet. your gummy walls latched onto him like a vice, sucking his cock and hardly letting it go.

“so fucking good, baby. fuckfuckfuckk.”

he pulled out only halfway before slamming back in, setting a brutal pace that had your thighs shaking. your hands were clawing at the sheets, hanging onto them for dear life.

you were close.

you were both so close.

he only had a few more thrusts in him — he could feel it building up in his gut, tightening unbearably.

“gonna fill you up, baby.”

mattheo groaned into your shoulder, hips jerking faster, harder. his fingers were also frantic against your clit, wishing to push you off the edge at the same time.

“please, want you in me.” you whimpered, arching into him, voice broken yet sweet.

his body trembled — a half-muttered call of your name managed to get out before his sturdy hands grabbed your hips, digging his fingers hard into your skin to keep you still.

you gasped together as he buried himself deep, cock splitting you open one last time before spurts of cum spilled inside you. your pussy fluttered around him like it wanted to seal in every last drop, joining his orgasm.

for a few moments, the world was just panting, sweaty skin, tangled limbs, and the slow, sticky drip of him leaking out of you.

mattheo didn’t pull out. he couldn’t.

he just wrapped himself around you tighter, peppering you with lazy kisses.

"warm enough now, baby?" he murmured against your skin, cocky even in his exhaustion.

you could only giggle weakly, shortly glancing at the blanket that started all this, half-hanging off the bed, forgotten.

"yeah, matty," you whispered, settling back into his embrace. "more than enough."

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

The atmosphere was high, waves of euphoric tingles warm your body, the beginning of your tipsiness engulfing you. Perched on the ledge of a couch arm, your legs swing softly out in front of you as you lean back, enjoying the lightness of them, eyes gazing around following the movement of people. 

Throngs of different houses scattered amongst the darkly lit emerald common room, the music cranking loudly, bodies swaying, pushing past each other, made for an entertaining view. Your ears prick, briefly tuning into your friends' conversations as they sat surrounding you emerged in some type of party game. 

The sweet liquor soothed its way into your bloodstream, each sip adding to your intoxication, surprisingly finding yourself enjoying tonight's events. You had been dragged along to the Slytherins house with verbal protest not interested in mingling among the snakes. It was honestly a revelation you had been allowed in, considering your friendship with many Gryffindor and their ongoing rivalry with the Slytherins. As well as the fact, it was your enemies' friends who were hosting the party. 

The darkness looming over the dungeons was surprisingly pleasant though, lit with an ambient glow by the surrounding candles. Shades of green covered the walls, pristine artwork hung delicately on them, many figures of old ages turning their noses up at the contiguous houses in their beloved homes. 

Sipping on the beverage, you found yourself relaxed, dazed at finding yourself to be enjoying tonight's events. Fortunately for you, the absence of one Mattheo Riddle tonight has helped put you at ease. Though his whereabouts were odd considering the rest of his popular pack were spread out, immersing themselves amongst the crowds. You were thankful nethertheless, not exactly in the mood for having to deal with him and his constant insufferable presence. 

Short-tempered, arrogant, with no lack of respect or remorse for anyone else's feelings, starting unnecessary fights just for the heck of it. Him and his posy certainly had a reputation that followed them, having no care in the world except for themselves. This was how most of the school felt about him and his group, except for the pack of desperate girls wanting to throw themselves at another bad decision. 

As a hufflefpuff, your house was often a target by many other houses, always falling short compared to Slytherin. Not that as a hufflepuff you yourself believed this, your house had many strengths, loyal, hardworking, fierce, great navigators. Though it didn’t stop the others from seeing your house as below. Often the butt of jokes, the victims of pranks, that are mostly harmless, and just straight up demeaning and belittling verbal bullying. 

Conveniently for you, you’d come from a family of people who actually taught you to grow a bloody backbone and not stand for less. Which meant you weren’t easily thrown off guard when being targeted. You assumed this was the root of why Mattheo targeted you. A sore in his thumb, that one needle in the hack stack that was never found.

You knew it irked him that you talked back, had an attitude and used it to give him a piece of your mind. You had relished in the satisfaction of watching his mind reel in astonishment when you hadn’t done what he had asked, demanded of you. 

But it had seemed having a backbone had only made things worse for you, as he never backed off. Instead, he advanced more, finding interest in your irritation towards him. And so, as you sat at the party, you were left astonished again at him not seeking the opportunity to bother you while you sat in the home of his common room. Surely, he knew you were here. He annoyingly always had a way of finding you.

At the sound of his name being announced, your own following shortly after in pairing, your neck is strained in quickness, looking over your shoulder as your full attention grabbed. Brows furrowed, eyes scanning for the culprit’s voice, trying to understand what was happening. With narrowed eyes, your gaze falls to Enzo Berkshire, whose own brown orbs gleamed back at you with mischief at the situation about to unfold. 

The alcohol swirls fuzzing your brain partially while you recall what game they were playing, and how you had somehow ended up tangled up in it. Oh, fuck not seven minutes in heaven and with him, of all people, too. Your gaze shifts to the miscreant whose name had been dichotomized to yours, Mattheo fucking Riddle. 

He sat in a relaxed form, legs sprawled in a man spread that made your eyes twitch at the arrogance that reeked off of him. When did he even get here, or maybe you had been too busy in actually enjoying your night to not notice him. Sipping from his own cup, his head also snapped towards Berkshire at the combing of both your names together. His eyes now held a similar dissatisfaction of the pairings chosen, shooting Berkshire a mirroring glare, swallowing the last of his drink. 

Small nudges from your friends grab your focus, their encouragement for you to get up has you pondering whether the game had been rigged for your friends' own amusement. The idea of that being true pulls your face into a scrunch, shooting them an irritated glare before it lands back on Mattheo. His brows raise, chuckling at the clear hatred you're throwing at him, his lips curving into a menacing smirk, knowing your night is about to be ruined.

There was no way you were willing to trap yourself in an enclosed space with him, not even for seven minutes. That was like signing your death wish, throwing yourself into a starving lion's cage without a key. He already got to you enough just between the school halls, a constant fly that never shut up. Following you as he buzzed around, swarming your head with his daft insults and snide comments. It irked you how his group viewed Hufflepuff’s beneath them, as though they were people who could be easily taken advantage of. While some of your house did fall into that category, you hated being judged and grouped in with the rest. 

You turn your nose up, crossing your arms stubbornly, “I’m not doing that, no fucking way am I getting in a closet with him.” 

Mattheo chuckles, his eyes narrowing on you as his lips held a teasing smirk, “Not being a pussy now are you y/n.” His brows arch challenging, rising from his seat, he takes a step closer, the sounds of your friends complaining about you being a killjoy. “Thought little puffs like yourself had more manners than that? Or did getting left out in the cold of your badger burrow turn you bitter?” 

Rolling your eyes, you scoff at his comment, proud of yourself for not being too intoxicated to hold your tongue, not wanting to cause a scene and fuel your friends' entertainment more. Mattheo takes your silence as a win, deciding to add, “It’s only seven minutes. I promise I won’t bite.” His eyes tell a different story, gleaming with mischief. 

Shouts and hollers are rising, growing louder, trying to persuade you. A chorus of sentences are thrown at you;

“come on!”

“don’t be a wet blanket!”

“play the rules! We’re all mature here!”

Before fits of laughter erupt, making you roll your eyes and agree, wanting to get away from the growing harassment. 

Begrudgingly, you move following Mattheo, but not before pit-stopping past the booze table and taking a swig from the bottle of vodka. Desperately in urgent need of some liquor to calm the rising irritation within you, if you were to last seven minutes with him. Trapped in a room with your enemy was not something on your list for the night, and who knows how malicious this would turn out. 

Stepping in after Mattheo into the tightknit broom closet, you admire the elegance of it, far more above average than one along the Hogwarts halls. Though you were in the Slytherin common room, after all. The door closes, engulfing all the light as you shuffle inside, the rising heat spreading through your body allows you to recognise amongst the darkness the smallness of the room.

The brightening of the space forces you to notice how close you are to him, your eyes blinking, adjusting to the light, stepping back abruptly, putting more space between the two of you. You fold your arms leaning on the wall, but can’t help your eyes from looking over at him, his eyes already piercing into you. 

“Not scared, are you little puff?” His fingers twirl a spare cigarette leaning against the cabinet, his head lowering, roaming your body subtly. 

Scoffing, you stretch your legs out, accidentally bumping his own foot and you shift it awkwardly, making him chuckle. The buzz of the vodka shot is surging up within you now, as you realize that it probably wasn’t a good idea to have taken. 

“You always have had such a sharp witted tongue, and now that we’re alone you have nothing to say?” he chuckled. “Must be how devilishly handsome I am that- “

“Stop right there. You know what your problem is.” He glares at you with irritation as you interrupt him, but you're on a roll now. The alcohol pumping through your body is spilling out of your mouth, not allowing you to have a filter. You yap, and yarn away, words just vomiting out of your mouth at light speed. 

“And yeah you're attractive but so what, guys like you know that and it fucks with their head. It gets huge, and no one needs a huge head, like how would that be physically possible from like a physic standpoint, do you even know what physics is-.” 

Opening your mouth to continue your drunk ramble, you're silenced by the quickness Mattheo smashes his lips against yours, the rough warmth engulfing you instantly. There is a subtle hint of sweetness mixed among the heat, your lips finding solace in moving back with an eagerness you didn’t expect. The two of you get lost for a moment, eating away at each other, shaky gasps breathed out as he pulls back. 

A wave of dizziness floods your mind, the heat fogging it along with the alcohol, deep pools of darkness gaze back at you, his tongue swiping at his lip, his own chest heaving. Leaning back from him creates some much needed space, the extra air helping you to form words, “What just happened?” 

His curls separate, the tousled waves parting at the movement of his hand touching them. His gaze hardens in realization, “Doesn't matter, it doesn't change us." 

"Oh, sure, my tongue in your mouth does nothing for our relationship, got it." 

"Keep talking and you won't have that tongue." He’s quick to move intimidatingly, closing the gap between you two, his eyes seeming much stormier than before. 

You hold his gaze, "Oh wow, real mature Riddle, threatening me, such a Slytherin move.” He rolls his eyes, finding amusement in your dry rebuttals, while you continue speaking. “Threaten me all you want. I won’t be a pushover to someone like you. I won’t tolerate you trying to walk all over us hufflepuffs and take advantage. That’s only something pathetic shits like you would do.” 

“Watch your mouth,” his breath hits your chin, a cold threat while the fire swirls onwards in the depths of his mahogany orbs. All hints of amusement swept away. 

Rolling your tongue along the underside of your cheek, you retaliate. “Or what.” Tilting your head purposefully to provoke him. 

“I’ll fuck it.” 

The air is sliced, a spiked tension vibrating through it at his words. Exhaling a shallow breath, your eyes widening at his new threat, one that now holds a level of danger. 

The alcohol hums alive in your mind, an anger bubbling inside you threatening to latch itself onto the next thing, seeking a way to ease your tension. In a matter of minutes, Mattheo is helping you decide where to channel it, his lips finding their way back onto yours, this time with a hungry and desperate energy

You utter out a sudden moan rolling from the depths of your throat, as his tongue swipes at your soft lips demanding entrance. Instantaneously you grant it, your mouth parting, inviting him to take the kiss further. Your hands move on their own accord, running up his chest, taking Mattheo aback by your forwardness. His feet step backwards, your hands pressing harshly to shove him against the wall in order to gain more access. 

Your free hand moves imperceptibly downwards, feeling the grove of his hardening member, his head pulls back, breaking the kiss, eliciting a husky sucked in breath. His head falls against the walls, his tongue swiping his lips as more small breaths fall, his eyes watching your hand rub him softly. His own mind strugglings to consider what was happening, the alcohol swirling in his mind screaming at how good of an idea this is. 

His hands roam your body, feeling your delicate curves urging you to continue your pursuit. Your fingers fiddle with the complexity of the buckle, well to you, at least in your intoxicated state. His own hands brushing over yours to unbuckle his belt with eagerness, allowing your hands to reach for his zipper before you halt at the call of Blaise’s voice.

“Are you two still alive in there? Seven minutes are up!” Blaise’s voice booms out, a thudding bang on the door, triggering the removal of your hands, now abandoning all actions that once ceased fire. Not wanting to stick around, you’re bolting out the door, your body tingling with adrenaline, urging your abrupt exit. You're quick to maintain your composure though eager to escape, relaxing your face back to the mask you held, your fabricated hatred for Mattheo. 

He stands behind, hidden still in the cupboard's darkness, his hands fiddling to redo his belt up before Blaise can catch sight. “Fuck.. fuck.. fuck,” he’s muttering to himself frustratedly, his cheeks warming as reality crashes down onto him, not from being flustered but from the fire that burned deep underneath them, a bubble of anger.

Exiting with a tense jaw, it’s clear by Draco’s amused laughter that he wasn’t trying hard to hide his emotion. “You look like you could use a drink, Riddle.'' Draco, who had sauntered over to join Blaise in seeing the drama unfold, takes a sip of his own cup when Mattheo snatches it from him, downing the bitter liquid. “Not mine, you fucking twat.” Draco yells behind him as Mattheo storms throughout the party in search of you, discarding the empty cup. No way were you getting the last word or action or whatever. 

He just knew he had to get the upper hand back in your little spit. The crowd knows better to move aside when Mattheo's raging through a bull only seeing red. He stops and turns, scanning for the familiarity of your hair, his head snapping, eyes narrowing, an eagle seeking its prey. With his guided eye movements, he finally catches sight of your locks as you wander around, clearly unfamiliar with your territory, causing you to dip out of the party.

You were quick forcing Mattheo to walk around the halls at breakneck speed, his footsteps echoing sharply, slapping hard against the tiled floors. Eyes clouded with rancor, his view hazed by his frustration at you. Following you into the cold and stilled bathroom, he spots you bent over the sink, your gaze penetrating into your reflection, a girl who has no idea what the fuck she’s feeling. 

His gaze meets yours in the cheval glass, his reflection looming as he moves closer towards you with long strides, his presence charged with an erratic and unpredictable energy. The contact of his solid grip embeds into your wrist as he spins sharply, slamming you into the firmness of his chest.

“You think you can just pull that shit, and fuck off,” his voice is low and gravelly, holding a danger as if you were flame and he was ready to extinguish you. He moves swiftly, taking a hold of your jaw, angling your head to meet his eyes. With your face sealed in his grasp, his gaze shifts, watching the expression in your eyes, it glazing with a sense of desire, defiance and challenge pooling in your irises. “You better be able to finish what you started, little puff.” 

With his free hand he traces it down your body, finding amenity at the softness of your curves, digging his fingers into your sides, holding you in place against the basin. Your face contorts at his words, your mind attempting to protest what he’s implying. Yet it’s not just the alcohol tainting your control, but a carnal power that holds his gaze, awaiting his move. He’s quick to lean in, recognizing the invitation in your stare, capturing your lips in a kiss. It’s fiery and heated, burning with the taste of sweet liquor and cigarettes mixing on your tongues. 

His hand slides, gripping your face with a more delicate touch, the tips of his fingers threading into your hair. A burning passion explodes within you, your lips matching his hungrily, eager hands pulling, grabbing onto his neck to bring him closer. A needy, insistent moan escapes you, the feeling of the heated kiss igniting your core, sending waves of pleasure straight to it. 

The two of your hands move rapidly, desperately roaming each other's bodies. Shaky groans fill the air, though are quick to be silenced by himself as he presses sweet sloppy kisses up along your neck, pulling on your hair to allow him more access. Nipping at the skin, he relishes in the moans you let out, a sound he thought he’d never hear. 

Your skirt bunches in his hold as he spins you around, pressing his hardening cock against your behind, digging your hip bones roughly into the basin. Whimpering your lips fall apart, met with low rough groans breathed in your ear. The heat of his breath sends goosebumps along your skin, your head falling onto his shoulder mercilessly. 

His eyes lift to watch you in the mirror, his hands sliding under your skirt to grope your ass, as his voice strums your ear, “not so fucking bold are you now, look at you already, a pathetic mess.” Squeezing the supple flesh of your cheeks, he swipes a hand lowering down, his fingers running up your cunt coaxing them in your slickness. A low groan rumbles, vibrating through him onto you, “fuck..you really love this don’t you, your soakin princess.” 

You’re urged forwards bending over the basin, hands falling to grip the sides, your face a mere meter from the mirror. Your line of sight is in perfect view of him and the way he bites his lower lip, flipping your skirt fully up. His eyes take in the full of your ass, hands caressing and squeezing the skin before his fingers tug your panties down. His thick cock is released from his pants restrictions, your irises blow fuller with lust, watching with luxury how his brows scrunch while he pumps it. 

His eyes meet yours again, your lips quivering in anticipation as he teases your folds. “That’s it, keep your eyes on me. Be good for me, I’ve had enough of your fucking attitude for a night, now im going to fuck it out of you.” Your breath is caught in your throat as he inches his way in, the stretch burns and your mouth parts shaky breaths falling, followed by a loud grunt from Mattheo. 

The more he pushes in, the more your mind starts to split open, your eyes struggling to remain wide and trained on him. He watched as they flutter slightly, his hand reaching to coil around your hair, pulling it back, the jerk making you fully focus on him. “That’s it almost there,” he grunts out, his hips pushing, sliding more of him in till you take him all. 

He pauses momentarily, not wanting to actually hurt you, but not really giving too many shits, before his hips snap carnally pressing deeper inside your soaking cunt. “Merlin.. fuck me..” hands tightening on your skin, pinching at your sides, “god you’re so fucking tight.” His voice is low, husky, and broken as he struggles to contain himself. 

Your hands fall pressing on the mirror, moans falling rapidly out of your mouth mixed with your breathy whimpers. Hot breath hits the glass, the condensation surrounding your handprints. The tension is breaking between you two with each deep thrust he does, your chest tightening and stomach warming with pressure. The feeling is so good you're unable to form any words, your eyes burning with pleasure as you watch him through the mirror.  

He was a sight for sore eyes, his brown eyes displaying a darkened shade, curls bouncing as his hips thrust vigorously, his speed relentless. His head tilts back as he focuses on the sweet feeling of your warm pussy clenching around him, enticing another low groan. “Fuck me.” 

He chuckles, his eyes refocusing on your contorted face, taking deep enjoyment at seeing you fall apart on his cock. “Look at you, little puff, not so fucking innocent,” his hips snap, his hand tugging on your hair, making your back arch, his other hand wrapping around your stomach to press against it. “So fucking good, taking my cock so fucking deep, can’t even talk, can you.” 

He grins, his eyes lowering to watch your pussy swallow his cock, sliding in and out as he bottoms you out. The arch of your back allows the tip of his cock to rub against your g spot, the head hammering against it over and over, your moans growing louder.

Mattheo can’t have the two of you being caught as he covers your mouth, pulling you back up against his chest. “Shhh, you’re enjoying this so much aren’t you, how does it feel to have someone you hate buried so deep inside this delicious pussy.”

“That’s it, squeeze down on my cock, want you to cum on it.” His hand drops from your stomach, rubbing your clit in fast circles, making your eyes roll back. Your hand grip his forearm as your release builds, hitting you hard like a tidal wave.

A series of incoherent words fall from your lips in lustful moans straight into the muffling of Mattheo’s hand, as the sensations rush through you at full speed. His fingers lack any remorse at slowing their pace as he continues to roughly pound into you, his own climax nearing. 

A low groan comes from him praising you, “That’s a good girl,” his hips rapidly move before he pushes you, bending you once more over the basin, gripping your hips tightly as he cums inside you, a low rumble falling from his lips. “fucking god” His movements still, his cock twitching, savouring the feel of your sweet mold engulfing him. The hollow bathroom comes to a silence other than the heavy breathing from you both, condensation covering the mirror. 

He thrusts once more inside, his hands resting on your back, before he pulls out, watching the cum drip out of you slowly. A satisfied grin spreads on his face as he slides your undies back up your legs, swiping his fingers, he gathers some of his seed up. Your legs twitch from the sensation, raising your head to look at him again through the mirror, your head now turning to stare over your shoulder. 

With a hand on your shoulder you’re spun back around, “Open up sweetcheeks,” in your worn out state you obey, sticking your tongue out for him to slide his fingers in your mouth. “Let's taint that tongue with something better, and rid the bad taste you can't seem to dispose of.” The saltiness of his cum stings your taste buds as you lick around his fingers, your chest rising and falling at the intense moment. 

He retracts them back, his eyes gazing over your flushed face and wide eyes, grinning as he bites his lower lip. “So, little badger, got anything left to say?” He’s finding it amusing how you're still a little out of it to give him any sort of witty comment, his hand moves to fix your skirt, letting them rest on the tops of your thighs. 

He knows your attitude probably won’t change, if anything, he’d expect it to get worse. But he doesn’t seem to mind if it leads to a moment again for the two of you to fuck out your frustrations. Though he doesn’t let you know that, adding, “This still changes nothing.” He throws you a wink before he exits the bathroom, leaving you alone with your now racing thoughts and a losing aftertaste. Now you have another reason to hate him, to hate how good he was.

Tagging: @helendeath, @dr4g0ngirl