You and Blaise sat in a quiet corner of the common room, his feet propped up on a nearby chair as you mindlessly fiddled with a quill. The low murmur of students chatting and the crackle of the fire provided a comfortable backdrop, but Blaise’s voice cut through the calm like a well-aimed arrow.

“He’s calling you by your last name,” Blaise said, casually flipping through a book, his eyes glancing over at you with a knowing look.

You scoffed, glancing up at him. “That’s not a thing, Blaise.”

But Blaise wasn’t finished. He leaned forward, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret. “He remembers every single word you’ve ever said… but he still pretends to be annoyed when you talk too much?” He let the words hang in the air, his gaze sharp as he studied your reaction.

For a brief moment, you froze, staring at Blaise as the weight of his words sank in. Theodore had always been insufferably distant—aloof, biting, and constantly putting distance between you. But in that instant, a flicker of something unfamiliar twisted in your chest. Could Blaise be right? Could Theodore actually… care?

“Classic,” Blaise muttered, and you were snapped out of your thoughts by the familiar sound of the door to the common room opening with a creak.

And there he was.

Theodore.

He strode in with his usual cool, detached demeanor, the air around him seeming to shift with the subtle intensity he always carried. His eyes flicked toward you for a fraction of a second, then quickly away, as if it was nothing.

But you noticed. Something in the way his gaze lingered—almost imperceptibly—spoke volumes.

Blaise was right. Theodore cared. Even if he'd never admit it.