You and Lorenzo Berkshire had always moved in the same social circles—house parties, Quidditch matches, late-night study groups that never really included much studying. The two of you had a natural rhythm—banter that flowed effortlessly, the kind of teasing that always made people glance over with raised brows and knowing smiles.

It was playful. Casual. Safe.

Enzo liked your sharp wit, how you were never caught off guard, always ready with some clever comeback. He’d never admit it out loud, of course, but he looked forward to your back-and-forths. More than he should’ve.

When he first caught feelings, he shoved them down—hard.

He wasn’t supposed to like you. Not like that.

Enzo was the type of guy girls fell for without him lifting a finger. The castle was full of admirers, and he never stuck around long enough for things to mean anything. No risk, no feelings, no mess.

But you?

You weren’t just another pretty face. You were you—and that made everything different. Which is exactly why he kept things light, laughing off the little sparks between you and pretending they weren’t lighting him up inside.

Then came that morning.

He was already running late, robes half-buttoned and bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, trying to cut through the dungeons at a faster pace. In his rush, his foot caught awkwardly on a loose stone, and for a split second, he nearly face-planted into the corridor floor.

Somehow—barely—he managed to right himself just in time, arms flailing before he caught his balance.

He exhaled, thinking no one had seen him make a complete idiot of himself.

Then your voice rang out behind him, smooth as ever.

“Nice recovery, Swan Lake.”

He froze.

Turning slightly, he saw you standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed and a playful smirk tugging at your lips. You didn’t stop. You just tossed the comment over your shoulder like it was nothing and kept walking.

Enzo stood there for a second, stunned. His heart kicked up, and against his will, a grin spread across his face. Not a practiced smirk, not one of those cocky expressions he usually wore—this was genuine. Soft. Stupid.

You weren’t trying to be charming.

But you were.

Effortlessly.

And in that one throwaway comment—mocking, amused, so you—something hit him hard and fast:

This wasn’t a crush. Not anymore.

He was in love with you.

And for the first time in a long time, Lorenzo Berkshire didn’t know what.