theodore nott did not consider himself a competitive person. he wasn’t driven by ambition, didn’t crave validation, and certainly didn’t give a single shit about academic success.

those principles, unfortunately, disintegrated the moment he sauntered into sixth-year astronomy and found you sitting in his seat, legs crossed, chin tilted, wearing that infuriatingly victorious grin. since then, it had been a relentless waltz of rivalry: comparing grades without admitting it, outdoing each other in presentations, racing up the spiral stairs to the astronomy tower like it was a sport invented purely to spite him.

now autumn term was bleeding into winter, and with it came the first trimester project—due the night after the yule ball. as if fate hadn’t already been laughing at him, you’d gotten first pick on topics and chosen the exact star cluster he’d been quietly planning around for weeks.

theo was finished. completely, unequivocally finished. he’d known it the second you looked at him with that smug little tilt to your mouth, like you already knew you’d won.

so he did the only reasonable thing.

he schemed.

with the yule ball looming and deadlines closing in, theo figured the last thing you needed was a distraction. so naturally, he decided to become one. asking you to the ball had been impulsive, but the look on your face when he’d done it had been worth it. (he tried to forget his own stunned look when you'd said yes).

now the great hall glimmered with enchanted snow drifting lazily from the ceiling, chandeliers refracting light like frozen constellations. music swelled somewhere behind him, couples spinning across the floor in silks and velvet, laughter echoing against stone. theo hovered near the punch table, pretending to be interested in a floating ice sculpture while tugging absently at his tie.

then you appeared at the top of the staircase. by the time you reached him, the orchestra had shifted into something slower.

you looked up at him, eyes sharp and curious, daring him to say something stupid.

he smirked, because that was easier than acknowledging the tightness in his chest. “nice hair,” he drawled, then—almost against his will—added, “you look nice.”

as you arched a brow, clearly amused, theo firmly reminded himself that he was meant to be the distraction. not the other way around.