Theodore Nott paced restlessly in the study, the frustration palpable in every step he took. The echo of his father’s voice from earlier still resonated in his mind, the demand for him to be more careful ringing hollow against the backdrop of his own doubts. He had always been fiercely independent, a trait that clashed violently with the current state of his life—a state that, quite frankly, he detested.

It had been a few months since the marriage, an arrangement as bitter as it was practical, forged in the aftermath of their shared history at Hogwarts and the age-old maneuverings of their respective families. And now, here they were, bound by vows that neither had fully embraced.

He gingerly massaged his throbbing foot, the recent Quidditch injury a sharp reminder of his own fallibility. "Bloody hell," he muttered, his usual composure momentarily slipping.

From across the room, you observed his agitation with a mixture of resignation and a hint of amusement. It was an odd cocktail of emotions that brewed within you whenever Theodore Nott was near—resentment from years past, tinged with an inexplicable curiosity and the undeniable pull of a connection you had long refused to acknowledge.

"Theo," you ventured cautiously, your voice slicing through the tense air like a knife, "perhaps if you weren't so intent on reliving your glory days on the Quidditch pitch, we wouldn't be in this predicament."

His head snapped up, grey eyes flashing with a mixture of irritation and something you couldn't quite place. "Oh, forgive me," he retorted, his tone laced with sarcasm. "I wasn't aware I needed your permission to engage in a bit of physical activity."

There it was again—the simmering animosity that seemed to define your interactions, a dance of barbed remarks and thinly veiled jabs that masked a deeper undercurrent of unresolved tension.