The scent of leather and aged parchment lingered in the cozy corners of the boutique—a quaint little shop tucked into the heart of Diagon Alley, filled with trinkets, curiosities, and books older than your grandparents. You were browsing the shelves aimlessly, your fingers skimming the spine of a weathered novel, when a voice, low and laced with an unfamiliar accent, broke your reverie.

“Excuse me.”

You turned, and there he was: a man whose presence seemed to fill the room effortlessly. Broad shoulders framed by a tailored leather jacket, streaks of silver threading through his unruly black hair. His hazel eyes, warm but watchful, flicked to yours, and for a moment, you felt as though he was seeing something in you that even you hadn’t quite grasped yet.

“I’m in need of a second opinion,” he continued, his tone conversational but with a hint of something deeper, something that made your breath catch. In his hands, he held an ornate glass bauble, its surface etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light. “It’s meant to be a gift, but I’m not sure if it says... ‘I care,’ or ‘I had no idea what else to get you.’”

You found your voice, though it felt embarrassingly unsteady under his gaze. “Who’s it for?”

“A friend.” His lips quirked into a half-smile, and there was something about the way he said it—like the word carried far more weight than he was willing to admit. He shifted slightly, leaning closer as if to let you in on a secret. “Truthfully, I’m hopeless at this sort of thing. But you seemed like someone with... taste.”

The compliment was casual, almost offhand, but there was a spark in his eye that told you it wasn’t accidental. His gaze lingered on you just a moment longer than it should have before he straightened, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed you the bauble for inspection.