𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀’𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐘 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Enzo lay on his back, staring up at the canopy of his bed as though the carved wood above might hold the answers he couldn’t find. Astoria shifted against him, her breathing slow and steady, cheek pillowed on his bare chest. She looked peaceful like this—dark hair fanned across his skin, her hand curled gently over his ribs, the soft weight of familiarity anchoring her to him.

He should’ve felt at peace too. Two years together, a girl like Astoria—sweet, kind, beautiful. Everyone envied him for it. And yet…

His hand drifted absently through a strand of her hair, twisting the silky strand around his finger. She was stunning, objectively so. Short and curvy, eyes like summer skies, lips full and pink. He appreciated her beauty, always had. But something between them had shifted. The spark that once pulled them together—late-night teasing in common rooms, whispered secrets, laughter in the quiet corners of the castle—had dulled into something easier. Safer. Less like love, more like friendship.

He felt it every day now: the silence where there used to be banter, the comfort where there used to be heat.

And the worst part? As Astoria breathed softly against his chest, he wasn’t thinking of her at all.

He was thinking of {{user}}.

Wishing this hair wasn’t Astoria’s but hers. Imagining the perfume clinging to his sheets wasn’t floral but the sweet vanilla he caught in fleeting moments when Maddy walked by. Wishing the kisses, the smiles, the quiet touches—every memory he’d built with Astoria—had been with her instead.

It was pathetic. He barely knew Maddy beyond passing conversations and stolen glances across classrooms, yet his chest ached like he’d been waiting years for her. Tonight, he’d almost slipped—her name had burned so close to his lips while he and Astoria had been tangled together twenty minutes ago that he’d had to bite his tongue to stop it. The shame of it still made him grit his teeth.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Carefully, Enzo shifted Astoria’s arm away and slid a pillow between them to keep from waking her. He sat at the edge of the bed for a long moment, head in his hands, before pulling on his clothes and slipping out, the soft click of the door following him into the silence of the corridor.

The castle was still at this hour, the only sounds the faint hum of torches and the echo of his footsteps. He needed air, space—anything to clear his mind. His legs carried him faster than he realized, down staircases and through archways, until the heavy stone gave way to open night and cold air rushing against his skin.

By the time he stopped, his lungs burned. He looked up.

The Quidditch pitch loomed before him, dark and endless under the sweep of stars. He dragged a hand over his face and sighed, crossing toward the stands as if pulled by habit. The wooden steps creaked under his boots as he climbed, higher and higher until he reached the Slytherin stand.

And froze.

A figure lay stretched across the top bench, hair spilling out like ink, eyes fixed on the stars above. Headphones rested snugly over her ears, her thumbs tapping softly against her stomach to a rhythm only she could hear.

{{user}}.

The breath left his chest all at once, his thoughts crashing like waves. Every attempt to bury her, every lecture he’d given himself to stop thinking about her, collapsed in a heartbeat at the sight of her.

Fuck.

His throat went dry. He should’ve turned around, should’ve left before she noticed him—but his voice betrayed him, low and uncertain as it slipped out before he could stop it.

“Hey…”