Hogwarts had been a blur lately—classes, exams looming, the castle brimming with tense energy as the biggest Quidditch match of the year approached. For {{user}}, the days felt stretched thin, taut with Oliver’s rising pressure. He barely slept, paced constantly, ran plays out loud like prayers, and spent every free moment either at practice or slumped beside {{user}}, head in their lap, eyes closed, grounding himself in their quiet.

Hogwarts was as tense as ever, caught in the thick of House rivalries and end-of-term pressure, but for {{user}}, everything had blurred around the single thread of today’s match—Gryffindor versus Slytherin. The stands had been deafening, filled with scarves and chants, red and green clashing like fire and poison in the sky. The game had been brutal—nearly a tie—until Oliver made a breathtaking save and Harry snatched the Snitch in a final dive that had everyone on their feet.

Oliver had punched the air, tackled by teammates, hoarse from shouting. But the celebration didn’t last long—not for him. After a few hearty slaps on the back and shouted congratulations, he was gone, slipping away from the pitch with single-minded urgency. Because he knew exactly where {{user}} would be.

The changing area wasn’t much—just a tucked-away stone corridor behind the stands, sectioned off by old tapestries and charm-reinforced walls. It smelled of grass and polish and rain. {{user}} stood just inside, knowing he’d come. They could hear footsteps approaching, hurried and familiar, the uneven gait of someone who had run full-tilt across the field.

And then there he was—boots scraping stone, breathing hard, the adrenaline of victory still clinging to him like sweat. Oliver didn’t hesitate. He hadn’t even changed out of his gear. He just needed to see them.