The common room was quiet at this hour, the fire casting a warm glow over the scattered books and parchment. Tom sat at his usual spot, a quill twirling between his fingers as he scanned over the text before him, deep in concentration. Or at least, he had been—until you decided to make yourself comfortable.

You had been studying too, at first. But then the boredom settled in, the monotony of reading wearing on you. And so, with a quiet huff, you abandoned your books and climbed onto his lap, arms loosely draped around his shoulders.

Tom stiffened.

“Get off,” he muttered, barely sparing you a glance.

You only hummed, resting your chin on his shoulder. “M’bored.”

“That is not my concern.”

You sighed dramatically, playing with the collar of his shirt. “You’re always so tense,” you murmured, tracing idle patterns along his neck. “You should relax.”

His quill stilled.

“I was relaxed,” he said flatly.

You grinned, pressing a lazy kiss to his jaw. “No, you weren’t.”

His breath hitched so subtly you almost missed it. Almost.

Encouraged, you trailed your lips lower, nipping at the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. His fingers twitched against the parchment, his jaw locking tight.

“Stop that.”

You didn’t.

You pressed another kiss to his neck—this one slower, teasing. His pulse quickened beneath your lips, a traitorous reaction he couldn't suppress.

Then, just to test him, you bit down—lightly.

Tom exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand clenching into a fist on the table. “Enough.”

But you felt it.

The hard, unmistakable proof of his frustration beneath you.

He was hard.