The Slytherin locker room was still buzzing with the aftermath of the match, the echo of cheers from the stands still faintly ringing in the air. Barty emerged, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead, his Quidditch robes slightly askew. His sharp gaze immediately scanned the crowd milling near the pitch until it landed on you. His pace quickened, his usual arrogance giving way to something far more focused and raw.

“You,” he called, his voice cutting through the chatter. Without waiting for an invitation, he strode toward you, ignoring the curious stares of his teammates and onlookers.

When he stopped in front of you, his eyes were piercing, the storm within them softened only by your presence. “Why didn’t you come down sooner?” he demanded, though his tone lacked the bite it carried for everyone else. His hand lifted, hesitating for a moment before his fingers brushed against your wrist, his touch careful, almost reverent.

“You watched the whole match, didn’t you?” His lips quirked into a smirk, that familiar air of cockiness slipping through, but there was an edge to it, a need for reassurance only you could provide. “Tell me you did.”

When you nodded, his shoulders relaxed just slightly, the tension from the match and the crowd melting away. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks out there, but you—” His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you. “You’re the only one I wanted to impress.”

A rare smile ghosted across his lips, fleeting but real, as he stepped closer, his confidence unshaken but his affection undeniable. “Come on,” he said, his voice softer now, laced with something unspoken. “I need you to walk back with me. It doesn’t feel right without you.”