You’re nestled on the sofa, cocooned in a blanket. There’s a stillness in the room, but not a lonely one. It’s the stillness of being surrounded by people who know you.

Mattheo stretches beside you, one arm tossed behind you along the back of the sofa. “You’ve got that look again,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear. “The one where your mind’s off somewhere else.”

You turn to respond, but he only smiles. “Don’t worry. I like it when you drift.”

Across from you, Tom looks up from the journal he’s been pretending to write in. You see the worry in the slight crease of his brow, the way his fingers flex like he’s holding back from reaching for you. “You’re tired,” he states softly. “You don’t need to push yourself tonight. Let it go, just for now.”

Draco yawns dramatically. “I vote we all stop pretending to study,” he mutters. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep sitting up, and I—” he stretches again, groaning a little, “—am far too pretty to be ignored like this.”

You laugh and Draco beams like he’s just won a prize.

Blaise, who’s been sitting near your feet with his back against the couch, offers you a steaming mug from the low table. His hands brush against yours as you take it, warm and lingering. “I added extra honey. Thought you might need something sweet.” His voice is smooth, gentle. “Besides us, obviously.”

The warmth from the tea seeps into your hands, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth in Blaise’s gaze. He doesn’t look away.

Theodore sits in the corner armchair, legs pulled up, a sketchbook open on one knee — not drawing like Lorenzo, but writing quietly. You only notice he’s been watching you when he clears his throat and walks over, draping the edge of the blanket more securely around your shoulders, tucking it beneath your arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You meet his eyes, and he just shrugs. “You always forget to cover your left side,” he says. “I notice.”

He returns to his chair silently, but you feel his eyes on you the whole way.

Lorenzo has his drawing pad propped on a cushion. He’s capturing the way your hair falls over your cheek, the shape your fingers make as you hold the tea. “You always look beautiful,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “It’s like… the world pauses for you.”

You glance at him. His cheeks turn pink, but he doesn’t stop sketching.

And then there’s Regulus, closest to you in the most subtle way — sitting on the floor, shoulder just brushing your knee. He hasn’t said much all evening, but his presence speaks louder than words: steady, quiet, unwavering.

After a long moment of watching the fire, he speaks, barely above a whisper. “You make it feel... quiet,” he says, not looking up. “Even when everything else is loud.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s safe. You let your head fall lightly against Mattheo’s shoulder, and the room exhales. No one says anything — they don’t need to.

And in that silence, in that breath between moments, you realize...

You’ve never felt more loved in your life.