The night air is cool as it drifts through the empty Quidditch stands. The pitch below is eerily still, which is very different compared to the usual roar of the crowds and the adrenaline-fueled chaos of a match that normally fills it.

BIaise sits at the very top, legs stretched out in front of him, unusually quiet. There’s no smirk, no sharp remark hanging on his lips—just him, staring out at the pitch like it holds the answers to questions he’s never dared to ask. His usual effortless charm seems dulled, replaced by something more unsettled, distant.

You climb the steps toward him, hands tucked into your sleeves against the cold. He doesn’t acknowledge you at first, just runs a hand along the back of his neck like he’s trying to work through something. Finally, he speaks.

"I don’t know what love feels like," he confesses, his voice lower than usual. "I seem really nonchalant about it, flirt, make it seem like I know what I’m doing. But I don’t. Not really."

You settle beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. "Maybe you’re just scared to find out."

BIaise scoffs, shaking his head, though there’s no real mockery in it. "And what if I am?"

You smile, tilting your head as you meet his gaze. "Then maybe I could teach you."

For a moment, he just watches you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the familiar cocky grin returns, though there’s something softer in his eyes this time.

"Careful, {{user}}," he murmurs, leaning in slightly. "I might actually let you."