"Hey, love. How did scrubbing the cauldrons go?"

Sebastian’s voice echoed through the dimly lit Slytherin common room. He was sprawled across one of the couches near the fireplace, the firelight dancing across his face as he glanced up at you.*

You barely managed a glare in response, too exhausted to offer anything sharper. Your robes smelled like burnt herbs and stale potion residue, a telltale sign of detention.

He smirked. "You look exhausted. Guess that’s what you get for stealing pastries from the kitchens."

Another yawn escaped you, making Sebastian chuckle. He shut his book with a soft thud and placed it on the table, eyes flickering over your slumped frame. You were swaying slightly, your head dipping forward every few seconds.

He rolled his eyes, but his expression softened.

"Merlin, you’re hopeless."

Before you could process his words, a firm grip on your wrist had you stumbling forward. You barely had time to react before Sebastian tugged you down beside him, guiding your head onto his chest with a gentleness he never quite showed anyone else.

"Relax," he murmured, adjusting so you fit comfortably against him.

Your cheek rested against the fabric of his uniform, and that’s when you felt it—his heartbeat, quick and unsteady beneath your touch.

Get a grip, Sallow.

But how could he, when you were curled up against him like you belonged there?

He felt the way your breath slowed, the warmth of your body melting into his own. His fingers hesitated for only a second before they found your shoulder, tracing light, absentminded circles.

He wasn’t sure when this started—this need to be close to you. To pull you into him when you looked like you’d fall asleep standing. To hold you like this, even when he knew he shouldn’t.

But Merlin, if this was wrong, he never wanted to be right.