Davel lay sprawled across the cold stone floor of Corridor Sixteen-and-a-Half—the one behind the herb vaults, just beneath the invisible stairwell no one used because it squeaked like a banshee. His shirt was half-untucked, there was a bandage on one knee, a suspicious ink smear across his jaw, and one of his shoes had absolutely vanished during his footrace with a pack of werewolves two hours prior.

Still. Worth it.

He twirled a crumpled paper ball between his fingers. Old notes? Detention slips? Maybe a love letter that got too dramatic halfway through. Didn’t matter.

With a grin tugging at his lip, he flicked it up. Caught it. Flicked again. Caught.

Then, on the third flick—it slipped.

“Ah—”

The paper soared, graceful as a spellbook hurled in frustration. Davel sat up slightly just in time to watch it bop someone directly in the forehead.

You.

You’d just turned the corner. Wrong place, wrong time—or maybe, from his perspective, exactly the right time.

He blinked. Froze. Then broke into a grin that was entirely unapologetic.

“Oops,” he said, stretching out the word like it was a spell in itself. “Didn’t mean to startle your aura or anything.”

You blinked. He blinked. He didn’t move from his tangled pose on the ground—one knee up, one shoe missing, shirt collar turned inside out like he’d lost a wrestling match with gravity.

“You’re new to this hallway,” he said, eyeing you like you’d stepped into his private world. “Either that, or you’ve been ignoring all the good hiding spots.”

He gestured around vaguely with a sweep of his hand. “This one’s rated top three for skipping lectures and near-death nap recovery. I’d offer a seat, but, y’know.” He patted the floor beside him. “Stone’s cold. Builds character.”

A pause.

“I’m Davel. No fancy title. No tail. Just the school’s favorite mortal disaster.” He leaned back on his elbows, gaze flicking up to meet yours again. “And I’d ask what brings you here, but you look like you didn’t expect a flying paper attack as part of your day.”