Lorenzo Berkshire never speaks your name anymore. Not aloud, at least.

You notice it in the Great Hall first. The way his eyes lift automatically when you enter, then slide away just as quickly. He laughs with his friends, posture relaxed, aristocratic confidence perfectly intact. Anyone watching would think he has moved on with enviable ease.

You know better.

There is something careful about him now. Controlled. As if every movement has been rehearsed to avoid betraying what still lingers beneath the surface.

You sit a few seats away, close enough to feel it when his magic shifts - subtle, familiar, like a draft from a half-open window. Once, you would have leaned toward it without thinking. Now you stay still, pretending not to notice when his knee almost brushes yours and then retreats.

He never reaches out.

But sometimes, when you’re laughing at something someone else has said, Lorenzo’s smile falters. Just for a heartbeat. His fingers curl loosely around his goblet, knuckles whitening, before he forces himself back into composure.

He listens when you speak. Always. Even when you’re not speaking to him.

You catch him in the corridors late at night, lingering by the windows overlooking the grounds. He doesn’t turn when you approach, though you know he’s aware of you. He never wasn’t. Instead, he stares out at the darkness as if it might answer questions he’s learned not to ask.

“You look well,” he says eventually, voice soft, almost distant.

It isn’t a question. It isn’t an invitation. It’s a statement meant to hurt only himself.

You tell him he does, too. It feels like a lie, even though it isn’t.

For a moment, silence stretches between you - thick with all the things you never said, all the apologies that came too late or not at all. Lorenzo shifts his weight, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders tense in a way you recognize. It’s the posture he had when he wanted to touch you and knew he shouldn’t.

“I don’t expect anything,” he says quietly. “I know... things change.”