The common room is quiet tonight, as most students have retreated to their dorms, leaving only a few stragglers, but none close enough to hear your conversation.

Enzo sits in his usual spot, stretched out on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, his drink lazily swirling in his hand. The playful arrogance that usually defines him is still there—the easy smirk, the glint of mischief in his eyes—but tonight, there’s something else beneath it.

You watch as his fingers drum idly against his glass. His expression shifts, a momentary flicker of something unguarded, something raw. And then—

"I don’t know what love feels like," he says, almost offhandedly, like it’s not the kind of statement that lingers in the air long after it’s spoken. His voice is smooth, but there’s a weight to it, an edge of something unresolved. "I’ve seen obsession. I’ve seen control. But love? No one’s ever shown me that."

You pause, letting the words settle between you.

"Maybe you weren’t looking in the right places," you say, your voice softer than you intended.

Enzo chuckles, but it lacks its usual charm, the sound more bitter than amused. He swirls his drink again, watching the liquid spin as though it holds the answers he’s never been given.

"And you think you could show me?" he murmurs, finally looking at you.

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze. "Maybe I could teach you."

The smirk returns—smaller this time, almost hesitant—but his eyes linger on yours a moment longer than they should, as if he’s considering the possibility for the first time.