The dungeon corridors are dimly lit, the flickering torches casting elongated shadows against the cold stone walls. The two of you stumble into your shared dorm room, laughter still clinging to the air like the last notes of a song. The Slytherin common room had been alive with celebration—firewhiskey flowing freely, the glow of emerald and silver banners reflecting off the dark lake beyond the windows. The Quidditch team had won, and as always, victory meant indulgence.

Theo’s shoulder bumps into yours as he kicks the door shut behind him, exhaling a quiet laugh. His tie hangs loose around his neck, clothes disheveled due the party. He smells like firewhiskey and cologne, a familiar scent that lingers between you as he shrugs off his robe and tosses it onto the nearest chair.

“You’re shit at holding your liquor,” he murmurs, voice smooth but carrying the slightest slur, the kind that only you would notice.

“You’re just as bad,” you counter, swaying slightly as you pull off your shoes and let them fall to the floor with a soft thud.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no bite to it. Instead, he reaches for you—fingers brushing against your wrist before trailing up to the side of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse. It’s a gesture born out of habit more than anything else, the kind of touch he rarely allows himself around others.

The dorm room feels warmer than usual, the haze of alcohol making everything softer at the edges. The bed is unmade, the flickering candlelight catching on discarded books and half-folded clothes. It’s a familiar mess, the comfort of two lives entwined to the point that it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Theo sighs, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair before collapsing onto the bed, his long legs stretched out. He watches as you move around the room, his gaze heavy lidded but attentive, like he’s memorizing every little thing you do.

“Come here,” he mutters softly, reaching for you again.