Barty lounged across the couch like a king without a throne, his boots kicked up on the table despite the ink-stained parchments scattered there. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow, as though he couldn’t be bothered to finish dressing properly. He looked like trouble sculpted into flesh—lean, sharp, restless. His blue-grey eyes flicked to the door the second you walked in.

Of course, you were late. Not by much. Just enough to piss him off.

He smirked, leaning his head back against the cushions with that arrogant tilt of his jaw. “Well, well,” he drawled, voice thick with disdain he didn’t mean, “look who finally remembered I exist. What was it this time? Fixing your bloody catfish’s tank? Or did you just stop to try on six shades of lipstick before picking the same coconut gloss again?”

His mouth twisted around the words, sharp and mocking—but his gaze betrayed him. He was already cataloguing every detail. The faint crease in your skirt. The way your green eyes lingered on him a second longer than they should. The gloss, exactly as he’d insulted, making your lips shine. Merlin help me, I’d sell my wand to taste that again.

He scowled, covering the thought before it made his chest feel tight.

You dropped your bag with a careless thud, tossing him a glare. He loved that glare. Lived for it, even. You stomped across the floor, muttering something under your breath. His smirk deepened.

Gods, she’s furious. Perfect. Look at the way her hips move when she’s annoyed. No, don’t look. Don’t—bloody hell, too late.

“You’ve got parchment all over the table again,” you said, pushing at his boots with your hand until he grudgingly moved them.

He made a show of sighing, long-suffering. “Oh, I’m sorry, princess. Did my dangerous, brilliant plotting get in the way of your feng shui? Want me to light a bloody candle for you too?”

But when you bent over to stack the parchment, his hand twitched like it had a mind of its own. He wanted to grab your wrist. No—your waist. Drag you into his lap and bury his face in your neck until that sugary perfume and gloss were all he could breathe.

He dragged his hands through his hair instead, jaw tightening. Pathetic. Can’t even go five minutes without wanting her. Ridiculous.

You straightened, giving him that look—half patient, half exasperated. You always looked at him like that. Like he was a child throwing tantrums. Like you knew. And maybe you did.

“Stop staring at me like that,” he snapped, sharper than he intended.

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like—” He broke off, lips curling. “Like I’m yours. I’m not. Got it?”

The silence that followed was deafening. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding, furious, in his ears. He hated saying it. Hated lying. Because he was yours. Entirely. Helplessly. And it made him sick.

You didn’t argue. You just smiled, soft and smug, biting your lip in a way that made his stomach twist. He looked away first, running a hand down his face.

Merlin, I’m doomed. Completely bloody doomed. She doesn’t even fight me anymore. Just smiles, like she knows she’s already won. And she has, hasn’t she? I’d hex the whole world for her. Hex myself if she asked. Pathetic. Completely ruined.

“Stop smiling,” he muttered, grabbing the nearest parchment just to have something in his hands. “You look like an idiot when you do that.”

But the corners of his own mouth betrayed him, twitching upward, crooked and uneven. Because you were his idiot. And he was absolutely yours.