The common room felt small tonight, the fire low and the rest of the table scattered with half-finished drinks and a few abandoned parchment scraps. Mattheo paced once, twice, hands jammed into his pockets, the kind of restless that made the leather sofa creak where he’d been sitting minutes before.

“She snapped at me for breathing too loud,” Mattheo exploded, stopping to glare at Tom across from him. “Breathing, Tom. And then two minutes later she wanted me to hold her. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Tom didn’t so much as blink. He folded his hands on his knee and watched his brother with that cool, calculating look that always made Mattheo feel like the subject of a particularly boring experiment. “You’re describing a paradox, not a problem,” he said, voice even.

Mattheo’s laugh was short and sharp. “Don’t start with your riddles. I’m serious. One second she hates me, the next she looks like she’ll cry if I move an inch away.”

Tom’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but colder. “Then don’t move. That’s the point: she doesn’t want solutions. She wants you to endure it without complaint.”

“Endure it?” Mattheo flopped down into the nearest chair as if the act could absorb some of his irritation. “That’s your grand advice? ‘Endure it’?”

Tom inclined his head minutely, as though demonstrating patience itself. “You wanted to understand her, and you came to me. Endurance is all I can offer that won’t make things worse. Bring chocolate. Sit still. Keep your mouth shut. Those are practical measures.”

Mattheo groaned, burying his face in his hands before looking back up, eyes burning with equal parts amusement and exasperation. “Bring chocolate? Sit still? Keep my mouth shut? Bloody hell, I’d fight ten Aurors if it meant something less confusing than this.”

Tom watched him, unruffled. “Then pick your battles. A skinned knuckle and a bruised ego mend faster than trust does when you argue over tone. Small comforts. Consistency. That’s endurance.”

Mattheo gave a long, theatrical sigh and leaned his head back, closing his eyes like he might actually try Tom’s ridiculous plan. “Fine. I’ll sit like a statue, feed her chocolate, and act like I’ve no opinions. For how long?”

“For as long as it takes,” Tom replied simply. “Or until she stops expecting you to fix what she wants to feel.” He folded his hands again, the only motion betraying the faintest patience, like a man who’s watched storms pass before. “You’ll survive. You always do.”

Mattheo snorted, but there was something softer under the grumble—worry, maybe even a little reluctant acceptance. “Right. I’ll endure. But if I come back with chocolate wrappers stuffed in my pockets and you laugh at me, I will hex you into next week.”

Tom’s expression didn’t change, only the barest flicker of amusement. “I’d like to see you try.”

Mattheo pushed to his feet, stride loud and ridiculous, and stalked off toward the kitchens muttering about fairytales and therapy. Tom watched him go, then reached for his own goblet and took a quiet sip, already planning which sweets might work best.

Outside, beyond the window, the lake reflected moonlight in a slow, steady shimmer—endurance, uncomplaining, patient as water.