The air faintly smelled of the vanilla candle that Theodore had always insisted on burning - technically, it was your candle. You had bought it, after all. He said it smelled like you.

Mattheo lounged back in an armchair opposite you, his boots propped up on the table. He flicked a playing card through his fingers, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

“You know he’ll come back,” he muttered, his voice softer than his usual cocky drawl.

“I know,” you answered too quickly… then quieter, “I always know.”

Draco snorted, tired of this routine. “You look like a cat at the window every time he leaves.”

You wanted to argue, but what would you say? They weren’t wrong. They all knew what Theodore meant to you, and what you meant to him, even if he was reckless about showing it.

Mattheo leaned forward. “You could leave, you know. You don't have to wait around like this.”

But that wasn’t an option. Not when your toothbrush was in Theodore’s bathroom. Not when his pillow smelled of your shampoo. Not when he whispered your name in his sleep, even after he'd been kissed by someone else that day.

You didn’t wait because you were naïve. You waited because he always came home to you.

Time stretched slow until the door handle rattled.

Your entire body reacted before your mind did.

Theodore stepped inside, a grin curving his lips the instant his eyes found you.

But then you saw it.

A dark, blooming hickey just above his collar.

Your stomach dropped.

Behind you, Mattheo muttered something under his breath while Draco sat up.

Theodore froze for only a fraction of a second, a guilty flicker crossing his features, before plastering on that familiar carefree smirk. “What? No ‘welcome home,’ sweetheart?” he teased lightly, trying to pretend nothing was wrong.

You stood, slow and stiff, crossing your arms as though they could protect your heart. “She got that close to you?”

He swallowed, his smile faltering. “It’s… nothing. You know it’s nothing.”

Mattheo scoffed. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Theo,” you interrupted, your eyes locked on his. “Did you let her do that?”

He opened his mouth and ran a hand through his hair... a gesture he only made when he was feeling insecure.

“I kept thinking about you the whole time,” he said quietly, stepping closer.

“That’s not the point,” you whispered.

“But it is,” he insisted. “Because I don’t care about her. Or any of them. I always come back to you. I always-”

He reached out.

Your breath caught because, even though you were angry, the chemistry between you hadn't faded.

Draco stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

Mattheo threw Theodore a glare, then followed him.

Theodore stepped into your personal space, getting close enough for you to feel his warmth and smell the faint hint of someone else’s perfume beneath his cologne.

“I messed up,” he admitted, his voice barely a breath. “I always mess up. Except with you.”

Your heart ached, not from doubt, but from the terrible truth of how real this was.

He lowered his forehead to yours, his eyes searching and almost pleading. “Tell me you still want me.”