it was midnight; the quidditch pitch had been absconded, the stands ghostly under the glare of a waning moon. miles of emptiness sprawled out on either side of you, and a momentary silence blanketed the area. how unusually peaceful.

until, naturally, jaimes perrow shattered the serenity with a cry of triumph—he swaggered to the centre of the field with a sprawling grin. his dimples plunged into view as he faced you. jaimes had dressed in a rush; his jersey cloaking his torso haphazardly, his faded crimson beanie half sliding off his head. his shoelaces unraveled.

he did not seem fazed by the errant nature of his appearance; he merely propped his broom against his bare shoulder (as the jersey had slid down on one side, in a femininely fashionable manner). he sported an expression that was best described as purely determined; even as stubborn strands of chestnut hair dropped over his keen, bespectacled eyes.

“alright,” jaimes began, more to himself than to you. “the plan is very simple, really.”

he set his broom to the ground as though it was a sacred object, then hurriedly ambled towards you, grasping your hands in his own—roughened from much time spent on the field and roughhousing with the other lads. he coaxed you closer to him, until his overwhelming scent was flooding you; citrus, perhaps, with something warmer and more oppressing—like cinnamon.

“i’ll try the double reverse sloth grip roll, and you’ll— . . . well, you’ll support me.” he contemplated for a moment, his expression uncharacteristically pensive as he attempted to recall why exactly he’d broken into your dormitory and hauled you out of bed, down to the quidditch field, at the arsecrack of dawn. “and make sure i don’t die,” he supplied, hastily.

“what? don’t look so worried!” jaimes laughed, somehow breathtaking even in his mischief. “if i fall, you can say you told me so. not that i plan on falling.”