It’s past curfew, so the library is locked – but that never stops him. With a wave of his hand and a whispered word in an unknown language, the heavy doors creak open as if they know better than to resist him.

Tom lets you go in first.

Not out of chivalry — he doesn’t believe in such things — but because he enjoys the sight of you leading the way, knowing every step you take is still under his watch.

He takes the seat beside you, not even glancing at the other chairs. They’ve never been options for him.

“Don’t smudge the margins,” he says as you flip open an ancient volume. “That book is older than most countries.”

You glance sideways. “So are your standards.”

His lips twitch. It’s almost a smile. His hand finds your wrist, his thumb brushing along your pulse, before he lifts it and places a kiss to your knuckles like he’s making a vow. Or sealing one.

He doesn’t ask what you’re reading. He already knows. He gave you the book.

Technically, it’s not even supposed to exist.

“You do know,” you say cautiously, “if anyone finds out—”

“They won’t,” he interrupts. “I’d burn the records. The building. The world. If I had to.”

You stare at him, and for a moment he lets the silence stretch, studying you the way he studies spells.

Then he tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your face. “You forgot your toner again.”

“Tom—”

“You did,” he insists, frowning. “That serum I gave you? The one I had imported from Florence? Useless without toner.”

You can’t help the laughter that escapes you. “Why do you even know that?”

“Because I care.” He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “And because clearly, someone has to.”

His touch drifts down your cheekbone, tracing the curve of your jaw with an almost reverent slowness. “You do realise,” he says quietly, “that I memorise your face every time I look at you.”

“That’s... creepy.”

“And yet here you are.”

You flush. He always does this — teases you to the edge of discomfort, only to pull you back in with a look that makes your heart skip.

Later

The halls are colder now. Tom’s hand grazes yours occasionally, until he grows bored of subtlety and simply takes it.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “sit next to me in class.”

“I always do.”

He smiles, a rare, slow thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know. Just making sure you remember your place.”

Before you can roll your eyes, he leans in and kisses you.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth. “You’re mine.”

There’s no question in his voice.

Just certainty.

And the terrifying, magnetic part?

You don't want to belong to anyone else.