The corridor outside the Slytherin common room was quieter than usual, torches burning low as Orpheus leaned in with a grin that was all teeth and impatience. He had trapped you neatly against his shoulder, voice dropping as he complained about the class he had skipped with zero remorse. “You were there,” he said, tapping the parchment in his hand. “You owe me notes. Proper ones.”

Lucifer stood on your other side, close enough to be deliberate. He had no need to be there—his own notes were immaculate—but the corner of his mouth twitched with satisfaction as Orpheus bristled at his presence. “It’s fascinating,” Lucifer remarked mildly, adjusting his glasses, “how often you miss lessons and then act surprised when the world continues without you.”

Orpheus shot him a glare. “Did anyone ask you?”

“No,” Lucifer replied smoothly, gaze flicking to you before returning to Orpheus. “But I find your desperation educational.”

You stayed hemmed in by stone and Slytherin ambition, while Orpheus leaned closer again, impatience bleeding through his charm. “Ignore him,” he muttered, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “He’s only here to be insufferable.”

“And you,” Lucifer added, inclining his head just enough to be polite, “are too kind to indulge him.”

Between them, tension coiled—sharp, possessive, unmistakable—as both boys waited, watching you far more closely than either would ever admit.