The wind off the water was cooler than he expected. Crisp enough to pinch his nose but not enough to chase him back inside. The lake shimmered like glass fractured beneath the afternoon sky, its ripples catching the late October sun in slivered glints. Leaves clung to the last gold of autumn, and your laughter—low and warm, something between a melody and a mockery—wrapped around him like a scarf.

Theodore had been watching you more than he was watching where his feet landed, boots crunching along the narrow path beside yours.

You were bundled up—your scarf pulled high, cheeks pink from the chill—and still, you kept bumping his shoulder, like your body couldn’t stand the space between you. Merlin, you never did. And it always made him feel something sharp and tender and wildly stupid in his chest.

You didn’t know what you did to him. Not really. Not fully. And he wasn’t sure if it made you innocent or cruel.

The path forked near the rocks that edged the water. You climbed up first, your laugh echoing as you reached the top, arms spread like you’d claimed the world.

Theodore followed, his hands in his coat pockets, jaw tight, heart louder than it should’ve been for something so simple. He stopped just behind you.

You turned to look at him, eyes wide with expectation, and he didn’t know what possessed him. Maybe it was the sky, heavy and gorgeous. Maybe it was how you’d never looked more like home. Or maybe it was the ache in his throat that had lived there for years.

So he said it. Finally.

“I love you.”

The words felt bigger than him. Bigger than the moment. Like he’d torn something open that couldn’t be stitched back.

You blinked, mouth parting, but he rushed in before you could speak—just like he always did when he wasn’t sure he could bear what you’d say. His voice was steady, but beneath it was an unraveling, “You don’t have to say anything yet. Just—listen. Please.”

He stepped closer. He wasn’t good at this, but he knew how to speak in quiet truths.

“Everyone probably knows that I love you. Except you. Which is so like you. You’ve always been so bloody oblivious, and maybe that’s part of why I love you, too. You never assume anything belongs to you, even when it does.”

He laughed then—flat, crooked.

“I’ve been yours since I was sixteen. Before that, if I’m honest. When you started looking like a girl and not just my best friend, and I hated myself for noticing, because I thought it’d ruin us. But it didn’t. It just… grew. You make me laugh more than anyone else, you make me think harder, and you see me—even the parts I never show anyone. And you never run. I think that’s what undid me.”

His breath hitched, like the air fought back.

“I’ve spent years waiting for the right time to say this. Years convincing myself it would mess things up. That you’d never see me the way I see you. But every day I don’t tell you feels like a lie I have to live with, and I—I don’t want to do that anymore.”

He looked down, then back up. His voice softened.

“So I’m saying it now. If you don’t feel the same, I’ll survive it. I swear I will. I’ll still be your best friend. I’ll still walk you down here and make fun of your hideous mittens and share my last cigarette with you. Nothing has to change. But if there’s even a part of you—a sliver—that’s wondered about this, about us… then tell me.”

He swallowed. “Tell me I haven’t been loving you all this time for nothing.”

The wind blew again, tugging his coat. Somewhere behind the trees, the castle loomed quiet and distant. But here, in the hush of water and leaf-fall and you—Theodore waited, for the first time, without running.