Theo Nott wasn’t loud about the way he cared. He wasn’t obvious, or dramatic, or the kind of boy who announced his feelings. He just noticed.

He noticed when your eyes were heavy and your smile didn’t reach them. When your quill hesitated halfway through a sentence. When your laugh sounded forced. He’d tilt his head slightly, studying you from across the table — those sharp blue eyes seeing right through you — and he wouldn’t say a word. Just let the silence stretch until you were the one who cracked first.

He’d help you study, but not in the way you wanted. When you sighed in frustration, claiming you didn’t understand, he’d gently push the quill back into your hand and murmur lowly, “You already know the answer. Think.” And annoyingly… he was always right.

After curfew, when everyone else was asleep, he’d walk you back to your dorm. No words. Just the sound of your footsteps echoing softly through the corridor, his hand brushing yours every few steps. He never said goodnight either — just that quiet look that meant more than anything he could’ve said out loud.

Sometimes, you’d find him sitting by the lake wall, smoke curling around his face like mist. He didn’t smoke for attention. He smoked to think. To breathe in a world that demanded too much of him. You’d sit beside him, knees touching, and he’d pass you the cigarette without looking — silent understanding hanging in the night air.

When he got angry, he didn’t yell. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles white, and sometimes he’d punch the wall — not out of rage at you, but because it killed him that you could undo him so easily. That one word from you could make or break his entire mood.

Around others, Theo was all cool detachment. Leaned back in his chair, smirk in place, voice calm. But when you were near? He was different. Subtly possessive. His hand would slide around your waist when someone looked at you too long. His lips would brush your neck — soft, lazy kisses that felt like a warning.

And when he got jealous, that calmness cracked. He’d mutter under his breath in Italian, words you didn’t fully understand, but his tone was dark, sharp — and you knew every syllable was about you.

Sometimes you caught him looking at you like you were something forbidden — something he was never meant to touch, but couldn’t stop himself from reaching for anyway.

And in class, when the room was quiet, he’d rest his hand on your thigh beneath the desk. Just a touch at first. Innocent enough. But then it would move — slow, deliberate — his eyes locked on yours as you struggled to keep your face composed.

Theo Nott wasn’t the type to confess what he felt. He showed it. In glances. In silence. In the spaces between his words — where you could feel every unspoken thing he didn’t dare to say.