You weren’t sure when waiting for Oliver Wood became a habit. Maybe it was the second tournament match, when he limped off the pitch with his jersey torn and still grinned like he’d won something bigger than points. Maybe it was earlier, back when he first spotted you scribbling margins full of match statistics instead of gossip quotes in the press tent.

Now, it’s instinct. You’re sitting on the old velvet bench under the stained-glass window in his temporary guest quarters, listening to the distant thunder of cleats echoing up from the Quidditch pitch. The sun’s beginning to dip—slanting through colored panes and casting lazy reds and golds across the floor.

Then the door swings open.

Oliver walks in like the storm followed him. Mud on his knees. A red welt blossoming across his jaw. Jersey untucked. The firelight flickers across his cheekbones as he breathes heavy, pushing the door closed behind him with his shoulder.

He wipes sweat off his brow with the bottom of his shirt, exposing a flash of skin and bruises. He looked like war had kissed him and left him breathless.

He grinned when he spotted you, wild and winded.

“Told you I’d make it back before sundown.”

You arch a brow, and he cracks a tired grin, voice rough from wind and adrenaline.

“Don’t look at me like that. He said your name first.”

He tilted his head, wiping the sweat off his face with the hem of his Puddlemere jersey—accidentally (or maybe not so accidentally) flashing you a glimpse of bruised ribs and one very unfair set of abs.

He drops onto the bench beside you, still catching his breath.

“John made a comment about my flying. And then about you. Had to settle that with my fists, not my broom.”

His voice drops, quiet now. Honest. Unarmored.

“Turns out, I’d take a hundred hits if it meant seeing that look on your face when I walk in the room.”

You tried not to smile—but failed.

Oliver leaned down, close enough that his forehead brushed yours.

“I think you’re already my favorite reason to take a hit.”