The hour had passed unnoticed—deep into that strange, suspended time between night and morning, when even the castle seemed to hold its breath. The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting amber light across polished wood and aging tomes, the scent of smoke and ink sharp in the quiet.

Tom sat at his desk, spine straight, fingers ink-stained and precise as he moved from one essay to the next. The pages rustled like dry leaves. His expression betrayed nothing but focus. Not distraction. Never that.

And yet—

You were beside him.

The chair he’d pulled for you was too close by every standard he typically enforced. A calculated breach. One he had allowed. One he had initiated.

He did not look at you now, but he knew the exact position of your hands in your lap, the tilt of your knee turned slightly toward his. He felt the weight of your presence like gravity bent around it—subtle, constant, impossible to ignore.

This had started… foolishly. A late night. A miscalculation, or perhaps the deliberate absence of one. You, standing far too close during a tutoring session. Him, choosing not to step away. A look held too long. A kiss not resisted. Another. And another.

He told himself it would end. It would have to.

And yet—

He dipped his quill in ink, voice low, almost casual, “Your classmates believe I don’t notice how they recycle each other’s work. They underestimate both my memory and my contempt.”

He paused, marking a line through a paragraph with the cold efficiency of someone dissecting a failed spell.

“Three essays in, and I’m already insulted.”

His tone was calm, but there was a flicker of something behind it—something taut, edged. Not about the essays.

He shifted, turning a page. The fire popped. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said, almost idly. “Unusual for someone who’s learned how to fill silence without speaking.”

A glance, now—quick, sharp, not softened by affection, but by interest. By hunger of the mind, not the body. Though the line had grown increasingly blurred.

He set the quill down with deliberate care and folded his hands atop the parchment.

“This isn’t wise,” he said, eyes on yours now. “You do understand that.”

A long silence followed, heavy with everything unsaid. And then, almost an afterthought—dry, darkly amused, low, “And yet you’re still here.”

He leaned back slightly, watching you the way one might study an unstable charm—beautiful, dangerous, and perhaps already too late to undo.