Theodore wasn’t affectionate.

You’d known that long before marrying him.

Theodore Nott loved quietly, inconveniently, in fragments so small most people would miss them entirely. He was not the sort of man who filled rooms with declarations or reached for you every passing second. Affection, for him, existed in habits. In the way he remembered how you took your tea. In the fact he slept better when you were nearby, even if he pretended otherwise. In the unconscious way his body sought yours out only after he’d fallen asleep enough to stop thinking.

And lately—

Thinking was all he ever seemed to do.

Being heir to the Nott family looked polished from the outside. Elegant suits, old money, endless dinners beneath glittering chandeliers and ancient portraits that watched too closely. But in truth, it hollowed people out.

Especially Theodore.

You barely saw him anymore. He left before sunrise most mornings, dark coat thrown over one shoulder, tie already perfectly done, expression distant like he’d woken up halfway inside another thought. Then he came home long after midnight, exhausted enough to forget he was human.

Sometimes he didn’t even make it upstairs.

You’d wake in the early hours and find him asleep on the sitting room sofa, one arm hanging over the edge, shoes still on, cigarette long burnt out in the ashtray beside him. Other nights he managed the bedroom, though barely. He’d collapse onto the mattress entirely across it like a man who’d been shot, or curl unconsciously against you in his sleep, face tucked into your shoulder in a way he’d absolutely deny upon waking.

Hogwarts felt centuries away now.

Theodore was no longer the sharp-eyed party boy slipping out of Slytherin gatherings at three in the morning with whiskey on his breath and some sarcastic remark already waiting on his tongue. Life had carved him into something quieter. Sharper. A businessman draped in expensive wool and exhaustion.

This week, though, was meant to be different.

His first proper break in months.

The manor was still tonight, servants quietly clearing away dishes from the dinner the two of you had barely touched. He’d arrived ten minutes late to it anyway, apologising only with silence and tired eyes before falling into his chair across from you.

Now you stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, watching him at the wardrobe.

He shrugged off his suit jacket carefully, hanging it with the same precise movements he did everything else. Beneath it, his white shirt remained crisp, sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrist, dark tie still perfectly straight despite the hour.

He looked exhausted.

Not physically—Theodore never allowed himself to appear dishevelled—but mentally. Like his mind had wandered so far from himself he wasn’t entirely certain how to come back.

You already knew what came next.

A cigarette. Silence. Another hour of him standing alone on the balcony pretending cold air fixed anything.

But he hadn’t even looked at you yet.

Not once.

It was beginning to feel as though he’d forgotten another person lived here at all.

So before he could disappear again, you crossed the room quietly and wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek gently against the middle of his back.

Theodore stilled instantly.

Not dramatically. Just a pause.

Like his body needed a second to calculate the sudden contact.

You felt the breath leave him slowly.

Then, despite himself, he melted into it—just slightly. Barely noticeable to anyone else, but obvious to you. The tension in his shoulders loosened by a fraction, his head dipping forward faintly as though the weight of the day had finally caught him.

Silence filled the room again, though softer this time.