The Quidditch pitch was supposed to be empty. You only came by to grab your broom, left behind after yesterday’s practice. But as you stepped onto the grass, the sound of someone landing caught your attention.

Harry.

He was alone, broom in hand, shirtless under the late afternoon sun. His back glistened faintly with sweat, the muscles moving as he adjusted his grip. You froze, halfway to the storage shed, watching him toss the Quaffle into the air and catch it lazily, like he had all the time in the world.

He turned before you could pretend not to stare. His grin was unapologetic.

—"Looking for your broom… or an excuse?" he asked, walking closer, Quaffle under his arm.

You scoffed, trying to look unimpressed.

—"Just my broom."

His eyes gleamed with mischief.

—“Wanna practice passes... or kisses?”

You opened your mouth to say something sarcastic, but you barely got the breath in. He had already closed the distance, stepping into your space, the heat of his skin almost overwhelming.

Then: the soft click of the broom shed door opening.

You barely registered him guiding you back inside, the scent of wood polish and leather wrapping around you. The door shut behind you, and then there was nothing but his hands at your waist, his lips at your neck, the familiar thrill of his body pressing yours gently but firmly against the wall.

—"Tell me to stop," he whispered, voice low, teasing.