You’ve been at it all day. Little quips here and there, a playful nudge when he’s deep in his books, a not-so-accidental brush of your fingers when you pass him parchment. You even stole his quill at one point, twirling it between your fingers like it was a prize.

Tom hasn’t snapped—not yet.

Instead, he watches you with that unnervingly unreadable gaze, his fingers steepled together as if he’s debating something far greater than your ridiculous antics. His patience should have run dry hours ago, and yet… you catch the way his lips twitch when you grin at him.

Then, just when you think you’ve gotten away with it, his hand moves.

One firm tug, and you barely have time to react before you're in his arms. His grip is unyielding, one arm curling around your waist, the other resting at the back of your head. Your cheek presses against the crisp fabric of his uniform, the scent of old parchment and something distinctly him filling your senses.

“There,” he mutters, his breath warm against your temple. “Are you satisfied now?”

His voice is smooth, composed—but you can feel the way his heart is racing beneath your palm, how his fingers hesitate just slightly before tightening against your back.

Then, after a moment of silence, he speaks again—almost begrudgingly.

“…I read in a novel that when a girlfriend is being irritating, it means she wants attention.” His voice is quieter, as if saying it aloud makes him feel ridiculous. “Was that what you wanted?”