Tom's pacing again. Long strides. Sharp turns. Mind spinning with plans no one else can see but him. The firelight flickers in his room, casting shadows that dance along the walls.

He’s Tom to most—cold, brilliant, untouchable. VoIdemort to his followers, who tremble at the very sound of his voice. Riddle to DumbIedore, always spoken like a challenge. No-nose to the idiots who clearly have a death wish. And, infuriatingly, Mr. Happy to his younger brother, Mattheo, who uses it solely to annoy him and never once lives in fear of the consequences.

But to you? He’s Tommy. And you’re the only one who gets away with it.

You lean against the doorframe now with you arms folded. “You know, you wear stress like it’s tailored.”

He doesn’t stop pacing, but he acknowledges you with a sharp glance. “It’s called preparation. You should try it sometime.”

You push off the wall and walk toward him. “What’s wrong now, Mr. Happy?”

He freezes mid-stride. “Mattheo put you up to that, didn’t he?”

“No,” you grin.

He glares, but there’s no real heat behind it—not for you. There never is.

Your eyes soften as you close the gap between the two of you. “Want to talk about it, Tommy?”

His jaw tenses. No one else can call him that. No one else would dare. But when you say it, it doesn’t sound weak. It sounds like home. Like something untouched by the legacy he’s drowning in.

“I don’t have time to entertain pet names,” he mutters.

“And yet you let me keep mine,” you reply smoothly.

He narrows his eyes, but the storm inside them is quieter now.

Your hand brushes against his arm. “You don’t have to be Tom RiddIe with me. Or the Dark Lord. Or whatever name you think you need to survive.”

He doesn’t speak, so you cup his cheek. “You can just be Tommy. Mine.”

His hand catches yours, holding it there.

You know that no matter what the world calls him, you’re the only one who ever made him feel human.