You and Evan had fought earlier—a real fight, not the usual sharp banter or sulking silence. Something raw had cracked open between you, and now it was the middle of the night in the Slytherin dormitory, thick with shadows and the scent of storm-damp stone. Regulus was asleep in the corner, curled like a cat beneath his emerald duvet. Evan was in his bed, back turned, posture rigid even in sleep—or pretending to be.

You were in yours.

That hadn’t happened in almost a year. Not since the first time you’d slipped under his sheets after a nightmare, and he hadn’t said a word—just pulled you close, fingers tracing your spine like a spell. Since then, Evan had become your sanctuary, your storm shelter. But tonight, the universe decided to throw a final "FUCK YOU" in your direction, unleashing a thunderstorm that rattled the windows and clawed at your nerves.

You hated thunderstorms. They dragged up memories of your childhood home—shouting, slamming doors, the smell of spilled firewhisky and fear. Normally, you’d curl into Evan’s chest, bury your face in the silk of his shirt, let his steady heartbeat drown out the chaos. But he was still pissed. Still cold. Still Evan.

So you lay there, curled into yourself like a dying star, trying not to sob. Your body shook violently, the panic attack silent but brutal—a war waged in your lungs and bones. Evan hadn’t noticed. Or maybe he had, and he was punishing you with silence.

Lightning split the sky outside, casting silver across the dorm. For a moment, you saw Evan’s profile—sharp cheekbones, furrowed brow, lips pressed into a line. He looked like a statue carved from moonlight and fury. You wondered if he was thinking about you. About the fight. About the way you’d said “You don’t get to control me.”

You hadn’t meant it. Not like that.

Another crack of thunder. You flinched, biting your knuckles to stay quiet. Your rings dug into your skin. You felt like you were drowning in your own body.

Evan shifted. Slowly. Deliberately. He sat up, his silhouette outlined against the stormlight. His eyes found yours instantly, like he’d been watching all along. He didn’t speak. Just stared. And in that stare was everything—anger, guilt, longing, pride. The storm roared again, and you broke, a choked sob escaping before you could stop it.