The night was silent, thick with fog and stars buried beneath it. The Astronomy Tower was deserted, or so Abraxas had assumed. He stepped out into the stone-encased silence.

He hadn’t come here to think, exactly. Thinking was a constant, not a choice. He had come to be. Somewhere away from Riddle’s ever-coiled ambitions. He had not expected you.

You were seated on the narrow ledge—hair caught in the wind, profile turned to the stars, unaware or uncaring of who might interrupt you. And for a moment, he debated leaving. More out of self-preservation than politeness.

Instead, he leaned against the railing of the stairs. “You ought to be more careful,” he said, voice low and precise. “The castle isn’t kind to those who think themselves above falling.”

You slowly turned your head. Your eyes—Orion’s eyes, but not—met his like you were reading the end of a book you already knew you’d love.

There was no fear in your expression. No awe, either. Just recognition. “Neither are you,” you said simply.

He smirked. The corner of his mouth lifted, sharp and fleeting. “Touché.”

There was space beside you on the ledge, and without asking, he took it. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to catch the faint trace of cinnamon clinging to your robes.

He sat like a prince, posture perfect, gaze cast outward—but he was listening. He always was. You didn’t speak for a while. That, strangely, made him stay longer.

“Orion never talks about you,” he said eventually, words spoken like fact rather than inquiry. “And you return the favour. One would think you weren’t blood.”

Your laugh was quiet, mirthless. “We prefer it that way.”

He turned to look at you. There was something guarded about you, yes—but not cold. You simply didn’t invite people in. It fascinated Abraxas more than it should have.

“Strange,” he murmured, “how silence becomes its own kind of language in families like ours.”

You glanced at him. “I always assumed that was by design.”

A thread tugged, a mirrored thought. He gave you a nod—small, barely perceptible, the kind he reserved for those he considered intellectually worth his time.

There was a wind stirring now, pressing against both your forms, and yet neither of you moved. Time stretched in that way it only did during conversations that didn’t feel like they should be happening but couldn’t seem to stop.

He found himself speaking again, this time more quietly. “You read The Prince, don’t you?”

“More than once,” you replied. “I annotate.”

He looked sideways again, and for a moment there was warmth beneath the frost in his eyes. Not affection. Not yet. Something worse. Possibility.

“Careful,” he said, voice like velvet cut with blades. “You’ll make me curious.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I want you to be.”

Minutes passed. He told himself he was just being polite, just lingering because you were Orion’s sister and perhaps he owed you some vague form of civility. But he knew that wasn’t true.

Because then he asked about your classes. Because he actually listened—not in that condescending way boys often do, but like it mattered. Because when you talked about how the stars made you feel small in the right kind of way, he didn’t mock you. He agreed.

You didn’t try to impress him, or win him. You simply were. And that—that was disarming.

A silence bloomed between you after that—heavier than the sky. A strange warmth had crept into his chest, and it was unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

When you finally said you should go, it felt like someone had snapped their fingers and broken a spell. He only nodded, but his jaw tightened.

You left with a backward glance, and for a single breath, Abraxas watched you like a man trying to memorize a constellation he’d never noticed before.

He would speak to you again. Not because he had to. But because he didn’t want not to. And that, for Abraxas, was dangerous. Almost… terrifying.

He realized with quiet certainty—You would matter. Not yet, but soon.