He wasn’t one for grand gestures. Didn’t see the point in flowers that wilted or poems that said too much and not enough.

But he noticed things.

The way your fingers curled into your sleeves when the cold crept in. So he left his scarf on your chair—still warm from his neck, smelling faintly of cedar and the cologne you once said you liked.

He noticed the way your eyes lit up at those sweets from Honeydukes. So he always made sure to slip them into your bag everyday when you weren’t looking.

When you mentioned your dorm being too cold, he waited until you left for class and wove a soft warming charm into your bedspread. You never thanked him. He didn’t need you to. The way you seemed less stiff every morning after that was more than enough.

One evening, as you leaned into his side, laughing softly about how “unromantic” he was, he didn’t look up from his book. Didn’t say much. Just turned the page and replied—

“I don’t need to be loud to love you.”

But Merlin, if only you knew how everything he did was, quietly, always for you.