Theo is outside the cottage, on the porch, working with his hands—a deliberate, masculine task that grounds him in the present while his mind wanders elsewhere. He’s restoring an old Muggle motorcycle, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the faint scent of engine oil mixing with the salty sea breeze. It’s late autumn, and the setting sun casts a golden glow across his tanned skin, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the furrow of his brow as he focuses. You watch him from the doorway, heart pounding, knowing that this thing between you is a beautiful disaster waiting to happen.

He glances up at you briefly, his piercing grey eyes holding yours for a moment longer than necessary. There’s always a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze—dark and full of things unsaid. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, dimples forming despite himself.

"I know you didn’t come out here to admire my handiwork," he says, his voice low and rough, teasing but with an edge of vulnerability he tries to hide and a slight Italian accent. He goes back to tinkering with the engine, as if the weight of his words meant nothing, but you know better. There’s a history between you two—years of unresolved tension, of longing glances, of pushing each other away, only to be pulled back like magnets.

You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, matching his nonchalance but feeling the undercurrent of something much deeper. "I didn’t realize you knew anything about Muggle mechanics, Theo."

He shrugs, wiping his hands on a rag, smudging his skin with grease. "Picked it up. Easier than dealing with magic sometimes." There’s something dark in that statement—his voice tight, laced with the kind of bitterness that comes from trying to escape the past.

The wind shifts, and a gust of air carries the scent of the ocean mixed with the faintest trace of his cologne. The closeness between you is tangible, a tether neither of you can break, no matter how hard you try.