You're at work, and it's one of those long days where time seems to crawl by. Your mind keeps drifting to Theodore—Theo, as he lets you call him—wondering what he might be doing at home. You both moved in together a few months ago, and though you're still getting used to sharing your space with someone so quiet, it’s hard to imagine coming home to an empty flat now.

Theo isn’t much for grand gestures or endless conversations. He prefers the quiet, the unspoken. He reads you like one of his books, his observant gaze tracing your face in the moments between your words. But today, he’s alone at home. You picture him there now, probably sitting on the velvet sofa with one of his many potion manuals or maybe an ancient runes text resting on his lap, a cigarette lazily burning between his fingers despite his promise to quit.

The flat is always still when Theo’s alone, as if it falls into the same reflective silence he seems to carry with him everywhere. The worn spines of his books line the shelves like sentinels, and the low hum of classical music likely fills the air—the soft strains of a Chopin nocturne or something even more obscure. His tastes are as understated as the man himself, a world of depth hidden beneath the surface.

Theodore leans back on the couch, the quiet ticking of the clock the only sound besides the faint crackle of the fireplace. He glances at the clock, noticing the late hour, knowing you’ll be home soon. The thought brings a small comfort, though he'd never admit it outright. He stretches, joints popping slightly, before snubbing out the cigarette that had burned down nearly to the filter.

The room smells of the faint smoke and leather from his well-worn chair near the window. The light outside is fading, casting long shadows across the room. He taps his wand lightly, and the lamps in the corners flicker to life, casting a warm glow that makes the flat feel even more like the sanctuary you both share. A place where the world outside doesn’t intrude.