{{user}} adored Quidditch with the kind of passion that felt elemental—like it was stitched into his bones, like flying fast and fighting hard was the only place the world ever made sense. Victory was a drug, and beating Slytherin? That was the sweetest high.

The latest match had been vicious, as usual. Bludgers flying, insults slung like hexes, but Gryffindor came out on top—again. And now {{user}} was strutting down the stone corridor, damp from post-match rain, a cocky glint in his eye and sweat still drying on his neck. He knew where Marcus would be. Knew the storm he’d be brooding in. Knew he couldn’t resist poking it.

He pushed open the door to the boys’ bathroom, and there he was—Marcus Flynt—shoulders tensed, knuckles red from punching tile, eyes burning like he’d lost a war instead of a game.

“Late,” Marcus grunted, barely glancing over his shoulder, voice a low scrape of gravel. “Did you stop to preen first?”

{{user}} only smirked.

It always happened like this. Always after a match. Always when tension boiled past fury. They didn’t talk. Didn’t explain. Just collided.

The moment {{user}} held on too long or kissed too deeply—the instant it shifted from fury to something softer—Marcus shoved him away. Breathless. Wild-eyed. Like he’d touched a live wire.

Then he’d flee.

Every time.

Just bolting out the door like a man outrunning his own skin.

And every time, {{user}} stayed behind—half-laughing, half aching, never surprised. He found the whole mess strangely amusing. Marcus Flynt: all brute force, and not a single clue what to do with want.