You sat beneath one of the stone archways, quill tapping, trying to look like you weren’t one bad breeze away from losing your notes. Wind kept threatening to snatch the parchment off your lap, and your hair was being wildly uncooperative.

Blaise walked past, hands in his pockets, steps lazy but precise, uniform immaculate like the world wouldn’t dare wrinkle his clothes. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even look at you at first.

Then the wind caught your parchment again.

Your hand flew out to catch it. And before it could fly away, a pale hand beat you to it. Blaise’s fingers pressed the page gently to your knee.

He didn’t hand it back. Just stood there, holding it in place like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“The weather appears to be fighting you today.”

Calm tone. Mild amusement. Zero judgment — which somehow made it worse.