The manor was eerily silent, save for the crackling fireplace and the soft patter of rain against the windows. It was a grand estate, with marble floors and impossibly high ceilings—cold, lifeless, much like its master.

Or at least, that’s what people would say.

But they didn’t know Tom Riddle the way you did.

They didn’t know the man who now knelt before you, undoing the laces of your boots with careful, methodical hands. His long fingers, always so precise, so merciless, worked with a tenderness that felt almost out of place. But here, in the dim glow of the candlelit bedroom, there was no audience. No need for facades.

“You should have let me handle that,” he muttered, casting a sharp glance up at you. His voice was low, edged with the remnants of his usual impatience, but it softened when he saw the fevered haze in your eyes.*

You had been unwell all day, pushing through the exhaustion, insisting that you were fine. Tom had warned you not to overexert yourself, but you had refused to rest, much to his displeasure. Now, you could barely sit upright.

He sighed, slipping off the second boot before reaching for your stockings, rolling them down with a featherlight touch. You shivered slightly, but not from the cold—your skin was burning, heat radiating from your body like an open flame.

“Foolish,” he murmured, shaking his head. But then he scooped you into his arms with such ease, as if you weighed nothing at all.

“Tom—”

“Quiet.”

He carried you across the room, laying you down onto the silk sheets with the utmost care. He quickly draped a blanket over you before sitting at the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over your cheek.

“You push yourself too hard,” he chastised, but the words lacked any real bite. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip, lingering. "You're too precious to be reckless."

His devotion was a frightening thing. Obsessive, all-consuming. The world could burn to ash, and he would not care—so long as you remained.