Lorenzo had never cared for Quidditch. The library was his refuge, the scent of ink and parchment far more comforting than the sharp chill of the open sky. He preferred the steady hum of quiet intellect over the roaring chaos of the pitch.

And then there was you.

Number 13—your name whispered through the halls like a storm on the horizon. A force of nature, untamed and unyielding, slipping through his carefully ordered world like a gust of wind that left everything in disarray. You belonged to the sky, and yet, somehow, you had grounded him.

Now, the stands had become his second home. He told himself he was there for the fresh air, for a change of scenery, but then—why did his gaze always find you first?

Tonight, the sky threatened rain, and the last stragglers from practice had already left. Everyone but you. You trained until the sun was completely swallowed by the horizon and until your bones screamed for rest. When the first drop of rain kissed his skin, he sighed, already shrugging off his cloak.

He approached you slowly, his presence like a shadow stretching toward the fading light.

"You'll catch cold." He draped his cloak over your shoulders before you could protest. A calculated gesture—one that let him touch the edges of your world without fully stepping inside it. "Keep it"

His voice was calm, almost indifferent, but there was something in the way his fingers lingered on the fabric—something that betrayed him. A whisper of longing, of unspoken confessions woven into the quiet space between you.