The plan had been simple. Calculated.

You were powerful—not in magic, not in influence alone, but in blood. A perfect puzzle piece in his grand design, a stepping stone toward greater things. You had the name, the lineage, the connections.

So he pursued you. Charmed you. Studied you like an intricate spell, each interaction deliberate, each touch and lingering glance meticulously placed to pull you in.

And you fell—of course you did.

But what he hadn’t accounted for—what he hadn’t prepared for—was himself.

It was in the quiet moments, the unguarded seconds when he wasn’t thinking about the plan. When he caught himself watching you—not because he needed to, but because he wanted to. When the sound of your laughter struck something unfamiliar in his chest. When the way you trusted him made his stomach twist in ways he refused to name.

It was unacceptable. Weak. Dangerous.

Yet he found himself standing in the dim glow of candlelight in the Restricted Section, the two of you surrounded by ancient, forbidden texts. You'd insisted on coming with him to the restricted section at night, which he couldn't deny for some reason. But instead of focusing on searching for the books he needed, he kept on looking at you; some call it admiring, but of course he forbid himself to call it that.

"You didn't have to come with me," he muttered, watching as you ran your fingers along the spines of the books.