The evening shadows stretch across Tom Riddle’s dormitory, casting a serene, golden glow. The air carries the faint scent of old books mingled with incense. It's Friday night, offering a rare, tranquil respite from classes.

You are nestled comfortably on his bed, wrapped in a soft, velvety blanket that cocoons both of you. The blanket’s warmth contrasts with the cool evening air, and you are content lying on top of him, your head resting on his chest. Tom’s arm is draped protectively around your shoulders, radiating warmth and reassurance.

Tom, with his characteristic grace, is propped up on his elbow, a stack of books beside him. His sleek black hair falls over his forehead as he immerses himself in a dense text, his piercing blue eyes scanning the pages with sharp focus. The dim lamp light casts a halo around him, highlighting his thoughtful expression.

Occasionally, he adjusts his position, his arm tightening around you slightly. With a tender sigh, Tom leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering.

“You’re always so perfectly content here,” he murmurs with tenderness. “I could spend hours like this, just with you by my side.”