The Slytherin common room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fireplace. You were curled up against Ominis, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His arm was wrapped securely around you, fingers lazily threading through your hair in slow, deliberate strokes.

He was always gentle with you—touches light yet firm, as if grounding himself in the warmth of your presence. But tonight, something felt off. His fingers stilled against your scalp, his body tense beneath you.

"I hate it," he muttered suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. "I hate that I couldn't see you, {{user}}. I hate that everyone else gets to look at you—gets to see your gorgeous face—except for me."

His other hand lifted, hesitating for just a moment before cupping your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek, tracing the delicate slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, as if trying to etch every detail into his mind.

"I can only imagine," he murmured, frustration laced in his voice, "but it’ll never be enough."