After Hogwarts, your life took you in different directions, and for years, there was nothing but occasional letters. Now, you’ve both somehow ended up here, where the magical world feels distant, and the real world is grinding and unrelenting. It’s late, and the sky is pouring rain. Evan's in the kitchen, fixing a broken pipe under the sink—his sleeves rolled up, revealing the ink-black tattoos that stretch over his forearms, muscles flexing as he works. You stand by the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him silently.

He knows you're there—he always knows. But he doesn’t look up. His focus is on the task, methodically twisting the wrench, cursing under his breath when the metal slips.

"Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help?" he quips, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You laugh, but there's tension—something unspoken hangs between you two. It always has. Since Hogwarts. Since the war. Since all the things you both did and never said aloud.

You kneel beside him, offering a sarcastic "I’d hate to ruin your manly moment," but your hands meet his as you both reach for the pipe. The sudden proximity sends a jolt through you, your fingers brushing his rougher, calloused ones. The moment stretches, and the air grows heavy with something darker, more urgent. His icy blue eyes flick up to meet yours, the intensity in them pulling you in, and for a second, you think he might kiss you.

But he doesn't. He never does. He’s too guarded, too wrapped up in his own mess to let anyone in fully. Instead, he pulls back, rolling his eyes and muttering something sarcastic. You bite back a smile, used to his retreat.