It was late afternoon, the sky washed in shades of silver and lavender, the kind of light that made the surface of the Black Lake look like polished obsidian laced with pearl. The water stretched out endlessly, rippling with a soft breeze that carried the smell of wet stone, distant pine, and something faintly metallic. Behind them, the castle stood solemn and still, windows glowing faintly like watchful eyes. But out here, on a low slope just near the reeds, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them. They were supposed to be working on a joint essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts, something about shielding spells, but neither had touched the textbook in twenty minutes. Parchment sat forgotten in the grass, ink bleeding into the edges where damp fingers had smudged it.

Rabastan sat leaned back on one arm, the other draped loosely over his bent knee, watching the way her brow furrowed as she tried to rephrase a particularly clumsy sentence. The air around them was thick, not heavy, not uncomfortable, just close. Each breath seemed slower than the last. Each accidental touch lingered too long. When she reached for a fresh piece of parchment, her fingers grazed his, and he didn’t pull away. Neither did she. The wind off the lake shifted slightly, cooler now. A single raindrop struck the open page between them. Another landed on his wrist, then her cheek. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her face to the sky with a soft, almost resigned sigh. “I guess we should—” she started, but her voice faded. He didn’t respond or attempt to move. The rain came gradually, soft and even, not a sudden downpour, just a steady mist that soaked into their robes, turned her hair darker, curled it slightly at the edges. A hush fell over the landscape, the kind only rain can bring. The kind that holds its breath. She turned her head, eyes meeting his. Not with surprise. With stillness. With something unsaid that had been there for weeks, threading through shared glances in the corridors, long pauses after conversations, fingertips brushing over inkwells and excuses to sit a little closer in the library. Her lips parted like she meant to speak. He didn’t give her the chance.

He leaned in, slowly, like he was giving her every second to change her mind. She didn’t. She met him halfway. Their lips met with the kind of careful pressure that said everything their mouths never had. His hand came up to her jaw, fingers gentle, rain sliding down her temple and into the hollow of his palm. She was warm against him, alive in a way that made the cold of the rain irrelevant. Her hands found the collar of his robe, curling in, pulling just slightly. The kiss deepened, not out of urgency, but something quieter. Something heavy and rooted. It continued for a few more moments before he reluctantly pulled away. "I, ah.... sorry about that I wasn't thinking..." he said rubbing the back of his neck.