You’d never been to his flat alone before. Not really. Not like this.

Usually Pansy was draped across his velvet sofa, half-mocking his taste in Muggle records. Or Blaise, pacing by the floor-to-ceiling windows with a glass of something obscenely expensive, talking investment portfolios and ward-breaking hexes. But tonight, it was just you and Theo.

You hadn’t planned it. You never do.

He opened the door still in his West Ham training gear—dark kit clinging to lean muscle, curls damp from the post-practice shower he hadn’t quite had yet. You were supposed to drop off a potion Pansy insisted he try, something to ease tight ligaments. Nothing dramatic. But he’d stepped aside with a quiet, “Come in,” and something in his voice—something you’d never say aloud—kept you from making excuses.

The flat smelled like cedarwood and spell smoke. The jazz was low and moody, some old Coltrane track, half-forgotten in the background. And Theo…

Theo looked tired. Not the kind that sleep fixes, but the kind that lingers in your bones. He tossed his boots aside with a soft grunt and walked barefoot across marble floors like he didn’t quite remember he wasn’t alone.

You watched him from the kitchen archway, arms folded loosely across your chest, feeling suddenly out of place despite how many times you’d been here.

“Did Pansy threaten you with violence if I didn’t take that potion?” he asked finally, glancing over his shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. Dimples. Damn him.

You arched a brow. “Something about you ‘moving like an old man.’ Her words. Not mine.”

He made a low sound in his throat—half amusement, half exhaustion—and disappeared into the living room. You followed.

He moved like a man who didn’t want to sit still but also didn’t want to explain why. Eventually, he collapsed into the armchair, long legs stretched out, one arm slung over the side. The flickering firelight caught on the scar that sliced clean across his jaw. He didn’t cover it anymore.