It had been a year since you and Oliver Wood had started dating, and in that time, you’d both built something rare—trust, love, and the kind of closeness that made the world feel lighter. From late-night practices at the Quidditch pitch to quiet evenings in the common room, every moment with him felt like home.

But tonight, something in you felt heavier.

You had been dealing with your eating disorder for years, something Oliver didn’t know about. For a long time, you had managed to keep it under control, moving past it, and you had wanted him to see you as the person you were now—not the one you had been. You had believed yourself stronger, better, ready for this love. But lately, the old insecurities had begun creeping back.

You tried to act normal, forcing smiles when Oliver held your hand and laughed at something silly you’d said. You laughed too, but inside, a storm was brewing, one you didn’t know how to share.

Oliver, of course, noticed. Not in the way people who pry do, but with that quiet, attentive gaze of his, the one that saw everything without judgment. He didn’t ask right away. He knew better than to push, to risk making you retreat. Instead, he watched you from the sidelines, trying to understand without scaring you away.

Tonight, you sat in the common room, a warm cup of tea in your hands, pretending to read, while Oliver sprawled lazily across the couch with a book.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he said finally, closing his book. His eyes met yours, patient and soft. “Something on your mind?”

You shook your head quickly, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

Oliver tilted his head, not convinced. “You know you don’t have to pretend with me, right?”