The castle smelled damp this morning—cold stone walls still exhaling the chill of last night’s rain. Evan walked half a step behind you, not because he ever followed anyone, but because he liked the view better from here—liked the rhythm of your stride, the way your hair shifted with every step.

You were talking, something about how Mary had absolutely butchered her Potions essay, and Evan hummed in all the right places without needing to actually respond. He was too busy watching the curve of your jaw as you spoke, the way your fingers moved when you got passionate.

Your bag—overstuffed, as usual—hung from his left shoulder, the strap creasing his uniform shirt. He carried it like he carried you: effortlessly, constantly, like gravity had shifted years ago and decided it belonged to him now.

His own satchel was half-zipped and hanging loose at his other side, papers askew, but his wand was still tucked against his spine just so. Balance, after all.

You wore his ring again today. The one with the onyx stone and the cursed sigil no one but him understood—looped around your neck like a charm, resting just above the soft place between your collarbones. It always looked better on you.

He leaned into you a little as the hallway thinned out, lowering his head so only you could hear.

“You know,” his voice brushed low and rough against the shell of your ear, “I’m convinced the only reason I still go to class is so I get this walk with you every morning. That, and watching Mulciber try to hide his jealousy every time I hold your books like some tragic lovesick knight.”

He smirked as your shoulder bumped his, and his hand lingered at the small of your back—possessive, protective, but never controlling. You knew the difference. He knew you knew.

As you approached the classroom, your friends clustered like magpies near the door, all glittering eyes and whispered speculations. Evan gave them a single, slow nod—civil, barely polite, and entirely dismissive. He didn’t dislike them, but they weren’t you.

He stepped in closer, fingers brushed your cheek. His thumb lingered against your lower lip. “You’ve got ink here,” he murmured, knowing full well you didn’t. But he liked having an excuse to touch you like that. Gentle. Absurdly soft for someone who’d hex a teacher for giving him detention.

Then the goodbye—his kind of goodbye. Quiet. Certain. A little bit devastating.

Evan dipped his head, forehead resting briefly against yours. Not a kiss, but something more intimate. He breathed you in. That smell of your shampoo and something sweeter—something only he could place.

His fingers slipped from your waist last, slow like he was memorizing the texture of you all over again. “I’ll be exactly seventeen seconds late to Charms. You’ll blame me. I’ll deny it. Then I’ll drag you into the alcove behind the second stairwell to make it up to you. Sound fair?”

And with that he slipped your bag onto your arm, before he was gone.