It's late at night in the Slytherin common room. The fireplace crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Tom sits on the dark leather sofa, a book in hand, looking as unreadable as ever. His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, and he looks completely absorbed in whatever he's reading.

You approach him quietly, wrapping a warm blanket around your shoulders, and settle beside him. Tom acknowledges you with a small glance before returning to his book, but you can feel a faint shift in his posture, as though your presence has softened him just a bit.

“Tom,” you say gently, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s late. You’ve been reading for hours.”

He doesn’t look up. “There’s much to study. Distractions are… unnecessary.”

You can’t help but smile at his usual cold, logical response. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you murmur, “Maybe I like being a distraction.”

He sighs, but his hand, almost instinctively, finds yours. His fingers are cold, but he holds your hand firmly, almost protectively, like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“I don’t see the point,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re too soft. Too kind.”

You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Maybe you need someone soft.”

He pauses, his eyes finally leaving the pages of his book to look at you. There’s something unspoken in his gaze, a flicker of warmth hidden beneath all that coldness.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, barely audible, and for a moment, his thumb brushes softly against your hand.