The warm glow of the library lamps softened the sharp lines of Tom’s profile as he stood by the tall, arched window, his posture as precise as ever. You perched on the edge of a large oak table, your book momentarily forgotten in your lap, the leather-bound cover cool under your fingertips.

“Your handsome friend takes care of everything,” Tom said suddenly, his voice smooth but with a deliberate edge. He didn’t look at you immediately, his gaze instead fixed on the storm brewing outside.

You blinked, caught off guard by the remark. “Draco?” you asked, tilting your head in mild confusion.

He turned slightly, just enough for you to catch the faint arch of his brow. “Do you think he’s handsome?”

The question hung in the air, loaded with something unspoken. “I guess?” you said slowly, your words careful. Then, with a hesitant laugh, you added, “Um… is that a problem?”

Tom’s expression didn’t change, but his lips tightened ever so slightly. “No.” The response was clipped, and his eyes flickered away from you.

You watched him for a moment, then let out a soft chuckle as realization dawned. Setting the book aside, you leaned forward. “You’re jealous,” you said, the words almost a tease.

His shoulders tensed, the smallest tell of discomfort, but his voice remained measured. “I don’t get jealous.”

“Oh, you definitely do.” You leaned back now, crossing your arms, your smirk widening as you studied him.

Tom’s gaze finally met yours, sharp and unwavering, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—an almost imperceptible frustration. “I don’t,” he repeated, his voice lower this time, quieter but still firm, as though saying it with enough conviction might make it true.

He turned back to the window, the glow of the lightning illuminating his face for a moment, casting sharp shadows across his features. For a man who claimed he didn’t get jealous, he certainly wore it well.