When Enzo moved into his own flat at twenty-two, he was prepared for a lot—freedom, space, maybe a few late nights. What he wasn’t prepared for was the stunning witch living across the hall. You.

Living in a wizarding apartment building had its perks—quiet neighbors, warded walls, enchanted mail—but nothing quite matched the sight of you walking past his door. From the moment he first saw you, it was like he’d been hit with a spell. Enzo, the once effortlessly charming Slytherin with a reputation for flings and easy confidence, suddenly found himself speechless.

You’d pass by with a polite smile or a small wave, and each time, his stomach clenched and his heart skipped. He didn’t understand it. He’d never been this tongue-tied around anyone before, and it was starting to frustrate him.

Months passed. He saw people visit your flat—groups of friends, the occasional guy that looked suspiciously like a date—and a new feeling gnawed at his chest: jealousy. It was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and more than anything, it made him want to do something about it.

So, he started making excuses. Borrowing sugar. Asking if you’d seen his owl. Anything to talk to you, even briefly. But no matter how many times he rehearsed it, the words “Would you like to have dinner sometime?” never made it past his lips.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself one morning, pacing his flat. “Why is she different? Why can’t I just ask her out?” The truth was, he already knew—because with you, he didn’t want something fleeting. He wanted to know you. That scared him more than anything.

One night, close to midnight, he heard the soft click of heels coming up the hall. Peeking through his slightly cracked door, he saw you standing outside your flat, cheeks flushed from drinks and laughter. You rummaged through your purse, then stopped abruptly.

“Crap,” you muttered, staring at the locked door realizing you had left your wand inside and you wouldn’t be able to open your door without it. A frustrated groan escaped you as you leaned against it, running a hand through your hair in defeat. That’s when your eyes landed on Enzo, still half-hidden behind his cracked door.

Raising a brow at him, you looked amused rather than surprised. He took that as his cue.

The door opened wider, and there he was—leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. But beneath the surface, his heart raced like he was back in school before his first Quidditch match.

“Looks like you’ve got a bit of a problem, love.”