the apple orchard smelled faintly of honey and sunlight, petals drifting lazily down like snow that had forgotten to be cold. you were lying back in the grass, letting the soft warmth settle into your shoulders, when he arrived — sylvester oak, in all his theatrical, impossibly elegant glory.

he didn’t bow to mrs. fairfax. instead, he settled beside you, careful not to crush the petals scattered on the grass, and tipped his head toward you with that teasing, practiced ease.

“do you always lie here, waiting for me?” he asked lightly, green eyes glinting with amusement, as if your very presence were a puzzle he delighted in solving.

you let your gaze meet his, letting the unspoken truth linger between you. you knew who he was. you knew. and for the moment, you were content to let him play sylvester oak, letting the world think him a proper, charming wizard, while you silently relished that knowledge.

he leaned back on one elbow, close enough that a stray petal brushed your arm, and his smile softened, the teasing still there but quieter now.

“i should warn you,” he said after a moment, voice low, deliberate, “that i have every intention of making this afternoon entirely unforgettable.”

you tilted your head at him, letting the orchard hum around you, petals drifting down, sun catching in his blond hair, and for a heartbeat, the world felt suspended — just you, him, and the secret that made everything dangerously intimate.