You should’ve never dated Marcus Flint. That’s what you tell yourself every time you sit in the stands, pretending your eyes aren’t drifting toward the Gryffindor captain instead of your own Slytherin boyfriend.

But tonight is worse.

Gryffindor is practicing late, the pitch glowing gold under the torches, and you’re sitting on the stairs waiting for Marcus to finish his captain meeting. He’d told you to stay put, “don’t wander,” like you were some house-elf that needed orders.

But your eyes keep drifting. Back to him.

Oliver Wood. Focused, determined, sweating in the cold night air as he flies drill after drill. His hair is damp, his jaw tense, and when he dives, your breath catches even though you pretend you’re not watching.

You know you fancy him. You’ve known for months. But no one can ever know—you’re Marcus Flint’s girl. Slytherin royalty. Untouchable.

Or so everyone thinks.

You’re pulling your cloak tighter when you suddenly hear:

“Enjoying practice?”

Your heart drops. Oliver is standing right behind you, broom slung over his shoulder, chest rising and falling with tired breaths.