{{user}} Wood was the pride of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team—fierce, obsessive, the golden boy with fire in his blood and victory in his veins. Captain by fourth year, a tactical genius with a spine of steel, he lived and breathed the game. Every match was war. Every win, a personal triumph. And nothing fueled him more than beating Slytherin—especially Marcus Flynt, that snarling brute of a captain with too much muscle and too little control.

The latest match had been brutal, fast, and unforgettable. Gryffindor won again, sealing another victory in their long-standing rivalry. The common room turned into a celebration, loud and reckless. {{user}} let himself drink, just a little too much, because why not? They earned it. They always did.

He woke up to a pounding headache and sunlight creeping across the stone floor. Sheets tangled around his waist. Skin too warm. Body too bare.

Then he turned his head.

Marcus was there. Under his blankets. Also bare. Also asleep.

For a moment, {{user}} couldn’t move. His heart slammed against his ribs, panic rising sharp and hot. It wasn’t a dream. That was Marcus Flynt—scarred shoulder half exposed, black hair rumpled, face uncharacteristically peaceful in sleep.

{{user}} felt sick.

Fragments of the night before flickered into place. The celebration. The alcohol. The Slytherin common room, dim and unfamiliar. Marcus showing up, sneering, shoving, picking a fight like he always did when Gryffindor won. But somehow, it hadn’t stayed a fight. It never did. Not really.

They had a history—brief, violent moments stolen in the aftermath of matches, always in private, always in secret. Heated, wordless makeouts in bathroom corners, angry hands and sharper mouths. And every time, Marcus fled like the whole world might see him cracking. It was never serious. It was never supposed to be anything.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

{{user}} moved carefully, slowly peeling himself away from the sheets. If he could just find his clothes and get out before—

Marcus stirred.

Eyes opened. Bleary. Confused. Then recognition.

They stared at each other in absolute horror.

For once, Marcus didn’t bolt. He just lay there, paralyzed in disbelief, looking up at {{user}} with the same wide, mortified eyes. Two enemies. Two captains. Two boys who had crossed every line.

And no idea what came next.