Tom saw you the moment you walked in.

Of course he had. You lit every room you entered, especially tonight. Sunshine in silk, looking so utterly radiant it made something curl and twist low in his gut. He hated it. Hated that you could still glow—still smile, still shine—even after being publicly humiliated by the Gryffindor boy you so foolishly trusted.

Tom’s jaw clenched at the thought. A boy made of golden smiles and empty words. And you—you, of all people—fell for it. Pathetic, he thought, eyes tracking you as you stood alone at the edge of the ballroom, fiddling with your drink, smiling as you watched your friends dance with their dates, happy for them.

But the longer he watched you, the more that word curled around him instead. Pathetic. That he noticed the way your eyes didn’t quite match your smile. The way you looked around the room like you were trying to pretend you weren’t hurting.

You hadn’t been stood up—not exactly. Your date had simply decided, last minute, that someone else was the one he wanted to take to the ball. And you were the afterthought. The second choice.

The one left standing when everyone else had already been claimed.

Tom couldn’t look away. You shouldn’t have been here, not like this. You should’ve been dancing, held close by someone who actually deserved you. Someone who could see what you were worth. Someone who wouldn’t treat you like a backup plan. Someone like—

No. No. Not him.

Because if he had you, he’d ruin you. He’d break you. You deserved better than that. He knew that. But as he watched you—alone, trying not to let the hurt show—the thought tightened his chest until something finally snapped.

You looked… ethereal. And unbearably alone. So when Can’t Help Falling in Love by Elvis began to play, he moved before he could stop himself.

He crossed the ballroom to you. You didn’t belong to anyone. But he wanted you anyway.

When he stopped beside you, you didn’t turn. Not at first. You didn’t have to, to know it was him. You felt him. You always did. You expected one of his sharp remarks.

Instead, he extended his hand without a word. He didn’t ask. He never asked.

And still, when you finally turned, your gaze met his with that infuriating softness you always reserved for people who didn’t deserve it. You smiled. It was barely there. But it shattered something in him. And when you placed your hand in his, he curled his fingers around yours like he never planned to let go.

You danced.

And for once, he didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care if the world watched. Your hand in his— delicate, trusting, too trusting—you felt like a sin he would commit again and again. You looked up at him, like you didn’t know what he was capable of. Or worse—like you did, and forgive him anyway.

He didn’t believe in fate.

But he believed in this.

So he leaned in, voice low and raw and barely meant for your ears, and whispered:

“Take my hand... Take my whole life, too... For I can’t help falling in love with you.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Instead, you closed your eyes and laid your head against his chest. Letting yourself listen. To the music. To the steady rhythm of his breath. To the heartbeat beneath your cheek.

He focused on the feeling of having you close. And if he had to ruin every man in your life, burn down the world to keep you here?

So be it.