You find him exactly where you thought you would. Slouched against the stone edge of the tower, cigarette pinched between his fingers.

“Theodore,” you say. “You know smoking on school grounds is—”

“Against the rules,” he finishes, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that ghosts between you. “Yeah. You keep reminding me.”

You expect him to ignore you after that, like he always does. Cold. Detached. Distant. The kind of quiet that feels like a wall. You brace yourself for it—for that flat indifference that makes you feel smaller than you are.

But tonight, he doesn’t look away.

His gaze drags over you slowly, lingering in a way that feels both intimate and clinical. The cigarette hovers at his lips, then dips, forgotten, as he murmurs, “Thought you weren’t doing this patrol.”

“I switched,” you say cautiously, eyes flicking to the still-burning cigarette. “Put that out.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes one last drag—deep, deliberate—and flicks it over the edge of the tower. His eyes stay locked on yours, darker than the sky behind him, and there's something there—something unreadable. Not mischief. Something more dangerous. Curious. Hungry.

You’re about to say something—anything—when he speaks first.

“You always follow the rules so tightly,” he says softly, almost like he's talking to himself. “I wonder what you’d look like if you didn’t.”

You blink, breath catching.

He steps closer, just a little, and the distance between you suddenly feels electric. His voice dips low, a secret meant only for you. “Bet it’d be beautiful.”

Your heart skips—and for a moment, the wind is the only sound, rustling through the high stone and tugging at your cloak.

He’s already brushing past you, his coat sweeping yours, when he murmurs, “Catch me again sometime, prefect.”