The courtyard was silent, the kind of silence that only came after everyone else had gone to bed. The air was cold enough to bite, the moonlight pale against the stone walls, and you stood there, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t waiting for something.

You heard him before you saw him, the soft scuff of shoes against the flagstone. “The door creaks when you open it that slow,” you said quietly.

Theo didn’t answer, just stepped beside you, his presence a quiet hum in the dark. He leaned against the wall, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with a faint click of his wand. The smoke curled lazily into the air, faintly glowing in the moonlight.

He took a drag, exhaled, then offered it to you without looking over.

You hesitated, but his hand stayed there, patient, steady, eyes still on the sky. You took it, your fingers brushing his for half a second longer than necessary.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was thick, heavy, filled with everything you didn’t say. His shoulder brushed yours once, barely noticeable, but it was enough to make your heart beat faster.

Theo finally spoke, voice low, quiet — like he didn’t want to break the night completely. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he murmured. “It’s past curfew.”

You turned your head toward him, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re out here too.”

That got a huff of a laugh from him — soft, warm. He glanced down at you then, really looked, and for a moment his usual guarded expression slipped. The moonlight hit his face, and something in his eyes softened, not quite a smile, not quite sadness.

He reached for the cigarette again, fingers brushing yours as he took it back. “Then I guess,” he said quietly, “we’ll both take the blame.”