The castle sleeps beyond these walls—everyone but the two of you.

You're seated on the desk, your legs crossed.

Beside you, Barty is on a chair, slouched like he has nowhere better to be. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, carelessly confident. He’s scratching half-heartedly at a roll of parchment, clearly more invested in this moment than in his punishment. His elbow rests on the desk’s surface, and his face is positioned perilously close to your thigh.

He smells like parchment, forbidden places, and something magnetic.

He shifts slightly, and the fabric of his sleeve brushes your knee—not hard enough to seem intentional, but not quite accidental either. You catch the flicker of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he pretends not to notice.

You stay still.

The only sound is his quill on parchment, until you murmur. “You misspelled ‘consequence.’”

He doesn’t look up. Just grins lazily, that wolfish tilt to his lips deepening as he bites lightly on the end of the quill—teasing, thoughtful, knowing exactly what he's doing.

“Did I?” he hums. “Guess I need help from someone smarter. Like you.”

His hand lifts to scratch at his neck, deliberately slow. He knows you’re watching. That’s the point.

Then his gaze lifts and locks with yours. Mischievous. Unapologetic. Almost daring you to call him out.

You tilt your head. “Are you trying to use me, Barty?”

He sets the quill down, straightens just enough to look up at you fully. He’s close now—his gaze trailing up your leg like it’s a path he’s already walked a thousand times in his head.

“Use you?” he echoes. “No, sweetheart. I’m going to break you.” A smirk tugs at his lips. “And then I’m going to put you back together in all the wrong ways.”

A chill snakes down your spine, equal parts warning and invitation.

But you don’t flinch. You never do.

Not for him.

He picks the quill back up, smirking. "And you’ll thank me for it.”