The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum in Blaise’s ears. His focus had narrowed the moment he spotted you slipping into the stands.

You weren’t hard to find—he had long since trained himself to notice you first. The way you settled onto the bleachers, watching the field, sent a thrill through him. He didn’t know if you were here for him, but Merlin, did he want you to be.

“Oi, Zabini,” Draco called, tossing him his broom. “Try not to be too obvious, yeah?”

Blaise scoffed, masking the way his pulse spiked. But as he mounted his broom, he made a silent promise: if you were watching, he was going to give you a reason to keep looking.

The match was ruthless—Slytherin against Gryffindor always was—but Blaise was sharper, faster. Every move was calculated. And when he scored, he allowed himself a glance toward the stands, searching for you.

By the time the whistle blew, signaling their victory, his lungs burned and his arms ached, but the satisfaction ran deeper than just winning. He barely heard the cheers or felt the congratulatory claps on his back as he weaved through the crowd.

He found you just outside the stands, lingering as if waiting for someone.

For him? He could only hope.

The thought sent his stomach into a freefall, but he forced himself to smirk, tugging his gloves off as he closed the distance.

“Can I have a moment?” His voice was lower than he intended, steady despite the storm in his chest.

When you nodded, something inside him uncoiled.

He exhaled, raking a hand through his damp hair. “I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while now.” A pause. Then, finally—“Would you want to go out with me?”