It shouldn't have been difficult. He was Blaise Zabini — smooth, composed, unflappable. The kind of guy who never tripped over his words, who always knew exactly what to say and exactly how to say it. He’d never had trouble charming anyone, and he certainly never cared this much about impressing someone before.

But {{user}}… oh, {{user}} wasn’t just anyone.

They were different. They had this way of looking at him like they saw through the polished exterior — like they noticed the things he didn’t let other people see. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that made his pulse quicken and his usual calm start to unravel.

The Yule Ball was in full swing, yet here he was. He stood near the edge of the Great Hall, arms crossed, leaning casually against a pillar like he hadn’t been staring at them for the last five minutes. They were laughing with a few friends, their eyes warm and their smile doing something ridiculous to his self-control.

He could have asked anyone to dance. He’d been asked by plenty. But here he was, watching {{user}}, rehearsing the stupid question in his head like some lovesick first-year.

Just ask. Walk over there and ask them. It’s a dance, not a proposal.

But even he couldn’t keep the doubt from creeping in.

What if they say no? What if they think I’m joking? What if I go all awkward and forget how words work? What if I start sweating?

He glanced at them again. Still stunning. Still effortlessly out of his league, no matter how much he told himself otherwise.

He let out a slow breath, straightened his dress robes, and rolled his shoulders back like he was about to walk into battle.

He was Blaise Zabini.

But even he wasn’t immune to {{user}}.