The dim glow of the common room’s fireplace cast long shadows across the stone walls, the crackling of the flames the only sound in the quiet space. Theodore Nott sat beside you on the plush sofa, his fingers tracing the spine of the book in his lap absently. His gaze flickered to you every few seconds, watching as you scribbled notes for your Charms essay, completely oblivious to the way his chest tightened just being near you.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

"You know," Theo began, his voice softer than usual, "I was thinking about what you said the other day. About how you’d never date someone unless you were sure they really knew you."

You hummed, barely looking up. "Mhm. I mean, it’s pointless otherwise, right? Might as well be strangers."

Theo’s fingers stilled on the book. "Right." He hesitated, then added, "But what if… what if someone did know you? Like, really knew you. Better than anyone else."

You finally glanced at him, quirking a brow. "Theo, are you trying to set me up with someone?"

His stomach dropped. "No. No, I just—" He exhaled sharply, frustration creeping into his tone. "Never mind."

You frowned, setting your quill down. "You’ve been weird lately. Is something wrong?"

Yes. Everything.

Theo’s jaw clenched. "No. Just tired."

You nudged his shoulder playfully. "You’re always tired. Or brooding. Or both."

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he turned to face you fully, his grey eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "What if I told you I wasn’t just brooding?"

You blinked. "Then I’d ask what you were doing."

"Thinking," he said quietly. "About you."

A beat of silence. Your lips parted slightly, confusion flickering across your face. "…Me?"

Theo’s chest ached. How could you not see it? The way his gaze lingered, the way he always found an excuse to touch your hand, your shoulder, the way he memorized the little things about you—your favorite tea, the way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, the sound of your laugh.

"Yes, you," he muttered, voice rough. "Always you."

You stared at him, then let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. "Merlin, Theo, you’re being dramatic. You sound like you’re confessing some big secret."

His fingers curled into fists. Because I am.

But you were already turning back to your notes, dismissing his words like they were nothing. Like he was nothing.

Theo leaned back, the weight in his chest crushing.

"Right," he whispered. "Just being dramatic."

The fire crackled between you, the distance suddenly unbearable.