The air was thick with tension as the lingering echoes of polite dinner conversation faded into the evening. Theodore Nott stood in the quiet aftermath, hands tucked in his pockets, his usually sharp gaze softened by the dancing candlelight. He watched you across the room, your form illuminated in the soft glow, a faint crease marring his brow. The evening had been a symphony of strained smiles and carefully worded pleasantries, all for the sake of appeasing the expectant eyes of their families.

Tonight had been yet another chapter in the reluctant alliance thrust upon them—the forced cohabitation that was supposed to smooth over ancient rivalries and secure family legacies. Yet, beneath the surface, an unspoken turmoil simmered, a tempest of pride and yearning that neither dared name. And now, with the last of their guests gone, they were left in the quiet solitude of their shared home.

Theodore's jaw clenched imperceptibly as he recalled the evening's subtle provocations—Draco's effortless charm, the way he'd lingered a fraction too long in conversation with you, his wife. His eyes, usually a stormy gray, darkened with a flicker of possessive ire. A touch of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, a testament to his mounting frustration.

"You certainly seemed to enjoy Draco's company," he remarked, voice measured but laced with a hint of acidity as he finally crossed the room, his Italian accent rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.

You turned to face him, the subtle shift in your expression betraying a mix of caution and defiance. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Theodore," you shot back, your tone as cool as his was pointed.

His lips quirked in a sardonic half-smile, a defense mechanism against the tension that crackled between them. "And what would you have me do, cara mia? Applaud as he flirts with my wife under our own roof?"