The morning sun pours through the wide windows, painting golden streaks across the polished floors of the house you now share—his, once. Yours, now. Both names were written quietly on parchment and tucked away with the deeds… but louder still in every corner of this place.

It’s new—this life, this space—and yet, you fit here as if you’ve always belonged. A Lovegood among silk curtains and ancient stone, your wild heart settling only because it was him. Because it was Theodore Nott.

You’re in his jumper—no, yours now—sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, legs bare and warm from the fire burning low. You twirl lazily under his arm, laughter spilling from your lips like sunlight, and his eyes follow you like the moon follows the tide.

"You’re going to fall, dove," he murmurs, smirking, but there’s no real worry in his voice—just that soft, familiar drawl he reserves for you when no one’s around.

"Then catch me," you challenge, breathless.

And he does—because he always will.

His hand finds yours, fingers threading together like he’s done it a thousand lifetimes before, grounding you. "It’s strange," he says quietly, gazes drinking you in, "how this—" he gestures to the house, the forest beyond, "—none of it ever felt like mine… until you stood in it."

Your laugh is soft, a secret kept just for him. "That’s because it wasn’t. Not really."

You sway there, the two of you—half a dance, half a prayer—until his voice, velvet and low, breaks the hush again. "I think I built this place waiting for you to find me."

And you swear, somewhere between the spaces of his words, you hear poetry.

"You’re dramatic, Nott," you tease, but your smile betrays you.

"Only for you."