You were always too loud in silence. That was the first thing he noticed—how even your stillness invited attention, how the hallway bent itself around your figure like a whispered dare.

Tom had seen girls like you before, or versions of them: honeyed glances, bitten lips, pleated skirts tailored too neatly to be innocent. But none of them had ever looked at him the way you did—like you knew something about him you shouldn’t, like you wanted to be caught holding the match to the curtains.

He marked your name on the roll with surgical precision, though he never had to. He knew it already. He never called on you unless you weren’t paying attention—then, always. Not to punish. Just to watch you straighten. The way the room noticed you noticing him.

In his office, the air was always cooler, darker, as if the castle itself bowed to the things he kept quiet. But lately—even the shadows weren’t enough. You lingered behind after class sometimes, feigning interest in something trivial. You let the silence stretch between them like a taut string.

He never asked you to leave.

He’d caught himself watching you once. Not just looking—watching. You were laughing with some fifth-year boy in the courtyard, head tilted like the sun had been made for your neck. It was maddening. Not the boy. You. The performance. The delicious, dangerous game of pretending you didn’t know you had him under glass.

Of course, you knew. Girls like that always did.

He told himself it was curiosity. Then irritation. Then fascination. Lies, all of them, exquisitely dressed. It was something much more sordid. Much more sincere.

You looked at him like a secret. And he, who had mastered the art of keeping them, suddenly wished to be discovered.

And this time, when you passed him in the corridor and let your fingers almost brush his, you did not look back as always.

But he did.

He didn’t speak at first—just matched your pace with the effortless glide of someone who never needed to hurry. His shoulder brushed yours—not by accident, not quite on purpose. A quiet claim of space. Of you in it.

Then, low and calm, “You think you’re dangerous, walking through the world with that look in your eyes. You should be. You would be… if you weren’t playing in a world full of children.”

The space between your hands was no longer empty either. Not touching—not quite. But near enough to feel the gravity of the silence.

“But keep playing,” he murmured, eyes on you now, dark, unflinching, “I’m rather enjoying the spectacle.”

He stopped then, not abruptly, but with the precision of someone choosing the exact moment gravity shifted. You kept walking. He let you, eyes lingering on your retreating form.

“And when you’re finished with boys,” his voice reached you again—unhurried, colder now, “do let me know if you’re ready for something far more… interesting.”