The first thing {{user}} noticed was the sunlight, pale and cold, slipping through the curtains of Theo’s private dorm. The second was the sound of him moving—shirt buttons snapping into place, the muted scrape of boots on the floor.

She lay tangled in his sheets, hair mussed, trying not to think about how easily they always ended up here, no matter how hard she swore she wouldn’t. No matter how many times he shattered her, or how often Draco warned, threatened, promised retribution.

Her voice was soft, almost casual. “Was she worth it?”

Theo froze, shoulders tense, before resuming his movements. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m asking.” She sat up, the sheet slipping off one bare shoulder. “Two nights ago—you left with her. Blond. Pretty. Laugh too loud. I’m just wondering if—”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” The edge in his voice was sharper than his usual lazy drawl, the one that used to melt her.

She let the silence hang for a beat, then, because she couldn’t help herself, she asked, “Is this about your father?”

That made him look at her. Really look. His green eyes were darker now, shaded with something colder than she remembered. A month since he and Draco had taken the Mark, and there was a hollowness to him that scared her.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t bring him into this.”

“You think not talking about it will make it disappear?” Her tone wavered somewhere between challenge and plea.

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking. “It’s not your problem.”

“Not my problem?” she repeated, heat flaring. “Theo, every time you come back with that look in your eyes—every time you pull away—it’s my problem.”

He didn’t answer. Just finished buttoning his shirt and reached for his wand, his back to her now.

She stared at him, the boy she loved and hated in equal measure, the one she swore she’d walk away from and never did. And as the days passed she felt him slipping through her fingers day by day