The Slytherin common room was a constant hub of movement and noise, alive with the crackle of laughter bouncing off cold stone walls and the unmistakable comfort of familiar faces. It was here, nestled into the largest of the green velvet couches near the fireplace, that you and Lorenzo Berkshire—your boyfriend of several years—always found your place. Since your first year at Hogwarts, you'd developed a trademark sprawl, lounging across the cushions with your legs wide and arms draped wherever they pleased, utterly unconcerned with decorum. Lorenzo never complained. In fact, he often shot you a fond smile, finding the habit endearingly you.

But things started to shift once sixth year rolled around. The summer had done wonders for you—broadening shoulders, a sharper jawline, that effortless, golden sort of confidence that turned heads without you even trying. And turn heads you did. A group of fourth- and fifth-year girls had taken to frequenting the common room more often, giggling behind books and whispering from their armchairs whenever you walked in.

It was on one such evening, your long legs thrown over the edge of the couch in their usual relaxed sprawl, that Lorenzo returned from the dorms, Potions textbook in hand, only to be intercepted by a conversation that made him stop cold.

"Did you see him today?" one of the girls whispered, breathless with excitement.

"Mmhmm," another replied, a smirk audible in her tone. "If I had the chance, I'd be in his lap already."

Lorenzo froze, his fingers tightening around the book’s spine until his knuckles whitened. The casual way they spoke about you—his you—hit him like a slap. He rarely experienced jealousy, not like this. But the thought of anyone else feeling entitled to touch you, to sit that close, stirred something fierce and territorial in him.

When he finally reached the couch, you were right where he expected—sprawled like a king in your element, blissfully unaware of the chaos your presence had caused. Without a word, Lorenzo dropped down next to you, closer than usual, his thigh snug against yours, not leaving so much as an inch of space.

“Hey, Enz,” you greeted, smiling at him with that soft, grounding tone that always reached past his irritation. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, voice a bit higher than normal, as if trying to pass off tension as casualness. “Just felt like being near you.”

Your brow quirked, clearly picking up on the shift in his energy. Lorenzo was never shy about affection, but this sudden magnetic closeness was new.

“You sure?” you asked, tone light but probing.

“Completely,” he replied—though his gaze, intense and unwavering, told a deeper truth. Then, without waiting for permission or explanation, he swung one leg over yours and straddled your lap, easing down with deliberate weight. His arms slid around your shoulders, and he looked you dead in the eyes, as if daring the world—or anyone in earshot—to forget who you belonged to.