The Slytherin common room is alive with celebration—laughter, firewhiskey smuggled in from Hogsmeade, and the glow of green-tinted lanterns casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. The air is thick with the scent of victory, of triumph, of a night where rules don’t matter.

You lean against the velvet couch, drink in hand, a lazy smirk on your lips as some boy—someone you’ve seen around but never spoken to—leans in closer. Flirting. Confident, bold, too familiar for someone you barely know.

You should be annoyed. But instead, you feel the weight of a stare from across the room.

Evan.

He’s sitting in the corner, sprawled in his usual effortless way, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other clenched tightly around his drink. His jaw is set, his eyes dark and unreadable, but you know him too well—he’s seething. The flickering light catches the tension in his shoulders, the sharp edge of his smirk that isn’t really a smirk at all.

He’s jealous. Burning with it.

And he’s just waiting for you to notice.