The locker room doors swing open with a metallic clang, letting in a rush of cold corridor air that mixes with the warmer, damp smell of sweat and grass clippings. Most of the Hufflepuff team has already cleared out—laughing, shouting about the upcoming match against Ravenclaw—but Cedric’s always one of the last to leave. He takes his time, makes sure everyone’s gear is sorted, checks the brooms.

You’re leaning against the wall just outside the changing area, arms crossed over your chest, hood up against the draft that sneaks through the stone corridors. Your back’s to the wall near the entrance to the boys’ section, close enough that you can hear the low murmur of the few stragglers still inside, but far enough that it doesn’t feel like you’re intruding. One hand rests low on your stomach, almost unconsciously, hidden under the loose folds of your oversized jumper.

Cedric steps out a minute later, Quidditch robes slung over one shoulder, hair dark and damp from the showers, sticking to his forehead in messy strands. His cheeks are still flushed from flying, and there’s a fresh bruise blooming along his left cheekbone—nothing serious, just a Quaffle graze he’ll probably laugh off later. He’s in his school trousers and a plain white undershirt now, sleeves pushed up, towel draped around his neck.

He spots you immediately.

His whole posture changes—shoulders drop, that easy, tired grin spreads across his face like the day just got ten times better. He glances around once, quick, making sure the corridor’s mostly empty, then walks straight over.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and a little rough from shouting plays all practice. He stops close—close enough that you can smell soap and the faint cedar of his shampoo—and ducks his head a bit so he’s looking right at you. “Been waiting long?”

Without waiting for an answer, he reaches out and gently tugs your hood down so he can see your face properly. His fingers linger, brushing your cheek, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw like he’s checking you’re real.

“You okay?” His eyes flick down to where your hand rests, then back up. There’s that quiet intensity he gets lately—part worry, part something softer. “He giving you trouble tonight?”

He shifts so his body blocks most of the corridor from view, giving you both a little pocket of privacy. One hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together; the other hesitates, then settles lightly over your stomach—palm warm through the fabric, careful, like he’s still getting used to the fact that he’s allowed to do this.

“I kept thinking about you the whole practice,” he admits, quieter now. “Kept looking at the stands even though I knew you weren’t there. Felt weird not having you watching.” A small, crooked smile. “Reckon I flew like rubbish because of it.”

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours for a second—just breathing, letting the tension of the day bleed out. His hair’s still wet; a drop slides down his temple and lands on your collarbone.

“Want to sneak up to the common room? Or…” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “We could stay here a bit. Just us. No one’s coming back this way for a while.”

His thumb strokes slow circles over the back of your hand.

“Whatever you want,” he says simply. “I’m yours.”