grace5425

[grace5425]

i'm excited to live the rest of my life like it belongs to me

[grace5425]

my kingdom for a kiss on her shoulder

You sank down in the long grass just beyond the camp, brushing a palm over its soft tops as the sun sank low. The air was warm and still, punctured only by the faint hum of crickets and the whisper of the river winding its way through the trees. The sound of water felt like a balm tonight, a rare reminder that beauty still existed in a world so broken.

Then there was the warmth beside you — only a breath of space between your shoulder and Bellamy Blake’s.

It hadn’t been like this at the start. Not at all. You remembered the sharp edges and harsh words exchanged when you first landed. You were reckless and fiery, a thorn in the side of a boy who felt the weight of too many lives pressed down on him. He was stubborn, commanding, slow to trust, and quick to silence anyone he thought threatened the order he tried to maintain.

But that felt like a lifetime ago.

Trust hadn’t arrived like a lightning strike — it crept in quietly. In the space after the first Grounder attack. In the sting of wounds you patched with shaking hands. In the nights when terror bubbled up and he refused to leave your side until the shaking stopped. Somewhere between the moments when your voice rose to challenge him and the moments when you fell apart in silence, the walls came down. What replaced them was simple. Pure. Trust.

"You’re tired," you said softly, brushing a blade of grass between your fingers. The words weren’t a question. They were an observation, shaped by countless nights of learning him.

He didn’t reply. Not immediately. But you noticed every detail — the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes when fatigue weighed down his sharp gaze, the slight furrow in his brow when worry dug its hooks deep, the quiet, rhythmic tapping of long fingers when anger bubbled just beneath the surface. You knew Bellamy Blake like you knew the constellations overhead, and tonight, every line of him spoke of exhaustion.

"I've been tired," he said finally, voice low and rasping, the faint hint of teasing buried under a mountain of fatigue.

"I know," you replied, brushing your knuckles across the ground as you pulled another blade of grass. "It’s a lot."

And it was. Too much for any one person. Too much for a boy with too many scars and too much guilt. Too much for a girl trying to survive and hoping she wouldn’t forget herself in the process. The Ark had promised second chances, but all it had given were long nights, fresh wounds, and the sound of silence when friends didn’t make it back.

"Sometimes…" you said quietly, brushing hair from your face, "I just want to run away. Disappear. Find some quiet place in the woods. Build a hut. Grow a garden. Hunt for myself. Not have to answer to leaders too far gone from this earth to understand what it takes to stay alive." You smiled faintly, shaking your head. "Just forget about peace treaties and old people barking orders when they weren’t the ones bleeding for this place."

Beside you, Bellamy was silent for a long moment, running the tip of a finger over a tiny flower at his knee. Then, soft and certain, "I’d go with you."

You tilted your head, brushing hair out of your eyes as you met his gaze. "What?"

"I'd leave it all behind," he said, voice soft but sure, brushing a calloused hand over the long grass between you. "For you. If that’s what you wanted."

The words weren’t sharp or desperate. They weren’t thrown down like a challenge or a plea. They were simply offered — quietly, openly, like the easiest truth he’d ever spoken. 

You smiled faintly as you glanced over at him, certain he was teasing. "Oh yeah?" you asked, voice light despite the flutter rising in your chest. "What about your newfound role as ‘King of the Delinquents’?"

He met your gaze then, dark eyes softening, and shrugged as if the weight of it meant nothing compared to the moment at hand.

"Wouldn’t mean anything if you weren’t there."

a/n - I don't even think anyone writes for this fandom anymore???? but this idea has been in my head all day & I wanted to share. Plus I started to rewatch the 100 and I cannot believe I forgot how fine this man was. ok bye bye

[grace5425]

he is SO boyfriend

i miss you steve harrington, can’t wait to see what he does in s5

not my edit! okdanvers on tiktok

[grace5425]

he literally invented just sit there and look pretty

[grace5425]

i am 50% girl and 50% song lyrics

[grace5425]

1x14 Sam on my mind tonight

[grace5425]

we will tame these vicious seas

part one part two

Theo wasn’t sure how long the two of you had been sitting on the cold stone floor of the Astronomy Tower, fingers threaded together, the silence stretching around you like a blanket. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

But it was long enough.

Long enough for the tears on your cheeks to dry. Long enough for the hitch in your breathing to smooth out. Long enough for the sharpness of the ache in your chest to dull into something softer, quieter. Outside, the sky had split open—a summer storm rolling in, one of the first of the season. Rain tapped against the ancient glass windows, steady and calming.

Theo moved first.

Slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of breaking whatever fragile peace had settled between you, he stood and extended a hand. You looked up at him, eyes tired but open, and slipped your fingers into his. He pulled you to your feet, and you gave him a small smile. It was worn, edged with sadness, but it was real. And that made it everything.

“I’ll walk you back,” he said quietly, voice low and sure.

You didn’t argue. You just nodded and slid your hand back into his—his calloused, bruised knuckles brushing against the soft skin of yours. It grounded you. It felt right.

You walked the castle corridors in silence, only the echo of your footsteps breaking the stillness. Moonlight spilled through the tall, open windows, painting pale streaks across the stone floors. The portraits lining the walls watched you go, but they remained respectfully quiet, as if even they knew this wasn’t a moment to interrupt. The soft roar of the rain outside was the only sound that filled the empty space around you.

Then, Theo turned left when he should’ve turned right.

You stopped, a crease forming between your brows as you looked down the hallway that led to the Gryffindor common room. You blinked, confused, your fingers tightening slightly in his.

“Theo,” you said gently, “where are we going?”

He looked back at you, his smile easy, quiet. “Just trust me.”

And somehow, without hesitation—you did.

You followed him down familiar staircases and past dark, empty classrooms. Your shoes echoed against the ancient stone. Eventually, you reached the archway that led outside, the heavy wooden door slightly ajar. The storm outside was still going strong—rain falling in thick sheets, wind rattling leaves and windows in the distance.

You stopped again. “Theo, it’s raining,” you said, meeting his gaze.

“I know,” he replied, a flicker of mischief dancing in his eyes. “Let’s dance.”

He didn’t look away. He didn’t laugh like it was a joke. He just waited, holding your gaze like the storm didn’t exist, like all he could see was you.

You hesitated—a single breath, a single heartbeat—then nodded.

His smile widened, brighter this time.

You both broke into a run, your shoes splashing through puddles as you crossed the courtyard. The rain soaked through your jumpers, ran down your faces, filled your shoes and clung to your clothes, but neither of you slowed.

Not until he reached the center.

There, under the open sky, Theo raised your joined hands high and spun you in a full circle. Your laughter burst out of you—loud, unfiltered, untouched by grief or fear or pain. It echoed across the stone courtyard, warm and free. For a moment, the storm didn’t matter. Nothing else did.

It wasn’t a real dance—not the kind with steps or rhythm or grace. It was messy, full of stumbles and laughter and spinning too fast. But it was yours. Entirely yours.

Eventually, the two of you slowed, movement softening. Theo’s hand came to rest gently on your waist, the other rising to cradle the side of your neck. His thumb brushed lightly beneath your ear, against the mark he knew so well. You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him close. Rain clung to his lashes as he looked at you, the space between you charged with something quiet and vast.

You tilted your head, voice barely audible over the rain. “Why are we doing this, Theo?”

His answer came without hesitation, like it had been waiting in his chest all along.

“Real soulmates don’t run when it rains,” he said softly. Certain. Like it was the only truth that mattered.

Your breath caught.

That was what your mother used to say. The very words you’d sobbed to Theo earlier—angry, broken, raw with grief. You’d clung to them like they were the last thread of her memory, and now… here he was, repeating them back to you.

Not because he thought it would fix everything.

But because he remembered.

Words swelled in your throat but none of them felt like enough. Gratitude was too small. Love was too soon. So instead, you moved.

You surged forward, pulling him down into you, lips meeting his in a kiss that was all hands and warmth and rain. It wasn’t perfect. It was needy and full of everything you couldn’t say—pulling, grasping, desperate not to let go.

And he kissed you back just as fiercely, like he understood. Like he needed this, too.

There, in the middle of a storm, soaked to the bone and surrounded by memories of grief and rain and old stone walls—you kissed him like the world had stopped.

And maybe, for a little while, it had.

[grace5425]

i knew we’d tell it well

part one

Being a Gryffindor insinuated many things.

It told the world you had courage—that you stood up for what you believed in, no matter the odds.

It signified loyalty, the kind that tethered you to people, that made you fight for them even when it hurt.

But above all, it meant bravery. That you were meant to face fear head-on. Take what the world threw at you and keep moving.

But sitting alone in the astronomy tower, with hot, angry tears streaming down your cheeks and your throat burning from trying not to sob, you had never felt less like a Gryffindor.

You felt like a coward.

You’d told yourself you wouldn’t let the horrid hallway run-in with Theo ruin your weekend. But then the letter arrived—neat, slanted handwriting on crisp parchment, deceptively elegant for how brutal the words were.

Your stepmother’s voice echoed in your head as you reread each sharp sentence over and over. Disappointment. Ungrateful. Unworthy.

Words that shrank you down until you were nine years old again—curled up in your childhood bedroom, clutching the edge of your duvet, wishing your mother was still alive, still with you.

You sat cross-legged on the cold floor, hidden behind the stone barrier of the tower’s edge, shoulders shaking quietly. You didn’t want anyone to see you like this.

So, of course, the door creaked open.

You froze, head snapping up, eyes red and wide. You wiped at your face furiously with the sleeve of your jumper, but it was too late—the damage had been done.

And there he was.

Theodore Nott.

You turned away quickly, voice hollow and scratchy. “Look, Nott, I’m not in the mood. I don’t want to talk about this soulmate shit.”

You expected him to smirk, to taunt you, or turn around and leave like anyone else might.

Instead, he glanced at your tear-streaked face once, said nothing, and walked forward.

He didn’t ask for permission. He just sat beside you, close but not too close, arms resting loosely on his knees, gaze forward as if he hadn’t just seen you fall apart.

“Then we won’t,” he said simply. “Talk to me like I’m your friend.”

You scoffed, eyes narrowing through the last of your tears. “You’re not.”

He didn’t flinch. “I can be. For tonight. You look like you need one.”

You looked at him, truly looked at him for the first time in days. His expression wasn’t smug or indifferent—it was soft, open. His blue eyes held no judgment, only quiet understanding.

And suddenly, the idea of pushing him away felt exhausting. Too heavy.

So you let yourself lean back against the cool stone wall, pulling your knees to your chest.

There was silence for a moment, filled only by the faint breeze brushing through the open tower window, carrying with it the distant sounds of the lake and the rustle of leaves.

“You ever get a letter that makes you feel like you’re nothing?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Theo didn’t look surprised. “More than I’d like to admit.”

You nodded, chewing your bottom lip.

“She said I wasn’t trying hard enough. That I was wasting my potential. That I was just like my mother.” Your voice cracked on the last word. “She meant it like it was an insult.”

Theo was still, but his voice came a beat later—low and steady. “I don’t know your mum, but if you’re anything like her, I’m guessing she was a lot braver than most people could handle.”

You blinked at him, throat thick, but didn’t speak.

“She sounds like someone who wouldn’t have let one bitter woman define her. And neither should you.”

Your eyes stung again, but not from hurt this time. Something else. Something like relief.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He glanced over at you. “I meant what I said. Just for tonight, let me be someone who listens.”

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, and slowly, tentatively, leaned your shoulder into his.

“My mum died when I was eight,” you began softly, voice barely more than a whisper. “And my dad… he remarried less than a year later.”

You didn’t look at Theo. You couldn’t. Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on the way your fingers twisted a loose thread at the hem of your jumper, grounding yourself in the motion.

“At first, my stepmum was nice. Really nice. She played the part perfectly—took me shopping, read me stories before bed, made my favourite meals. She made me feel… safe. Like maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

You paused, a bitter breath slipping through your lips.

“Once my dad saw how well we were getting on, he started going on business trips again. Like… long ones. Weeks at a time. I guess he figured I was fine. That she loved me. I seemed fine.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing sharper the further you went.

“But then she changed. It was slow at first. A cold tone here, a snide comment there. But then it got worse. Really mean. Like… calculating, twisted mean. She would talk down to me constantly—nothing I did was ever right. If I didn’t clean something the way she liked, she’d lock me in my room for hours. No meals, no explanations. Just silence.”

Your voice cracked then, and you blinked hard, refusing to let the tears win this time.

“She once told me—looked me right in the face—and said ‘you’re just like your mother, and you’ll end up exactly like her’.”

Beside you, Theo stiffened. You felt the shift in his posture before he spoke, a quiet tension rippling through his body like he was holding back the urge to break something.

“You never told your dad?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous in its restraint.

“I tried,” you said, almost laughing at the memory—how small and desperate you’d felt. “A few times, actually. But he made me out to be dramatic. Said I was just being difficult, or that I was looking for attention. And whatever my stepmum told me to do, I was to listen. No questions.”

You finally turned your head, just enough to catch Theo’s expression. His jaw was tight, his eyes darker than usual—full of something fierce and quiet.

“So I just… stopped,” you finished. “Stopped trying to make him see it. Stopped telling anyone. And then Hogwarts came, and she couldn’t touch me anymore. But the letters…” You exhaled slowly. “They still hurt. They still make me feel like I’m a kid again. Helpless. Small.”

For a while, neither of you said anything. The world felt hushed—only the wind through the tower, the distant sounds of castle life below, and your own steady breathing to fill the silence.

Then Theo spoke, and his voice was gentler than you’d ever heard it.

“You’re not small,” he said. “Not even close.”

You blinked at him.

“My mum died when I was ten,” Theo said suddenly, his voice flat—too flat. The kind of voice someone uses when the story has carved itself into them so deeply, it can only come out hollow. “My dad killed her.”

The words hit like a punch, knocking the air out of your lungs.

“Everyone pretends that’s not the story,” he continued, eyes fixed on the horizon. “But it is. I was there.”

Your breath caught, your heart twisting painfully in your chest. He wasn’t speaking for sympathy—he was speaking like someone who had lived with ghosts, who had made peace with silence because no one had ever asked to hear the truth.

“I understand what it’s like,” Theo said, slower now. “To have the people who are supposed to protect you, love you… turn into the people you need protection from.”

He turned to you then, and for a moment, his expression softened in a way that made your chest ache.

“Soulmate stuff aside, I swear to you… I’ll always be someone you can count on. No matter what. No one will ever make you feel like you’re not enough again. No one will ever get to make you feel small.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek, unbidden��but you weren’t alone in it.

Because for just a second, you could swear you saw one fall down his as well.

Your throat tightened, but you pushed the words out anyway. “When you said we were soulmates… I got scared.”

Theo didn’t react, just waited, steady as ever.

“My parents weren’t soulmates. Not really. Neither were my dad and my stepmother. Their relationships were just… convenient. Arranged. Easy on paper, terrible in reality. There was no real love, no spark, just obligation.”

You looked down at your hands, fingers clenched tightly together.

“But my mum… she used to tell me stories. About soulmates, what they meant, what they stood for. She said a soulmate would see you, all of you. The mess and the beauty. The anger and the softness. The dreams you’ve never said aloud. And they wouldn’t flinch. They wouldn’t leave. They’d learn how to hold the storm in you with both hands.”

You looked over at Theo, eyes shining with memory.

“She told me that real soulmates don’t run when it rains—they grab your hand, twirl you under the thunderclouds, and laugh while the world gets soaked. That they won’t fix everything. But they’ll stand still with you when everything feels like it’s falling apart.”

You took a breath. “She told me I’d know it was them when the world didn’t feel so heavy anymore.”

And for a moment, with the weight of his shoulder leaning on yours, the ache in your chest dulled. The anger, the grief, and the sadness that seemed bone deep lightened.

“So yeah, I got scared, Theo. I ran because I’m terrified. That it won’t be like that. That we’ll mess it up. That it won’t be pure magic, or happiness, or loyalty like she promised. I’m scared that maybe I dreamed too big.”

Silence settled between you like fog, thick but not cold. Then Theo shifted closer, voice low but steady.

“I can’t promise it’ll always be easy,” he said finally. “But I can promise I won’t leave when it’s hard.”

He looked at you, really looked—like he was memorizing every inch of your expression. “I won’t run. Not from you. Not ever.”

You didn’t respond with words. Instead, your hand found his, fingers intertwining slowly, carefully.

For the first time, neither of you felt the need to say anything more.

Because in that moment, promises weren’t made of magic—they were made of quiet presence, shared grief, and a choice.

A choice to stay.

part three

[grace5425]

tethered to a story we must tell

The celebration in the Gryffindor common room had long run over. It was nearly 3 a.m., yet the music still pulsed through the walls, and someone had conjured more bottles when the drinks should’ve run dry hours ago.

Not that you minded. You loved a good party—especially one meant to celebrate you. Gryffindor’s victory over Ravenclaw that afternoon had been hard-won, and you’d played no small part in securing it. The crowd had chanted your name. You’d been hoisted on shoulders, doused in butterbeer, and kissed on the cheek more times than you could count.

But eventually, the sugar rush of victory wore off. The music got too loud. The drinks lost their thrill. And your stomach had started to growl. Which led you here—arms full of stolen snacks from the kitchens, navigating the dim corridors back toward Gryffindor Tower.

So far, things had gone smoothly. Until you rounded a corner and slammed directly into a solid, warm body.

“Merlin,” a low voice muttered above you.

You blinked, hair in your face, and scowled as you brushed it away.

Of course. Theodore Nott.

He stood there, tall and unimpressed, the same permanent scowl carved into his face. His blue eyes flicked over you, sharp and unreadable. A slightly oversized sweater hung from his frame like he couldn’t be bothered to care how he looked.

“Oh, buzz off, Nott,” you huffed, dropping to your knees to gather the scattered food.

You waited for the trademark snarky comeback, the usual bite in his voice, but the hallway stayed oddly silent.

You glanced up, expecting irritation or smugness—but what you saw instead made you pause. His expression wasn’t angry. It was stunned. Pale. Like he’d seen a ghost.

“What?” you snapped, frowning at the way he just kept staring. “Cat got your tongue?”

Still, no answer.

Then—he stepped forward.

You tried to step back, but his hand shot out, catching the side of your neck with a gentleness that shocked you more than the touch itself.

“What the hell, Nott?” you snapped, swatting at his arm. “Get off—”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he let out a low, disbelieving laugh. It wasn’t mocking. It sounded like someone who’d just had the wind knocked out of them. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Sorry, doll. Looks like you’re mine.”

You froze. “What are you talking about?”

“Your soulmate mark,” he said, thumb brushing the skin just under your ear. “It matches mine.”

You swallowed hard. “No way. No way, Nott.”

But your voice lacked conviction.

You’d known about your mark your whole life—five faint beauty marks beneath your ear, shaped like a crooked ‘W’ or a star formation, depending on the angle. Your mother had told you it was Cassiopeia, the constellation of love and vanity. A mark that promised someone would see you—even when you didn’t see yourself. You had spent years imagining who it would be. Dreaming of someone kind, maybe charming, someone who made you laugh and held your hand.

Not… Theodore Nott.

Wordless, Theo pulled off his sweater in one smooth motion and turned slightly. There, etched on the back of his shoulder, were the same five marks. Same placement. Same constellation. Cassiopeia.

You stared. The food in your arms had long since been forgotten. The world felt too still.

Since you were little, you’d imagined this moment would feel like magic. Instead, it felt like the floor had been ripped out from under you.

“See?” Theo said quietly, as if he wasn’t sure you’d believe it even with proof. “Told you.”

You didn’t know what to say.

And for once, neither did he.

You tore your gaze away from the marks on his shoulder like they’d burned you.

“No,” you said, the word sharp and immediate. “No. This—this is wrong. This has to be wrong.”

Theodore blinked at you, his expression unreadable, but you didn’t wait for a response.

“You must’ve messed with it,” you accused, taking a step back. “There are spells for that kind of thing, right? Glamours or illusions. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. A trick of shape—those marks don’t mean anything.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You really think I’d go through all that trouble to fake a soulmate mark just to screw with you?”

You hated how calm he sounded. How steady he looked, while your heart pounded so hard you could feel it in your fingertips.

“It’s you,” he said, and he didn’t sound smug or mocking—just certain. Quietly, devastatingly certain. “You don’t have to like it, but you can’t deny it.”

“Yes I can,” you snapped. “And I am.”

You took another step back. Then another. The snacks you’d dropped were scattered at your feet, but you didn’t reach for them. You couldn’t.

“You’re not my soulmate, Nott,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “You’re just some arrogant, miserable Slytherin who hates everything that breathes, and I—I don’t want this.”

His jaw tensed. Just slightly.

You turned on your heel.

“Wait—”

“No,” you said over your shoulder, already storming down the corridor. “Don’t follow me.”

And he didn’t.

𓍯𓂃

The corridor felt colder when she left.

Theo stood there for a long moment, sweater in hand, her voice still echoing in the space between the stone walls and the hollow of his chest.

“You’re not my soulmate, Nott.”

He let out a slow breath and looked down at his mark again—the same five points of ink-dark skin that had sat there since he was born. Cassiopeia. His mother had traced it once, years ago, when he was a boy. She’d told him it meant something important, something destined. He remembered her voice then—softer than it ever was after his father started twisting their home into something colder.

He pulled his sweater back on.

Of course it would be Her.

It had always been her. He just hadn’t wanted to believe it until tonight. She was fire where he was frost, loud when he stayed quiet, all flashing eyes and reckless courage. She infuriated him on the pitch. Irritated him in class. Lit up rooms he only ever wanted to sneak out of.

And now?

Now the universe had gone and tied them together with stars.

He leaned against the wall, tipping his head back until it thudded lightly against the stone.

He didn’t blame her for the way she looked at him. Not really. He was used to being misunderstood—hell, he preferred it that way most of the time. Better to keep people at arm’s length than give them the chance to leave on their own.

But this?

This wasn’t something he could just brush off like a passing insult or a scuffle in the corridor. This wasn’t just banter or some stupid rivalry.

This was real.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more—how much he hated seeing the horror in her eyes… or how much he suddenly needed her to look at him differently.

To see him the way he secretly, quietly, always saw her.

Theo ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

He wouldn’t chase her. Not tonight. She’d hate him more for that. She needed space.

But he knew one thing.

She could deny it all she wanted. Call it a curse, a mistake, a cruel joke from the stars.

But that mark on her neck didn’t lie.

And neither did his.

part two

[grace5425]

my fave ghost trio to ever trio

ref pic here

[grace5425]

bye i feel like im in the 50s seeing my first ever photo of elvis rn

[grace5425]

saturn to mars

You were all too aware of the reputation that clung to Theodore Nott like a shadow—silent, cold, and just as inescapable. It followed him through the corridors of Hogwarts like a second skin, whispered about behind hands and exchanged in knowing glances. Dangerous. Quietly cruel. The kind of boy who didn’t need to raise his voice to be feared.

He was a true Slytherin, through and through—cunning carved into his bones, ambition running like jade through his veins. He kept company with idiots and hotheads, always lingering on the edges of too many fights, with low, unreadable eyes that somehow always saw more than he let on.

Even as a Gryffindor, you weren’t immune to the warnings. Friends and classmates alike had cautioned you about Nott’s reputation—his carefully concealed charm, his calculated flirtations, the ease with which he could make a girl feel like she was the only one in the room before discarding her like a spare quill. He and Mattheo Riddle were practically infamous, rumored to know the female population of Hogwarts better than the castle’s own staircases.

You had done a commendable job of avoiding them—keeping your head down, your distance clear. It had never been about House rivalry; you couldn’t care less about the color of their robes. It was their nature, the smirking arrogance, the careless way they walked through life like the rules were written for everyone else but them. You’d exchanged the occasional quip during a heated class discussion, or hurled a sharp remark across the Quidditch pitch midair, but that was the extent of it. If anyone had asked, you’d have bet money that Theodore Nott didn’t even know your name.

And that was fine. Until it wasn’t.

Because now, you’d been paired with him—for the final Astronomy project of the term, one worth forty percent of your grade.

Professor Sinistra had announced the partner names and project topics with maddening precision—just as the class ended, her voice cool and collected as if she hadn’t just detonated a bomb in the middle of the room. The bell had barely finished ringing when a wave of groans and whispered complaints swept through the Astronomy tower. Stunned students filed out in scattered groups, some resigned, others downright furious. You were somewhere in between, silently fuming as you packed up your things.

You hadn’t even had a chance to speak to Theodore about the project. He was gone before you could blink.

But now, here you were. Swallowing down the anxious twist curling in your stomach as you made your way through the quiet hush of the library.

He sat alone, of course—tucked into a secluded corner near the back, surrounded by a fortress of open books, parchment scraps, and half-scribbled notes. The late afternoon light streamed in from the high windows, casting a gold-tinged halo over the mess in front of him. You paused for a second, took a steadying breath, and walked forward.

He glanced up before you could say anything, as if sensing your presence before your footsteps even reached him. His eyes met yours, unreadable, and one dark brow lifted lazily.

“Nott,” you greeted, stopping at the edge of the table. You nodded, half formal, half unsure. “I’m—”

But he cut you off smoothly, his voice low and laced with something close to amusement. The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smirk—more like the ghost of one.

“I know your name, Gryffindor,” he said, clicking his tongue once in mock disappointment. “You think I don’t pay attention?”

Oh.

“Well, then you know we’ve been paired for the final project,” you said, arms crossing despite yourself, trying to match his calm with your own. “So we’re going to have to actually speak. At least a little.”

He didn’t reply right away—just stared at you, still and unreadable. There was a quiet confidence in the silence, like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.

You pressed on, refusing to let it rattle you.

“Meet me by the Black Lake after dinner,” you said, tone firm. “The Astronomy Tower’ll be packed, and it’s easier to track constellations from the lake anyway. Fewer students. Less noise.”

Still no verbal confirmation—just a slight tilt of his head, as if considering whether or not he would bother.

You turned to leave, not waiting for an answer.

If he showed up, he showed up. If not—well, you’d find a way to get the grade without him.

═══════

The sky had melted into rich shades of blue by the time you reached the Black Lake, the last streaks of sunlight bleeding gold along the horizon. The warm April air curled around you, soft as breath, brushing against your skin with the gentle promise of an early summer. Spring had come fast this year—wildflowers already dotting the castle grounds, their color bursting against the green. The breeze carried the scent of damp earth and lilac, the kind that clung faintly to your clothes and hair.

It was just cool enough to warrant a jumper, but not so cold you regretted coming out. The lake shimmered quietly in the waning light, its surface smooth as glass, reflecting the first pinpricks of stars that began to appear overhead.

You’d chosen your spot carefully—a quiet rise near the willow trees, half-hidden from view. The Astronomy Tower was hopeless on nights like these, flooded with overachieving Ravenclaws sketching constellations with unnecessary precision and fifth-years sneaking kisses in the dark. Out here, it was just you, the sky, and—unfortunately—your partner.

You laid out your blanket, tugged your notes from your bag, and carefully adjusted the old telescope, aiming it toward the part of the sky where Cygnus, the swan, would soon emerge.

His footsteps came before you saw him. Quiet, measured, and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. You didn’t bother turning until he was only a few feet away.

“You showed,” you said, still looking down at your parchment, quill in hand.

Theodore didn’t reply at first—just let out a low, noncommittal hum before settling beside you. He dropped onto the blanket with that same casual elegance he always carried, legs stretched out in front of him, his shoulder brushing yours for half a second before he leaned back onto his elbows.

“We have Cygnus,” you muttered, flipping through your notes and star charts with growing frustration. The pages were worn at the edges from too much handling, and somehow they still looked like complete nonsense.

“I know,” Theo said, his voice low, his gaze flicking from the notes in your lap to the concentrated crease in your brow.

A beat passed before he added, “You don’t even know what you’re looking at, do you?”

You turned your head sharply, about to protest, but he was already smirking—that same maddening, lazy smirk that made you want to roll your eyes and smile at the same time.

“Theodore—” you began, your tone warning.

He cut you off smoothly. “Theo,” he said. “You can call me Theo.”

You blinked, caught a little off guard. “Okay… Theo. Do you know what you’re doing?”

He gave you a slow, exaggerated nod, clearly entertained. “Sure do.”

You raised a skeptical brow as he shifted closer, eyes on the telescope. “Alright then, expert. Enlighten me.”

“First off,” he said, leaning into your space without hesitation, “you’ve got the telescope pointed in the wrong direction, Lion. Cygnus won’t be over there tonight—it’s going to rise from the northeast. About ten degrees above the horizon.”

Before you could respond, Theo reached across the space between you, his hand brushing yours as he adjusted the telescope with deft fingers. His touch was brief but unignorable, grounding and electric all at once.

“Second,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost amused, “glaring at star charts won’t make the patterns appear. The sky doesn’t work like that.”

You let out a low groan, tipping your head back so that your hair spilled down your back like a curtain. The stars blinked overhead, cold and unbothered, and you squinted up at them like they’d personally offended you.

“The stars are just stars,” you muttered. “Who even decided there were stories or shapes in them? Why can’t they just be… stars?”

Theo let out a soft, breathy chuckle, and when you turned your head slightly, you caught how his eyes lingered—not in the way most boys looked at you, but like he was trying to memorize something. His gaze trailed from the curve of your jaw to the line of your neck, but it wasn’t entirely about your appearance. It was like he saw something you didn’t even know you were showing.

“Isn’t that the best part of it?” he said quietly, voice brushing the air between you like a secret. “Knowing that the stories are infinite, because they’re written up there, across time. People looked up at the same stars we’re looking at now and saw gods, monsters, love, war. They passed those stories down through centuries. It’s like the universe is a giant, unsolvable riddle, and we’re just trying to give it meaning.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden depth in his words. He hadn’t looked away from the sky, and somehow, that made it feel even more sincere—like he wasn’t trying to impress you. Like he couldn’t help but say what he believed.

You sat forward again, brushing the hair from your shoulder and casting him a glance from the corner of your eye. You tried to mask the flicker of surprise on your face, but you were sure he saw it anyway.

“I’m guessing you’re the astrology expert, then?” you said, lips twitching into a half-smile.

“Astronomy,” he corrected, smirking just enough to show he wasn’t offended. “Astrology is the one with the birth charts and retrogrades and Mercury ruining everyone’s week.”

You snorted. “Right. Sorry. Astronomy.”

“But I’m not an expert,” he added, more softly this time. “My mum used to take me out to the garden when I was a kid. She taught me the constellations—told me stories that probably weren’t even accurate half the time. I think I liked the idea that someone, somewhere, believed in them.”

The smile slid from your face slowly, your chest tightening in a way you didn’t expect. There was something delicate in his voice, something you hadn’t heard from him before. Not arrogance. Not sarcasm. Just memory.

You looked at him fully then, and for a fleeting moment, he looked young. Not the sharp-edged Slytherin with the dangerous smirk and guarded eyes, but someone softer underneath all of that.

Someone real.

═══════

It had been a week of nightly meetups with the Nott boy—something you never would’ve predicted, but somehow, you had started to look forward to them.

What had begun as a frustrating school project had shifted into a quiet rhythm: research scattered across a blanket, whispered stories under the stars, Theo correcting your telescope angles with soft, amused remarks, and a growing sense that maybe you didn’t hate this arrangement as much as you pretended to.

At first, the conversations stayed safely mundane. You told him why you hated Potions so much (Snape’s unfair bias, obviously), how you’d gotten into Quidditch (older sibling rivalry), the breakfast foods you refused to touch (eggs—specifically the texture), and your favorite corners of Hogsmeade (he’d smirked when you confessed you liked Madam Puddifoot’s, but didn’t judge).

But without really noticing it, the two of you began to dig deeper—like gravity pulling slowly, steadily. Somewhere along the way, Theodore Nott learned more than he should have.

He knew about the scar on your hip and how you’d gotten it the summer before first year. He knew you wanted to go to America after graduation—anywhere that wasn’t tied to magic or memory. He knew why you never celebrated your birthday, and why you always stayed behind at Hogwarts during the holidays, even when the castle grew cold and hollow with silence.

He listened. Not just out of politeness, but like he was memorizing it all, storing it away somewhere private.

And he wasn’t as open—not in the traditional sense. Theo never offered full confessions, but little truths leaked through in unexpected ways. Half-finished sentences. A strange look in his eyes when he talked about his father. An offhand comment about “the house being quiet” or how “he always hated April.”

You began to notice the way he ran his tongue along his teeth before speaking, like he was testing the taste of his words before committing to them. How he always made the effort to meet your eyes when you talked, even when it was about something that clearly made him uncomfortable. And you noticed how he never slouched. Ever. He sat tall, shoulders squared, spine straight. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything. A small part of you wondered if he did it so he never looked small—like if he didn’t bend, he wouldn’t break.

Tonight marked the final night of preparation before the project was due. The parchment was nearly complete, the notes finalized, and your star maps meticulously drawn (with Theo’s reluctant but begrudgingly admiring help). Tomorrow morning, it would all be handed in and graded.

You were back at the Black Lake, sitting on your usual blanket, arms wrapped loosely around your knees as you waited. The air was slightly cooler tonight, the kind of chill that hinted summer hadn’t fully claimed the evenings just yet. The stars were already visible, scattered across the sky like spilled salt.

And then—you heard his footsteps.

They were heavier than usual. Slower. Each step sounded like it took effort, like he wasn’t just carrying his bag or books, but dragging something unseen. Or maybe just dragging himself.

You turned your head, watching as Theo appeared through the trees, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders drawn in tighter than normal.

Theo sat down without a word, sinking onto the blanket like the weight of the day had finally caught up with him. He didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed fixed on the lake, unmoving, his jaw tight and lips pressed into a thin line.

The silence between you stretched. Heavy. Uneasy. Even the usual comfort of your shared quiet felt different tonight—like something fragile was splintering just beneath the surface.

“You okay?” you asked, the question soft, hesitant. You didn’t want to push him, but the tension in his shoulders was impossible to ignore.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Just inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly, like even breathing took effort tonight.

Then, finally—“It’s my mum’s birthday,” he said, voice low, clipped.

You blinked, caught off guard. Your brow furrowed, and your teeth sank gently into your bottom lip as you studied his profile. You hadn’t pegged Theo as the sentimental type—definitely not a mumma’s boy—but there was something in the way he said it. Quiet. Guarded. Like the words cost him something.

“Oh,” you said gently. “I’m sorry. Did you—did you owl her or anything?”

You weren’t sure what to say, honestly. How did you comfort someone like Theodore Nott? He didn’t seem like the type to accept comfort. But you asked anyway, hoping the offer alone would mean something.

Theo let out a laugh—sharp and bitter, like broken glass in his throat. His head dropped, and his hand dragged through his hair before resting limply in his lap.

“Can’t talk to someone who’s dead, Lion.”

Oh.

The breath hitched in your throat. Your heart stuttered, aching with guilt and helplessness. You opened your mouth, but for a second, nothing came out.

“I—I’m so sorry, Theo. I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t.” His voice was softer now, less harsh. Tired. “It’s fine. Just… a rough day, that’s all.”

He finally looked at you then, and the impact of it nearly knocked the wind from your chest. His eyes, usually cool and sharp with quiet calculation, were different tonight. Dimmer. Unfocused. And behind them—sadness. The kind that lingered in your bones, not just your heart.

It was the first time in all your years at Hogwarts that you looked at Theodore Nott and didn’t see a self-assured, unbothered man cloaked in Slytherin poise. You didn’t see the clever smirks or the lazy arrogance he wore like armor.

You saw sadness clinging to a boy.

And for the first time, you didn’t just feel curiosity toward him—you felt understanding.

And something else you couldn’t name.

You didn’t say anything right away.

What could you say to that?

There was no charm, no clever retort that would make the weight on his shoulders any lighter. But silence didn’t feel like enough either.

So you did the only thing that felt right.

You shifted closer.

Not dramatically—just a slow, careful inching until your thigh brushed against his, the warmth of his body grounding you. Your hand, which had been resting on the blanket, moved slightly, fingers curling around the edge of it before you made a choice and reached out.

Your pinky nudged against his.

He didn’t move for a second. Didn’t flinch or pull away. Just sat still, breathing deep and steady, staring out over the lake like it might give him something back if he watched long enough.

Then his pinky hooked around yours.

It was subtle. Barely anything at all. But it was also everything.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, catching the faintest shift in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a barely-there tilt to his mouth. Not a smile, not really. Just the tension slipping from his features like someone loosening a knot.

“I didn’t mean to make today harder,” you whispered, voice low like the stars might hear you.

“You didn’t.” His reply came just as quietly. “You made it… less shit.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Less shit. High praise, coming from you.”

He let out a quiet huff of air—half-laugh, half-sigh. “Don’t get used to it, Gryffindor.”

But his pinky stayed hooked with yours.

And as the two of you sat in silence, side by side beneath the darkening sky, you felt something shift between you—something unspoken but real. The stars glittered above, quiet witnesses to the boy beside you, the one who never slouched, who never showed cracks… until tonight.

And you held on.

[grace5425]

i am nooooot locked the fuck in. im locked the fuck out. call the locksmith

[grace5425]

tequila & card tricks

Pathetic.

That’s how you felt now—nerves twisting in your stomach, butterflies fluttering in a frenzy, sitting stiffly in the front seat of Stiles’s jeep while he casually sipped on a milkshake like the world hadn’t just ended last weekend.

Yeah. Pathetic.

You and Stiles had been best friends since before either of you could walk. That kind of knowing wasn’t just surface-level—it was buried deep in your bones. It was steady, unshakable, safe. He was your constant, your anchor. And somewhere along the way, without warning and certainly without permission, those feelings had changed.

What began as a quiet buzz in the back of your sixth-grade mind had grown into a full-blown siren. Loud. Inescapable. Every time the Stilinski boy smiled at you, looked at you, even breathed near you, your heart sprinted like it was trying to escape your chest.

It was always him. Always had been.

Lydia had thrown a party last Friday—nothing unusual—and of course, you’d gone. What was unusual, however, was the amount of alcohol you’d downed. Enough to leave you dizzy, giggly, and completely incapable of walking in a straight line by 2 a.m.

Stiles, ever dependable, had picked you up at 3 a.m. without hesitation. He’d driven you home with tired eyes and soft music playing through the speakers. And somewhere between a slurred thank-you and a clumsy goodbye, you’d leaned in and tried to kiss him.

And he’d dodged it.

Not harshly. Not cruelly. But he’d pulled away—gentle, awkward, clearly startled.

You’d both talked about it the next day, cheeks flushed and voices too loud to seem casual. You’d laughed it off, calling it “a drunken mistake,” agreeing to move on like it meant nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing to you.

To you, it wasn’t a mistake. It was rejection.

And that rejection had sat heavy on your chest for days now, pressing into your ribs, making it hard to breathe every time he looked at you like he was doing now.

“Think Coach’ll let me play tomorrow?” Stiles asked suddenly, his head turning toward you, catching you mid-spiral.

You coughed, startled, scrambling to shove your thoughts back into the locked drawer you kept them in. “Oh—uh—definitely. I mean… probably.” Your voice cracked slightly as you shifted in your seat, avoiding his eyes.

He raised a brow and placed his milkshake in the cupholder between you both. His body turned toward you now, attention focused, brow furrowed.

“You okay?” he asked softly. “You’ve been acting kind of weird the last few days.”

You opened your mouth, fully intending to lie. Say you were tired, or stressed, or just being weird because it was midterms or Mercury was in retrograde or something equally vague and avoidant.

But Stiles was looking at you with that soft, familiar concern, and your brain short-circuited.

So instead of lying, you started talking. Rambling, really.

“I’ve been weird because, well… okay, so you know that night at Lydia’s? Obviously, because you had to come pick me up, and God, sorry about that again, by the way—I was super drunk and probably annoying and rambling then too, which I guess is just my brand at this point—but the thing is…”

You paused for a second, realizing he was staring at you, expression unreadable.

“I didn’t kiss you because I was drunk. I mean, yeah, I was drunk, but that’s not why I did it. I kissed you—or tried to—because I have this… thing.”

Stiles blinked. “A thing?”

You nodded, hands flailing now. “A crush thing. On you. Like, a whole… long-term, slow-burn, hide-it-and-hope-it-goes-away kind of crush. Which it didn’t, obviously. It just got worse. Especially lately. So when I kissed you, or tried to, it wasn’t because of the vodka or the beer or whatever the hell Lydia put in that mystery punch—it was because I like you. Like, like-like you.”

You let out a shaky breath. “And I know it probably totally ruined everything, and you don’t feel the same, and I really don’t want to make things weird between us, but I couldn’t keep pretending like it was just some dumb mistake when it wasn’t, and—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Because suddenly, Stiles was leaning in—and kissing you.

Soft, sure, and completely unexpected.

Your words died in your throat. Your eyes fluttered shut. And for one breathless moment, everything stilled. The overthinking. The fear. The crushing weight of maybe.

He pulled back just an inch, just enough to whisper, “You talk way too much.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You just kissed me.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes crinkling with the beginning of a smile. “And I’ve kind of been wanting to do that since, like… sophomore year.”

Your heart stumbled.

“Oh,” you breathed, and then—grinning—“you like-like me back?”

He laughed, bumping your shoulder. “Yeah. I like-like you back, now come on, sleepover at mine tonight.

[grace5425]

2x11, playthings

[grace5425]

homesick

It was October now. The crisp air of the encroaching winter bit at your nose as you sat cross-legged in the Astronomy Tower, your eyes fixed on the horizon. The sun bled slowly into the edge of the world, painting the sky in streaks of burnt orange and dusky purple. Shadows stretched long over the castle grounds, and the stone beneath you held the fading warmth of the day.

Dinner had ended maybe half an hour ago—a painfully long thirty minutes spent pretending not to glance over at the table adorned in green and silver. Pathetic, really. Everyone goes through breakups. Everyone tastes love and loses it just as fast. That’s life, isn’t it?

But loving Mattheo Riddle hadn’t felt like something ordinary. It was loud. Intense. Sometimes messy, often difficult. But it had been real. It had been yours. He had been yours. Despite the arguments, the clashing house colors—he always joked that the two of you made yellow and green look good together—and the wildly different upbringings and diverging dreams, you had found something worth holding on to.

Until you couldn’t hold on anymore.

You weren’t even sure when the unraveling began. Maybe it had always been there, a silent thread pulling taut with each disagreement, each late-night tear shed in solitude. Sixth year had been a blur of quiet corridors and whispered secrets with the infamous Slytherin boy, your hearts tangled together even as something kept slipping further out of reach. You couldn’t name the precise reason it ended—was it the fights, the way your values collided, the weight of his sadness pressing into your chest, or the grief you carried like a ghost? Maybe it was everything. Maybe it was nothing.

The door to the Astronomy Tower groaned open, loud and jarring against the quiet dusk. Footsteps echoed up the stairs, steady but ungraceful, and you turned your head toward the sound before your heart even had time to prepare.

Mattheo stepped through the archway, the last light of sunset catching in his hair, his eyes already locked on you. He looked like a storm trying to pass for a man—disheveled, tired, fingers playing with an unlit cigarette. There was a slight stumble in his gait, a subtle slur in his movement that sent a familiar ache through your chest.

“Oh… uh, hey,” he muttered, making his way to sit beside you—close, but not close enough. Just a few inches. But they may as well have been miles.

“Hey, Matty,” you said softly.

He inhaled sharply, like the sound of his name in your voice hurt more than he expected.

“Watching the sunset?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question. He knew. He always knew.

“Yeah,” you replied, unable to lie to him even now.

Your eyes flicked to him, noticing the slight tremble in his fingers, the gloss in his eyes that had nothing to do with tears.

“Have you been drinking again?” you asked—not with judgment, but with concern. Maybe pity. Maybe guilt.

He gave a humorless chuckle, breathy and empty. “’Course I have,” he said, voice low and bitter. “Can’t do anything right.”

Your chest squeezed, sharp and sudden. “That’s not true, Mattheo.”

He turned to you then, so suddenly it startled you, his eyes blazing like someone had struck a match behind them.

“Do you love me?” he asked, voice raw and cutting through the air like wind in winter. “Still?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then met his eyes.

“Of course I do, Mattheo,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I always have.”

And then he kissed you.

It was desperate, aching, and fervent—like he needed you more than he needed to breathe. His mouth moved against yours with a hunger born of grief and longing, like this kiss was the only thing keeping him alive.

He tasted like smoke and whiskey and something sharp beneath it, something that reminded you of winter mornings and stolen moments. He smelled like leather and ink and a thousand memories you weren’t ready to let go of.

He felt like home.

And Merlin, you had never felt more homesick.

[grace5425]

back to us

Anger.

That was what Theodore Nott felt now.

Anger, a constant companion, an old friend that knew where the key under the mat was, slipping in uninvited but somehow always managed to stay.

He knew it well, the heat, the rage, a fire that had burned for so long he couldn't remember where it started. Over time, anger had become a part of him, so woven into his existence that it felt like a second skin, an amour of sorts.

But Theodore had realized a long time ago that anger was just another name for grief.

Grief was a permanent setting in his life, so deeply etched into his bones that it was hard to distinguish where the anger ended and the sorrow began. It pulsed in his veins, a dull ache that gnawed at him every passing moment. He had become so accustomed to it that he wasn't sure who he would be without it, without the constant weight on his chest, settling into the very marrow of his being.

He was angry when the sneers of his classmates fell upon him, their eyes lingering on the color of his robes, their judgements sharp and cruel.

He grieved the person he might have been if every room he entered hadn't been so thick with pre-assumed disdain, if he wasn't already defined by the way others saw him before he even spoke.

He was angry when Mattheo dragged him into reckless brawls, when Draco's mouth ran faster than his fists, leaving Theo to pick up the pieces of their mess.

He grieved for a childhood swallowed whole by violence, where tears were hidden instead of wiped away, where bruises were delivered instead of kissed.

And now, staring at you from across the library, his anger flared once more. A Gryffindor, sitting far too close, making his pulse quicken in a way he couldn't ignore. His gaze hardened, the familiar heat of irritation and resentment surging through him. But as much as the anger fought to take control, grief threatened to swallow him whole.

Grief for what he lost, who he had lost. For the relationship that once existed between the two of you. For the girl he once loved, still loved. Now, just a girl he saw in passing, during meals in the Great Hall, and unlucky run-ins in the hallway. A girl he once knew better than himself, the girl he lulled to sleep with stories about the stars, the girl's skin he once traced with the tips of calloused fingers, over every scar, hope, and dream.

Anger and grief, two sides of the same coin, both clashing and melding within him. Both demanding to be felt, to be acknowledged, yet neither offered any sort of release.

⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

The cigarette was crushed beneath the sole of his shoe without hesitation, the embers sputtering out with a final, dismissive hiss. He didn’t even need to think about it. Despite the constant ringing in his head about his promise to you—to stop smoking, to be better for once—the action was automatic, a reflex he couldn’t shake. The promise had been a futile one, he knew that now.

But you hadn’t stuck around. So, why should he?

The thought cut through him, bitter and sharp, and he immediately regretted it. He knew it was unfair, knew that you had done everything you could to stay, to help him. You had stuck around much longer than he would have in your shoes. You tried, begged, cried, and pleaded with him—begged him to be better, to try a little harder, to stop letting his emotions be consumed by the things that were completely out of his reach. You wanted him to be more than just the anger, more than just the shadow of the boy he’d become.

But it hadn’t worked. He hadn’t changed. And you had finally given up.

And here he was, still smoking, still stuck in his own mess of anger and grief. Still unable to let go of the past, even though he knew he should. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating in a way that made his chest ache, the guilt hanging over him like a thick fog he couldn’t escape.

The sudden creak of the Astronomy Tower’s door caused his head to snap up, his body tensing instinctively, muscles coiling as his heart skipped a beat. His first thought was Filch—Merlin, not him. Please not him.

But it wasn’t Filch.

No, the world had a funny way of being cruel. It was you.

You stood there, framed in the doorway, your silhouette bathed in the dim light from the hallway. Your wide doe eyes, the ones that used to bring him to his knees, locked onto his with a mixture of surprise and something softer. Your head tilted slightly, as if you were trying to read him from across the room. Your hair was tangled, your face still holding the soft traces of sleep, making you look so impossibly vulnerable that it nearly shattered whatever remaining defenses he had.

"Teddy?"

The sound of his name, spoken in that quiet, familiar way, sent a shockwave through him. He hadn’t heard it in so long, not from you. Not like this.

Theo stood straighter, his body moving before his brain could catch up. His throat tightened, words stuck somewhere between his heart and his lips. His gaze couldn’t seem to leave you, watching as you took slow, careful steps toward him, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. The distance between the two of you was somehow both infinite and unbearably close at the same time.

You stopped a few paces away, the quiet tension between you humming in the air. Your eyes, those eyes he once knew so well, were studying him carefully, as if trying to figure out if the boy standing before you was the same one you’d left behind—or if he had changed, even just a little. The warmth of your gaze, however tired, somehow made his chest ache even more.

"You—" He swallowed hard, his voice rougher than he intended. "What are you doing here?"

You hesitated, your eyes flicking to the crushed cigarette beneath his foot, then back up to his face. The sadness in your expression was enough to make him want to look away, but he couldn’t. Instead, he stood there, frozen, caught in the web of his own mistakes.

"I could ask you the same thing," you said softly, your voice a little more steady now. "Theo, I thought you were—"

You trailed off, the words hanging between you, unspoken but understood. You thought he was done with this. You thought he was done with the self-destruction, the late-night habits that only brought him deeper into himself.

But here he was. Still the same. Still broken. Still lost.

"I’m sorry," he muttered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "I didn’t mean to…" He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore."

Your gaze softened, and for a moment, there was no judgment in your eyes. Only understanding. You were still standing there, watching him, as if waiting for him to say something that would make all of this make sense again.

"I know you don’t," you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper, but there was no malice in it. "You never did."

The words didn’t sting; they felt like a simple truth, one that both of you had known for a long time. That, despite everything, despite how lost he was, you still saw him. The real him. The one that no one else could. And in a strange way, that made the guilt surge even stronger in his chest.

"You’re not mad?" he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. His voice cracked slightly, a crack in his armor that he couldn’t hide.

You shook your head, your eyes a little sad but still full of that same warmth he remembered. "No, Teddy," you said, your voice soft and gentle. "I’m not mad. I just…" You paused, taking a deep breath, the weight of your words sinking in. "I just want you to be okay."

Theo felt his heart thud painfully in his chest, and for the first time in ages, the wall he’d built around himself began to crumble. The anger, the bitterness, the self-loathing—all of it seemed to fade in that moment, replaced by something he hadn’t let himself feel in so long: hope.

Hope that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for him. For both of you.

Theo stood frozen, the weight of your gaze locking him in place, the silence between you stretching longer than it ever had before. His mind was spinning, but for once, he wasn’t fighting to bury the emotions flooding in. They were raw, unfiltered, and painful, but they were real. More real than anything he’d tried to convince himself of over the past few months.

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat almost too much to bear, but his voice came out steady, despite everything. "I don’t deserve you."

You took another step closer, and Theo’s breath hitched, your proximity too familiar, too comforting. It had been so long since he’d felt this close to you—since he’d been able to breathe in the space you filled, the warmth you brought without even trying.

"You never have to deserve me, Theo," you said softly, and there was no hesitation, no bitterness in your words. "I chose you once. I still choose you."

His chest tightened painfully, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to feel it—the ache of longing, the guilt, the desire, all mixing together until it nearly consumed him.

You were so close now, your hand hovering slightly between you, unsure but willing. It was you who had always been the steady one, the one who had been patient with him, even when he didn’t deserve it.

Theo’s breath caught as your fingers brushed lightly against his, a spark of connection shooting through him at the simple touch. He glanced at your face, his heart in his throat, the words he had been holding back finally tumbling out. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "For everything. For not being who you needed me to be. For pushing you away when you were the only one who was ever there."

You met his eyes, your expression softening, and for the first time, Theo didn’t feel like he was apologizing for something he couldn’t change. He felt like you were actually hearing him, understanding him.

"I know you are," you whispered. "But you don’t have to apologize anymore. We’ve both made mistakes, Theo. I’m not perfect either."

There was a pause, a fragile moment where neither of you moved, the air thick with the weight of all that had been left unsaid. But the world seemed to have quieted, the noise in Theo’s mind falling away as he focused on the only thing that mattered right now: you.

Without thinking, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed against the soft skin there, the touch so tender it felt like it could break him in half. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch, and he could feel the warmth of your breath, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against the silence.

"You still love me," he murmured, the words a quiet, almost disbelieving confession. "After everything?"

You opened your eyes, and the vulnerability in them made his chest ache. "I never stopped."