Tip #2: Never let a man unpack in your home unsupervised. Especially if he owns more plants than shirts.
Pansy acted like it never happened. Not a single drunken word. No straddling, no breathy whispers, no reckless, desperate hands guiding his exactly where she had wanted him. None of it.
She had wiped it from her memory, or at least she told herself she had, at least publicly, in all the ways that counted. She refused to so much as glance at him in a way that might suggest she remembered that evening. She refused to let her voice falter when speaking to him, refused to allow any pause that might hint at awkwardness, refused to let her posture reflect anything other than complete and utter disdain.
She simply refused to acknowledge the fact that, mere days earlier, she had practically begged Neville bloody Longbottom to ruin her on her very own couch and he had declined. Declined.
Who did that?
The audacity.
The pure, outrageous, insufferable audacity of that man, sitting there now so calm and steady and maddeningly polite, as if she hadn't thrown herself at him, as if her pride hadn't shattered dramatically onto the floor right in front of them both.
But Pansy was not dwelling on that. No. Of course not. She was far too dignified for such nonsense, far too composed. She had far bigger things on her plate now. She had responsibilities. She had decor to protect. She had the contract.
The very real, very bureaucratic contract that now governed her existence sat mockingly on her polished desk, its thick parchment edges curled just slightly at the corners from where she had already picked it up, rolled it tightly, unrolled it again, and scowled at it no fewer than a dozen times.
It hung over her like a Ministry-issued curse, the kind of dry, officious document that made every word feel heavier than it should, even though most of it was utterly ridiculous in the first place.
She spent the better part of the morning storming through the manor with that contract clutched in her hands, fingers curled so tightly around the parchment that it had started to crinkle at the edges. She wasn't entirely sure if she meant to wield it like a weapon or cling to it like a lifeline, but either way, she held it like it mattered. Like it might give her back some version of control.
Her muttering echoed off the high ceilings, low and vicious and laced with words not meant for polite company. If any of the house-elves heard her coming, they disappeared on instinct. More than one vanished mid-dusting, leaving floating feather brushes suspended midair as they slipped out of sight. No one wanted to be caught in her path, not while she was still in her dressing gown with her hair pinned up like a crown and that look in her eye that promised ruin.
Each room she entered seemed to offend her more than the last. The drapes were too bright. The cushions were too soft. The tea tray had the wrong jam. Even the sunlight filtering in through the east windows struck her as unnecessarily smug. By the time she made it to the drawing room, she was a storm looking for a place to land.
And still, the contract stayed in her grip. Wrinkled, smudged with fingerprints, ink nearly smearing where her thumb kept brushing the margin. As if she couldn't let it go until she had burned through every ounce of outrage it sparked in her.
In the sitting room, there was a large, leafy potted plant that Longbottom had moved "to catch the morning light," as he had so casually put it, which she swore was now deliberately casting a shadow across her favorite antique armchair. The chair that had once been bathed in perfect sunlight was now half in shade, half obscured by the swaying, offensive leaves of something large and green and probably far too difficult to pronounce.
In the hallway, his boots had appeared again. Not muddy this time, she noted with a grudging flicker of relief, but still so unsightly that it hardly mattered. They sat neatly lined up by the door as if they belonged there, as if this was normal, as if they were already part of her household arrangement. The mere sight of them practically made her skin itch, daring her to acknowledge their presence.
She didn't. She absolutely refused.
Instead, she stormed right past them, head held high, contract held higher, reading aloud to herself in increasingly exasperated tones that grew louder with every step she took.
"' In accordance with subsection twelve …' Honestly, who writes these things? Entire paragraphs on decorum and respect. It's as if they expect us to behave like civilised adults." Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she ascended the staircase, muttering all the way to the landing, pausing dramatically at the top to glare at the contract as if it might answer her back.
Halfway across the hall, she caught a glimpse of herself in the long gilt mirror that hung between two perfectly symmetrical sconces. She froze, narrowing her eyes at her own reflection, scrutinising every detail as if searching for a flaw that might betray her spiraling emotions. Even in the midst of her mild fury and deep, determined denial, appearances mattered.
Always.
She paused long enough to smooth her hair with one hand, tucking a stray lock neatly back into place. The silk tie of her robe needed adjusting too, so she tugged it tight around her waist, ensuring that the knot sat perfectly at her hip. A flush colored her cheeks, but that was nothing, just the healthy glow of righteous indignation. Nothing more.
Once satisfied, she resumed her pacing, spinning sharply on her heel to descend the grand staircase. She did not stop muttering, her grip on the contract tightening as she read aloud another absurd section just for the sheer pleasure of hearing how ridiculous it sounded.
"'The parties shall make all reasonable efforts to promote an atmosphere of harmony and mutual respect…'" She gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Harmony. Mutual respect. Between me and muddy boots and rosemary and… and ficus trees? Merlin, they must think I'm already half-mad."
As she reached the bottom step, her eyes caught on something out of place. A battered leather satchel leaned against the wall, too neatly propped to be accidental. Longbottom's, of course. Another one of his things that had somehow found a home in hers. She stared at it for a moment, jaw tightening, then turned away without a word. But the silence crackled around her, thick with annoyance she refused to name.
She swept into the dining room with too much force, the hem of her dressing gown brushing the doorframe like a warning. Her pulse was faster than it should have been. Not from exertion. From frustration. And not just at the satchel. It was everything lately. The crates of earthy-smelling herbs in the foyer. The boots by the back door that scuffed her polished floors. The faint scent of him that clung to the hallway outside the greenhouse.
It wasn't just the objects. It was the sense of him, woven into the walls now. Settled into the air like dust she couldn't sweep away.
She paused by the table. It was spotless, as always. But the flowers were wrong. In the center, where her lilies usually stood in their crystal vase, someone had tucked in a small sprig of rosemary instead. Just green and quiet and completely out of place. Her lips pressed into a hard line. She glared at the sprig as if sheer will alone could make it vanish, or better yet, burst into flame.
It didn't. It just sat there. Calm. Stubborn. Familiar in a way that made her throat tighten.
"This house used to be perfect," she muttered, sweeping the contract against her hip as she marched through the room. "Now it smells like… herbs. And soil. And…" She trailed off as she spotted a neatly folded jumper draped over the back of one of her dining chairs — a crime that required immediate punishment.
She paused again at the doorway, taking another steadying breath, as if that would help rein in her spiraling thoughts. But her mind was already galloping ahead, reciting the next section of the contract to herself before she could stop it.
"'The parties shall maintain shared residence for the duration of the marriage period, defined as one calendar year from the date of contract signing…' One calendar year. That's twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five days. Eight thousand seven hundred sixty hours. Forty-five million minutes. Give or take."
Her chest rose and fell in a quick, shallow breath as she turned in place, eyes scanning the room, landing briefly on the muddy boots again. She could almost hear his humming in the next room, that soft, easy hum that drove her absolutely mad because it sounded so perfectly content.
How dare he sound content.
How dare he look so relaxed, so at ease, as if he truly intended to spend the next year like this, as if he truly believed this arrangement would ever resemble harmony or respect or domestic bliss.
Pansy straightened her shoulders, smoothing the contract carefully as she rolled it back up and held it tightly under one arm. She would not be defeated by muddy boots and rosemary. She would not be undone by the presence of one infuriatingly patient man.
One year.
She could endure anything for one year.
Even Longbottom.
~
The contract signing itself was offensively dull, a mind-numbing exercise in bureaucratic nonsense that tested even Pansy's well-honed ability to project disinterest while quietly seething inside. The Ministry official seated across from them, a short, balding wizard who smelled faintly of mildew and old paper that had languished too long in some forgotten filing cabinet, droned on endlessly about obligations and respectful cohabitation, as if any of this deserved the solemnity with which he was delivering it.
Pansy sat with her legs elegantly crossed, champagne glass held delicately between two fingers, the very picture of disinterest and superiority. She let her gaze wander languidly around the room, occasionally tilting her head in the official's general direction, just enough to imply that she was listening while making it perfectly clear that she found the entire affair beneath her. Every few minutes, almost like clockwork, she would arch one perfectly shaped brow at him, a deliberate gesture designed to remind him exactly how she felt about this ridiculous arrangement and how thoroughly she disapproved of being trapped in it.
Longbottom, of course, looked infuriatingly calm throughout the entire ordeal. There was no smugness in his expression, no discomfort or awkwardness, no sense that he felt out of place or overwhelmed by the weight of what they were doing. He was simply calm. Polite. Composed. Sitting there as if this was nothing more than a routine appointment, as if he were finalising the purchase of a new potting shed rather than entering into the Ministry-sanctioned destruction of her life.
Pansy found herself glaring at him when he wasn't looking, seething quietly at how infuriatingly unaffected he seemed, how he listened attentively to every dreadful clause and nodded occasionally in that patient, infuriating way of his. He sat with his hands resting loosely on the table, fingers long and steady, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing at all to lose.
Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her champagne glass, the only outward sign of her rising frustration. She kept her lips curved in a faint, disinterested smile, refusing to let even the hint of true emotion crack through her carefully curated facade.
He even nodded politely at the Ministry official's boring explanations, looking every inch the man who could listen patiently to a speech about cooperative marital duties while being completely unbothered by the fact that his intended wife was radiating silent contempt at him from two feet away.
It was almost impressive.
Almost.
But mostly it was annoying.
Pansy could not stop herself from sighing loudly, shifting in her chair, making a small show of swirling the last sip of champagne around her glass as if that was far more interesting than anything being discussed.
She considered refilling it from the bottle on the side table but decided against it. She needed a clear head for this particular performance.
Finally, after what felt like hours of Ministry nonsense, the official reached the bottom of the parchment, tapped the quill once against the desk, and offered it to Pansy first.
She took it with exaggerated grace, holding it delicately between her fingers as if it might poison her on contact.
Then, without hesitation, she signed her name in her most beautiful, expensive-looking handwriting — looping the "P" with a flourish, underlining her surname twice — and leaned back in her chair, letting out a loud, dramatic sigh as she drained the last of her champagne.
"Well," she said, setting the empty glass down with a precise clink, "that's done. You may now leave."
Her voice dripped with disdain, her chin tilted just slightly, a perfect picture of casual cruelty.
He smiled softly.
That calm, infuriating smile again, as if she had just commented on the weather and not attempted to dismiss him from her life entirely.
"Actually," he said, completely ignoring her tone, "I'll move my things in this afternoon."
Her smile froze.
The words hung in the air for a full beat before she spoke again.
"Your… things," she repeated slowly, her voice curling at the edges with horror.
"Yes," he confirmed easily, gesturing vaguely toward the Ministry official, who was already rolling up the parchment and tucking it back into a leather folder. "It's in the agreement, isn't it? We're to cohabitate."
"Cohabitate," Pansy echoed, tasting the word like it might burn her tongue.
How… how had she missed that?
Her mind raced, flipping through every line of that dreadful contract she had read over and over again, and somehow she had let that slip past her.
Of course, it would be there.
The Ministry loved forcing people into humiliating proximity.
She could almost hear Luna's voice in her mind, soft and maddeningly reasonable: "It's about integration, love. They expect you to… live together."
Ugh.
Her gaze snapped back to him.
"Right," she said finally, voice tight. "How… delightful."
Longbottom gave her that same small, maddeningly patient smile, as if her horror was amusing but beneath comment.
He rose from his chair with smooth, unhurried movements, reaching for his jacket — an old, battered thing that looked wildly out of place against the polished oak and velvet of her drawing room.
"I'll be by later this afternoon," he added casually, slipping one arm into his sleeve.
Pansy narrowed her eyes.
"To bring… your things," she said again, unable to keep the note of disdain from her voice.
He nodded. "Of course. It will not take long."
The very idea that there would even be a duration to this insult was offensive.
She lifted her chin slightly, refusing to let him see that her mind was already spiraling.
"Fine," she said airily, waving one hand as if this was of no consequence to her whatsoever. "Bring whatever… rustic clutter you feel you must."
Rustic clutter. She was already picturing it.
Wooden crates. Muddy boots. Plants everywhere.
The horror.
He gave her a polite nod, thanked the Ministry official, and strolled from the room as if this entire ordeal was nothing more than a pleasant appointment at Gringotts.
Pansy waited until the door clicked shut behind him, waited until the Ministry official had politely excused himself, then collapsed back into her chair with a loud groan.
She clutched the empty champagne glass in one hand and stared at the parchment still lying on the table.
Cohabitate.
How had she missed that?
She poured herself another glass, drained half of it in one swallow, then picked up the contract and began scanning it furiously, muttering to herself.
" Clause five… obligations… household duties… oh Merlin… Clause nine… respectful cohabitation… what the fuck does respectful even mean in this context ? … Clause twelve… shared residence for the duration … what fresh bureaucratic hell is this?"
She read it again.
And again.
And nowhere did it specify which rooms he was allowed to infest, or how many plants he was permitted to introduce into her decor, or whether she could force him to stay in the guest wing permanently.
None of it.
It was horrifying.
And infuriating.
And worst of all… inevitable.
She drained the rest of her glass, poured herself another, and muttered darkly, "Fine. Fine. Move in. Cohabitate. Let's see how long you last in my house, Longbottom."
Because one thing was certain.
If Neville bloody Longbottom thought she was going to make this easy…
He had no idea what he was walking into.
~
The invasion began precisely at three o'clock, though Pansy would never admit that she had been watching the clock, perched on her chaise lounge with a glass of champagne in hand, eyes flicking toward the gilded clock on the mantle every few minutes as if daring it to betray her. She told herself she didn't care, that it didn't matter what time he arrived, but the second the knock came at the front door and the house-elves shuffled to answer it, her whole body tensed as if bracing for impact.
First came the crates. Large, wooden, battered things that looked like they belonged in some grimy shed in a far corner of the countryside, not her pristine marble-floored entrance hall. They were dumped unceremoniously by the door, the scrape of wood on stone setting her teeth on edge. She barely had time to register the horror before the next wave arrived — the plants. So many plants. Dozens of them. There were big leafy monstrosities that immediately dominated entire corners of her carefully curated rooms, little pots of herbs crammed together in mismatched terracotta planters, and, most offensively of all, a sprawling fig tree that absolutely did not belong in a civilized home like hers.
Pansy remained planted in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest, lips pressed into a thin line as she watched Longbottom direct the house-elves with that infuriatingly calm, unhurried tone of his. His boots, as expected, were muddy. His shirt was rumpled. His hair, predictably, had already escaped whatever poor attempt he had made at taming it, falling forward onto his forehead in a way that she was absolutely not noticing, thank you very much. Worst of all was that quiet little smile he kept wearing, polite and harmless on the surface but somehow deeply, fundamentally irritating, like he knew exactly how much this entire scene offended her and was perfectly content to let it play out at its own pace.
"You're tracking dirt across my floors," she said flatly, making no attempt to soften her voice or hide the disgust curling at the edges.
Longbottom glanced down at his boots, then back up at her, that maddening flicker of amusement in his gaze. "I'll clean it," he replied easily.
"That's not the point," she snapped, heels clicking sharply as she stalked a step closer. "The point is that it should never have been tracked in the first place. Honestly, Longbottom, is this how you treat all your wives?"
His smile widened just slightly, that subtle, infuriating expression of his that made her want to throw her champagne glass at the nearest wall. "You're my first."
"Well, you're already doing a terrible job," she shot back immediately, narrowing her eyes.
But he didn't argue, because he never argued. Instead, he simply kept moving, kept arranging his ridiculous things exactly where they did not belong, stacking old, battered books with cracked leather spines onto shelves that had once held her delicate porcelain sculptures, shoving plants into sunlit spots she had carefully kept uncluttered, and the horror of horrors, hanging his awful, battered jacket on the back of one of her antique chairs as if he lived here. Because, apparently, he did.
Pansy trailed after him from room to room, narrating her displeasure loudly enough that even the house-elves were giving her wide berth. "Is this really happening? I have a bloody ficus in my sitting room. My ancestors are rolling in their graves. Look at this — herbs in my formal dining room. Is this parsley? It smells like parsley. I didn't consent to parsley, Longbottom."
He paused just once, long enough to pluck a sprig of rosemary from a planter and walk it over to her. "For you," he said gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made her even angrier because he looked like he meant it.
She stared at the offering as if he had handed her something rotting, then, without missing a beat, turned to the nearest elf and declared, "Throw this away immediately." The elf vanished with the rosemary before she could change her mind.
But he said nothing, just resumed his quiet work as if none of this was unusual at all, humming under his breath as he carefully tilted a fern to the left, then back to the right, apparently weighing where it would catch the best light. She could feel her blood pressure rising with every crate unpacked, every misplaced book, every pot of soil that was now part of her decor.
And then, as if to punctuate the insult, he moved into her solarium. Pansy froze when she heard the sound of canvas and rope, and when she followed him in, she stopped dead in the doorway. There, stretched casually between two of her perfectly carved marble columns, was a hammock. A hammock, in her solarium, clashing horribly with the clean white walls and polished stone floors, an affront to everything tasteful and elegant.
She didn't speak at first. She simply breathed, shallow and sharp, willing herself to stay composed.
Finally, in a voice that was low and dangerously controlled, she said, "You are sleeping in the guest wing, Longbottom."
He looked up at her, sleeves rolled up, dirt still faintly under his nails, and said, "Of course," as if this was all perfectly reasonable, as if he wasn't hanging a hammock in her house and filling every surface with leaves and soil and rustic chaos.
She spun on her heel and left the room, her robe swishing dramatically around her ankles, muttering as she went. She made it halfway down the hall before she heard it — a soft hum from behind her. He was humming, absolutely at ease in the middle of this disaster he had brought into her life, humming as if he belonged here, as if he wasn't ruining everything she held dear.
She stopped for a moment, hand braced against the wall, champagne glass still in her other hand, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. One year, she reminded herself. One year of cohabitation. She could survive this. She could rise above.
It was just one year of muddy boots, hideous books, well-worn jackets, hammocks where there should never be hammocks, and plants invading every pristine surface.
One year of pretending she wasn't still thinking about how his hands had felt that night, about how gently he had tucked her into the couch when she had begged him not to.
She took a long drink from her glass and whispered under her breath, "With peace and love, I am going to murder that man."
~
By the time evening fell, Pansy had decided she needed to reclaim her dignity in some small way.
He might have installed himself in her home with his boots and books and bloody plants, but she still had standards. And appearances. And she would not be cowed by his quiet patience or his uncanny ability to invade her space without seeming remotely threatening.
So when Longbottom suggested they "have dinner together," she had immediately agreed but only so she could prove that she could endure his company without losing her mind.
She dressed carefully for the occasion.
A silk gown, deep green and cut low at the back, her hair pinned up, makeup flawless.
He, of course, was late.
Not properly late, but late enough that she noticed, sitting there at the dining table she had set herself, candles lit, wine decanted, every glass polished to perfection.
When he finally appeared, he was carrying a steaming dish and wearing the kind of soft button-up shirt that made him look almost respectable, sleeves casually rolled, hair still damp from a shower. He looked presentable. Frustratingly presentable.
Pansy watched him set the dish down carefully, as if this was all perfectly normal.
"What is that?" she asked, peering at the casserole dish with suspicion.
"Vegetable stew," he said cheerfully.
She blinked at him. "You cooked?"
"I thought it would be a nice gesture," he replied easily, lifting the lid and letting out a cloud of perfectly ordinary-smelling steam. "Home-cooked meal. A good way to start this cohabitation arrangement."
Pansy stared at the stew. Then at Longbottom. Then back at the stew.
"This arrangement," she said icily, "requires no such gestures. There is nothing in the contract about vegetable stew, Longbottom."
He smiled, pulling out a chair across from her and sitting down with calm ease. "I thought it would be polite."
Polite.
The word irritated her almost more than the smell of roasted carrots wafting toward her face.
And yet… she was hungry.
Terribly hungry.
She lifted her glass of wine, took a measured sip, and then, with great reluctance, allowed him to ladle stew into the fine china bowl in front of her.
They ate in silence at first.
Pansy, despite herself, had to admit the stew was edible. In fact, it was more than edible. It was good.
And that just made her angrier.
She hated that he could invade her house, ruin her decor, destroy the clean minimalist aesthetic she had curated so perfectly, and then sit across from her at her own dining table, serving perfectly competent vegetable stew while looking almost infuriatingly handsome in that disheveled, earthy way of his.
Halfway through the meal, he finally spoke.
"Do you actually like parsley?" he asked casually, glancing up from his bowl.
Pansy froze, spoon halfway to her mouth. "Excuse me?"
"Parsley," he repeated with that same maddening calm. "You complained about it earlier today. You sounded very passionate about it."
She lowered her spoon slowly, narrowing her eyes at him across the flickering candlelight. "That was not passion, Longbottom. That was disdain."
He tilted his head slightly, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. "You do sound passionate when you're disdainful."
Pansy glared at him, her lips pressed together, refusing to dignify that with a response.
He kept eating, as if completely unfazed by her silence, as if this was the most ordinary dinner in the world.
And that was what she hated most.
That calmness, that quiet, patient steadiness that made her feel like she was the only one coming undone here.
She drank deeply from her wine, determined to regain the upper hand.
"This," she declared finally, gesturing around them, "is not a dinner. This is a hostage situation."
Longbottom laughed quietly, a soft, genuine sound that grated at her nerves in the most confusing way.
"It's just dinner," he said simply.
Pansy set down her glass with a sharp clink. "You're infuriating."
He met her gaze, eyes warm, that maddening patience still settled in every line of his face.
"And you," he replied, his voice soft but steady, "are delightful when you're annoyed."
The audacity.
The absolute audacity.
And yet… her cheeks felt warm, a fact she refused to acknowledge.
She rose from the table with a flourish, tossing her napkin down with more force than necessary.
"Thank you for your… gesture," she said tightly, lifting her chin. "But I will not be joining you for dinner again."
He smiled, utterly unbothered. "Of course."
She walked away from the table, pausing just once at the doorway to glance back.
He was still sitting there, spoon in hand, completely calm, as if this was all exactly as it should be.
Pansy felt her heart pound faster and hated herself for it.
"One year," she muttered under her breath as she disappeared down the hall. "One year of this and then I am free."
But even as she stormed away, she heard him humming quietly behind her, that same soft tune he always seemed to hum when he was at ease.
And that, more than anything else, made her want to scream.
~
When the house finally fell quiet that night, Pansy retreated to her bedroom, a glass of wine in hand, determined to reclaim some sense of control. She sank into the corner of her velvet chaise, curling one leg under her, her silk robe draped elegantly around her shoulders. The fire crackled softly, casting warm light across the room, but even that small comfort irritated her now, because the entire house felt different. And she hated it.
Not just because of the plants, although Merlin knew the plants were everywhere now. Big leafy things in corners where they had no business being. Herbs cluttering up surfaces that had once been sleek and minimalist and exactly as she wanted them. But there was something else, something less tangible but far more unsettling. The house felt... lived in. Changed. Like it breathed differently just because Neville bloody Longbottom had moved in.
She could not stand that thought, yet she could not stop thinking it. She took a slow sip of wine, trying to steady herself, but even the wine tasted different tonight, almost as if it had absorbed his infuriating calm just by proximity.
Her mind, no matter how hard she tried to redirect it, kept circling back to dinner. To the way he had appeared at the dining table, late but presentable, maddeningly presentable in that soft white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms she absolutely had not noticed. His hair had been damp from a shower, still curling slightly at the edges, and he had smelled... pleasant. Clean, warm, something that did not belong in her controlled environment but had seeped in anyway.
And the stew. The godforsaken vegetable stew. It had been good. Unreasonably good. It should have tasted rustic and bland, but it hadn't. It had tasted like home. Her home, his food. That fact alone made her want to scream.
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass and she muttered aloud, "I will not be driven mad by this. I refuse." The sound of her own voice was a small comfort, grounding her just enough to remember who she was. She was Pansy Parkinson. She was elegance, control, grace, superiority. She was not a woman undone by muddy boots and vegetable stew.
Yet her thoughts kept betraying her, circling back to him like a moth to a flame. She pictured the way he had looked at her over dinner, steady, calm, endlessly patient, as if he could wait her out for as long as it took. Like he already knew she would break first. That was what made her furious. He never rose to her bait, never snapped back, never showed even a crack in that infuriating composure of his. He just smiled, quiet and gentle, as if this whole arrangement was perfectly reasonable and he had all the time in the world.
She could still hear the sound of the crates being dragged in that afternoon, echoing in her mind along with the quiet scrape of his boots on her floors. Her floors. She hated that they were now his too. And the hammock. Merlin's bloody socks, the hammock. She could almost feel its presence now, swinging gently in her solarium, an insult to her entire aesthetic philosophy.
Pansy set her glass down harder than necessary on the small table beside her, breathing shallowly, her chest tight with frustration and something else she did not want to name. One year. That was all it was. One year of this farce. One year of tolerating muddy boots, invasive plants, rustic charm, and quiet patience. She could survive this. She would survive this.
Her gaze drifted toward the door, her ears straining despite herself. The house felt too quiet now, but she knew he was still awake somewhere out there. He was probably reading one of his awful, battered books, the ones he had stacked unceremoniously into her beautiful library, right where her porcelain collection had once been. Or worse, he was probably tending to one of his plants, humming softly to himself, that quiet tune that drove her absolutely mad because it made him sound at ease. Like he belonged here.
And that was what cut deepest of all. He sounded like he belonged here, like he was already settled, as if this house was his too. The way he moved through it, the way he carried his quiet confidence, the way he had hung that hideous jacket of his over the back of one of her antique chairs without hesitation, all of it said he intended to stay.
Pansy rubbed at her temple, willing herself to breathe slower, to think clearly, but the memory of his voice at dinner kept resurfacing. The way he had asked, almost casually, if she liked parsley, as if they were already familiar enough to joke about the details of their day together. She hated how easily he slipped into that tone, hated how he spoke to her as though they were equals, as though he wasn't invading every corner of her life. And worse, she hated how normal it had felt sitting across from him, sharing a meal, pretending for a moment that they were just two people who had chosen this.
She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers more firmly to her temple, whispering aloud, "I can endure anything for a year. Anything."
But even as she said it, her chest tightened and her cheeks flushed with heat she refused to acknowledge. Because despite everything, despite her best efforts to hate him entirely, she could not stop thinking about how gently he had helped her into bed that night when she had been too drunk to stand properly. About how he had touched her without touching her at all. About how he had looked at her, soft and serious and so patient, whispering that word, bloom, like it meant something.
Her heart skipped a beat and she shook her head sharply, standing abruptly, pacing the length of her bedroom just to burn off the energy coursing through her veins. She caught her reflection in the mirror and paused, taking in her own expression. She looked annoyed, yes, but beneath that, she looked unsettled. And that would not do. She would not be undone by a man who still tracked dirt into her home.
Pansy exhaled slowly, forcing a smile that felt almost convincing and whispered again, "It's fine. All of this is fine. I'm fine."
She reached for her glass, draining what was left, and then moved toward her bed with deliberate grace. She would sleep. Tomorrow was another day. Another chance to assert control. Another opportunity to remind him whose house this truly was.
But as she pulled back the covers and slipped beneath them, as her head sank into the cool linen pillowcase, she heard it again.
His hum.
Soft, tuneless, maddening.
And worse, comforting.
Somewhere in the guest wing, he was humming as if this house was already his home, as if he had always been here, as if he belonged.
Her eyes snapped open and she stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, jaw tight with frustration she could not quite name.
With peace and love, she thought furiously, this year was going to kill her.