"Tip #7: If he's jealous, you've won. Unless he's very, very good at revenge."
Pansy woke up and behaved, quite deliberately, like nothing at all had happened.
She adjusted her robe, powdered the faint shine from her forehead, and sipped her espresso with a flick of her wrist so precise it could have been choreographed. If anything had shifted, internally or otherwise, she certainly didn't show it. She walked through the breakfast parlour like she owned the place. Which she did.
She hummed. Casually. She even complimented the house-elf on the marmalade, because she was in a generous mood and also because her jaw still ached, and it was easier to comment on breakfast preserves than think about what exactly had made her jaw ache in the first place.
Longbottom was nowhere in sight.
Which was fine.
Perfect, even.
There was absolutely no reason she would need to see him, let alone acknowledge him. It wasn't like she cared where he had gone after they… well, after they did what they had very clearly done.
They'd had sex. Glorious, angry, absolutely illegal-in-several-countries sex. And it had been fine.
More than fine, actually.
Thorough. Cathartic. A necessary evil. She'd scratched an itch. He had been surprisingly competent. Extremely competent. Frustratingly competent.
But that wasn't the point.
The point was that it didn't matter. Not in the slightest.
She didn't like him. She didn't even really know him. Not in a real way.
Just because he had a lovely mouth and dangerous hands and the kind of shoulders that made you question your life choices did not mean she had suddenly become some simpering idiot who cried during sex or, worse, got attached.
She was Pansy bloody Parkinson.
She did not do attachment.
She adjusted the sash of her robe tighter around her waist and took another sip of espresso, ignoring the ghost of a bruise blooming at the edge of her collarbone. Her reflection in the silver teapot was devastatingly smug. She smiled at it.
"Perfect," she murmured, just to herself, and stood.
This was what she needed. Clarity. Control. The upper hand.
And if she happened to be spinning out just a little, well. That was nothing new.
After all, nothing had happened.
They had sex. Big deal.
People had sex all the time. In worse circumstances. With less satisfying outcomes.
She could name at least three friends who were currently married to people they actively despised and still hadn't had a single orgasm since 2007. Compared to that, she was basically a feminist icon. A revolutionary. A one-woman sexual awakening.
And if her legs still trembled slightly when she walked past the greenhouse where it happened, well, that was none of anyone's business.
Especially not his.
She twirled her spoon in her tea and stared into the swirl of amber and cream. It was Tuesday. An ordinary, sunny, floral-infused Tuesday. And she was bored.
Which meant there was only one sensible course of action.
She was going to make him jealous.
It was really the least she could do.
He had been far too composed the night before. Not a single "what does this mean?" or "should we talk about it?" Not even a good old-fashioned existential spiral.
He had kissed her like a man starving, made her come so hard she forgot her name, and then had the audacity to sleep like a baby. Like it hadn't meant anything. Like she was just another Tuesday.
And that, frankly, was unacceptable.
She didn't even want him to like her. Not really.
She just wanted… something. A reaction. A crack in the perfect façade. A little fire. The spark of unhinged obsession would be ideal, but she would settle for an ounce of visible discomfort.
And besides, she had already picked out the dress.
Satin. Forest green. Cut just high enough on the thigh to register as a threat and just low enough at the neckline to give him indigestion. The kind of dress that said, "Yes, I'm capable of murder, but I'm also free tonight at eight." The kind of dress that ruined lives.
And Pansy was in the mood to ruin just one.
She swept through the parlour with the elegance of a woman who had already drafted several fake letters from mysterious admirers in her head and fully intended to leave them lying around his potting shed. For fun.
Not because she cared. She absolutely gave no fucks. Zero.
Not because she had thought about him more times than she could count while brushing her teeth or buttering her toast or reaching, without meaning to, for the mug he always used.
Definitely not because her stomach still twisted in that slow, traitorous way whenever she remembered the sound he made when he said her name.
No.
She was simply bored.
It was Tuesday, after all.
And she was Pansy Parkinson.
She did not fall in love.
She caused it.
And then she left it smoldering, slightly stunned, and begging for more.
She swept into the sitting room like a storm in heels and headed straight for the Floo directory, muttering spells until the thing hissed open and revealed its long, ridiculous list of Eligible Idiots.
She didn't need a name she knew. She needed a face. Preferably one with cheekbones sharp enough to cut through the leftover shame clinging to the back of her mind.
She paused somewhere in the Bs. Or maybe the Cs. It didn't matter. The name was forgettable.
The man was worse. She remembered meeting him at a winter gala years ago, the type of event where you had to smile through three courses of overcooked veal and pretend you weren't plotting how to fake a nosebleed and leave early.
He was tall, of course. Broad-shouldered. That kind of Aryan charm that only came from generations of interbreeding and enough galleons to cover it up. Hair like a shampoo ad. Teeth like a sales pitch. Eyes as empty as his conversation.
Perfect.
She tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and called for him like she was ordering wine.
"Darling," she purred the moment his face appeared in the green flames. "Tell me, are you still the most attractive disappointment in Wiltshire?"
He blinked. Smiled. Failed to register the insult.
"I—what?"
"Never mind," she said. "Lunch. Today. One o'clock. My place. Bring whatever boring blazers you haven't ruined with polo sweat."
He agreed, obviously.
Men like him always did. She was pretty, and he was stupid. It was a tale as old as time.
The moment the call ended, she barked orders at the nearest elf.
"Lunch for three," she said. "Something that looks expensive but tastes forgettable. No garlic. I don't want him thinking we're close enough to eat pungent food together. And I want champagne. The good kind. I need bubbles."
The elf nodded and vanished with a pop.
Pansy turned toward the mirror by the door, studying her reflection with critical eyes.
She looked smug. She needed to look worse.
She turned up the dramatics. Swapped her robe for a high-slit garden dress in powder blue, the kind that said yes, I own land and no, you may not touch me. It was loose in the sleeves, tight in the waist, and perfect for looking disinterested in.
She dusted her collarbone with shimmer. Tucked her hair into some half-up disaster that would look windswept after the first breeze. Lined her eyes like she had something to prove.
She looked flawless. And furious.
It wasn't about him. It wasn't about Longbottom.
Except it absolutely was.
The way he had just looked at her, like he had seen every inch of her skin and still didn't know what to do with her.
She hated that look. It had clung to her.
And now she was going to peel it off.
With another man's compliments. With laughter that was too sharp and smiles that weren't real. With silverware, sunlight, and too many glasses of champagne.
Longbottom would be invited. He would show up. He would sit there and stew in whatever quiet rage brewed in that maddeningly composed skull of his.
She would talk too much. The guest would talk too little. It would be perfect.
Her final touch was perfume. Something dark and smoky, with notes of blackcurrant and rage. She spritzed it on her pulse points, then dabbed the extra on her thighs, just in case Neville sat close enough to smell the trouble.
By the time the lunch hour neared, the garden table had been transformed into something worthy of a magazine spread. Linen tablecloth. Heavy plates. Orchids that didn't match the roses. A bit of clashing was good. It made things feel expensive.
She took her seat five minutes early, legs crossed, sunglasses on, lips glossed.
She didn't look for him.
She didn't have to.
He would come.
And when he did, she would be ready.
Ready to ruin him with a smile, a toast, and a man whose name she didn't even bother to learn.
Let the games begin.
Neville arrived exactly on time, which was either deeply tragic or incredibly calculated. Pansy couldn't decide which.
The sun lit up the garden with its usual aristocratic warmth. Everything was blooming. The linens were perfect. The silverware glinted like a threat.
And there she was, draped over her seat like a particularly expensive afterthought, laughing at something painfully forgettable said by a man she did not care about.
She saw Longbottom from the corner of her eye the moment he crossed the threshold. His silhouette had always been easier to feel than see. Broad shoulders, slow gait, clenched jaw that gave away nothing until it gave away everything.
He stopped at the edge of the terrace. He looked at the table. He looked at her. Then he looked at the man beside her like he was considering whether to hex him or throw him into the nearest rose bush and bury the body under a compost heap.
"Good afternoon," Neville said. His voice didn't crack, but it didn't try to sound pleasant either.
"Come sit with us for lunch," Pansy called sweetly, tilting her head like a garden statue come to life. "We're just getting started."
He walked over without a word. Took the seat directly across from her. Back straight. Shoulders squared. His plate sat in front of him untouched, the linen napkin still folded like a promise he had no intention of keeping.
The idiot beside her, was it Blaireton? Brixton? Barnaby? Something absolutely colonial , smiled like he had no idea what was happening.
Which was fair. He didn't. His entire personality consisted of horse breeding, unearned confidence, and the kind of hair that only looked good under a riding helmet.
"So," said Mr. Horse Boy, flashing his teeth like they were an achievement, "your garden is exquisite. I've never seen lilies like that in August. Is that a charm or just good bloodline soil?"
Pansy let out a low, breathy laugh. "Neville would know."
Neville didn't answer. He reached for his glass instead, lifted it, and took a sip like it was the only civil act he had left in him.
The conversation limped on. Pansy made an effort. Smiled when she felt like stabbing something. Flipped her hair. Touched the hem of her dress when she knew it would draw attention. Let her fingers rest lightly on the rim of her glass, the curve of her thigh, the delicate gold chain at her throat. All the places she had learned to weaponise.
Neville did not blink. He did not eat. He did not speak.
He just watched.
And then it happened.
Mr. What's-His-Name leaned in with a smile far too eager, lifted his hand, and brushed a loose strand of hair behind Pansy's ear.
It was nothing. Harmless. A soft touch.
Neville's chair scraped the stone as he stood.
"It is time for you to leave," he said, his voice even. Too even.
The table fell silent.
Pansy didn't flinch. "Don't be rude," she said, barely looking at him. Her fingers reached for the champagne instead, slow and deliberate.
Neville's hand slammed flat against the table.
"Right," he said, louder now, his voice rougher at the edges. "Fucking now."
Barnaby, or whoever he was, blinked slowly, mouth open. "I'm sorry, is this—"
Neville turned to him.
The look he gave was not violent. But it made the air curdle.
"Get. Out."
Pansy exhaled through her nose, long and slow, like she'd just remembered something unpleasant. "You're embarrassing yourself," she said lightly, twirling her fork against the linen.
Neville didn't move. His chest was rising now in quiet, measured intervals, but his hands remained steady. His eyes never left hers.
Barnaby stood.
"I think I—yes. Right. Well." He cleared his throat. Straightened his collar. Tried to smile again and failed. "Lovely meal. Do give me a ring. Or… don't."
And with that, he was gone.
The silence that followed was not polite.
Neville didn't sit down. He just stood there, fists clenched at his sides, jaw so tight she thought it might crack.
Pansy looked up at him over her glass.
"Well," she said, voice calm. "That was dramatic."
He didn't answer.
Her smile curved, slow and dangerous. "What, no lecture about public decorum? No monologue?"
Still nothing.
Just the weight of his gaze. Heavy. Hot. Unblinking.
She stood slowly. Walked around the table with the careful, deliberate steps of someone in control. Until she was close enough to smell the tension radiating off his skin. She tilted her head, looking up at him.
"Speak, Longbottom."
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
He didn't say a word.
He just looked at her like she had taken something sacred and smashed it against the bricks. Like she had known exactly what she was doing and done it anyway.
Because she had.
And for the first time all morning, her stomach twisted.
Not because he was angry.
Because he hadn't said anything at all.
He stood in the garden for a long time after the other man left, arms still at his sides, shoulders held tight as if some invisible weight was keeping them locked in place.
The champagne bottle sweated on the table. A bee circled the empty chair. The air itself seemed to pause, unsure whether it should follow her or stay with him.
By the time he finally came inside, the corridors had cooled. The shadows had shifted.
Pansy was halfway up the staircase, one hand on the banister, when his voice stopped her cold.
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
She turned her head slowly, every muscle tight.
"Longbottom—"
His laugh was short, dry, sharp. "That was a pathetic attempt at flirting."
"I did no such thing."
"Sure, Bloom. Whatever makes you sleep better at night."
She stared at him. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, but nothing came out at first. Just silence. And then:
"What is your problem?" she asked, forcing a note of exhaustion into her voice. "I was having lunch."
"Yes," he said, his tone flat. "I witnessed that. It was absolutely pathetic."
Her spine snapped straight.
"I hope you know," he added, his voice softening in a way that didn't feel gentle at all, "that adultery is explicitly covered in our marriage contract."
She didn't hesitate.
"I did not fuck him."
His gaze held hers for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Yet?"
Her breath caught. Her jaw worked. "Stop it," she said, more breath than voice. "I'm not that type of person."
He said nothing.
The silence stretched, thick and unbearable.
She drew herself up, even as her chest felt hollow.
"If you'll let me," she said tightly, "I'll go to my room now."
And then she walked past him. Just fast enough that he couldn't see the sting behind her eyes. Fast enough to make it look like control.
His eyes followed her all the way to the landing.
But he didn't say another word.
She had made it halfway up the stairs before she heard him behind her. No footsteps at first. Just the shift in the air, like something behind her had stirred and refused to settle. She kept moving, slower now, her fingers trailing along the bannister, heart thudding with something she refused to name.
She reached the landing and turned toward her wing. He followed.
"Do not ever do that to me again."
His voice was low. Tight. The kind of low that made her skin tighten with awareness. It wasn't a threat. It was worse than that. It was a promise.
Pansy didn't stop walking. "I didn't do shit."
"Oh, but you did."
He was close enough now that she could feel the heat of him behind her. The moment she reached for the doorknob to the guestroom, his hand closed around her arm.
And then she was in the guest corridor, her back hitting the wall beside a closed door, the air knocked out of her just enough to make her eyes widen.
He didn't raise his voice.
"How dare you put me in that position?"
She looked at him, all painted lips and deliberate calm, but her chest was rising a little too fast.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Hmm?" he tilted his head, just slightly, eyes locked on hers. "Answer me. Did you enjoy it? Thinking about someone else touching you like that? Did it feel powerful? Humiliating me like that?"
Pansy's mouth parted, words on the tip of her tongue, but she hesitated a moment too long.
"Neville—"
He stepped closer, close enough that she couldn't shift without brushing against him. His hand moved fast, not rough but not gentle either, catching her chin, thumb resting along the line of her jaw. She stilled, caught in the pressure of his hold.
"It's you and me. That's it. Don't pretend this isn't what you want. Don't lie to me and say you weren't dripping from the attention."
"I did not—" she started, but her voice cracked.
He kissed her.
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't careful. It landed like a verdict. Like the slam of a door she wasn't going to open again.
Her hands flew to his shoulders, half to push him off, half to anchor herself. Her back arched against the paneling. Her breath faltered.
She should have slapped him.
Not she didn't.
He kissed her like he was furious. Like she had set him on fire and this was the only way to burn.
His mouth moved against hers with a kind of wild focus, the kind that came from watching her all brunch long and saying nothing. From the silence she had mistaken for patience. From every look he hadn't acted on. Until now.
He immediately pushed her to the bed.
His weight followed her down, one knee forcing her thighs apart like he had every right to be there. His mouth dragged along her jaw, hot breath laced with fury and want, teeth catching on the sensitive skin of her throat. He bit, just enough to sting. Just enough to claim.
"You let him look at you like that," he growled against her skin. "And you did nothing to stop it."
Her breath hitched as he shifted, grinding down against her, cock hard and demanding through his trousers. Her legs curled around his hips on instinct, betraying her just as much as her flushed skin and trembling hands.
"You are mine," he whispered, voice ragged now, fingers trailing up her thigh, rough and possessive. "Say it."
She didn't.
So he reached down, tore at her knickers, and let the sound of fabric ripping fill the room like a warning.
"And you liked it," he muttered, voice rough as his fingers skimmed her inner thigh, grazing but not giving. "You liked pretending you were available. Like anyone could touch you."
"You don't own me," she snapped, though her breath stuttered when his hand finally slid between her legs, knuckles dragging slow and deliberate.
His gaze lifted to hers, full of fire. "Say that again," he dared, fingers slipping through the slick heat of her, lazy and maddening. "Say it and see what I do."
Her fingers twisted in his shirt, dragging him down. "You don't—"
He shoved two fingers inside her before she could finish, and she choked on her own breath, back arching clean off the mattress.
"That doesn't feel like someone who wants to be free," he said, leaning in, lips brushing her ear. "That feels like someone who wants to be ruined."
She whimpered, nails digging into his arms, her legs spreading wider without him having to ask.
"Say it," he breathed, curling his fingers inside her just right. "Say you like it when I take control."
Her lips parted, but the sound that came out wasn't words. Just a moan. Raw. Desperate.
He didn't let up. His thumb pressed against her clit in slow, punishing circles, never giving her enough, always just shy of the edge.
"Tell me," he growled, dragging his mouth along her throat. "Or I'll stop. I'll leave you here shaking and aching and thinking about what you almost had."
"I like it," she gasped, hips chasing every movement of his hand. "God—Neville—I like it."
He kissed her then, hard and possessive, all teeth and tongue, like he needed to mark every part of her.
His other hand pushed her dress up, impatient, not bothering with buttons this time—just shoving until she was bare beneath him. Her skin was flushed, trembling.
"You don't get to flirt with someone else and expect me to be gentle," he muttered against her lips. "You're mine. And I'm going to remind you."
She only had a second to register the sound of his belt unbuckling before he was pushing his trousers down just enough. His cock pressed hot and heavy against her thigh, and her breath hitched again.
"Beg," he whispered, lips brushing hers. "Beg for it."
Pansy would deny it later. But her voice came out wrecked.
"Please," she said, hands in his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers. "Please, I need you. I need—"
He thrust into her in one long, brutal stroke that knocked the word right out of her mouth. Her head dropped back, a cry escaping her lips as he filled her completely.
"Good girl," he muttered, teeth dragging over her collarbone. "Now take it."
He set a punishing rhythm, hands gripping her thighs to keep her where he wanted her. She was already shaking, every thrust sending her closer, every filthy word in her ear unraveling her completely.
"Next time you look at someone else," he panted, slamming into her harder, "you'll remember exactly who fucks you like this."
His fingers tangled in her hair, firm but controlled, tugging until her head tilted back, spine curving under his grip. The tension was perfect, just enough pain to make her gasp, just enough command to make her melt.
"Look at me," he said, his voice a low growl pressed against the shell of her ear. "I want to see your face when you come."
Pansy's lashes fluttered, a protest half-formed on her tongue—but never spoken. She obeyed.
Because she always obeyed when he spoke like that. When his voice went dark and rough, like gravel wrapped in silk, a sound that slid beneath her skin and settled in the softest, most desperate parts of her. Every word he gave her was a knife-edge. A promise and punishment in equal measure.
Her eyes met his, wide and glassy, pupils blown. He looked wrecked. Lips parted, flushed from the effort of holding back. Hair falling over his forehead in wild curls. But his gaze never wavered—dark, locked on her, like he could pin her down with that look alone.
And then he slowed.
His thrusts dragged, deep and deliberate, grinding against the spot that made her toes curl and her fingers claw at the sheets. He watched her unravel, watched the tension coil tighter and tighter until she was whimpering beneath him.
"Good girl," he murmured. His thumb brushed her cheek, almost tender, but his pace stayed brutal. "You're taking it so well. So fucking perfect for me."
Her body was trembling, slick with sweat, caught in that fragile space between need and surrender. Her hips rose to meet every slow, punishing stroke, chasing the friction, chasing him.
"Neville—" she gasped, the name catching in her throat like prayer or sin.
"Don't you dare close your eyes," he said, a snarl curling beneath the words. "I want to see it."
She clung to him, one hand still tangled in his hair, the other raking across his back, desperate to hold onto something as her body began to fracture beneath him. He could feel it in the way her walls clenched around him, in the helpless sound that tore from her lips, in the way her entire body arched up like she was offering herself to him.
And then she broke.
It was a slow, staggering fall—legs shaking, back bowing, her mouth falling open in a cry that wasn't even a word, just raw sound. Her eyes never left his. That was what undid him.
Neville cursed under his breath, buried so deep inside her he didn't know where she ended and he began. Her body pulsed around him, dragging him over the edge.
He came with a shudder that tore through his entire frame, a low, guttural sound escaping his chest as he thrust deep—once, twice, then slower, grinding into her like he wanted to leave part of himself inside her. His breath was hot at her throat, his grip bruising on her thighs, like he still wasn't ready to let go.
She didn't push him away. Her hands slid to his shoulders, holding him there. Her heart was racing against his.
But even as the high began to ebb, he didn't pull out. He stayed there, still buried deep, watching the way her chest rose and fell, the pink spreading over her cheeks, the way she blinked at him like she didn't know her own name anymore.
They lay there for a long moment, bodies tangled in the aftermath, skin still damp, breath coming in slow, uneven drags. The air between them was thick with sweat and something heavier. Something unspoken. Something neither of them had the courage, or the stupidity, to name.
Pansy was the first to move. Just barely. Her fingers trailed down the front of his chest, slow and deliberate, not with tenderness but with the kind of smug, practiced confidence that came from knowing exactly what she had done and exactly how well it had worked.
She didn't look sorry. Not even a little. Her touch paused at the lowest closed button, the nail of her index finger tapping it lightly, rhythmically, like she was testing how far she could push before he snapped again.
Her lips curved. That infuriating, perfect little smirk that always came just before she said something designed to make his blood boil.
"So," she murmured, her voice a low, velvet thing soaked in satisfaction. "Just to confirm… that was you not being jealous?"
Neville's chest rose with a breath that was not quite a sigh. Not quite a groan. Something in between.
His eyes closed slowly, like it took real effort not to look at her, not to rise to her bait a second time. And then, after a long pause, he dipped his head forward and let it rest against her shoulder.
His lips barely grazed her skin as he spoke, his voice low and dry, like gravel softened by heat.
"Shut up," he muttered into the curve of her collarbone.
Pansy's grin only widened, slow and dangerous, curling at the corners of her mouth like she already knew how this would end and was simply humoring him by pretending it was still up for debate.
She had that look again, the one that meant she wasn't just enjoying the moment, she was savoring it. Like every second of silence, every beat of tension between them was part of some carefully choreographed game that she always intended to win.
She tilted her head slightly, her fingers still resting lightly at the center of his chest. Then she laughed — soft and sharp and just a little breathless, the sound of a woman who knew exactly how far she had gotten under his skin.
"Make me," she murmured, lips brushing his jaw like a dare disguised as a kiss.
He just kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. There was no rush now, no edge of anger. It was something else entirely. Something quieter. Rougher in a different way. His mouth moved over hers with purpose, like he was trying to relearn her now that he had finally touched her properly, now that there were no excuses left between them.
His hands slid to her waist, firm and steady, holding her like she might bolt. His thumbs brushed slow circles against her ribs, anchoring her there as if he didn't quite trust the softness of the moment. She leaned into it anyway.
And for the briefest second, it felt like a ceasefire. A breath in the middle of the storm. Something fragile and warm trying to take root between them.
But it didn't last.
His voice came low against her mouth, words wrapped in breath. "You're not running again," he said, quiet but certain. "Not like last night."
Her lips parted, not with another kiss but with laughter, though it came softer now, more air than sound.
She looked up at him through dark lashes, mischief still dancing at the edges, but there was something else flickering beneath it. Something flickering and unsure. "I'm not sleeping with you," she said, though her tone had none of the bite it used to. It was half a joke now. Half a shield.
Neville leaned back just enough to meet her eyes properly, and she hated the way he looked at her then. Like he saw straight through all the layers of practiced deflection. Like he knew exactly what she was doing, and why. His brow lifted slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something between amusement and disbelief.
"I just fucked you," he said plainly, like it was the most reasonable argument in the world. "And now actually sleeping next to me is too much to ask?"
Pansy rolled her eyes, but the motion lacked real heat. Her fingers trailed down the front of his shirt again, a softer touch this time, slower and more careful, like she wasn't sure what to do with all that tension once it had finally broken.
"We're flatmates," she said, as if saying it out loud would force it to make sense. "Roommates, cohabitants, whatever. This isn't a thing. It's not a relationship. You don't get to ask about feelings or expect me to fall asleep on your shoulder or wake you up with coffee and a bloody handjob. This is sex. Possibly very good sex. But still just sex."
Neville gave a quiet huff of laughter, the sound low in his chest. "Friends with benefits, then?"
Pansy smirked again, but it wasn't sharp this time. It was slow and knowing. She rose up on her toes just long enough to whisper against his ear, her breath warm and wicked, "I'm not your friend."
And just like that, she pulled away. No fanfare. No apologies. She straightened her dress with one smooth motion, ran her hands through her mussed curls, then turned toward the corridor as if she had not just ruined both of their lives in the span of a single afternoon.
She didn't even look back at first.
She took two steps, then three, heels clicking lightly against the floor, before glancing over her shoulder with an arched brow and a look that could've undone kingdoms.
He laid there for a long moment after the door closed.
He just stared at the empty space where she'd been, skin still flushed, chest still rising too fast. His shirt was wrinkled from her grip. His mouth still tasted like her. His hands hung useless at his sides, fingers twitching with the ghost of her hips under them.
And somehow, she'd walked away from all that with a smirk.
Like it hadn't mattered.
Like she hadn't shattered against him.
Like she hadn't looked at him, for a split second, like she was terrified he might mean something.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, forcing the air back into his lungs. The room still smelled like her—like perfume and sweat and something darker. Something he couldn't scrub out, no matter how many times he tried.
It was just sex.
That's what she'd said.
And the thing was, he'd believed it too. Until now.
Until the way her body had trembled under his.
Until the sound she made when she came, like she'd given in and hated herself for it. Until the way she'd gone quiet when he kissed her stomach. Like no one had ever done it before.
It was just sex.
Except he'd kissed her like it wasn't.
Except she'd let him.
Neville exhaled, rough and short. Ran both hands through his hair and stared at the door like it had personally offended him.
He should've said something. Something sharp. Something final.
He should've stopped her before she turned the corner. Should've called out, told her to come back, told her she didn't get to walk away like it hadn't ruined him too.
But he didn't.
Because the truth was, he was scared.
Of what he wanted.
Because he didn't just want her in his bed again. He didn't just want to fuck her until she stopped pretending she didn't care.
He wanted her to stay.
And not just for the night.
He wanted her curled into his side, barefoot in the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower, arguing about nothing. He wanted to know what her voice sounded like first thing in the morning, when it was still rough with sleep and sarcasm. He wanted to kiss her without fighting for it. Without her biting him first just to make it feel like survival.
He wanted something with her that scared the hell out of him.
And she'd looked him in the eye and walked away like she hadn't just started a war in his chest.
So no.
It wasn't just sex.
And he was going to make damn sure she figured that out.
One way or another.