"Tip #8: Never admit feelings before you're sure you can weaponize them later."
The fire in the hearth had burned down to a quiet smolder, casting a low amber glow across the carved ceiling and the heavy velvet curtains that still swayed faintly from some earlier movement. Somewhere deep within the manor, a glass clinked against marble.
A door clicked shut in the distance. The last echoes of the evening lingered in the silence, that strange hush that always followed too many hours of polite conversation, staged laughter, and carefully measured charm.
Pansy sat curled in the corner of the settee, her back pressed into the armrest, her legs drawn beneath her robe-dress like she could fold into herself and disappear. One hand braced against her temple, fingers pressing hard into the skin as if sheer force might hold the pain at bay.
The headache had crept in halfway through dinner, building with every empty toast and forced compliment, each one a fresh knock against the already thinning edges of her patience. Now it pounded behind her right eye with a steady, punishing rhythm, as if her skull were shrinking by the minute.
She didn't hear Neville approach.
She only registered him when a faint scent drifted toward her—warm and herbal, grounding in a way that tugged at something old and instinctive. Mint, maybe. Lavender. Something deeper beneath it all.
He set a teacup on the low table beside her without making a sound, then crouched in front of the settee, his body folding down easily, unhurried. His eyes found her face with a kind of quiet focus that made her want to look away.
She blinked slowly. "If you're about to say the word 'self-care,' I will personally find your grandmother and convince her you're dying of some rare and contagious fungus."
He didn't smile. Just looked at her with that maddening calm of his, like nothing she said could shake him. Then he reached out, slow and deliberate, and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her cheek. His fingers were warm. Gentle. He tucked the strand behind her ear with the kind of care usually reserved for glass or memory.
She went still.
Not because of the touch itself, but because of the way he did it. Soft, without hesitation, without a single expectation. Like he wasn't doing it to earn anything, not even a thank you. Just... to make her more comfortable. Just because he noticed the way her hair was sticking to her skin and decided to do something about it.
And somehow, that was worse than a dozen grand gestures.
The simplicity of it unmoored her.
Then, still silent, he conjured a cool compress. The charm was precise, practiced, and the cloth smelled faintly of peppermint and something deeper—maybe, maybe just him. He pressed it gently to her temple, his palm shielding her from the full shock of the chill, and held it there with a kind of stillness that asked nothing in return.
His other hand settled on the edge of the cushion, fingers resting lightly. He didn't touch her. Not fully. Just hovered close enough to anchor her, close enough that she could feel the offer of steadiness without the pressure of it.
She exhaled, slow and shaky. Some of the tension she hadn't realized she was carrying slipped from her shoulders. Her body tilted toward him slightly—not enough to call it leaning, not enough to admit anything out loud, but just enough that her spine didn't feel like it was the only thing keeping her upright anymore.
"You don't have to fuss," she muttered, eyes half-lidded, her sarcasm threadbare. "I'm not dying. Just oversocialized and under-rested."
Still, he didn't answer. He just reached for her hand and gently uncurled her fingers from the tight fist she hadn't noticed she'd been holding. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and steady, each pass grounding in a way she didn't know how to protest.
She should have pulled away. Should have rolled her eyes, said something sharp and safe. She didn't.
A moment later, he summoned a small vial from somewhere and held it out. Headache relief. She narrowed her eyes, lifting it to her nose like she was sniffing poison.
"This better not taste like boiled cabbage," she warned.
"It doesn't," he said, voice low and even, without missing a beat. "Though I can arrange that next time, if you insist on being difficult."
She snorted softly and drank it. Made a face anyway. He handed her a glass of water, waited until she took two reluctant sips, then let go of her hand.
The compress stayed against her temple. His fingers stayed close. And when she closed her eyes for a moment, breath finally evening out, she felt him still there beside her—kneeling on the rug, unmoving, like there was nowhere else in the world he planned to be.
She cracked one eye open, half-expecting the smirk. Bracing for some smug line, some comment about how well he played the hero.
It never came.
He just looked at her. Not with pity. Not even with pride. Just quietly. Fully. Like her pain mattered. Like she did.
Something shifted then. Not between them—at least not aloud. But in her chest, there was a low, stubborn ache. One she couldn't name and didn't want to examine.
She looked away first. Let the silence fill the room between them.
And somehow, it was the only thing that had made her feel less alone all night.
~~~
The bedroom was still.
Quiet in a way that felt different from the usual silence of Parkinson Manor. It wasn't the kind of quiet that echoed with emptiness or pressed in like something waiting to be filled. This silence had shape. It had weight. It pressed gently against the edges of the room, not cold, not hostile. Just… full. Like the air itself had paused. Like it was listening.
Pansy lay curled beneath the velvet duvet, the soft folds gathered around her waist, her legs half-tangled in the sheets. The silk of her nightgown clung to her skin in all the wrong places, cool and slick, shifting with every breath.
She couldn't tell if she was cold or warm. Couldn't tell if her body wanted comfort or space. The headache that had gripped her earlier had faded into something duller now, more distant, like thunder rolling behind a closed door. But it had left something behind. A raw, heavy ache lodged somewhere between her ribs.
Her limbs felt too long. Her skin too bare.
She hated that.
She hated the feeling of exposure. Hated the absence of her usual polish, the sharp edges she wore like armor. Hated the fact that he had looked at her and hadn't flinched. Hadn't laughed. Hadn't used it against her. He'd just stayed.
And now he was still here.
She hadn't asked him to.
But there he was, perched at the edge of the mattress like he wasn't the same man who had dragged pleasure from her with his hands and teeth and then stayed behind just to hold her breathing steady.
He hadn't touched her since.
Hadn't spoken either.
He was just… here.
Present. Breathing. Still.
His shoulders were hunched forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. He looked like he was trying not to take up too much space, even now, even after everything. His shirt was still the same one from earlier—white cotton, sleeves rolled, collar undone just enough to reveal a thin stretch of skin at the base of his neck. Her eyes caught on that spot more than once. She didn't mean to. She just kept looking there, like it anchored her.
The shirt was wrinkled now, the fabric creased around his arms and along his back like he'd been pacing or twisting or running his hands through his hair. Which he had. She could tell by the way his curls had come loose at the sides, no longer neat, no longer charmingly precise. He looked… undone. In that quiet, human way he got when he was trying to hold something together.
She wanted to say something.
Something cutting. Something to shift the air. Something ridiculous, even. But her throat didn't cooperate. And the thought of filling this moment with words felt like smashing glass just to hear the sound.
So she didn't speak.
And neither did he.
He just sat there, breathing with her.
Not reaching. Not pressing. Not trying to fix anything.
And maybe that was what made her chest hurt the most. The fact that he didn't try to fix it. He just stayed.
Like he knew she didn't need an answer. Like he understood she wouldn't believe one anyway.
Pansy kept her eyes on the ceiling, staring at the intricate molding like it might offer an answer to something she couldn't name.
Each line in the plaster felt too symmetrical, too composed, like everything she wasn't. Her fingers drifted down to the blanket, found a loose thread near the hem, and began twisting it between her thumb and forefinger.
Slow. Irritated. Careful. She hated this part of herself, the one that fidgeted when she felt too much. Hated how easily he'd pulled that part to the surface.
She hadn't meant for him to see her like this.
She'd built her whole life on control, on appearances. And yet here she was—tired and worn and fragile in a silk nightgown, threading her anger into a piece of fabric because she didn't know where else to put it.
"You didn't have to stay," she said, barely above a whisper. The words came out dry, like they'd been waiting too long in her throat. There was a trace of apology buried inside them, but not enough to name. She wasn't even sure if she meant it. Not entirely. Maybe that was why it sounded so uneven.
Neville didn't turn toward her. His eyes stayed on the tea mug on the nightstand, the one she'd barely touched, the lipstick smudge still clinging to the rim.
"You didn't ask me to," he said quietly.
It wasn't a defense. It wasn't bitter. It was just… honest.
She turned then. Slowly. Her cheek pressed against the pillow as she shifted to face him, and for a moment, she looked at him like he was something rare. Something she didn't want to startle. Something she might ruin just by looking too hard.
"That's not what I meant."
Her voice caught slightly on the last word. It tightened in her throat, warping the syllables. And she hated that. She hated the way it cracked without her permission. Hated how exposed she sounded, even now. But she didn't look away.
She watched him.
And he didn't move. Didn't answer right away.
The silence stretched, not tense, just still.
Settled. Sacred. Just them.
And somehow, that made it harder to speak.
Because she could feel it rising again, low in her chest, just behind her ribs, swelling under her tongue. That stupid, treacherous thing she'd been pretending didn't exist. The thing that had started as annoyance, then amusement, then tension, then something she didn't want to name.
I like you. I care. I think I'm falling. And I don't know how to survive it.
Her lips parted.
The words hovered—almost real. Almost.
But pride got there first. It always did. That instinct that had saved her again and again. That sharp-edged instinct that told her vulnerability was a liability, that feeling was dangerous, that naming something meant giving it power over you.
"I—"
It caught.
Collapsed halfway out of her mouth.
The sentence fell apart between breath and meaning, between what she wanted to say and what she could survive admitting. Her jaw locked against the weight of it. The silence folded over itself again.
So she did what she always did. She pivoted.
Reached for something safer. Something sharp enough to protect her, soft enough to pass as sincerity.
"You're not entirely awful, you know."
It wasn't much. But it was something.
Neville let out a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. Not a sigh either. Just a release of air that carried too much behind it. His head turned toward her at last.
And when he looked at her, there was no smugness on his face. No trace of gloating. No clever retort waiting behind his teeth.
Just warmth. Still and steady.
His eyes didn't move from hers. He just watched, steady and still, like he'd been waiting all this time—not for her to explain, not for her to say sorry, but for whatever version of the truth she could manage. However small. However messy.
"I know," he said, barely above a whisper.
The words were plain. No edge to them. No hidden weight. And yet they landed with more force than any apology or comfort ever could. There was no pressure in them. No quiet demand for more. Just understanding. Just the quiet kind of care that made her feel seen in a way she didn't know how to carry.
It knocked something loose in her chest. Something sharp and buried that twisted behind her ribs, heavy with everything she hadn't let herself say.
She shifted under the blanket, the fabric tugging slightly as she turned onto her side and pushed herself up on one elbow. Her hair slipped across her collarbone, falling over her shoulder in soft waves. She tucked it back without thinking, fingers catching for a second before falling still. The light in the room was low, warm and forgiving, but she still didn't look directly at him.
"Maybe you should stay," she said, softer now. "Just until the headache goes away."
She tried to sound casual, but her voice had lost its usual sharpness. The words felt too careful, her heartbeat a little too fast. She didn't glance at him after saying it. Didn't know if she could. She half expected him to scoff. Or raise a brow. Or make some unbearable joke just to deflect the weight of what she hadn't said out loud.
But he didn't.
He didn't ask what she meant. Didn't hesitate. Didn't give her time to take it back.
With a flick of his wand, the wrinkled white shirt he'd been wearing vanished, replaced by the softest looking cotton tee and a pair of pajama bottoms that were so unassuming, so completely at odds with the moment, they nearly made her lose her mind.
He didn't look smug about it. Didn't try to turn it into something performative. Just sat there in those ridiculous sleep clothes, calm and at ease, like climbing into her bed was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe that was what set her off most of all.
He didn't even glance back as he lifted the duvet and settled in. No checking to see if she was watching. No smirk. No coy hesitation.
He just lay down beside her like he belonged there.
Like her bed had always been his, too—and the room had only just remembered.
It made her want to scream. Or pull him closer. Or both.
"Absolutely no snuggling," she snapped, lifting her hand and pointing at him like she was casting a spell. Her finger wavered a little, the authority in it undermined by the fact that she hadn't actually hexed him yet.
"Of course not," he murmured, already reclining beside her like a man halfway to sleep, his voice slow and warm, laced with an innocence so fake it might as well have come with a warning label. "Wouldn't dream of it."
And then, of course, he reached for her.
His arm slid around her waist with infuriating ease, the pressure of his palm against her side not rough or overly confident, just sure. Steady. Like he had done it a hundred times before and knew exactly where she belonged. He pulled her gently toward him until her back met the long, solid heat of his chest, the weight of him draped across her spine like a living blanket she hadn't asked for but somehow didn't want to shake off.
"Neville," she hissed, her voice muffled against the pillow as her body betrayed her by not moving an inch. "This is snuggling."
"I'm just holding you," he said in a tone so infuriatingly sincere she could have screamed. "Completely different."
She twisted in his arms then, not fully pulling away but turning just enough to face him, to glare properly at the man who was currently ruining her ability to stay emotionally detached. Her nose nearly brushed his. The heat of his breath touched her cheek, subtle and infuriatingly intimate.
"Why do you always have to make everything so difficult?" he asked. The question wasn't an accusation, not really. Just a quiet sort of ache, heavy with something more than frustration, something older and softer and bruised. "I try. I do. I'm trying to be good to you. But sometimes it feels like you're just waiting for me to mess it all up."
She blinked. Once. Then again. Her mouth parted like she meant to speak, but no sound came. The words dissolved on her tongue before she could shape them.
He didn't sigh. Didn't pull away with some dramatic show of injury. He only leaned back slightly, enough to put a few inches between them, his eyes locked on hers with the quiet steadiness that had always made her feel like she was being seen too clearly.
"Maybe I shouldn't have stayed," he said, softer now, and not to wound, not even to threaten. Just a quiet confession that landed heavier than she wanted to admit. It wasn't the words that hurt. It was the way he meant them.
It felt like a slap all the same.
Her fingers moved before her brain caught up, reaching for the hem of his shirt, tugging lightly at the fabric, not to hurt or pull him back forcefully, but to anchor him. To keep him from slipping out of reach. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," he cut in gently, not unkind. "It just gets a little hard to keep pretending you don't mean something else."
He shifted then, rolling onto his back, head resting against the pillow like this was any other night, his arm still draped loosely around her waist, his body angled toward her even as his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"Goodnight, Pansy."
She stared at the ceiling too. Her throat felt tight, like the truth had gotten stuck somewhere behind her ribs and refused to move.
And yet, this time, when she rolled toward him, when her hand found his beneath the covers and her fingers slipped between his like they had every right to be there, she didn't pull away.
She didn't say anything.
~~~
She kissed him first.
It wasn't about claiming or punishing. This kiss was slower. Quieter. Something searching lived behind it. A need not to take but to understand. Her lips brushed his like a question, soft and uncertain, and he answered it with a stillness that made her chest tighten.
His hand moved beneath the sheets, fingers slipping up along the curve of her thigh. His touch wasn't demanding. It was steady. Gentle. Reverent in a way that made her breath catch. He didn't rush. Just let his palm trace her skin like he had all the time in the world, like he already knew what she liked but wanted to relearn it anyway.
Her robe had already begun to slip off one shoulder again, careless and familiar, as though even the fabric had memorized the rhythm between them. It pooled slightly against her side, baring more of her as he touched her. She didn't pull it back up. She didn't need to.
She tugged at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric before drawing him down with her, their bodies easing into the bed in unison. There was no urgency in it. Nothing rushed or reckless. Just the slow unfolding of something deeper. Something that didn't have to be named yet.
Every movement was a question. Every kiss a kind of answer. He let her guide the pace, let her choose where his hands went, how long they lingered. Their mouths met again, slower this time, lips parting with an intimacy that burned hotter than anything rough ever could. Her breath hitched when his fingers brushed her ribs. His chest rose and fell in time with hers.
He looked at her like he couldn't believe she was real. Like every inch of her was something he had no right to touch, but had been trusted with anyway. She could feel his restraint in the way he moved. The way he held back even when she arched toward him.
And still, she couldn't help teasing.
He kissed down the curve of her throat.
Slow. Devout. Each press of his mouth softer than the last, like he was learning the language of her skin and refusing to skip a single word. Her fingers slipped into his hair, gentle at first, her breath catching when he reached her collarbone. Then lower.
His lips brushed the swell of her chest, just above her heart.
She exhaled slowly, her body sinking into the mattress, pliant beneath his touch. One hand rested loosely on his shoulder, the other still tangled in his hair. He kissed her again, just below the curve, and when he opened his mouth against her skin, she gasped.
He moved lower.
Took his time.
He slid down between her thighs, hands trailing gently along the inside of her knees, then down, easing her legs open with a patience that made her eyes flutter shut. His fingers stroked her skin like he didn't just want to touch her—he wanted to soothe something deeper. Something she didn't even have words for.
She opened for him slowly. Willingly. Without a trace of hesitation.
And when he settled between her thighs, pressing a kiss to the soft skin just above her core, it felt less like seduction and more like devotion.
She lifted her hips slightly, almost without thinking, and he responded by sliding his hands beneath her, holding her steady as his mouth found her.
The first touch of his tongue made her entire body tense, then melt. She inhaled hard, a soft noise slipping from her throat, her hips twitching under his grip. He didn't move quickly. He didn't rush. He moved in slow, deliberate strokes, licking her with a rhythm that built too gradually to track.
It was maddening.
It was perfect.
Her head fell back against the pillow. Her fingers tightened in his hair. Her lips parted as her breath came faster, shallower.
He kept going.
Steady. Focused. Every movement of his tongue intentional. Every flick and press and glide calculated not to overwhelm but to draw her out, to pull her apart slowly until she couldn't hold anything in anymore.
"Neville," she whispered, barely more than a breath. Her voice trembled with it.
He groaned in response, low and rough, the sound vibrating against her. Her hips jerked once, her thighs tightening around his head. Still, he didn't falter.
He licked her like he had nowhere else to be. Like he could do this forever.
And when his mouth finally closed over her clit, sucking softly, his fingers tightening on her hips to keep her grounded, she broke.
It started slow—a soft gasp, a quiver of her thighs. Her back arched slightly. Then her breath hitched. Her whole body shivered under him.
She came with a low, fractured moan, one arm thrown over her face, the other still clinging to his shoulder like he was the only thing tethering her to the earth. Her body writhed, and he held her through it. Kissed her through it. Rode every wave with her until the tremors eased and her limbs went slack.
He didn't pull away immediately. He didn't move at all.
He just rested his cheek against the inside of her thigh, one hand tracing idle shapes against her hip bone, his breathing ragged now, his voice caught somewhere in his throat.
She looked down at him with flushed cheeks, chest heaving, hair clinging to her temples.
He kissed her hip. Then her stomach. Then rose up over her again, one hand trailing along her ribs, his mouth brushing her collarbone, her throat, her jaw.
She reached for him without thinking.
Pulled him down with her.
She didn't look away.
And neither did he.
He hovered above her, one hand braced beside her head, the other skimming down the length of her side, pausing at her hip. His breathing was shallow, his pupils wide, his mouth parted as though he wanted to say something and couldn't find the words.
Her hand slid to his jaw.
He leaned into it like instinct.
And then—slowly, with care that made her chest ache—he pushed inside her.
She inhaled hard through her nose, her back arching as her eyes fluttered closed for just a second. But when she opened them again, he was still watching her. Still there. Still moving with her.
He slid in deeper, inch by inch, pausing only when he was fully buried. The breath he let out was shaky. Quiet. His forehead dropped against hers for a moment, and she could feel the way he held himself still, not because he wanted to—but because she needed him to.
Her legs shifted around his hips. Her hands found his shoulders, then his back, dragging her nails down in a slow, grounding stroke.
"Okay?" he asked, voice low, rough in her ear.
She nodded.
"Yeah."
It came out thinner than she wanted it to. Barely a whisper. But it was honest.
He began to move, careful at first. Each stroke deliberate. Deep. Her breath hitched again as her body adjusted, as the ache turned into pressure, and the pressure turned into heat.
They moved slowly.
Like time didn't exist outside this bed.
Like nothing mattered but the slide of his skin against hers, the soft friction building between them, the way every part of her felt too full and too fragile and too alive.
His hand cupped the back of her knee, pulling her leg up slightly to wrap around his waist, and the change in angle made her gasp. Her fingers clenched in the fabric at his back, hips rising to meet him.
Their rhythm found itself in silence.
No one told them when to move. When to slow. When to pick up the pace again. They just knew.
She breathed against his throat.
He kissed her shoulder.
She tilted her hips just enough to take him deeper.
He groaned, a raw, aching sound, like she'd dragged it out of him without even trying.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his lips warm against her skin.
"God," he whispered, and she felt his voice more than heard it. "You feel…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
She already knew.
Because she felt it too.
Every stroke now was dragging something loose from her. Something that didn't have words. Something she'd been holding down for too long. Her mouth found his shoulder. She bit down softly to ground herself. He hissed through his teeth, but didn't stop. If anything, he pushed deeper. Slower. Again.
Their eyes met again.
And this time, there was no teasing between them.
No quips. No shield.
Just this quiet thing they were building together. One touch at a time.
She was close.
She could feel it coiling low in her stomach, slow and steady, wrapping tight around her spine with every deep, patient thrust. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, then slid up into his hair. Her legs locked around his hips.
And still, he didn't rush.
Neville moved with a kind of reverence that made her chest ache. Every stroke of his hips was deliberate. Every time he slid deep inside her, it felt like he was trying to memorize the shape of her from the inside out.
She couldn't take her eyes off him.
His face hovered above hers, flushed and open. No mask. No armor. His mouth was parted, his brow drawn in quiet concentration. He was watching her like she was the only thing that existed. Like her pleasure was something sacred.
She cupped his face. Brushed her thumb along the edge of his cheekbone.
"Neville," she whispered.
It wasn't a plea. It wasn't a command.
It was just his name.
And that was enough.
He buried himself deeper, grinding his hips just right, and she shattered.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't messy.
She came with a quiet gasp, her back arching up into his chest, her lips parting as her body clenched tight around him. One arm looped around his shoulders, the other sliding down his back as the tremors rolled through her.
Her whole body pulsed, slow and rhythmic, pulling him deeper. Holding him there.
She was still trembling when he dropped his forehead into the curve of her neck.
And then he followed her.
His hips stuttered, once, twice, and then he groaned—low and broken and utterly wrecked—his entire body tensing above her before he pressed in deep and came.
She could feel it. The warmth. The shudder in his breath. The way his arms tightened around her like he wasn't ready to let her go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He didn't pull out.
Didn't shift away.
He just stayed there.
Tucked against her. His breath warm against her throat. One hand cupping the back of her thigh. The other tangled in her hair.
Neither of them moved.
Time softened around them. The candles burned low. Their breathing slowed together.
She closed her eyes.
Not to block him out. Not to pretend this hadn't just happened.
But to feel it fully. The weight of him above her. The way their bodies still fit together. The strange, awful comfort of not being alone in this moment.
He kissed her shoulder. Just once. Softly.
And still, he didn't say anything.
Because there was nothing to say.
They had already said everything with their hands. With their mouths. With the way he had looked at her like she was something he never expected to want this badly.
And the way she had let him in.
All of him.
~~~
The room was still.
Not in the way that meant sleep.
Not yet.
The candles were mostly burned out now, their wax cooling in low pools on the mantle and the bedside table. Only one flickered, soft and tired. The scent of melted wax and skin and sweat lingered in the warm air, wrapped around the silk sheets and the bare skin beneath them.
Pansy lay half-draped over his chest, one leg tangled with his, her arm resting across his ribs. Her cheek pressed just below his collarbone. She could feel his heart still thudding slowly beneath her. His skin was hot. His fingers were making slow, thoughtful circles across the small of her back.
He hadn't said anything yet.
Neither had she.
But she was awake. She could feel him breathing. And she knew he was too.
Outside the window, the world was quiet. No birds. No wind. Just the thick hush of the night.
"You know," Neville said at last, his voice quiet and low, barely above the rustle of the sheets, "I never wanted this to be a war."
His words fell gently into the space between them. Not dramatic. Not accusing. Just true.
She stayed silent for a beat. Maybe two.
Then: "Then why didn't you surrender sooner?"
Her voice was soft. Dry, but not unkind. Almost like she didn't realize it had come out until it had already left her mouth.
He didn't laugh. Didn't smirk.
His hand stilled for a moment against her back.
"Because I thought you needed someone who would stand up to you."
His voice carried no bitterness. Just tired honesty. Something stripped down and real.
Pansy closed her eyes.
That answer should have annoyed her. Should have made her roll her eyes or fire something sharp back at him. But it didn't.
Instead, she shifted against him, her hand moving to rest against his shoulder, her cheek brushing the hollow where his neck met his collarbone. The skin there was warm. He smelled like her.
And then she lifted her head, just barely. Just enough to see his face in the candlelight. His eyes were open. Watching the ceiling.
Her voice came quieter this time. Barely more than breath.
"Maybe I just needed someone who wouldn't run."
The words hung there.
She didn't mean to say them. Not really. They weren't planned. They slipped out before she could decide if she wanted to trust him with them.
But once they were spoken, she didn't take them back.
Neville turned his head to look at her.
His eyes met hers in the dim light, and she saw it then—whatever he had been holding back. Whatever had been simmering behind every quiet look and soft touch and impossible patience. It was all there now. Plain and open.
He didn't speak. Just nodded. Once.
Then he pulled her closer. Tucked her tighter against his chest. His arms wrapped around her without hesitation.
And for the first time in a very long while, she let herself be held without needing to explain why.
She didn't add anything else. Neither did he.
The silence that followed was full.
Not heavy. Not sharp. Not awkward.
Just full.
Of everything they hadn't said yet.
Of everything they didn't need to say tonight.
His fingers moved in her hair, slow and gentle.
She let her body settle into his like it belonged there.
And when she finally closed her eyes, it wasn't because she was tired.
It was because—for once—she didn't feel like she had to keep them open.
For a while, there was nothing. Just the quiet sounds of the room settling. Fabric shifting. Breath syncing. The heartbeat beneath her cheek slowed as hers did. But she didn't sleep.
And neither did he.
She felt him swallow once. Then again. Heard the way he exhaled. Not sharp. Not deliberate. Just human.
Pansy drew in a breath and let it out slowly, her fingers curling around the edge of the sheet where it had bunched between them. It was warm. It smelled like him now. The room, too. His skin, his breath, the faint scent of lavender from her pillowcase mixing with the sweat between their bodies.
Then they started again. Slower this time. Gentler. Like he was thinking carefully.
"I think," he said, "you scare the hell out of me. But not for the reasons you think."
Her throat tightened. "Try me."
"You don't scare me because you're sharp. Or because you're clever. Or cruel when you feel cornered. That's just armor. That's something I get."
"Then why?"
"Because you feel everything so deeply, and you hate that about yourself. And I'm afraid if I touch it too hard, you'll cut me open with it."
Pansy went still.
His hand stayed in her hair.
"I've never met anyone who fights so hard not to want anything," he added, softer now. "But you do. You want things. You just don't know what to do with them once they're yours."
She didn't say anything.
Because he was right.
And that was worse than being wrong.
She shifted a little, her fingers moving from the sheet to his chest, pressing lightly above his heart.
"You make it sound like I'm some impossible puzzle."
"You are," he said. "But I'm stubborn."
Silence again. But this time, it wasn't stillness. It was movement beneath the surface. Something shifting. Something vulnerable trying to surface and not get crushed in the process.
Pansy turned slightly, enough to look up at him. The light caught the edge of his jaw. His lashes. His throat. Her chest ached.
Then reached up and touched the side of his face, the pad of her thumb brushing just beneath his eye.
"I don't know how to do this," she whispered.
"You're doing it."
"No. I mean—this." Her voice cracked. "Letting someone stay."
Neville's hand slid down her spine. Not to quiet her. Not to distract her. Just to let her know he heard her.
"You don't have to know," he said.
"But I want to."
"I know."
They didn't kiss.
She tucked her face back into his chest. Let herself sink into him. Her arm draped across his ribs again. His breathing slowed as he held her.
The candle finally burned out beside them.
The room faded to near darkness.
She thought he had fallen asleep. Almost hoped he had.
But then she felt him speak again. A whisper against her hair.
"You don't have to fight me," he said. "Not here."
And for the first time in her life, she believed it.