The evening wanted to be ordinary. The kettle had retired to its corner, the plates stood drying, and the last threads of steam drifted up the tiled wall like something being called home. Theo stood with a book open on the counter, palms flat on either side as if holding the page steady could somehow keep the rest of him steady too. The light above the table was soft and low. Rain tapped against the window with polite insistence. The room smelled faintly of lemon, soap, and the ghost of dinner.
Luna moved through the space as she always did, not quietly in the way of absence, but quietly in the way of belonging. She took a spoon from the rack and stirred honey into her tea. The soft tap of metal on china echoed longer than it should have. She set the spoon down carefully, and the sound settled between them like a small, bright reminder that she existed.
There was a cardigan slung across the chair. It had been there since afternoon. A pair of shoes rested by the door, not quite on the mat, not quite off it. A scarf hung from the handle, still damp from the rain, leaving small crescents of water that would dry without trace. On the table sat a lemon she had not cut, left there hours ago for no clear reason. It glowed faintly in the lamplight, round and patient, as if it had been placed on duty.
Theo's eyes caught on the lemon first, then the scarf, the cardigan, the shoes. He looked back to his book and realized he had read the same sentence three times and could not recall a single word.
The restless itch beneath his skin began to rise. He told himself it was harmless. He told himself it was habit. He told himself order required tending, that some people watered plants, and he watered systems. His gaze returned to the lemon, bright and insolent in the wrong place. He thought it would be happier in the bowl, where lemons belonged.
"Are you planning to leave that there indefinitely?" he asked, and even as the words left his mouth, he wished for a gentler start.
Luna followed his eyes to the lemon. Her lips curved slightly. "It looks cheerful there."
"It looks misplaced."
"It's just a table with a lemon on it," she said, as though this were reassurance rather than defiance.
"It's not a fruit bowl," he said, closing his book with unnecessary care. "It's where we eat."
Luna lifted her tea, took a slow sip, and let the steam catch on her mouth. "Then we're eating with a small sun between us. I don't see the tragedy."
"That isn't the point," he said. "It's about whether things belong where they're meant to be."
Her voice was calm, almost gentle. "Do we?"
The question landed and stayed.
Theo pushed the book farther away. "I've asked you not to scatter things," he said. "Shoes in the doorway. Hair ties on the sink. Shirts mixed with mine until nothing smells like starch anymore. I went into the bathroom this morning and found your scarf asleep on my towel. You water the plants without asking how much. You rearrange the spoons because you think they're friendlier that way. Friendly spoons do not make dinner."
She listened, as she always did, not defensive, not indulgent. Only there. He felt her attention turning toward him, opening like a window.
"The plants were thirsty," she said. "The spoons like being useful. The scarf was wet and the towel was close. The wardrobe doesn't mind being shared. The sink is simply near the kettle, and I'd rather not set fire to my hair."
"My system works," he said. "It works because it's mine."
"So do I," she said. "And I'm here."
Something in him locked tight. The lemon flared in his vision, too bright now, almost mocking. The smallest thread of anger rose, the kind that makes no sense but insists on being felt.
"This isn't your home," he said, and instantly wished he could take it back.
Her humming stopped. She didn't shrink. She went still. She set her cup down, leaving a pale ring on the wood, a half-moon of steam that would fade but not vanish. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, steady, and sharp in the way truth sometimes is.
"My things don't make it less your home," she said. "They make it more mine."
"That's exactly the problem."
He didn't just stand; he rose, the chair dragging against the tile. The sound was harsh enough to wound the room. "You've taken over," he said, and once the words began, they didn't stop. "My wardrobe is full of your shirts. My bathroom looks like a shop for hair ties. Every plant now has a personality I never approved. My kitchen is a democracy where spoons vote, and the thyme has decided it wants a better view."
Luna let the words hit her and did not move. She didn't step back or drop her gaze to soften the moment. "I move things because I touch things," she said. "I live here with my hands. So do you. You touch with your rules. I touch with my trust."
"That's a pretty sentence," he said sharply. "It doesn't make sense."
"It makes enough," she said. "You won't let joy stay unless it arranges itself by height."
"I like to be able to find things," he replied, and the sound of his own defensiveness made him wince.
"You like to be sure no one will disappear again," she said, quiet but certain.
Heat crawled up his neck. Panic disguised itself as anger. "This isn't about that."
"It's about that every day," she said, her tone still soft, though there was iron in it.
He could feel himself breaking under the weight of her calm. "Care feels like invasion when no one asks for it," he said. "You don't ask. You appear. You hum. You put lemons in the middle of what was finished. You mix your shirts with mine and tell me I should be glad my clothes have learned affection."
"I do ask," she said. "I ask every time I knock and you open the door. I ask when I sit beside you and you don't move away. I ask when I pour you tea and you take it without complaint. I asked the night I fell asleep on your sofa and you put a blanket over me. I asked again when I stood outside your room and you let me in."
He wanted to tell her none of that counted. He wanted to tell her all of it did. Both truths pulled in opposite directions until something in his chest began to ache. He turned to the sink and ran the water. The hiss of it sounded wrong, too alive, and he shut it off again.
"You think I'm afraid of lemons," he said. It was absurd, but it was all he had left to hold onto.
"I think you're afraid of being wanted, and of having to stay wanted," she said, the words soft and exact. "It's easier to count your life than to live it."
"Better to be tidy than foolish," he said.
"Better to be foolish than alone," she answered.
The knife on the board caught the light. He saw how easily words could wound and still let them fall. "Maybe I just don't want you here at all."
The silence that followed was brutal. He heard himself, heard the cruelty in the words, and felt them echo back hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He wanted to catch them before they hit her, but they had already shattered.
Luna didn't break. Her calm felt like grace, and it made him feel small, like a boy who had ruined something and didn't know how to fix it.
"I see," she said at last. There was no bitterness in it, which somehow made it worse.
Theo lifted a hand, helpless. "I didn't mean—"
She moved past him without touching his sleeve. The scarf brushed the door when she opened it and fell back softly when it closed. She didn't slam or shout. She just left, and she took her quiet with her. The room had nothing to hold.
The lemon stayed where it was, bright and unbothered. It looked, he thought bitterly, like evidence. He tried to hate it, but he couldn't. It refused to mean anything except what it was, which made him hate himself instead.
He sank into the chair. The open book still lay on the counter, its sentence forgotten, unfit to witness what had just taken place. His hands folded together, fists forming and loosening, as if apology could be coaxed out by motion alone.
His mind began its usual work, stacking reasons into neat towers. He could tell her he'd had a hard day. He could blame the missing jar of thyme or the fern that bloomed too boldly that morning. He could blame Draco's sharp comment over dinner the week before. He could say anything except the thing that mattered.
He stood and walked in slow circles. He straightened the spoon she'd left at an angle. He wiped the tea ring from the table with the side of his hand, then rubbed that hand against his sweater like he'd touched something forbidden. He opened the drawer to look at the lined-up cutlery, as if order could offer forgiveness. It couldn't.
From the doorway he looked toward the hall. Light spilled faintly from the bedroom, soft and square across the floorboards. The air down that way felt different, warmer. He thought of her hand resting on a book she'd borrowed without asking, the way she listened to kettles like they were voices, the way she'd said, I liked that, like confession and invitation were the same thing.
He wanted to say stay. The word pressed against his throat and wavered, heavy as a stone. When he tried to speak, nothing came out. He was afraid the word, once free, would undo him completely.
He went back to the kitchen because walking to her without knowing how to apologize felt like walking into a final exam unprepared. The kitchen would let him rehearse his courage first.
He picked up the lemon. It was heavier than he expected. He set it back down in the same place, hand lingering on the smooth peel as if touching it might count as a decision.
The plant on the sill had grown a new edge of green. He hadn't noticed it before. He stared at it now. From the other room came the faint presence of Luna reading, not aloud but in the way silence remembers a person's shape. He whispered into the air, "I didn't mean it."
The air didn't forgive him. It didn't have to. It only nudged him toward what came next.
He stepped into the hall. The floorboards sighed under his weight, the sound of old wood agreeing to carry him one more time. He paused, hand resting on the doorframe, watching the thin line of light stretch across the floor. The scarf had stopped dripping. The shoes by the door had settled into stillness.
He felt the reflex reach for sarcasm, that old shield, like a man reaching for an umbrella in a storm he's just admitted exists. He shoved his hands into his pockets to stop himself from finding the wrong words. He took one breath, then another. He told himself he could start small. I was tired. I was foolish. The lemon did nothing wrong. But he knew small language would be cowardice unless he said the larger truth too.
He heard her turn a page. He followed the sound like someone walking toward a window after lightning—expecting the thunder, wanting it, fearing it, ready to survive it.
In the doorway, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes on an open book she wasn't reading. When she looked up, her face was calm, but beneath it he saw the slow burn of something real. He swallowed.
"I said something I didn't mean," he told her. "And that doesn't excuse it."
She closed the book and set it aside. "You meant the fear behind it," she said. "The words were only the disguise."
He nodded. "Yes."
They looked at each other for a few heartbeats that felt like a test. Then she shifted slightly and patted the space beside her—one silent invitation, no repetition.
He crossed the threshold and sat. He didn't reach for her. The urge came and passed. He let it. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.
"I don't like what happens to me when the room fills with you," he said. "I don't know where to put anything. I don't know how to keep track of what I've been given. I'm afraid I'll be asked to be good at happiness and fail, and you'll go, and the house will still remember you."
Luna bowed her head slightly, not yielding but acknowledging. "That's the first honest thing you've said tonight," she murmured. "Thank you."
"I'm sorry," he said, and the words felt like water soaking dry ground. "I'm sorry for what I said, and how I said it. I'm sorry for turning care into intrusion because it didn't arrive the way I expected. I'm sorry for making you carry my rules like proof that you belong."
She let the apology sit between them. When she spoke, her tone was even but steady. "I won't be half wanted," she said. "I won't live beside someone who needs me to shrink so his spoons can stay lined up. If you want me here, say it. If you don't, don't."
Something turned inside him. It was small but final, like a hinge finding its place. "I want you here," he said. "I want your shirts in my wardrobe and your hair ties where my hands can find them. I want plants with opinions and a lemon on the table that refuses to move. I want you."
The room seemed to shift. The air thickened, steady and sure. Luna's shoulders eased just enough for him to notice. She reached for his hand, pressing her fingers over his palm like a quiet signature. "Good," she said.
He didn't kiss her. It wasn't time for that. He just sat there with her hand on his and let the argument end where truth began. The lemon waited in the kitchen, bright and whole, a small sun that would still be there in the morning when he rose to make tea. He could picture it now. He didn't need to move it.
The air still carried the weight of change, the kind that doesn't leave. There would be no going back to the man who mistook order for safety and love for disorder. He didn't want to go back. He wanted to learn forward.
He lifted her hand and kissed the space between her knuckles. She breathed out, quiet and full of relief. Outside, the rain slowed. Inside, the lamps hummed softly, steady as breath. The worst words had been spoken and endured. The better ones waited for morning.
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
Luna pulled him into the bed with both hands, and he fell on top of her with a grunt, all sharp edges and unspent fury. Their mouths collided again, harder this time, lips crashing, teeth grazing. She clutched at his shoulders, dragging him down, and he answered by pressing her into the mattress, weight and heat pinning her there as if he could force the world to stop.
Her tongue slipped against his and he groaned, raw, desperate. His hand slid into her hair and held her in place. "You have no idea what you do to me," he muttered against her lips, already half lost.
"I think I do," she breathed, hips lifting against his.
He tore at her shirt, impatient, fingers shaking with urgency. The fabric caught on her arm for a second, and he growled in frustration, yanking it free. She gasped at the suddenness, but then she was arching up to meet him, her hands scrabbling at the hem of his own shirt. He let her drag it over his head and toss it aside, baring his chest.
She splayed her palms across his skin, hot and curious, and he shivered under her touch. When her nails scraped lightly down his spine, he let out a sound he would never have made in any other room, a sound that made her smile against his mouth.
"You are impossible," he groaned, sucking at her jaw, moving down her throat. "You argue with me and then you beg me without words."
"I am begging," she admitted, breathless. "Please, Theo."
The word cracked him open.
He fumbled with the clasp of her bra, cursed when it resisted, then finally freed it. The straps slipped, the cups fell, and she was bare beneath him. He froze, staring for a second, lips parted, chest heaving. Awe cut through the haze. Then he bent and kissed one breast, then the other, mouth trailing reverent paths, tongue circling, lips sucking until she cried out.
Her hands threaded into his hair and held him there. She writhed beneath him, thighs rubbing together, desperate. "Theo, please, I need you—"
He groaned, dragging his mouth back to hers, kissing her hard. "You will have me. Every way you want. You will not forget me after this."
She moaned into his mouth, hips pressing against his thigh. "I do not want to forget."
They stripped the rest of their clothes in a mess of limbs and fabric. He cursed when his trousers tangled at the ankle, she laughed breathlessly as she shoved them off. He caught the sound in his mouth, kissed it, turned it into a moan.
Then they were skin to skin, hot and slick with sweat already. He pressed against her, hard, straining, and she gasped, her whole body arching up to him.
He slid inside her in one rough thrust, both of them crying out at the shock of it. Her hands clutched at his back, nails digging red lines down his shoulders. He froze, trembling, forehead pressed to hers.
"Gods," he panted. "Luna… you feel like—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I cannot even… I cannot stop."
"Then don't," she whispered, voice breaking. "Please don't."
He moved, rough and unsteady at first, hips driving hard into hers, every thrust carrying the leftover fury of their argument. She met him, gasping, crying out, legs locking tight around his waist. Their mouths crashed together, more teeth than tongue, biting, moaning.
"You are mine," he rasped into her ear, thrusts deep, punishing. "Say it."
"Yes," she gasped, clinging to him. "Yours."
He groaned, burying his face against her neck, biting lightly at the skin, marking her. "Never leaving me," he muttered, half command, half plea.
"Never," she promised, and he thrust harder, desperate to believe it.
The rhythm slowed, shifted. His anger dissolved into reverence again, his thrusts easing, gentling, his mouth finding hers with more care. He cupped her face in both hands, kissing her slowly, deeply, as though the fight had burned away and only truth was left.
"I want you," he whispered against her lips. "Not just now. Always."
She moaned softly, kissing him back, tears stinging at the corner of her eyes from how much she felt. Her body clenched around him, her nails digging deeper into his shoulders, anchoring herself.
"I am yours," she said again, steadier this time. "And you are mine."
He groaned and kissed her like he believed it, like he had been starving for that sentence.
The pace built again, slower into faster, desperate once more. She begged for him, voice shaking. "Harder, Theo. Please. Please, I need it."
He groaned, gripping her hips, slamming into her harder. "Greedy girl," he muttered, voice low and rough. "I will give you everything. You only have to ask."
"I am asking," she cried out, hips lifting, body clenching. "Gods, please, don't stop."
Her desperation undid him. He thrust harder, faster, kissing her harshly, muttering filth against her lips, his words breaking between gasps. "So tight. So perfect. Mine. Always mine."
They came together in a mess of gasps and cries, her body clenching around him as his own broke. He groaned her name into her mouth, shuddering as he spilled inside her. She clutched at him, trembling, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted on his name.
For long minutes they lay tangled, sweaty, breathless, hearts hammering against each other.
Theo buried his face in her hair, still shaking. He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Reverent now, softer. "Gods," he whispered. "You undo me."
She smiled faintly, too tired to speak, her hands stroking his back.
The silence stretched like a living thing. The sheets, damp with their sweat, cooled against their skin until he was aware of every inch of fabric clinging to him. His chest still rose too quickly, lungs struggling to settle, and beneath it all, her steady breathing pressed into his ribs as though she had always belonged there. He held her close, arms locked around her like chains, not because he meant to bind her but because the idea of letting go felt like opening a vein.
Her hair was damp, strands sticking to his cheek. He kissed the crown of her head, small, desperate kisses that tasted of salt and regret and relief. He told himself he would not speak. He told himself silence would be safer. But the words burned through him, rising hot and uncontrollable.
"Move in," he whispered into her hair, voice ragged. His lips brushed her temple, the plea smudging into her skin. "Please. I cannot… I cannot go back to before. Stay."
The air shifted. She stiffened, not pulling away but pausing, as though considering the shape of what he had just dropped between them. His heart lurched in his chest. He pressed tighter, terrified she might slip through his arms and vanish into the night.
Her face tilted up, pale in the dim light. Her eyes found his, calm, steady, unreadable. That gaze always undid him more than any argument, more than any kiss. It stripped him bare in a way even sex had not.
He faltered under it. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "I mean it," he said softly, the words spilling like confession. "I cannot do this halfway. I do not want you sometimes, I do not want you only in borrowed hours. I want you here. Every morning. Every night. I want to walk into the kitchen and see your lemon on the table and your scarf on the chair and know they are meant to be there."
Her expression did not change. That calm made him frantic. He kissed her cheek, desperate, whispering against her skin. "Please. I have spent too many years living with silence. I cannot go back to it. I do not want to. Stay."
Her hand moved at last. Not away, not to push him off. She lifted it slowly, fingers brushing across his jaw, feather-light, like she was checking whether he was real. His breath hitched. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, overcome by how small a gesture could undo him.
"You are asking because you are afraid," she murmured finally, voice even.
"I am asking," he admitted hoarsely, "because I am afraid, yes. And because I want you more than I have ever wanted anything." His throat caught. "If you leave, I will still breathe, but I do not know if I will ever come back from it."
Her thumb stroked his cheek once, slow. Her lips parted, then closed again. She said nothing, only looked at him with that dreamy, devastating steadiness.
The silence was unbearable. He filled it with more, his words tumbling, low and raw. "I will try, Luna. I will be clumsy and difficult and stubborn. I will count spoons and misplace words and guard the wrong things. But I will not stop wanting you. I will not stop asking you to stay."
Her body softened slightly against his, as if she had heard something true inside the plea. She still did not speak.
He pressed his forehead to hers, trembling. "Say something. Anything. Tell me I am ridiculous. Tell me you are leaving. Just… do not leave me here not knowing."
But she only studied him, calm as a still pond that hid an entire world underneath. She held his gaze, and in that look he saw everything he needed to see: she had not pulled away. She had not told him no.
And somehow that silence, unbearable and beautiful, was enough to keep him alive.
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
Hermione had called it just dinner, the way people say just a thunderstorm while pressing towels against the window. The restaurant sat at the curve of a narrow cobbled street where the lamps burned low and the windows guarded their secrets. A brass bell chimed as they entered, the kind of sound that feels like a small test. Inside, the room was crowded and warm, walls lined with old bottles and framed menus that pretended the past had been charming. Candles flickered with patient, contained magic. The tablecloths were the kind of white that made Theo suspicious. He had never trusted anything that refused to admit to stains.
Hermione was already waving from a corner booth, her hair catching the light like fire made gentle. Draco sat beside her, one ankle crossed over the other, the picture of a man who believed the evening would unfold according to his design. A half-empty glass of wine rested in his hand, fingers curved with practiced ease. He lifted it in greeting, mouth curling in a smirk.
"Finally," Draco said. "We feared Nott had chained himself to a fermenter. Domestic obligations, you understand."
Theo felt his jaw click into place. He guided Luna toward the booth, giving her the inner seat and keeping the edge for himself, a small shield disguised as courtesy. "We are on time," he said evenly. "The hostess was slow."
"Of course," Draco murmured. "The world's fault, as usual."
Hermione pushed a carafe of wine toward them. "Drink," she said. "Before Draco's personality dehydrates you."
Luna smiled, serene as ever. "Hello, Mimi. Hello, Draco. You look well."
Draco tilted his head, studying her like a cat inspecting something curious. "Luna Lovegood, adapting to the city. I would have lost that wager."
"I still talk to the river," she said, unfolding her napkin as though performing a quiet spell. "It likes to be included."
Theo reached for the water jug and nearly missed the glass. He corrected at the last second. Hermione's mouth twitched, amusement tucked away for later.
Menus arrived, but Hermione didn't bother opening hers. "Luna, that dress is perfect on you," she said. "Theo, good taste."
Theo kept his eyes down. "I didn't choose it."
"You said yes to it," Luna said mildly. "That counts."
"It looked acceptable," he said, which sounded worse out loud than it had in his mind.
Draco leaned back, grinning. "Nott using adjectives. A milestone."
Hermione interrupted with a practical tone. "Let's order before someone starts a duel."
The server brought bread, the great peacekeeper of awkward dinners. Luna tore a piece in half, the crust crackling like breaking ice. She handed him one half without looking. Their fingers met in the middle. The warmth startled him, but he didn't let go too quickly.
Hermione tried again, this time aiming at civility. "How's the potion work?"
"Fine," Theo said.
"Fine," Draco echoed. "Meaning, one more failed test and he'll burn down the lab."
Theo turned his head slowly. "I do not burn my work," he said. "I maintain it."
"Of course you do," Draco said, lazy as ever.
Luna drizzled honey over her bread. "He's been patient," she said softly. "More than he admits."
Theo felt the heat climb his collar. Compliments always felt like traps. "The process requires precision," he said stiffly. "Discipline, which is not fashionable at this table."
Hermione smiled into her glass. "I think discipline is very fashionable with me."
"Your students treat you like a saint," Draco said. "That's not discipline. That's worship."
The server returned for their orders. Hermione chose decisively. Draco gave his with unnecessary flair, like the kitchen existed to amuse him. Luna asked questions that made the server light up, and Theo, cautious as always, chose the safest option on the menu.
Wine arrived and softened the corners of the evening. Hermione told a story about a seventh year who had tried to turn his textbook into a pillow and ended up sleeping on a brick. Draco embellished it until the story became ridiculous. Luna laughed, hand pressed to her lips, her laughter low and real. Theo felt something in him unwind without permission.
Then Draco, who had never once resisted temptation, turned to Luna. "So. Tell us. How goes life with our favorite ascetic?"
"Pleasant," Luna said.
Draco smirked. "That's not the word I'd have chosen."
"What would you choose?" she asked.
"A miracle," he said. "Or a tragedy. Ask me again after dessert."
Hermione laughed, reaching across to brush a crumb from Luna's wrist, a casual act of affection that made Theo's chest ache. Then she looked at him, warning clear in her eyes: behave.
Starters arrived, precise little plates that looked too elegant to be edible. Theo's dish was a tangle of herbs pretending to be a meal. Draco sighed theatrically. Hermione stole from his plate without asking. Luna ate slowly, reverently, as if food was a form of prayer.
Conversation drifted toward school days. Hermione's laugh softened as she recalled nights spent in the library. Draco corrected her, embellishing where it suited him. Luna told a story about a staircase that refused to let her climb it until she promised to come back down. Theo listened, the edge of a smile haunting him each time she spoke.
"Remember fifth year," Hermione said. "When you flung your cauldron lid because the gillyweed infusion separated?"
"It separated because the recipe was criminal," Theo said. "I fixed it."
"You fixed it by throwing metal," Draco said.
"It was not a tantrum," Theo replied, too quickly.
Luna reached for her glass. "He solves things loudly when he cares," she said. "The noise is part of the process."
"An artist of disruption," Draco said. "Domestic life must be thrilling."
Hermione poured another round. "Be kind," she said. "We're celebrating."
Theo looked up sharply. "Celebrating what?"
"Nothing in particular," Hermione said with a too-sweet smile.
"Translation," Draco said. "She wants to watch you blush."
"I don't blush," Theo said, and promptly did.
Luna smiled at him, voice quiet and steady. "You're doing fine. Eat. The cucumber is brave."
He blinked at his plate. "What does that mean?"
"It was cut by someone who believes in maps," she said. "It wants to take you somewhere safe."
Draco laughed so loudly the couple at the next table glanced over. "I'm hiring this salad as my life coach."
Hermione hid her grin behind her napkin. "Theo, you look like you've been dragged behind a Thestral and stuffed into a suit."
"I'm comfortable," he said stiffly.
"Of course you are," she said. "And I'm humble."
Desserts passed by, sugar curling through the air. Wine blurred the edges of everything sharp. A laugh rang from a nearby table, and Theo thought, fleetingly, that it sounded like something from before—like the version of himself who had once known how to laugh without checking if it was allowed. He missed that boy, and he resented him all the same.
Draco tipped his glass toward Luna. "How long until you take over completely," he asked, voice smooth enough to sound harmless. "A month? Two? I give him until the third plant develops an opinion."
"They already have opinions," she said, unfazed. "He pretends to disagree, but he still waters them on time."
"Domesticated," Draco said, smiling that slow, satisfied smile that always meant he thought he had the upper hand.
Theo placed his fork carefully beside the plate, the movement controlled, deliberate. It steadied his hands, though not his stomach. "I am sitting here," he said, the words clipped, brittle.
Hermione caught his expression and turned serious at once. "We know," she said softly. Then, to Draco, in a tone that could end battles, "Enough."
Draco inclined his head as though bowing to royal authority. "As you wish."
Luna slid her hand under the edge of the table, a soft touch on his knee. Steady. Present. She didn't ask him to smile. She simply reminded him that the world would not fall apart if he exhaled. He hated that he needed it. He exhaled anyway.
The server appeared with the dessert menu, and Hermione seized it like a woman who planned her joys as carefully as her wars. She chose something soaked in syrup. Draco ordered something scorched on purpose. Luna asked for pears in red wine, her voice so gentle that the waiter blushed and forgot his tray for half a second. Theo asked for coffee and was immediately overruled.
"Cake," Hermione said. "Sugar will blunt your edges."
"I do not need blunting," he replied.
"You always need blunting," Draco said. "It's your best quality."
"Theo," Luna murmured, her voice soft beneath their chatter. "Look at me."
He did. The noise in the room faded. Her eyes were clear, unamused by his embarrassment, interested only in keeping him steady.
"Breathe," she said. "And if that's too hard, count."
He counted because it was easier than arguing. In for four, hold for four, out for six. The rhythm gathered his pieces.
Desserts arrived with ceremony. Draco's came in flames, which he admired like a small god surveying creation. Hermione's was drowned in syrup and satisfaction. Luna's pears glowed dark and tender in their pool. Theo's cake sat like a challenge on its plate, undecorated and waiting.
They shared bites, as people do when they are still learning the shape of belonging. Hermione fed Draco with a fork and disguised tenderness as mockery. Draco sampled Luna's pears and pretended he was impressed. Luna carved a small piece of Theo's cake and lifted it toward him. He didn't argue. He opened his mouth because she had never once led him toward harm. The cake was good. She smiled like she had just rescued something important.
By the time coffee came, the evening had softened. Draco told a story about a client who had lied so well he nearly admired him. Hermione shook her head, all warmth and warning. Luna spoke about a cloud that had followed her down six streets before apologizing by raining on the one beside her. Theo said little. He felt like a frame that had forgotten what picture it was meant to hold.
When they left, the bell over the door gave a tired ring. The lane outside shimmered with a fine mist. Hermione hugged Luna tightly and whispered something that made her smile. Draco clapped Theo's shoulder with the half-affectionate, half-competitive grip of men who have known each other too long. "Try not to ruin this," Draco said, which might have been kindness or a dare.
"We'll walk," Luna said, taking Theo's arm like she was lifting a lantern. Hermione and Draco disappeared into the fog, the kind of pair who had learned how to coexist with each other's storms. The night folded around the two who remained.
Theo's jaw locked. The sweetness of cake turned sour in his throat. He said nothing for the first block. He said nothing for the second. By the third, he could feel silence bruising the inside of his mouth.
Luna glanced up at him once, then again, but didn't press. She matched his pace, her arm looped through his. The lamps cast small circles of light ahead of them, one at a time, as if showing them how to move forward in pieces.
The walk home was quiet, but the quiet had weight. It carried everything they had not said.
When the door closed behind them, his restraint broke. The silence of the street became too heavy to carry indoors.
"How dare you," he said, the words sharp enough to draw blood. His voice hit the walls, shaking the lamp above them.
Luna had already set her shoes neatly by the mat. She didn't look at him. She unbuttoned her coat with slow precision. "I'm not interested in your tantrums tonight," she said evenly. "Goodnight."
She turned, moving toward the bedroom with calm that only made him angrier.
The sight of her walking away was too much. He grabbed her arm, yanking her back, rougher than he intended. "You liked it," he said. "You liked watching me humiliated."
She faced him then, still and unflinching. "And you liked seeing me as your fucktoy?"
The word hit him like a blow. His throat closed around air. All the fury in him fell away, leaving only panic.
"I thought we were supposed to be something real," she said quietly, the steadiness in her voice worse than anger. "I thought you wanted this to mean something. I didn't waste six months to be looked at like an inconvenience."
Her words hollowed the air between them. He stepped forward, helpless. "No. Luna, no. That's not— God, no. I love—" He stopped himself, too late, the word burning his mouth. "You don't understand, that dinner was—"
"And you sat there and let them treat you like a child," she said sharply. "You sat there and let them make me invisible."
"I did not," he said, but it came out weak.
Her gaze hardened. "You did. I sat next to you and felt like a ghost. I wanted you to reach for me. To claim me. To show them that I belong to you. Do you know what it feels like to be next to someone who keeps pretending not to see you?"
Her voice was low, shaking now, but it was the tremor of fury, not weakness.
"Baby," he said softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't realise. You're right. I was sulking. I was— I was angry at the wrong thing."
She looked at him, and he saw something close inside her. "Yes," she said quietly. "You were."
Then she stepped back, wand in hand. The air cracked. She was gone.
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
He did not go the next morning. He woke in a bed that still carried her shape and told himself it was the pillows' fault. He made tea for two and poured one cup back into the pot, as if the leaves might understand the hint. He rested his hand on the lemon in the middle of the table, feeling foolish for treating it like evidence of a life he wanted to prove had existed.
The day stretched thin, long and slow, like a string pulled between two hands. He started a letter, crossed out every line. Started another, burned it before the ink could dry. He spoke aloud to no one and discovered that silence sounded different when it had no one else to share the weight.
At noon he watered the plants and apologised for his tone the week before. At dusk he stood in the doorway of the bedroom and stared at the spot where she used to fold his shirts wrong just to make him laugh. The night arrived quietly, like a test he hadn't studied for.
The second day he worked. Brewing was the only thing that made sense. The potion behaved; he didn't. He spilled a measure, cursed softly, and said her name as if it were a spell to keep disaster at bay. He told himself he would go tomorrow. He told himself he wasn't stalling. The lie was easy to spot because it sounded too gentle to be true.
By the third morning, he couldn't wait anymore. He dressed before dawn. White shirt. Clean jacket. Hands steady because he forced them to be. He looked in the mirror and thought how a man can wear calm the way he wears someone else's coat. He almost brought the lemon, then realised how absurd that was. He left before he could talk himself out of it.
Her building stood on a quiet corner where the street still smelled faintly of rain. The bakery below had started its ovens, the air rich with warmth and yeast. A bicycle leaned against the railing, its bell jingling softly whenever the wind turned the corner. Theo stood at the bottom of the steps, hands in his pockets, realising he had never learned how to knock without feeling like an intruder.
He climbed the stairs slowly. On the landing he stopped to listen. The air carried traces of candle smoke and the gentle sounds of a city waking. He almost turned back. Cowardice can look very much like courtesy when it tries hard enough. Before he could change his mind, he knocked.
The door opened sloy. Luna stood there, barefoot in a cardigan that didn't match anything else she was wearing. Her hair had been tucked behind one ear and had already escaped. She looked at him without surprise or anger. Just steady, quiet seeing—the kind that made the ground feel safe again.
"Theodore," she said, and his name sounded like something she intended to keep.
"Luna," he said, voice low. "May I come in?"
She stepped aside. He crossed the threshold and felt at once that this was a place where truth was expected, not optional.
Her flat was small but alive, the kind of space that tells its own story without apology. Plants crowded the window, chasing light that hadn't fully woken. A row of feathers lined the sill. A jar of dried sage stood beside two cups on the stove, as if they had been mid-conversation before he arrived. Books were stacked in uneven towers, the rug worn soft with living.
She belonged to the room, and the room belonged to her. He'd always thought his own flat was a fortress. This, he realised, was a home. The difference hit him hard enough that he had to stop breathing for a moment.
She shut the door and waited. She did not try to fill the silence.
He stepped closer to the table by the window but didn't sit. "I came to ask you something," he said, and every line he had practiced disappeared.
"All right," she said.
He looked at the window, the books, the faint stripe of morning light moving across the floor. When he finally met her eyes again, the words came out before he could tame them.
"I want you to be my girlfriend," he said, then stood very still, waiting to see if the sentence would break something.
The words sounded smaller than the truth behind them. He had meant to be eloquent, but only honesty came out, stripped bare.
He tried again, because silence from her could be either mercy or judgment, and he needed to know which. "I've never wanted anyone like this," he said. "Not when the room is loud. Not when it's quiet. I don't have the right words for it, and I'm tired of waiting until I do."
She drew a slow breath. That was all the permission he needed.
"I'm difficult," he said. "I'm proud in ways that help no one. I confuse order for control. I'm afraid more often than I admit. I'll need patience. But I'll keep choosing you. I don't know how not to anymore."
Her face didn't soften, but her silence turned gentle. He took one step closer, because distance suddenly felt dishonest.
"Please move in," he said quietly. "Bring your lemons. Leave your hair ties everywhere the light touches. Let your shirts mix with mine until the wardrobe forgets who it belonged to. I want you there. Always."
His legs trembled. He didn't hide it. He thought if she said yes, relief might knock him down; if she said no, shame would. Either way, he would deserve it.
He waited. The air between them felt alive, and for the first time in days, so did he.
She didn't answer. She stepped around him and went to the stove, lighting the smallest flame. The match flared and went out, leaving a thin line of smoke that curled toward the ceiling. She filled the kettle, the sound of water rising soft and steady until it became the only sound in the room. When she set it on, she turned back and stood in front of him.
"This is my place," she said quietly. "Why are you asking this in here?"
"Because I needed to ask you somewhere that didn't belong to me," he said. "It doesn't count if the question is protected by my walls."
"Good," she said simply, and fell silent again.
He wanted to fill the silence, but this time he chose his words with care. "I was humiliated at dinner," he said. "I felt small. Watched. I turned that feeling against you instead of sitting with it. I made you feel unseen when I should have made you feel chosen. I am sorry."
"I know," she said.
"I don't want to be the man who apologises and then stays the same," he said. "I want to change on purpose."
The kettle began to hum, not yet a whistle, just a low sound like a quiet warning. Luna didn't move. Her eyes stayed on him, thoughtful, assessing.
"You want me to move into your life," she said, "not into your problems."
"Yes," he said, and realised as he spoke that it was the truest thing he had said in years.
"Will you still choose me when things go wrong?" she asked. "When your brew fails. When a plant dies because you follow a schedule instead of instinct. When I leave lemons in every room. When I'm messy in the places you try to keep perfect."
"Yes," he said again. The word came out clear.
The kettle reached its full voice. She turned, lifted it from the flame, and set it aside. She didn't make tea. She came back to him with empty hands.
"Say it again," she said.
"I want you to be my girlfriend," he said, and the words felt both ridiculous and sacred.
"And the rest," she said.
"Move in," he said. "Please. Stay. I want you every day. I want to wake up and see your shoe at the wrong angle by the door and be grateful for it. I want to come home and find your scarf drying on a chair and know I'm not living alone inside my own head. I want a life that is kind before it is tidy."
She stepped closer, two quiet strides across the floor, and lifted her hand to his cheek. He closed his eyes because the touch deserved stillness. When he opened them, she was watching him with the same calm that had drawn him in from the start, the calm that never lied about how fragile the world could be.
"Yes," she said.
He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, one that sounded like relief learning how to speak. "Thank you," he said, and then again, because one wasn't enough. "Thank you."
Before leaving, he walked through her flat slowly, as if memorising it. The corner where the rug lifted. The fern that leaned toward the light. The pile of books that looked close to falling but never did. He paused at her window, watching the quiet street below, and realised he wanted to remember it exactly as it was.
When he turned, she was waiting by the door, arms folded, smiling in a way that reached him somewhere past reason.
"I'll be there tonight," she said. "With one suitcase. Maybe two."
"Three," he said, allowing himself a smile. She laughed.
He bent his head and kissed her, not with hunger, but with certainty. A kiss that sealed a promise already spoken. When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers and drew one long breath, steady and sure.
"I'll make space," he said.
"You already have," she said.
He stepped back, looked at her once more so the image would follow him through the day, and opened the door.
"I love you," he said, because there was no other place that sentence could live.
"I know," she said, and then, after a pause that felt like the tying of a ribbon, "I love you too."
He left her flat and the street seemed brighter though nothing had changed. The bicycle bell rang. The baker's door opened and warm air followed him down the steps like a quiet blessing. When Theo returned home, he set a lemon on the table and left it there on purpose.