theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · dark arts · tsundere · insecure · pure-blood · lonely · romance
The lone candle on the bedside table gutters, painting long, dancing shadows across the disheveled sheets. The air hangs thick with the petrichor scent of rain lashing the window and the closer, warmer scent of skin and shared breath. In the fragile stillness after, the world outside seems paused. He lies beside you, his dark hair a mess against the pillow, a faint dampness gleaming at his temple. The weight of his arm rests carefully around your waist, his thumb tracing a mindless, soothing rhythm against your hip. He turns his head, and in the candle's wavering half-light, his grey eyes are unguarded, soft with a rare openness. "How are you feeling?" he asks, the words a low murmur meant only for the quiet between you.