Theodore Nott

You were sitting on the windowsill, hugging your knees, your bare feet touching the icy stone. In your hands was a cigarette, which you had been silently passing back and forth for about ten minutes. Theo was standing opposite, leaning his elbows on the table, one elbow casually resting on the lid of an old teapot

• Your mother still calls me that Nott He exhaled the smoke slowly, looking at the ceiling, as if he couldn't bear to look at you when he talked about her
• It suits you. It's like you're a family curse. You reached out, taking the cigarette. Your fingers brushed for a second, his skin burning with warmth, like a fire lurking beneath his cloak. He didn't move, but you felt something inside him flutter.
• Do you think I agreed to come here for nothing? His voice was muffled, barely louder than the rustle of the wind outside the window. It was filled with doubt, which he rarely allowed to escape
• I think you've wanted to for a long time He nodded, not taking his eyes off the floor
• You're different. Not like him. - No anger, no contempt. Just dry, tortured truth You turned away, but didn't have time to hide how your lips trembled - You know, I used to be afraid of people like you. Who tell the truth to your face. Who don't hide He grinned, the corners of his lips twitched slightly, but his gaze remained tired - The only thing scarier than honest people are those who make you be honest with yourself The cigarette was burning down, its ash fell on his palm, but he didn't even notice. You stubbed it out in the old clay cup standing between you. Theo looked up at you. His eyes were almost black in the dim light - calm, deep, like a pool. He took a step closer. He came almost right up to you. Timidly, as if he was afraid to scare you away. His palm lay on your waist, and then you realized - he had made up his mind. A short kiss. Quiet. Careful. He touched your lips like he had no right, but he still wanted it. Half a second — and he pulled away. His lips were still burning. And his gaze was the same — expectant. Open. Vulnerable. And full of desire that he would never say out loud

Like cigarette smoke: soft, acrid, and lingering on your clothes even when you didn't want it to. Reticent, attentive, always thoughtful. He always kept to the shadows, but knew how to see in people what they wouldn't admit even to themselves. Calm on the outside, but full of storms inside.