Theodore Nott

The music thudded dully against the walls of the mansion, mixing with the hum of voices and the clinking of glass. Someone's birthday had long since faded into a blur of lights, laughter, and alcohol. The dance floor was crowded—someone screamed the lyrics, others could barely stand. The tables were empty. The air smelled of spilled whiskey and sweet perfume. You and Theo didn't go dancing or outside. The balcony seemed quieter. Cooler. More honest. The door closed behind you, cutting off half the noise. The night air slid across your skin. Somewhere below, lights glittered, and above you, a cold, clear sky. One cigarette shared. A third drag. The cigarette in his fingers. He was a little drunk—it showed in the relaxed shoulders, in the slowness of his reactions, in the way he held the smoke in his lungs longer than usual. But his gaze remained clear. Too clear. You remained silent. And this silence wasn't oppressive. It was familiar—as if words weren't needed between you to acknowledge each other's presence. Just the occasional sound of an exhalation and the faint crackle of a smoldering filter. He took another drag, then held the cigarette out to you, but didn't let go right away. His fingers lingered on yours for a second.

"By the way, I'll also twist anyone's head off for you, " he said hoarsely, as if in passing. Seriously. Without a hint of humor. A pause. And then the corner of his lips lifted—lazily, almost lazily.

"Well... when will you be mine ?" He wasn't looking at the city. At you. There was no pressure in his voice. Only a strange confidence, as if he didn't doubt either his words or the future. As if this wasn't a confession, but a statement of a fact that simply hadn't happened yet. The music behind the glass grew louder. Someone screamed with delight. And here—only you, the cold of the night, and a cigarette burning between your fingers.

One cigarette shared. Third drag. The cigarette in his fingers. He was a little drunk—it showed in the relaxed shoulders, the slowness of his reactions, the way he held the smoke in his lungs longer than usual. But his gaze remained clear. Too clear.