Emerson Wilmore was an exemplary Ravenclaw student, known for her unwavering dedication to academics and an unyielding moral compass. However, things took a twisted and deviated turn in her life after her boyfriend, Cedric Diggory, was murdered by L...
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Sunlight crept in slowly the next morning, filtered through the thick green curtains of the Slytherin dormitory and casting golden patterns over the mess of broken glass and discarded blankets. The chaos from the night before lingered like a ghost in the room; shattered things, dried blood, empty bottles, and a silence that felt sacred somehow. The destruction from the night before remained but the chaos had stilled. The air no longer buzzed with rage and hopelessness. It was... Peaceful.
Emerson stirred beneath the heavy covers, her body still pressed into the warmth of Mattheo's. His arms were wrapped around her, holding her like something precious, even in sleep. For a split moment, she wasn't entirely sure where she was. The air smelled faintly of firewhiskey, cedarwood, and something undeniably him.
For a moment, she didn't move, her senses slowly piecing themselves together. She hadn't expected to fall asleep. But it happened so naturally, so easily, as if her body had known it was safe to rest once he had.
It took her a moment to remember where she was, the night coming back to her in quiet flashes. The drinking. The shouting. The way he broke. The way he let her hold him when everything inside him came undone.
She was warm. Safe. Held. Mattheo's arm was still wrapped around her waist, his grip loose now, but present. He couldn't quite let her go.
His breath tickled the back of her neck in a slow and steady rhythm, and Emerson stayed there, motionless, as the reality of where she was and what happened finally and fully washed over her.
Last night wasn't a dream.
She sat with him through the wreckage of his pain. He sobbed in her arms. She saw every raw, broken part of him. And yet, here he was. Breathing. Sleeping.
Alive.
And he hadn't pushed her away.
Emerson slowly rolled over, careful not to disturb him. She propped herself on one elbow and looked at him properly, her eyes sweeping over his sleeping form.
Mattheo looked different like this.
There was no sharp edge to his jaw when he slept or tension in his brow. The furrow that was almost always carved between his eyes had vanished. His thick lashes, darker than she remembered, fanned over his cheekbones. His lips, usually twisted in a smirk or pressed into a hard line, were slightly parted as he breathed.
There was something devastatingly beautiful about the way he looked now.
Peaceful. Vulnerable.
Beautiful.
It made something ache deep in her chest.
He looked so young when he slept. Like the boy he could have been if he hadn't been born into darkness. If war hadn't twisted the path beneath his feet.
