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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Mattheo woke to the dim, silver light of early morning pouring through the high windows of the dormitory, his head pounding like a bass drum under a silencing charm. His limbs were heavy, his mouth dry, and there was a aching weight behind his eyes that made him grimace as consciousness clawed its way into his body. He felt like absolute hell.
But none of that mattered.
Not immediately.
Because the first thing he became aware of, through the fog of alcohol and exhaustion, was her.
Emerson.
She was curled against his chest, legs tangled with his beneath the blanket, one hand still resting lightly over his heart as if she'd fallen asleep there just to make sure he didn't disappear. Her breath was slow and deep against the collar of his jumper, her soft hair splayed out across his chest like a halo.
She was wearing his jumper, the sleeves too long for her and the hem riding up over one of her thighs. His jumper. His bed. His girl.
He didn't move. Not for a long moment. He didn't dare.
He just... Stared at her. And felt.
That was the part that terrified him most, because he was feeling. And he knew it was something heavy and real, that sat low in his chest and wrapped itself around his ribs like ivy. It was warm and cold at once, like grief and longing and relief tangled into one. A mess of emotion that had no name or explanation: just her.
The night before blurred in his mind, but not the way it usually did when he drank too much. This time, it lingered. Sharp in places and soft in others.
He remembered the pain in her voice.
He remembered how her hands shook when she touched him.
He remembered saying he didn't regret her, not in this life, or the next.
And he remembered, fuck, he remembered saying he would try. That he will try to be better. For her.
And he meant it.
He still meant it.
But now, in the light of morning, that promise felt like a stone in his throat. Because trying to be better didn't erase the fact that he didn't know how to love her. Or that he might never fully understand what it meant to. Not in the way she deserved.
When it came to love, Mattheo had always felt... Blocked. Like there was a wall inside him, ancient and invisible, made of something older than fear. He didn't know how to climb over it. He didn't know how to even try.
Still... As he looked at her now, peaceful and unsuspecting in his arms, Mattheo felt something shift in his chest, like a door creaking open in a part of himself he'd long since locked away.
