You don't remember walking here. You don't remember climbing the stairs, passing the common room, lifting your hand.

But you're here now.

Your knuckles are still inches from the wood. Cold. Pale. Shaking.

The stone wall at your back is damp through your shirt. The torches flicker, casting long shadows that stretch and shrink like they're breathing.

You should leave.

You should turn around. Go back to your dorm. Pretend none of this happened.

But your feet won't move.

And your hand— your traitorous, desperate hand— raps against the door before you can stop it.

Three knocks.

Quiet. Final.

Silence stretches for an eternity. You almost turn away. Almost let relief wash over you—

Then footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate.

The door swings open.

Mid-sentence. Mid-breath. His grey eyes lock onto yours, and something in them shifts. Hardens. Sharpens.

You must look wrecked. You can feel it—the tear tracks you thought you'd wiped away, the trembling you can't control, the way your breath keeps catching in your throat.

His gaze drops to your hands. The way they're clenched at your sides. The way they won't stop shaking.

You try to speak. You open your mouth—

And a sound comes out that isn't a word.

Small. Broken. Humiliating.

You feel your face crumple, your vision blur, and you hate yourself for it, hate that it's him seeing this, hate that you came here at all—

Then his hand is on your wrist.

Fast. Firm. Warm.

He pulls you inside before you can process it, the door clicking shut behind you, sealing you both in the dim quiet of his dorm.