Tom’s attachment to her is unmistakable. He is deeply possessive, not in loud or reckless ways, but in the quiet, unmistakable manner of someone who expects loyalty and gives protection in return. He watches constantly, always aware of who is near her and how long they linger. His overprotectiveness shows in subtle control—positioning himself between her and others, guiding her away with a light touch, or fixing someone with a look sharp enough to make them step back without a word.
The story is set in Auradon, a kingdom where the children of Disney heroes live in peace and privilege. Across the sea, the Isle of the Lost holds the villains and their children under strict control. The villain kids are not allowed in Auradon, and the villains are resentful of the heroes’ happy lives.
The street was swallowed in darkness, lit only by the fractured glow of neon signs flickering from nearby buildings. Puddles left behind by the evening rain stretched across the asphalt like pieces of broken glass, catching the colors—pink, electric blue, acid green—and scattering them in shimmering ribbons beneath the restless crowd.
Lately, Mattheo had been acting… different. Touchier. Needier. The kind of touch that lingered a second too long, the kind of look that burned straight through you. Every time you were near him, his hands seemed magnetized—fingers tracing idle patterns along your thigh during study sessions, slipping around your waist when you walked past him, pulling you closer until the air between you practically hummed with tension.
It was the summer of 1962 in the San Fernando Valley, Los Angeles—a season soaked in heat, dust, and endless blue skies. Cicadas hummed in the distance, sprinklers clicked on front lawns, and the air carried the mixed scents of cut grass and sun-baked asphalt. Days stretched long and lazy, the kind where time seemed to slow just enough for kids to believe summer would never end.
The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet, the low crackle of the fire the only sound breaking the stillness as shadows flickered across the stone walls. At one of the farthest tables, half-hidden from the rest of the room, Regulus Black, Evan Rosier, Barty Crouch Jr., and y/n sat surrounded by open textbooks, scattered parchment, and ink-stained quills. Green and silver light from the enchanted windows reflected faintly off the polished tabletop as they pretended to study.
Arch Manning wasn’t just another name on the roster—at the University of Texas, he was the quarterback everyone watched. His reputation moved through campus like its own current: the gifted arm, the calm under pressure, the legacy everyone whispered about. On game days, Darrell K Royal–Texas Memorial Stadium roared for him long before he even stepped onto the field.
Arch Manning was already a household name long before he ever stepped onto the field for the University of Texas at Austin. As the highly anticipated quarterback, every move he made was watched, analyzed, and talked about by fans, media, and classmates alike. Being around him often felt like standing in the shadow of something larger than life.
The train slowed with a long hiss of steam, the scarlet engine sighing as it rolled into Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. You pressed your hand against the cool window, watching the platform come into view — the sea of parents, siblings, and pets waiting for their students. For a moment, you just stared, heart fluttering in your chest, because this wasn’t just any summer. This was the summer you finally got to go home.
Joe Burrow was the unmistakable face of the Cincinnati Bengals—their star quarterback and the heart of the franchise. Known across the league for his calm confidence, sharp football IQ, and natural leadership, Joe carried himself with a quiet intensity both on and off the field. Every Sunday, tens of thousands of fans filled Paycor Stadium wearing his jersey, chanting his name as he led the offense with precision and composure. Interviews, highlight reels, and headlines followed him everywhere, but despite the fame, he remained focused, disciplined, and grounded in the game he loved.
The sun was sinking low over East L.A., casting long shadows across the cracked pavement and bathing the Toretto house in rich shades of gold and burnt orange. Heat still clung to the air, carrying with it the smoky aroma of grilled meat, charcoal, and the faint, ever-present hint of motor oil that seemed permanently woven into the place. It was the unmistakable scent of home — of family.
The Friday night lights blaze over West Canaan’s field, cutting through the Texas dusk. The whole town is there — faces painted, voices hoarse from cheering — but y/n’s eyes are only on one player: #7, Lance Harbor.
They attended the same university, walked the same sidewalks, breathed the same humid Texas air—but somehow, they were still strangers. In a place as large and loud as the University of Texas, it wasn’t impossible to miss someone, even someone everyone else seemed to know.
Everyone knew Joe Burrow—the calm, sharp-eyed quarterback of the Cincinnati Bengals, the face of the franchise, the one who carried the city’s hopes every Sunday. They knew his stats, his contracts, his press conferences, and of course, they knew about his girlfriend, y/n. Being one of the most recognizable players in the NFL meant that privacy was a luxury Joe rarely had; every appearance, every relationship detail spread quickly across headlines and social media.
JJ Maybank never thought he’d be the kind of guy who needed someone. Not really. He’d always survived on instinct, adrenaline, and the unspoken belief that he was better off handling things alone. But somewhere along the way—between late-night laughs, stolen glances, and trouble that always found them—he realized just how wrong that belief was.
The bell above the door chimed softly as y/n stepped into Ursula’s Fish & Chips, the scent of salt and oil wrapping around her like a fog. She hadn’t come for anyone—just wandering, searching for something to fill the quiet ache of boredom. The low murmur of voices, the clatter of plates, the faint hiss of the fryer—all of it faded the moment she crossed the threshold.
Niccolò and Camilla lingered in their warm, softly lit kitchen, the kind of kitchen that always smelled faintly of coffee and basil no matter the hour. Camilla sat at the small wooden table, tapping her fingers against her mug as she waited for y/n to arrive. Niccolò stood by the open window, lazily flicking ash from his cigarette into the night breeze.
y/n and James had always existed in that blurry, electric space between friendship and something more—close enough that people whispered, flirty enough that no one ever truly believed you were “just friends,” yet never quite crossing that line yourselves. It was comfortable, familiar… and secretly terrifying. Because deep down, you both felt the pull. You both just never said it.
Barty Crouch Jr. and y/n were practically a legend around Hogwarts. Wherever one of them was, the other was never far behind. They shared detention slips like trophies, whispered plans in the back of classrooms, and slipped through corridors after curfew with the ease of people who had done it a hundred times before. Professors knew their names by heart. Students knew to expect trouble when they appeared together.