ONE / SAFETY NET.

❛ tripping, falling with no safety net
it must be something that you said ❜

𓃠

𝕿he morning light seeped reluctantly through the heavy curtains of Orion's bedroom, its pale gold fighting against the oppressive weight of the Black Manor's dark grandeur. The air was cold, too cold for comfort, but he barely noticed. The room itself was immaculate, almost unnervingly so, as if chaos had never dared to cross its threshold. The bookshelves, lined with volumes on wizarding history and spell theory, stood like soldiers against the wall, their spines perfectly aligned. A collection of trophies gleamed on the mantle above the fireplace, catching the faint light-proof of his achievements, though they seemed to mock him with their polished perfection. There were no photographs, no personal touches to soften the edges of the space. It was a room designed to impress, not to comfort.

Orion sat on the edge of his bed, his posture rigid, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. His fingers tapped against each other absentmindedly, a soft, repetitive sound that barely broke the silence. His face was calm, composed, but his eyes-sharp, calculating-betrayed the restlessness stirring within him. He had been awake long before the house began to stir, the weight of his thoughts pressing down like the ceiling above him.

The ticking of the ornate grandfather clock in the hallway outside seemed louder this morning, its relentless rhythm grating against his nerves. He rose with a deliberate slowness, his movements precise, almost mechanical. The cold of the polished wooden floor seeped through his slippers as he crossed the room, his steps soundless. He paused by the mirror, staring at his reflection without really seeing it. His dark hair, perfectly combed back, framed a face that was too carefully composed for his nineteen years. The faint shadows beneath his eyes hinted at another restless night, but they were barely visible-he'd never allow them to be.

He reached for his wand on the bedside table, the polished wood cool and familiar in his hand. A flick of his wrist, and the curtains pulled back to flood the room with light. It was almost too harsh, illuminating every corner of the space with an unforgiving clarity. The view beyond the window was as somber as the manor itself: neatly trimmed hedges, a pristine garden, but no real sign of life.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Orion," Walburga's voice called, sharp and commanding, as if the mere act of speaking his name was an order. "Breakfast will be ready soon. Your father wishes to speak with you."

"I'll be down shortly," he replied, his voice steady, neutral.

The door didn't open-Walburga never entered uninvited-but he could imagine her standing there, her spine as straight as his, her lips pressed into a thin line of impatience. Even through the door, her presence was suffocating. He could hear her footsteps retreating down the hall, each one deliberate, a reminder of her expectations.

He turned back to the room, adjusting the cuff of his robe with meticulous care before making his way to the door. The manor seemed quieter than usual this morning, though it was never truly silent. The faint hum of magic, the creak of old wood, the distant clatter of house-elves preparing breakfast-it all blended into an undercurrent that he'd learned to tune out over the years.

The hallway was dim, the walls lined with family portraits that seemed to watch him as he passed. Their eyes, cold and unyielding, followed his every step, their expressions a mirror of the expectations he carried. He could feel the weight of their gaze, the unspoken judgment woven into the very fabric of the house.

He descended the grand staircase, his hand skimming the polished banister, the wood smooth beneath his fingers. As he reached the bottom, he saw Walburga waiting near the dining room, her expression unreadable but her posture radiating impatience. She was dressed impeccably, as always, her robes dark and elegant, her hair perfectly styled. Her eyes, sharp and piercing, scanned him briefly, a quick assessment to ensure he was presentable before breakfast.

"Your father will expect you to listen," she said, her tone clipped, offering no room for argument.

Orion inclined his head slightly, the gesture respectful but devoid of warmth. "Of course," he replied, his voice as controlled as ever.

For a brief moment, her gaze softened, just enough to reveal the pride she rarely voiced. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by her usual mask of stern authority.

"Don't keep him waiting," she added, turning sharply and disappearing into the dining room, her robes billowing behind her.

Orion followed, his steps measured, his expression carefully neutral. He could feel the tension settling over him like a second skin, the weight of the day already pressing down.

The Black family's dining hall was a cathedral of power, its scale intimidating even to those who frequented it. Vaulted ceilings arched high above, decorated with enchanted constellations that shifted slowly in the dim light, casting a cold glow across the room. A massive chandelier of wrought iron and crystal hung like a cage of stars, reflecting fractured prisms onto the polished marble floor below. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of aged wood, fresh lavender polish, and the faintest trace of burnt firewood from the distant kitchens.

He entered the hall with an air of calm dominance, his every step controlled and deliberate. His sleek black robes, embroidered subtly with the family crest in silver near his collar, flowed as if gravity itself yielded to his presence. He took his seat without a glance at the others already seated, his movements seamless, almost ritualistic. The faint scuff of the chair legs against the floor was the only sound he allowed to announce him.

To his left, Regulus sat small and still, his youthful frame tense as he adjusted the cuffs of his deep emerald robes. His dark hair curled slightly at the ends, brushing the stiff collar of his shirt, which looked as though it had been fastened too tightly by someone else. He fiddled with the silver cufflink on his left wrist-a nervous habit-and quickly tucked his hands into his lap when he realized Walburga was watching him.

Walburga was regal in her stillness, now seated at the head of the table. Her sharp, angular face was devoid of softness, her pale complexion smooth but almost too taut, as though sculpted from stone. She sipped her tea with measured grace, the fine porcelain cup held delicately between her fingers. Every movement was deliberate, every breath calculated.

Her gaze slid to Orion, sharp and appraising. "You're late," she said, her voice cool but laced with an unmistakable authority.

"Not unreasonably so," Orion replied, his tone even as he spread the napkin across his lap. He didn't meet her eyes immediately, instead reaching for the silver coffee carafe at his side. As the dark liquid poured into his cup, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint tension in the air.

Across the table, Orion Sr. entered with a commanding presence that filled the room effortlessly. His robes were a deep charcoal, trimmed with metallic thread that shimmered faintly in the light. The strong lines of his face, framed by his silver-streaked hair, spoke of a man who had spent a lifetime enforcing control. His eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the room before settling on Orion.

"Good," Orion Sr. said simply, his voice a low rumble that echoed slightly in the vast space. He seated himself at the head of the table opposite Walburga, his movements purposeful yet unhurried. "Now we can begin."

The family began their meal in practiced silence. Silver forks and knives clinked softly against fine china, a restrained symphony of propriety. Platters of perfectly arranged food-fluffy eggs, slices of smoked ham, and delicate pastries dusted with powdered sugar-were passed around by silent house-elves who vanished as quickly as they appeared.

Walburga broke the silence, her voice slicing through the quiet like a blade. "Orion," she began, her eyes narrowing slightly as they fixed on her eldest son. "Your father and I have been discussing your future."

Orion straightened slightly in his seat, his expression unreadable. He raised his coffee cup to his lips, the warmth grounding him as he sipped slowly. "And what conclusions have you reached?" he asked, his tone measured.

"It is time," Walburga said, her words precise, "to solidify your position. You've proven yourself capable, but the world will demand more."

Orion Sr. set down his knife and fork with deliberate care, the faint sound drawing all eyes to him. "Your academic achievements are expected," he said, his voice calm but firm. "What matters now are your alliances. Your place in the Ministry. Your influence."

Orion inclined his head, the gesture respectful but noncommittal. "I've considered my options," he replied. "But I believe it would be premature to commit before the term ends."

Walburga's lips thinned, a flicker of displeasure crossing her face. "Premature?" she repeated, her tone edged with disapproval. "Opportunities do not wait for indecision, Orion. The Black family's legacy depends on decisive action."

Across the table, Regulus sat motionless, his fork poised halfway to his mouth. He didn't dare speak, but the slight furrow of his brow betrayed his discomfort. His gaze flickered to his brother, a silent plea for him to handle their mother's ire with the same effortless grace he always managed.

Orion Sr. leaned back in his chair, his gaze heavy on his eldest son. "Your mother is right," he said after a pause. "This is not a matter of preference. It is a matter of duty."

Orion's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he maintained his calm exterior. "Of course," he said smoothly, placing his coffee cup down with deliberate care. "I understand what is expected of me."

The tension in the room thickened, but no one addressed the absence that hung over the table like a shadow. Sirius's empty chair stood as a silent reminder of defiance, its vacancy palpable. Walburga's gaze flicked to it once, her lips pressing into a thin line before she returned her attention to Orion.

"See that you do," she said, her voice cold as winter steel.

Orion nodded, his face a mask of composure. Yet beneath the surface, the weight of their expectations pressed against his ribs like an iron cage. He glanced at Regulus briefly, catching the fleeting look of relief in his younger brother's eyes. For a moment, he wondered how long they could both endure this dance of duty and expectation before something-someone-broke.

Then he glanced at the empty chair at the far end of the table was an unspoken ghost in the room. Its high back, carved with intricate serpentine patterns, loomed like a shadowy figure against the grandeur of the dining hall. No one acknowledged its absence-not in words, not even in fleeting glances-but its presence was as tangible as the silverware in their hands.

Orion felt it most keenly in the silences, those moments when conversation waned and the soft clinking of cutlery against fine china was the only sound. His mother's sharp gaze avoided the chair entirely, her attention fixed on him with a precision that felt almost punishing. His father, ever composed, seemed to dismiss its significance altogether, but the slight tension in his jaw betrayed his thoughts.

Regulus sat unusually still, his movements so careful they barely disturbed the air. His eyes darted once to the chair, then quickly away, as though even acknowledging its emptiness might summon trouble. He focused instead on cutting his pastry into meticulous pieces, his fork trembling just slightly in his hand.

For Orion, the absence hung over him like a weight. Sirius's defiance-his deliberate, reckless abandonment-was both an irritant and a liberation. The silence around his brother's name spoke volumes: Walburga's refusal to admit defeat, Orion Sr.'s simmering anger buried beneath layers of stoicism. Yet, the absence burned in its own way, a reminder of the burden Sirius had left behind, one that Orion carried now in full.

He stood from the table, his movements deliberate but unhurried, a contrast to the undercurrent of tension that had permeated breakfast. The scrape of his chair against the polished wood floor was louder than he'd intended, and for a fleeting moment, all eyes flicked toward him. His mother's lips pursed faintly, though she said nothing, her attention shifting back to Regulus as if the interruption had never occurred. Regulus sat hunched slightly forward, his expression carefully neutral. He hadn't touched the tea in front of him, though it had long since gone cold.

"I need some air," Orion said, his tone as measured as ever. It wasn't a request. It was simply an exit, one that carried with it the implication that no one should follow.

He didn't wait for a response. The door closed behind him with a soft click, muffling the sound of his father's voice, which had already resumed its discussion of alliances and futures, as if Orion's departure were of no consequence.

The chill of the morning greeted him as he stepped outside, sharp and biting against his skin. The Black Manor loomed behind him, its imposing silhouette framed against the gray sky, a testament to power and lineage and everything that weighed him down. He started down the gravel path without a clear destination, his footsteps deliberate but unhurried. The cold was a welcome contrast to the suffocating warmth of the dining room, where the air had seemed too thick to breathe.

The conversation lingered in his mind, replaying in fragments. His father's voice, steady and impassive, discussing his "potential" as though Orion were a pawn to be positioned on a chessboard. Marriages. Alliances. Expectations. "Sapphire Fairchild is promising," he had said, his tone measured, the words falling with the weight of inevitability.

And then there was his mother, silent save for the occasional nod of agreement, her sharp gaze flitting between Orion and Regulus as though she were taking stock. No compliments. No pointed praise. Just silence. It was worse that way, somehow. The absence of approval, the lack of anything resembling warmth-it left him with nothing to push against, nothing to defy.

The path wound its way toward the woods, the trees standing tall and bare, their skeletal branches reaching toward the sky. The forest was quieter than the manor, its silence less oppressive, more alive. Orion's thoughts churned as he walked, his footsteps crunching against the frost-covered ground.

His jaw tightened at the thought of it. The polished mask he wore-the dutiful heir, the perfect son-felt heavier than ever. And what did it matter? He played the part, followed the rules, but the praise was hollow. It was never about him, not really. It was about what he represented, what he could do for the family. The Black name, the Black legacy.

His frustration bubbled beneath the surface, a simmering anger he couldn't quite direct at anyone in particular. Sirius had walked away from all of it, left them to pick up the pieces of his rebellion, and yet part of Orion envied him for it. The freedom. The defiance. The ability to choose something different.

He didn't realize where he was headed until the trees began to thin and the edges of Salem's estate came into view. The house stood smaller and more inviting than the Black Manor, its ivy-covered stone walls and soft glow from the windows offering a stark contrast to the cold grandeur he had left behind. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, carrying with it the faint scent of burning wood.

For a moment, Orion hesitated at the edge of the property, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. He wasn't sure what had drawn him here-not really. Salem's house was a reprieve, a place where the weight of his name didn't press so heavily on his shoulders. But it was more than that, too. It was her.

He stood at the front door, his hand hovering just above the polished wood. The house before him was a world of sound and motion, the air filled with the distant hum of his own thoughts and the chaotic warmth of Salem's home. It was different here-raw, unrefined, a place of life that never seemed to slow down. In contrast to the stillness of his own family's marble halls, the noise here felt... alive. Her parents, the loud laughter of her siblings-he could hear it all behind the door. He couldn't help but feel a flicker of something unsettled, something uncertain, that always seemed to stir when he stepped into her world.

Before he could lose himself in the moment, the door swung open, and there she was.

Salem.

Her dark eyes met his, and there was the briefest pause-a flash of recognition, of challenge, and then that smile. Mischievous. Playful. The kind of smile that could mean anything, but always made him question whether he should worry.

"Well, well," she drawled, leaning against the doorframe as if she owned the entire space, "I didn't think you'd be in such a rush to see me before we go back to Hogwarts tomorrow. It's not like we won't see each other again-no need to get all clingy on me."

Orion raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving into something like a smirk, though he hid it behind his usual mask of dry indifference. "Clingy?" He let the word hang between them for a moment, letting his gaze drift over her, as though trying to calculate how to respond without revealing anything too honest. "If I were you, I'd be worried about you missing me more than the other way around. Let's not pretend you're not counting down the hours until you get to see me again at Hogwarts."

Her lips parted in mock offense, and before he could prepare himself, she stepped forward-just enough to close the gap between them. It was a small movement, barely noticeable, but to Orion, it was like a challenge. There was something in the way she moved, in the way she fit against the space between them, that made his breath catch, even if just for a second.

She didn't miss it.

"Careful, pretty boy," she murmured, her voice lowering just a notch, teasing yet somehow sharp, like she knew exactly how to unsettle him. "Your polished exterior might crack if you're not careful. Can't have you falling apart on me before we even get started."

She flashed him a grin, and before he could think of a retort, her fingers brushed lightly against his as she moved past him, heading toward the hallway. He was caught off guard by the touch-the way her fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary, as if she were testing him, or maybe something else entirely. It was subtle, the barest of contact, but it sent a jolt of warmth through him, something unexpected and unfamiliar, yet all too familiar at the same time.

Orion's heart skipped a beat, the pulse in his throat quickening at the simple, accidental touch. His eyes flickered to her face-her gaze flicking up to meet his just as her hand slid away, her smile still playing at the corners of her lips. There was something dangerously alluring about her nonchalant confidence, the way she didn't hesitate, how she always knew exactly how to play him.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment too long. She wasn't looking at him directly now, but the way the light hit her features-the way her dark hair framed her face-made her seem all the more real, more tangible. There was an intensity in her expression, an unspoken dare that made him feel something unexpected: unsettled.

He straightened his shoulders, pushing those thoughts aside, determined to keep his usual distance.

"Don't get too cocky, Salem," he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, but with a touch of humor still lingering in his voice.

She didn't acknowledge the words. Instead, she moved ahead, her footsteps light on the old wooden floor, and the soft creak beneath them echoed in the silence of the house. Her bedroom was just down the hallway, the door slightly ajar.

He glanced around, taking in the warmth of the house-a stark contrast to the sharp lines of his own life. The walls were adorned with photos, framed memories frozen in time, of her family, her life. Everything here felt alive in a way his world didn't. The smell of breakfast still lingered in the air, mingling with something floral-perhaps the faintest trace of her perfume, or maybe it was just the soft glow of the morning sunlight filtering through the open window.

Without thinking, his hand brushed against hers again as she moved to lead him down the hall, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary, the contact sending an unexpected pulse of warmth through him. The touch was brief, but charged, and Orion's mind immediately tried to retreat, to cling to the usual cold exterior that had always served him so well. But with Salem, it was never that simple.

Her eyes flicked to him, and for a moment, their gazes locked-a fleeting, powerful exchange that lasted only a beat, but felt far too long. Orion felt the pull of her presence, the weight of her gaze anchoring him in a way he couldn't explain. Her expression was soft, but there was something else there, something beneath the teasing mask she wore. He wondered if she knew it too.

They walked in silence for a few more steps, the sound of their footfalls mingling with the distant noise of her family-her parents, her siblings-voices rising and falling in casual conversation. The walls seemed to press in on him, the warmth of the house suffocating in a way he wasn't accustomed to.

When they reached the door to her room, Salem turned to face him, her gaze still teasing, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes-a silent challenge, an invitation he wasn't sure he was ready for. The door stood open, the room behind her bathed in soft, golden light. It felt almost like a threshold-a place where their banter, their games, would finally give way to something else.

"You're not backing out now, are you?" she asked, her voice low, her words slipping between them like a dare.

Orion stood still for a moment, letting the tension settle around them like an invisible force. He could feel the pulse of his own heartbeat in his ears, louder than ever. He wasn't sure when it had become this difficult to look at her-to be around her. It was as if the walls he'd carefully constructed around himself had begun to crack, one tiny piece at a time.

But his gaze didn't leave hers. He let the silence stretch, just long enough to let it settle in before he spoke.

"I'm not backing out," he said, his voice steady, even though everything inside him felt a little unsteady.

She smiled, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. There was something in her smile-something soft, almost tender-that made the air between them crackle with a new kind of energy.

Without another word, she stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind her. Orion stood there for a moment longer, his mind racing, before he followed her in, the door clicking softly behind him, sealing them both in the quiet, warm space.

The bedroom felt heavier than it should have, steeped in a kind of golden stillness that didn't match the sharp brightness pouring in from the half-shuttered window. Salem's room was exactly what he'd expected-messy, careless, yet oddly deliberate, like it had been thrown together by someone who didn't care how it looked but still managed to make it uniquely hers. Books in precarious towers, parchment crumpled and stuffed into the gaps between them. Her bed was a pile of mismatched blankets and pillows, none of which looked particularly welcoming, yet she sat there like it was a throne. Her legs were crossed, bare feet resting on the quilt, and her fingers toyed absently with a loose thread.

Orion lingered near the doorway, not leaning but standing like he hadn't yet decided to stay. His hands were tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers, his sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing the sharp lines of his forearms. He was still, but not entirely relaxed-his shoulders carried the faintest trace of tension, as if he didn't belong here and knew it.

"You're awfully quiet," she said, breaking the silence first, her voice light but with the kind of edge that made it hard to tell if she was teasing. She didn't look at him right away, her attention fixed on the thread she was twisting between her fingers. "What is it? The mess is too much for your delicate sensibilities?"

His lips twitched-not quite a smile, more of a shift, like the ghost of one had thought about appearing but decided against it. He stepped further into the room, his boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the floor. "I think I'm just impressed. Takes a certain level of skill to create chaos this... complete."

She hummed, tilting her head slightly, her hair sliding over one shoulder in a dark wave. "Not everyone can be a paragon of order like you, Orion. Perfect grades, perfect posture, perfect little Head Boy badge coming your way. What's next? A statue of you in the Great Hall?"

He scoffed, finally settling on the edge of her bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, though he sat at a distance that felt carefully measured. "Hardly. They'd have to tear down that tapestry of Merlin to make space. Tragic loss, really."

"Tragic for you, maybe," she countered, her tone slipping into something softer, more amused. "I think you'd love being immortalized. All those first-years whispering about the great Orion-Quidditch star, Hogwarts royalty, the blueprint for wizarding perfection."

"Wizarding perfection," he repeated, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing how they felt in his mouth. His gaze flicked to her, sharp and unrelenting. "Coming from you, I can't tell if that's supposed to be a compliment or an insult."

Her lips curved, faintly, almost reflexively. "Does it matter?"

His silence answered her. It lingered between them, thick and restless, before he leaned back slightly, propping one hand on the mattress behind him. "You spend a lot of time noticing me for someone who claims not to care."

"I don't notice you," she said quickly, too quickly. Her gaze flitted to him then, narrowing just enough to seem like she was challenging him. "You're just hard to avoid. Always walking around like you've got the weight of the wizarding world on your shoulders. Brooding. Thinking big, important thoughts."

The corner of his mouth lifted-a sharp, brief flicker of amusement. "Thinking big thoughts, am I?"

"Don't act like you don't know," she shot back, leaning forward slightly. Her hair fell into her face, and she tucked it behind her ear with a practiced, almost unconscious motion. "You're the golden boy, Orion. You walk into a room, and everyone stops what they're doing to watch. You've made it a sport."

"Observation," he corrected, his voice low and smooth, like the air just before a storm. His eyes hadn't left hers, not once. "Noticing details, watching how people move, what they say, what they don't. It's useful."

"Useful," she echoed, the word almost a whisper. She let it hang there, her gaze flickering over his face, searching for something she couldn't name. Then, with the faintest tilt of her head, she asked, "And what have you noticed about me?"

He didn't answer right away, but the way he looked at her changed-barely, almost imperceptibly, yet enough to shift the weight in the room. His gaze moved lower, to her hands, her wrists, the curve of her collarbone, before returning to her eyes. "You have a habit of losing yourself in things. People, ideas. Like last year, when you'd stop in the middle of the corridor just to help some first-year pick up their books or go on about some magical creature that probably doesn't even exist."

Her breath caught-not audible, not visible, but enough that she felt it. Enough that she resented it. "You noticed that?"

"You make it hard not to," he said simply. His voice wasn't gentle, wasn't anything close to kind, but there was something in it that pulled at the edges of her resolve.

For the first time, she couldn't think of a quick reply. Her gaze dropped to his hand, resting so close to her knee she could feel the warmth radiating from it. "I didn't think you were paying attention."

"You don't have to be paying attention to see something that obvious," he said, though his tone had softened, just slightly. His fingers twitched, a motion so small it could've been missed, but her eyes tracked it like it was the only thing in the room.

Her lips parted, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but it never came. The space between them had shrunk without either of them moving, the air thicker now, charged with something neither of them could quite name. She tilted her head, just enough to break the tension but not enough to lose it entirely. "And here I thought you were too busy basking in your own spotlight."

"Not much of a spotlight if you're standing in it too," he said, his voice quieter now, his eyes still locked on hers.

Her breath hitched again, and this time she didn't bother hiding it. Instead, she leaned back against the pillows, trying to create some distance between them, though her hand brushed against his sleeve as she moved. It wasn't intentional, but it wasn't accidental either.

"Careful," she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "People might think you actually like having me around."

He didn't respond-not in words, at least. But the look he gave her then, sharp and unguarded, felt louder than anything he could've said. It lingered long after he looked away, long after the silence wrapped around them again, too full to be comfortable, too fragile to break.

The room seemed to hold its breath. Salem leaned back further into the pillows, the muted light catching on her skin, making her seem more golden than she already was. She looked at him with a gaze that wasn't sharp or challenging, just steady, and far too knowing for his comfort.

Orion stayed where he was for a moment, sitting at the edge of her bed like he might leave at any second. But then he shifted, the slight creak of the mattress cutting through the silence as he leaned closer. Not much-just enough to close the distance between them without fully committing to it. His gaze lingered on her face, tracing the faint furrow of her brow, the way her lips pressed together as though she were holding something back.

Her hand, still resting near where she'd brushed against his sleeve, flexed slightly, her fingers curling against the blanket as if testing its softness-or her resolve.

"You're staring," she murmured, her voice quieter now, almost an afterthought. The edge that usually defined her words had dulled, replaced by something softer, more uncertain. Her eyes didn't meet his right away, flitting briefly to his hand, now resting on the bed between them, before settling back on his face.

He didn't answer, not verbally. Instead, his gaze dropped lower, to the faint line of tension in her neck, before returning to her eyes. The corner of his mouth tilted up, not quite a smirk, but close enough to remind her that he noticed everything. Always.

"Do you ever stop talking?" he said finally, his voice low, the kind of tone that could almost be mistaken for casual if it weren't for the weight it carried.

"Do you ever stop deflecting?" she shot back, though her voice lacked its usual bite. There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to make her uncomfortable. Then she tilted her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder, and gave him a look that dared him to say more.

He didn't. Not immediately. Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing against hers-lightly, deliberately, the kind of touch that wasn't accidental but still carried the pretense of being casual. His fingers paused against hers for a moment, barely touching, before curling around them. Her breath hitched again, just enough for him to notice, and his grip tightened slightly, grounding her.

"You're quiet," she said, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. It wasn't a question, but the way she looked at him made it clear she wanted an answer.

"So are you," he replied, his tone even, though his gaze betrayed something more-something restless, searching. He moved closer then, just enough to blur the lines between their spaces, his free hand resting on the bed beside her hip. The bed dipped slightly under his weight, tilting her closer to him.

Her eyes flickered to his mouth for a fraction of a second-so quick it could've been missed, but not by him. "It's different," she said finally, her voice barely audible. "When I'm quiet."

"How so?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her lips parted as if to answer, but she didn't speak. Instead, she leaned in slightly, her hair brushing against his arm. The space between them felt impossibly small now, the air thick with something unspoken but undeniable. Her gaze dropped to his hand, still holding hers, then back up to his face.

"It just is," she said finally, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. Her other hand moved without her thinking, brushing lightly against the fabric of his sleeve. Her fingers stilled when they reached his wrist, the warmth of his skin startling against her own.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, deliberately, Orion's free hand lifted, his fingers brushing against the side of her jaw. His touch was firm but careful, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to linger but couldn't quite bring himself to pull away. Her breath hitched again, louder this time, and he felt it more than he heard it.

"You're-"

He didn't let her finish. His hand slid from her jaw to her neck, his thumb brushing against her pulse, steady but deliberate. His lips were on hers before she could say anything else, his movements precise but unhurried, like he'd been thinking about this for far longer than he wanted to admit.

She responded instinctively, her hand tightening around his wrist as if anchoring herself. Her lips parted against his, and he deepened the kiss, his grip on her neck firming slightly. The bed shifted under their weight as she leaned into him, her fingers trailing up his arm, over his shoulder, and into his hair.

The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable anymore-it was electric, charged with something neither of them dared to name. When they finally pulled apart, her forehead rested against his, her breath warm against his skin.

"Still deflecting," she murmured, her voice unsteady but tinged with something that sounded almost like amusement.

"Still talking," he countered, his tone low and rough, but there was a faint hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. His fingers grazed the delicate line of her jaw, his touch feather-light yet somehow grounding. His gaze was fixed on her lips, watching as they parted slightly, her breath quickening in the stillness of the room. The air was thick, filled with the unspoken tension that had been building between them for weeks. Every glance, every touch, every shared silence only seemed to make the space between them smaller. He leaned in, his lips hovering just a breath away from her ear, his voice a low murmur that vibrated against her skin.

Her breath was warm against Orion's lips as they kissed slowly, almost reverently. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging him closer, the touch almost desperate in its hunger. She couldn't quite explain it-why it felt so different that day, or why the world outside seemed to vanish in the weight of their connection. Every shift of his body against hers felt like a whispered secret, something between them that no one else could touch.

Their kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the very presence of the other.
Orion's hands moved along her waist, pulling her even closer, if that was even possible, and she couldn't bring herself to break away, not even for a breath. The steady pressure of his lips against hers made the rest of the world seem irrelevant, his touch a grounding force. Her mind was foggy with sensation, her pulse racing as she let herself melt into him, feeling the warmth of his body against hers.

But even as she lost herself in the kiss, her thoughts started to slip away, the tension of their relationship creeping back. She couldn't help it-was this still just a kiss? They had been here before, in moments like this, but that day felt different. There was something about the way his body pressed against hers, the way his touch lingered just a little longer than it used to. Her thoughts flickered, uncertain, and before she could push them aside, his voice broke through the haze.

"What's going on in your head?" Orion's voice was a low murmur, the words soft but edged with a quiet curiosity. His lips brushed over hers briefly before pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, his hands still resting on her sides, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of her skin.

Salem's mind spun, but the words stuck in her throat. She wanted to say something, anything, to answer him, but the moment felt too fragile, too delicate to shatter with her uncertainty. Her mind was a blur of questions, tangled thoughts of what they were, what this was-too many things at once, all clamoring for attention.

Her mouth parted, and before she could stop herself, the words spilled out, raw and unfiltered. It wasn't a thought, it wasn't planned-it was just there, slipping from her lips before she could even process it. It was so simple, and yet it felt like the heaviest thing she'd ever said. Her eyes widened in the split second that followed, her face flushing with the heat of her own admission.

"Only You."

author's note !!!

I'M SO EXCITED !!!! I LOVE THEM 😩😩😩 I NEED THEM 😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩 THEY ARE SO GOOD TOGETHER 😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩 BUT ! we have to wait.

LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK !!!!! leave a star and a comment ( i'm really happy to read your opinions !!! )
thank you for the attention 🩷🩷🩷🩷