When life goes on

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

just like heaven - the cure 

Spinning on that dizzy edgeKissed her face and kissed her headDreamed of all the different waysI had to make her glow

YouSoft and onlyYouLost and lonelyYou

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Winter arrives in Sofia slowly. The trees stand bare, their black branches reaching toward a pearl-grey sky. The mountaintops have already donned their white coats—Vitosha rises in the distance, crowned with snow that glitters when the sun breaks through the clouds. The city bathes in that pure winter light, cold and crystalline, that makes everything sharper. A biting wind comes to nip at the noses of passersby with rosy cheeks, rushes through the cobbled streets, making the shutters clatter. December has started and the temperatures start to drop more and more.

But none of this stops Zora and the Bulgarian team from training every day.

If anything, the cold makes them fiercer.

Zora flies fast on her Firebolt Ultra, and the wind stings her face until her eyes water. Below, the Bulgarian training facility sprawls across the ground—three regulation pitches, indoor arenas for when winter turns truly vicious, and enough resources to make other national teams jealous.

They're winning this year. Not just winning—obliterating.

Eight matches into the season. Seven wins. One loss against Romania that still makes Coach Petrov curse in rapid-fire Bulgarian whenever someone's stupid enough to mention it. Top of the International League. Favorites for the next World Cup. The kind of season that turns players into legends.

And Zora's at the center of it all.

"KRUM! TIGHTEN THAT TURN OR I'LL MAKE YOU RUN LAPS AGAIN!"

Coach Petrov's voice rings out. Zora banks hard, her body responding before her brain finishes processing. The Firebolt Ultra answers like it's part of her nervous system—smooth, immediate, perfect.

She's in formation with Stanchev and Boyko—their captain and their other Chaser. Stanchev leads the charge, all muscle and calculated aggression, the Quaffle tucked against his ribs. His game face is legendary—completely blank except for his eyes, which track every player on the pitch simultaneously.

Zora flanks left. Reads his shoulders. Watches the microscopic shift in his grip.

He's going right.

She cuts opposite, dragging the two beaters with her for defense.

Stanchev passes. She scores. Simple. Beautiful. Exactly how they've practiced it a thousand times.

"Better !" Petrov shouts from the sidelines. "But Krum, you made that cut three seconds too early! Beaters with half a brain could've read it!"

"Sorry, Coach!" she shouts back.

"Sorry doesn't win championships!"

They reset. This time Zora's got the Quaffle, and Irina Volkova—all 176 centimeters of concentrated violence—sends a Bludger screaming past her ear as a test.

"Attention Krum!" Irina shouts from above.

"Hey! You almost killed me!"

"Almost doesn't count!" Irina mirrors their coach, laughing.

Zora feints left, hard enough that her body aches with the sudden direction change, then whips the Quaffle across the pitch. Stanchev catches it without looking, his attention already on the Keeper, already calculating angles and weaknesses.

He shoots. Scores. Turns mid-air to point at Zora with a savage grin.

"That's championship coordination!" Petrov actually sounds pleased, which is roughly equivalent to anyone else throwing a parade. "Run it again! And this time, Krum, be on time!"

Two more hours. Two brutal, beautiful, exhausting hours where Zora pushes her body past comfortable into that space where everything hurts but feels right. Where the cold stops mattering because she's moving too fast to feel it. Where the only thing that exists is the Quaffle and the goal and the perfect communication between teammates who've learned to read each other like books.

When Petrov finally blows the whistle—three sharp blasts that mean they're done—Zora's arms are screaming. Her shoulders burn. Her hands have gone numb despite her gloves, and she's pretty sure she's going to have bruises tomorrow.

It feels incredible.

They land in a messy group, everyone breathing hard, faces flushed with exertion and cold. The reserve team they've been scrimmaging against looks half-dead. They all look hungry for more.

Stanchev lands beside Zora, barely winded despite being ten years older and built like he could break trees with his bare hands. "That passing sequence in the third drill," he says, clapping her shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Perfection. Keep flying like that and we'll destroy Scotland in Marsh."

"We're going to destroy them anyway," Irina says, landing on Zora's other side. "Did you see me nail Dimitrov with that Bludger? Right in the ribs. Heard the crack from here."

"You almost broke his ribs," Boyko points out, pulling off his helmet. His hair is plastered to his head with sweat despite the cold.

"He's fine," Irina says cheerfully. "Mostly. He's walking, isn't he?"

"Limping," Boyko corrects.

"Walking with character."

Dimitrov, their reserve Beater, is indeed limping toward the locker rooms, one hand pressed against his ribs. He flips Irina off without looking back. She blows him a kiss.

"You're a menace," Zora says.

"I'm thorough," Irina corrects.

In the women's locker room, the air is filled with the shower's steam and the smell of sweat and leather. The mere thought of a scalding shower, water streaming over muscles still tight from exertion, feels like heaven to Zora.

She puts off her practice robes slowly, her muscles protesting. She's got a nasty bruise forming on her left hip where she collided with one of the reserve Chasers—a seventeen-year-old kid who's good but doesn't quite know how to get out of the way yet.

"That's going to be purple tomorrow," Irina observes, already half-dressed in Muggle jeans and a thick jumper. Her long dark hair is wet and tangled, and she's got a nasty scratch on her forearm from gods know what.

"Yours doesn't look great either," Zora points out.

"This?" Irina glances at the scratch like she'd forgotten it existed. "Walked into the cabinet door this morning while you were hogging the bathroom."

"I was in there for ten minutes—"

"Hogging," Irina repeats dramatically. "I almost died of bladder failure."

"You're so dramatic."

"And you're a bathroom tyrant. We all have our flaws."

Zora's still laughing when she steps into the shower, letting the hot water unknot her shoulders. She closes her eyes and enjoys the feeling. She smiles when Boyko can be heard through the wall, arguing with someone about whether that last goal counted or if he'd been fouling.

When Zora emerges twenty minutes later, clean and dressed in warm clothes, Irina's waiting by the lockers with that look on her face.

"No," Zora says immediately.

"I haven't even said anything yet!"

"You have your 'let's get drinks and I'll tell you about my disasters' face."

"I do not have a face—"

"You absolutely have a face. What happened this time?"

Irina grins. "Bar in twenty? I need to tell you about the absolute disaster that was my date last night, and you need to tell me about your Scottish Keeper."

"I live with you," Zora points out. "You already told me this morning. In detail. While I was trying to eat breakfast."

"Yes, but that was the preliminary debrief," Irina says seriously. "This is the full post-mortem analysis. With alcohol. There are nuances you missed."

"What nuances?"

"Bar nuances. Drunk nuances. The kind that require rakija."

Zora pretends to think about it, but they both know she's going to say yes. "Fine. But just one drink."

"Three."

"Two."

"Two and a half."

"That's not how drinks work, Irina."

"It is if we share a third one."

"That's still not—you know what, fine. Whatever. Home first?"

"Obviously. I need to change. I don't look hot enough."

Zora shakes her head, smiling, and the two women head back toward their apartment in Sofia's magical neighborhood.

Three months. Three months since she moved in with Irina in an old stone building, right above a wizarding bar where they've become regulars. Before the season resumed, Zora had choices. She could have stayed at the manor—alone, wandering through the now empty spaces. But the days stretched longer and longer in that vast house, and she'd started feeling like she was living with ghosts. Shadows in every room. Silence in every corridor.

Then Irina had suggested they get a flat together in Sofia. She was looking for a new place as her previous tenant kicked her out. She didn't have a lot of money, but Zora did.

It made sense. They're a five-minute walk from the training stadium. Right above their favorite bar, which means stumbling home after drinks requires minimal effort. The apartment itself is massive—high ceilings, tall windows, hardwood floors that creak. Zora pays for most of it, but she doesn't mind. The view alone is worth it—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city, Vitosha rising in the distance.

Zora had only one condition. A third bedroom for guests. More specifically, a third bedroom so that when Nora came with Oliver, she'd have her own space. And Irina had no problem with that.

And most importantly, life with Irina is easy. Comfortable. Also full of surprises. Like stumbling into the kitchen at seven in the morning, still in her underwear and half-asleep, only to find whatever guy Irina brought home the night before making coffee in his boxers.

That happens often with Irina. Very often.

But Zora's learned to just pour herself tea, nod at whoever's there, and pretend it's completely normal.

Because with Irina, it is.

"Bathroom first !" Irina announces the moment they're through the door, already running for the bathroom.

The bathroom door slams, and Zora hears music playing. She rolls her eyes and heads to her room..

Her room is sparse but comfortable. Bed. Wardrobe. Desk. A few quidditch posters and photos pinned to the wall—one of her and Oliver. One of the whole camp group from this summer. One of her, Oliver, and Nora from a few weeks ago, all of them grinning like idiots. One of Angie, Adeline and her.

Someone is missing. A vanished face that still haunts her. A daily void that fills her hours unwanted.

Viktor.

And there, on her windowsill, is exactly what she expects.

An owl. Oliver's owl, patient and slightly judgmental as always.

Zora crosses to the window, letting the bird in. It hops onto her desk. She unties the letter carefully. The wax seal is slightly crooked, which means Oliver was either tired or distracted when he sealed it. Probably both.

She'll read it later. After drinks. After Irina's finished her elaborate debrief of the date disaster. After they've laughed themselves sick about team drama and terrible men and all the small things that make life good.

For now, she sets it on her desk and changes into clean clothes—jeans and a jumper and the scarf Oliver gave her last month that still smells faintly like him.

"Bathroom's free!" Irina yells from the living room. "And I used your perfume!"

"You're the worst roommate!"

"And yet you love me, dear Zora !"

Zora does love her. She does love Irina's dramatic behavior and tendency to leave her Beater's bat in the middle of the living room floor. The way she makes terrible decisions about men and excellent decisions about literally everything else. How loyal she is. How she's become the sister Zora didn't know she needed.

They grab their coats and head out into the December evening, Sofia's streets lit with early Christmas decorations and the warm light of shop windows.

The bar is called The Griffin's Head. It smells like beer and cigarette smoke and something cooking in the back kitchen—probably sarmi, based on the way Zora's stomach immediately growls.

The interior is all dark wood and dim lighting. Photos of Bulgarian Quidditch legends line the walls, alongside pictures of the staff working here and customers during parties they threw. Someone's enchanted the jukebox in the corner to play a mix of Bulgarian folk music and modern wizard rock, and right now it's blasting something with too much bass and not enough melody.

They claim their usual booth in the back corner. The leather of the seats is worn and the table wobbles. The bartender, Georgi, doesn't even ask what they want. Just brings them two glasses of rakija and some warm bread with butter.

"To us," Irina says, raising her glass.

"To the best roommates," Zora corrects.

"I'll drink to that."

The rakija burns all the way down. Zora gasps slightly, and Irina grins.

"Lightweight."

"You've built up an immunity. It's not natural."

"I was born with this in my blood. My mother put that in my bottle instead of milk."

Zora grins. "Ah, that explains a lot then."

Irina snorts. "Fuck off."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, letting the warmth of the alcohol spread through their chests. Around them, the bar is filled with life—a group of middle-aged men arguing loudly about last week's match against Poland, two women in the corner playing some kind of card game with elaborate hand gestures, Georgi singing along badly to whatever's on the jukebox.

"Okay," Irina says, settling back and draping one arm across the booth. "The date. Full analysis."

"Tell me everything."

"His name was Julian. A student at the ministry or whatever, I can't remember. Shoulders like mountains. Arms that could probably bench-press me. Gorgeous. Absolutely, devastatingly gorgeous." Irina pauses for dramatic effect. "But the personality of wet cardboard."

Zora tries not to laugh. Fails. "That bad?"

"Worse. He spent—and I'm not exaggerating—he spent two full hours talking about his childhood. His mother. His traumas. His childhood dog "Chichi".'" Irina makes air quotes, her face a mask of exaggerated horror. "I actually considered hexing myself just to have an excuse to leave."

"But you stayed two hours?"

"I'm weak!" Irina throws her hands up. "He was so pretty, Zory. Like, objectively beautiful. I kept thinking maybe if I drank enough, his personality would improve."

"Did it?"

"No. It got worse. He started crying. At the table. In the restaurant."

Zora's laughing hard now, the kind of laughter that makes her ribs ache. "No."

"Yes! Full sobs and everything! The waiter didn't know where to look!"

"Please tell me you left after that."

"I did. Told him I had early training and left fast." Irina takes another drink, shaking her head. "And then I came home and ate all your chocolate while complaining loudly to our ceiling."

"I knew it was you! I was saving that chocolate!"

"You were hoarding it. There's a difference."

"There's literally no difference—"

"Hoarding is selfish. I was liberating it for the greater good."

"The greater good being your post-date depression?"

"Exactly. See? You understand."

Zora's still laughing when Georgi brings them another round. They hadn't asked for it, but he knows them well enough by now to know they'll need it.

"Never again," Irina declares solemnly. "Pretty doesn't fix boring. That's going on my tombstone."

"Very wise," Zora says. "Want me to start engraving it now, or should I wait until after your next date?"

Irina's mouth opens, pretending to be shocked. "Rude. But there won't be a next date," Irina insists. "I'm done. Finished. Taking a break from men entirely."

"Mh. How long?"

"At least a month."

"A month?" Zora repeats, eyebrows raised.

"A week."

Zora smiles. "There it is."

Irina sighs and takes a sip. "Speaking of romantic disasters, did I tell you about that thing with the reserve team?"

"What thing?"

"Someone saw Nicolas and Elena in the equipment shed last week."

"Elena, our assistant medic Elena?"

"The very same." Irina's eyes are shining now, delighted by the drama. "Except apparently, Elena is also seeing Kristian, who's one of our reserve Beaters, and neither of them knew about the other until—"

"Wait, slow down—"

"—until Kristian went to the equipment shed to get a new bat, and walked in on Nicolas and Elena, and there was this whole thing where Kristian hexed Nicolas' broom—"

"He hexed the broom?"

"Made it do loops randomly during practice. Nicolas couldn't figure out what was wrong for three days. Kept insisting it was the wind patterns." Irina's grinning so wide her face might crack. "And then—"

"There's more?"

"Oh, there's so much more. Then Coach walked in on Elena crying in the supply closet, and she told him everything, and now Nicolas' been transferred to the Vultra's reserve team, and Kristian got a formal warning, and Elena is pretending none of it ever happened."

Zora's shaking her head, trying to follow the thread. "I've been on this team for months and I had no idea any of this was happening."

"Because you're always either training or writing love letters to Scotland instead of paying attention to the drama around you," Irina says fondly. "Which brings me to my next point—how is the Scottish Keeper?"

And there it is. Zora can't help the smile that takes over her face—immediate, involuntary, wide and probably embarrassing.

"Oh gods," Irina groans. "That smile. Now I see you everyday wearing that smile and it's disgusting. I see it every morning over breakfast. I see it when you come back from Scotland. I see it when you're reading his letters. It's everywhere."

"I don't—"

"You absolutely do. It's like you swallowed sunshine. I'm happy for you, genuinely, but also it's revolting. Especially before I've had coffee."

Zora traces the rim of her glass, thinking about Oliver. About the routine they've built carefully over these past months. The way everything feels perfect.

They've found a routine that works. During the week, they're apart—Zora in Sofia with Irina, Oliver in Scotland with Nora. Training and their respective lives keep them occupied. But weekends are different. Weekends mean reunion. Usually Zora travels to them, though sometimes Oliver comes to Sofia instead.

Three stolen days where the rest of the world fades away, and nothing exists but each other.

"Well, he is doing good," Zora says, the smile never leaving her lips. "I'm going this weekend. I have my weekly training with Nora," she adds, laughing softly.

"His little sister, right?"

"Yeah. She's ten. Brilliant. Already obsessed with Quidditch." Zora's smile softens. "She follows me around the whole time asking questions. How do I do that spin move? What's it like playing for a national team? Can I teach her the Porskoff Ploy even though she's too young for it?"

"You're teaching a ten-year-old the Porskoff Ploy?" Irina asks, wide eyed.

"She wore me down! She's relentless. Reminds me of me at that age."

"Oliver's going to have his hands full when she gets older."

"Oh, he already does." Zora laughs. "But it's good. We cook dinner together, the three of us. Help Nora with homework. Sometimes we see friends—Angelina and George come over a lot. And during the week, we're apart. I train here, he trains with Scotland. We focus on our careers."

"Very mature and responsible," Irina says, somehow making it sound like an insult and a compliment simultaneously.

"It works for us," Zora answers, shrugging.

Irina signals Georgi for another round, then turns back to Zora with that expression that means she's about to get serious. "You've met the family now, right? The whole family?"

Zora grimaces. "Well I know Nora, obviously. I met her mother, but you know, she's sick. His dad..." She trails off, searching for words.

"Uh oh."

"It's complicated. Oliver and his father don't really get along. Something about career choices—Oliver picked the Scottish national team over Puddlemere United, which apparently was his father's dream, and there's been this tension ever since."

"Family drama," Irina says, rolling her eyes. "The universal constant."

"We had dinner with his dad a few weeks ago. It was so awkward I wanted to Apparate out halfway through. His dad kept making these pointed comments about 'hunger for fame' and 'disappointing choices,' and Oliver just sat there getting quieter and quieter." Zora shakes her head. "Nora tried to defuse it by talking about school, and I tried to change the subject to literally anything else, but it was brutal."

"Did you hex the dad?" Irina asks, smirking.

"I wanted to."

"That's restraint. I'm proud of you."

They fall into comfortable silence, watching the bar around them. Someone's started a very loud argument about whether the Vratsa Vultures are going to take the league this year. Georgi is half-heartedly telling them to keep it down while clearly enjoying the entertainment.

Irina refills their glasses. "Well, my dear roommate, I'd like to toast to you."

Zora raises an eyebrow. "Me? And why is that ?"

Irina takes her glass and raises it. "To you, finally, finally happy like you deserve. What's the secret ?"

Zora smiles and sighs, grabbing her glass too. "The secret is good teammates, a decent roommate, and a man who actually communicates," Zora says, clinking her glass against Irina's.

"Decent roommate? I'm an excellent roommate!" she says, pretending to be shocked.

They laugh and drink, and the rakija burns less this time.

An hour later, they're saying goodbye to Georgi and stepping out of the bar. When they get back to the apartment, Irina immediately claims the sofa, sprawling across it dramatically.

"Maybe I should try Scottish Quidditch player too," she announces to the ceiling.

"Go ahead,," Zora points out, heading toward her room. "Just not mine."

"Ouh, territorial, are we ?" Irina teases her.

For only answer, she spots Zora's middle finger before she disappears into the corridors. Irina laughs and shouts "Good night, love you!" before passing out on the couch.

Zora closes her door with a grin and crosses to her desk. The letter is still there, waiting patiently. Oliver's owl is long gone, probably halfway back to Scotland by now.

She sits, opens it carefully.

Zora,

Training was murder today. Our new Beater is either trying to kill me or is the worst aim I've ever seen. Possibly both. He sent three Bludgers at my head in the space of ten minutes. Callum thinks it's hilarious. I think it's attempted murder.

Nora's already planning your weekend. Fair warning—she's got a school project about famous Quidditch players and you're her primary source. She's preparing interview questions. She's taking this more seriously than some journalists I've met.

Also, she wants you to teach her that thing you did in the World Cup final. You know the thing. I told her she's too young. She told me I'm too old. I think she's winning the argument.

Six more days. Counting every second.

Miss you. Miss your eyes, your voice, your smile.

I love you.

Eternally yours,

Oliver.

P.S. - March can't come fast enough. I can't wait to block every single one of your shots.

P.P.S. - That's a lie. You're going to destroy me and we both know it.

Zora reads it twice, grinning like an idiot at his postscript about their match in March—Scotland versus Bulgaria.

She pulls out fresh parchment, already composing her response in her head.

She tells him about the training session, about Irina's disastrous love life, about the elaborate team drama and the love triangle that ended in hexed brooms. She draws a terrible sketch of the passing play they perfected today, knowing he'll appreciate it even if her artistic skills are nonexistent.

She signs off the same way she always does: I miss you more. I love you most. And I'm absolutely going to destroy you in March. —Z

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

December in Scotland doesn't ask permission. It takes.

Takes the warmth from your bones. Takes the feeling from your fingers. Takes every breath and turns it to white vapor that disappears the moment it leaves your mouth.

Oliver loves it.

He flies through the freezing air, rain turning to sleet that stings his face, and feels every inch of it. The cold sharpens everything. Makes every save matter more. Makes every movement count.

"Wood ! Watch your left !"

Coach Fraser's voice rings out and Oliver shifts just in time to catch the Quaffle that comes screaming toward his left hoop. He catches it one-handed, whips it back down the pitch with enough force to make the Chaser who threw it duck.

"Stop trying to kill each other and focus!" Fraser shouts.

Oliver's third year with the Scottish National Team is not the same as the two previous ones. Everything has changed.

Not the training—that's still brutal and gratifying at the same time. Not the pressure—that's still crushing. But him. He's different.

Better.

He lands briefly to adjust his gloves, and Callum MacLeod swoops down beside him, grinning like an idiot.

"Did you see that save?" Callum asks, not waiting for an answer. "Absolute poetry. You're making me look bad, Wood."

"You make yourself look bad," Fergus McKinnon calls from above. "Wood's just better than you."

"Take that back you bambot !"

Oliver's laughing before he can stop himself. Real laughter that comes easy now, not the forced kind he used to manage when he was trying too hard to fit in.

These past few months, something's shifted. The team that used to feel like strangers now feels like family. The conversations that used to make him uncomfortable now makes him laugh. The social situations he used to dread—team dinners, pub nights, mandatory media appearances—don't drain him the way they used to.

Zora would say it's because he's finally letting himself belong instead of holding everyone at arm's length. She's probably right. She usually is.

"Alright, back up!" Coach Fraser shouts. "Wood, I want to see that dive-and-roll sequence we worked on last week! McKinnon, work on your left arm because it looks like it doesn't want to work with your bat! Campbell, stop trying to murder our Keeper and actually AIM for once!"

Jamie Campbell, their newest chaser, grins wickedly. "No promises, Coach!"

They resume the training. Jamie sends Quaffle at Oliver with disturbing enthusiasm, Fergus attempts increasingly difficult defenses, and Oliver blocks everything. Dives. Rolls. Catches. His body moves on pure instinct now, years of training and months of brutal Scottish conditioning combining into techniques he has dreamt of achieving.

He's good. Really good. Better than he's ever been.

On one particular sequence, Campbell comes at him with a complex feint that would fool most Keepers. Oliver reads it—watches Fergus's grip, his shoulder rotation, follows his eyes—and blocks it before Fergus even finishes the throw.

"Oh, come on !" Fergus yells. "How did you even—that's not fair!"

"That's called being good at your job!" Callum shouts from across the pitch, laughing.

"He's showing off for his girlfriend!" Jamie announces. "You know she's a hundred miles away, right ? "

Oliver rolls his eyes, but he's grinning.The team erupts in laughter and wolf-whistles, and Oliver doesn't even care. Let them tease. He's happy. Actually, genuinely happy in a way that used to feel impossible.

Training ends two hours later with everyone exhausted and frozen and satisfied. They all land and walk towards the locker rooms.

"Pub tonight?" Callum asks, already pulling on dry clothes. "New place opened up in Leith. Supposed to have the best fish and chips in Edinburgh."

"Can't," Oliver says, toweling off his hair. "I need to go see my Ma and take care of Nora tonight."

Fergus and Callum stay silent, only nodding politely. They know about his mum. About dementia. About the slow, brutal way the disease is taking her piece by piece.

"How is Nora ? She doing alright ?" Callum asks, more genuine now.

Oliver's expression softens. "She's good. Great, actually. Top of her class in everything except History of Magic, but who isn't?"

Callum smiles fondly. "And your mum ?"

Oliver doesn't answer right away and takes a deep breath as he puts on his shirt. "She's okay."

There's a moment of heavy silence, then Jamie—bless him for not knowing when to leave things alone—pipes up with, "At least you've got your chaser to distract you! When's she coming back?"

"This weekend."

"And when do we get to actually meet her?" Callum asks. "I mean, we've seen her in magazines and everything, but never with you. Did you make the whole thing up, Wood ?"

"I didn't make her up—"

"Prove it. Bring her to meet us."

"She doesn't want to meet you lot. You're embarrassing," Oliver says teasingly.

"We're embarrassing?" Fergus looks genuinely offended. "You're the one to talk!"

Oliver throws a wet towel at him, but he's laughing. They're all laughing. This easy camaraderie that used to feel foreign now feels like home. He feels good.

Like he finally belongs in every small corner of his existence. In the locker room banter and the shared exhaustion after training. In Nora's laughter over breakfast. In the weight of Zora's hand in his. In his own skin, for the first time in years.

Not just existing in the spaces between other people's expectations, but actually living in them. Claiming them. Making them his.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Christmas is coming. The streets are filled with wizards clutching bags bursting with gifts. Every storefront in the magical neighborhood is buried under holiday decorations—enchanted lights that shift colors, wreaths that sing when you pass, windows frosted with scenes that move and breathe. Children tumble out of sweet shops with faces sticky and gleaming. Zora smiles despite herself, watching life animate the strees even as the cold sneaks beneath collars and cuffs.

She's walking home from training, muscles warm and tired, breath clouding white in the December air. All she wants is a scalding shower and maybe some of the leftovers Irina swore she wouldn't eat but definitely did.

She pushes open the apartment door, already pulling off her scarf, and stops.

Someone's sitting on their sofa.

Blonde hair catching the light of the fireplace. Familiar posture—back straight, hands folded in her lap. A cup of tea cooling on the table in front of her, untouched, the steam long since dissipated into nothing.

Adeline.

Zora's hand freezes on the doorknob. The cold from outside seems to follow her in, settling in the space between them. For a moment, neither of them moves. Just stares across the distance that feels like miles even though it's only a few meters.

"Hi," Adeline says finally, her voice small. Uncertain. Nothing like the girl Zora grew up with.

Zora closes the door with more force than necessary. The sound echoes in the sudden silence. "What are you doing here?"

"Irina let me in. She said—she said you'd be back soon." Adeline's fingers twist around each other.

"Irina says a lot of things." Zora stays by the door, her training bag still slung over her shoulder like armor. Like she might need to leave at any moment. "That doesn't answer my question."

Adeline flinches at Zora's tone, and something flickers across her face—pain, regret. "I wanted to talk. If you'll let me. I know I don't deserve—"

"You're right. You don't."

The words land like physical blows. Adeline's face crumples slightly before she catches herself, straightening her spine, lifting her chin. "I know. But I'm here anyway. Because I can't—I can't keep living like this. With this distance. Without you. It's killing me, Zora."

"Good," Zora says, and hates how much she means it. "Now you know how it felt."

"I do know!" Adeline's composure cracks, her voice rising. "I've known for months! Every single day I wake up and remember that I destroyed the most important friendship I've ever had, and I don't know how to fix it, and I'm terrified that I can't, but I have to try because the alternative is—"

She stops. Takes a shaking breath.

"Please," she whispers. "Can you just—can you sit down? For five minutes? Then I'll leave and never bother you again if that's what you want."

Zora wants to say yes. Wants to tell her to get out, to never come back, to stop reopening wounds that are barely starting to scar over. Her anger is a living thing in her chest, hot and sharp and comfortable in its familiarity.

But underneath the anger is something else. Something that remembers braiding Adeline's hair before matches. Late-night conversations about everything and nothing. Inside jokes that no one else understood. Her sweet smile that could cure any pain in the world. How she doesn't have a care in the world and how that always amazed Zora.

A lifetime of friendship that can't just disappear, even when you desperately want it to.

"Five minutes," Zora says finally, dropping her bag and moving to sit in the armchair across from the sofa.

"Thank you." Adeline's voice breaks on the words.

Silence stretches between them. The apartment feels too small and too large simultaneously. Outside, Sofia keeps living—cars passing, voices drifting up from the street, life moving forward while they sit frozen in this moment.

"How's the team?" Adeline asks finally, and it's such a ridiculous question that Zora almost laughs.

"Are you seriously fucking asking me about Quidditch right now?"

"I don't know where else to start!" Adeline's hands raise helplessly. "We used to tell each other everything. Every stupid thought, every fear, every putain de dream. And now I don't even know how to have a conversation with you. I don't know what I'm allowed to ask. What's safe. What will make you hate me more than you already do."

"I don't hate you," Zora says, and the admission costs her. "That's the problem. I wish I could hate you. It would be so much easier."

Adeline's breath catches. "Then what do you feel?"

"Betrayed." The word comes out easily for Zora. "Hurt. Angry. Confused. Because you were supposed to be my person, Adeline. You were supposed to support me. And instead you—"

"I know." Adeline's face is pale, her eyes too bright. "I know what I did. I chose to stay in contact with him. To talk to him. To listen to him. After what he did to you. After he—" Her voice breaks. "But I—"

"You went behind my back," Zora finishes. "You knew it would hurt me and you did it anyway."

"I didn't think!" Adeline's composure shatters completely. Tears spill down her cheeks, and she doesn't bother wiping them away. "I didn't think about what it would do to you. I just— I love him, Zora. Since forever. I've never told you because I don't know, he was your cousin. I thought he could never love me back; he could never love someone like me. And then everything happened. I received his letter. I couldn't just—I couldn't turn my back on him."

"Even though he turned his back on me?" Zora says weakly, eyes watering.

"I just—, I wanted everything to be like before!" The words explode out of her mouth. "I wanted us all to be together again. The three of us. Like we were before everything got so complicated. Before your fucking mother ruined everything. I thought—god, I was so stupid—I thought if I could just talk to him, if I could help him work through his guilt, maybe somehow we could all find our way back to each other. That I could fix it. Fix everything."

She's crying harder now, her shoulders shaking.

"But I couldn't fix it. All I did was break it more. Break us more. I chose wrong, Zora. I chose to keep him in my life without telling you, and that was—that was unforgivable. Because you needed me to choose you. You needed me to say fuck him, fuck his guilt, fuck his pain, because none of it matters more than what he did to you. And I didn't. But he needed me too. I tried to help both of you, and instead I lost you completely."

Zora's own eyes are burning now. "You should have told me."

"I know."

"You should have been honest. Let me decide if I could handle it."

"I know."

"Instead you made the choice for me. You made a choice for you, to satisfy your own guilt."

"I was scared!" Adeline looks up, and her face is wrecked. Destroyed. "I was terrified that if I told you, you'd make me choose. Him or you. And I couldn't—I've loved him my entire life, Zora. But you're my sister. My best friend. The person who knows me better than anyone. And I couldn't choose. I didn't want to choose. So I tried to help you both and clearly, it wasn't the best idea."

The confession hangs in the air between them.

Adeline sighs and sniffles, sinking lower in the sofa, like she wants to disappear. "I'm so sorry for everything. For what happened to you. For what he did." She clears her throat. "It's destroying him. The guilt. The shame. He can barely look at himself in the mirror. He's not the same person he was before—before everything. It broke him too."

"Good," Zora says, but there's less venom in it than before. Just exhaustion. "He deserves to be broken. Like he broke me."

"I know you think that. And I understand why. But Zora—" Adeline leans forward, desperate. "He's trying. Really trying. He's in therapy. He's working on himself. He wants to make amends, but he doesn't know how. He's terrified of hurting you more by reaching out."

"I told him before. We're nothing anymore," she says, but her voice betrays her. It hurts her. The words burn her more than she wants to admit.

Silence falls again. But this time it feels different. Less hostile. More sad. The kind of sadness that comes from watching something beautiful die and knowing you can't save it.

"I miss you, Z," Adeline whispers into the quiet. "Every single day. I miss my best friend. I miss the person who knows me better than I do. I miss laughing with you and training with you and just existing with you."

Zora closes her eyes and for a second, enjoys the feeling, the way Adeline's words soothes her wounds, her heart. "I miss you too," she finally breathes.

"Really?"

"Of course really." Zora opens her eyes, and they're wet. "You're my best friend, Adeline. You don't just stop missing someone like that. But missing you doesn't mean I've forgiven you."

"I just—" Adeline's voice breaks again. "I'm miserable without you and my angel. I miss you guys so much," she says before breaking into sobs again.

Zora looks at her. Really looks at her. Sees the dark circles under her eyes. The weight she's lost. The way her hands won't stop shaking. This isn't the confident, put-together Adeline she's known forever. This is someone who's been gutted by her own choices.

She sighs. "Part of me—a big part of me—wants to just forgive you and pretend none of this happened. But I can't do that. Because it did happen. And I can't just ignore the fact that when I needed you most, when I was at my lowest, you were talking to the person who put me there."

"I know—"

"Let me finish." Zora's voice is firm but not unkind. "I can't give you forgiveness right now. I'm not there yet. Maybe I'll get there eventually. Maybe I won't. But what I can give you is honesty. And the truth is—I don't want to lose you forever. I don't want to look back in ten years and regret not having you by my side."

Zora finally chose to speak with her heart open.

Hope flickers across Adeline's face but she chooses to stay silent and not push Zora. Instead, she stands and crosses the space between them, falling on her and taking her into her arms, her sobs louder now.

"I'm so sorry Zora, I'm—"

"Adeline—"

"I'll do better. I promise, I'm so sorry I don't deserv—"

"Adeline, stop." Zora pulls her hands free, then—after a moment—reaches out to wipe the tears from Adeline's face. The gesture is so familiar it makes her chest ache. "Just stop. Come here."

She pulls Adeline up and into her arms, and they both break. Crying into each other's shoulders. Adeline's strong shampoo's scent reaches Zora and it soothes her. How she missed this cheap strong supermarket brand monoï scent. She almost laughs and hugs Adeline tighter.

"I'm sorry," Adeline keeps repeating. "I'm so, so sorry—"

"I know. I know you are."

They stay like that for a long time. When they finally pull apart, both their faces are blotchy and swollen.

"So," Adeline manages, wiping her eyes with shaking hands. "Tell me. Tell me about your life. About Bulgaria. I want to know everything."

Zora hesitates, then nods. They move to the sofa this time, sitting with a careful distance between them.

"Okay," Zora says. "But you have to tell me about yours too."

Truth is she is dying to know about her life. About her days. About the French National team. Dying to talk to her. Like nothing has changed.

"Deal", says Adeline smiling.

And so they talk. Carefully at first, testing the waters, seeing what's safe and what still stings too much to touch.

Zora tells her about Irina, about the team, about the apartment with its view of the mountains and the bar downstairs where they've become regulars.

"And Oliver?" Adeline asks tentatively. "How is he?"

And Zora smiles. Can't help it. "He's good. We're good."

"I'm happy for you," Adeline says, and means it. "You deserve that. You deserve someone who chooses you first. Every single time."

Zora smiles and looks down. "What about you, then ?"

Adeline nods, then takes a breath. "Do you want to know about Viktor? Or would that—would that be too much?"

She rolls her eyes. "I asked about you, not about him. I don't care about what he's been fucking doing."

Adeline seems taken aback by Zora's answers and nods. "Well, nothing much, actually. I spend most of my time training, just like you. Viktor is here in Paris with me. He's trying to get through it. And— And I realise I'm talking about him and not me." She smiles through tears, the expression wobbly and self-deprecating. "Fact is I spent the last months trying to take care of him, trying to understand how he could do this to you, trying to understand him, and trying to find a way back to you, Z. The last months weren't really about me."

Zora frowns, guilt rising sharp and sudden in her chest. "Adeline—"

"And I'm losing myself. Without you. I don't know if I can keep doing this," Adeline admits. "Loving someone who did something unforgivable. Every time I look at him, I see what he did to you and at the same time, I see the man I love."

Zora listens silently.

"I feel trapped. And tired. And honestly I just want everything back to normal, back to my quidditch, parties with you and Angie, when we didn't have to be grownups and actually deal with our feelings and stuff," she says, smiling.

Zora laughs quietly, feeling like the old Adeline is finally in front of her again.

"I think—" Adeline stops. Starts again. "I think Viktor needs to stay away. For now. I've told him. Because this isn't about him anymore. It's about you. And you've built this beautiful life without him. You're happy. And he doesn't get to ask for forgiveness again just to make himself feel better."

"That's very mature of you."

"I'm trying to be better." Adeline's smile is sad. "Trying to think about other people before myself, before what I need. It's harder than it looks."

"It is," Zora agrees.

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around them. Then Zora notices something.

"Is that my jumper?"

Adeline looks down at herself. "What? No."

"That's literally my Vultures' jumper. The one that went missing five years ago."

"This is mine—"

"Addie, it has the stain from when you spilled pumpkin juice on me at camp. On the left sleeve. Right there."

Adeline looks at the telltale orange stain. "...Okay, so maybe I borrowed it."

"Five years ago," Zora says, crossing her arms.

"I was going to give it back!"

"When? At my funeral?"

"I forgot I had it!" Adeline answers, smiling.

"How do you forget you stole someone's jumper?"

"It's not stealing if I always intended to return it—" she adds, biting her lips to prevent herself from laughing.

"That's literally the definition of stealing—" Zora says, smiling too.

"It's long-term borrowing!"

"For five fucking years, Durand !"

Adeline's trying not to smile. "In my defense, it's a very comfortable jumper."

"I know it's comfortable, it's mine !"

"Was your jumper. Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

"That's not how that works—"

"I've been wearing it for three years. At this point, it's got my smell. It's mine by default," Adeline says, grinning.

"I want it back."

"You can't have it back. I'm emotionally attached now."

"What ?! Giv—"

"It's my comfort jumper! I wear it when I'm sad!," Adeline adds.

"Oh my god—" Zora says, rolling her eyes.

"Which is often, by the way, because my best friend hasn't been talking to me—"

"Don't you DARE use guilt—", Zora threatens her, pointing her finger at her.

They're both laughing now, the tension from before completely forgotten. Zora grabs a cushion and throws it at Adeline's head.

"Ow!"

"Give me back my jumper!"

Zora glares at Adeline, who's still laughing. "You're keeping the jumper, aren't you?"

"Absolutely."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I strongly dislike you."

"You moderately tolerate me."

"That's generous."

"You love me and you missed me and you're glad I'm here even if I did steal your jumper."

And despite everything, despite the hurt and the betrayal and the months of silence, Zora finds herself smiling. "Yeah, okay. Fine. You're right."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"Don't push it."

"Too late."

"God, I forgot how annoying you are", Zora says, rolling her eyes. 

"That's why you love me," the blonde answers, smiling wildly. 

Zora throws another cushion. Adeline catches it this time, triumphant.

"My reflexes are better now," she says proudly.

"Your reflexes are still terrible. I just have bad aim."

"You have excellent aim. You're just being nice."

"I'm never nice."

"You're nice to Oliver."

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

"I love him. Also I'm sleeping with him," Zora says as a joke.

"About that, I need some details, if you know what I mean," Adeline says, winking at her.

Zora rolls her eyes and they dissolve into laughter again, and it feels like coming home. Like finding a piece of yourself you thought was lost forever.

Later that night, after Adeline has left with promises to write and meet for coffee next week, Zora lies in bed staring at the ceiling.

"That looked intense," Irina says through the wall, eating an apple.

"It was."

She walks to Zora's bed and lies next to her, putting her head on her shoulder.

"You okay?"

Zora thinks about it. About the anger that's still there but feels far away now. About the grief for what they were. About the tentative hope for what they might become.

"Yeah," she says finally. "I think I am."

"Good. I'm glad you're talking to her again, she's hot and cool. I like her," Irina says and Zora laughs, shaking her head.

It's not forgiveness. Not yet. The only thing she knows is how good she feels after talking with Adeline again. And right now, she's going to focus on that. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗ 

This part contains mature content. If you're not comfortable with it, please skip to the end of the chapter . 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Snow falls on Sofia like a blessing, a week before Christmas. Soft, fat flakes that fall down from a white sky and settle on cobblestones, on rooftops, on the shoulders of wizards hurrying through the streets with scarves wrapped tight against the cold. The city transforms into something out of a fairy tale—all white and gold, the enchanted lights reflecting off fresh snow, making everything shine.

Oliver's hand is warm in Zora's as they wander through the streets, no destination in mind. He came for the weekend as his father was here to take care of Nora. He's here, in her city, in her life, and she wants to show him everything.

They've been walking for hours. Started at the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral—the Muggle one, golden-domed and magnificent—then wandered into the magical neighborhood as the sun fell lower. Stopped at a street vendor for warm banitsa that burned their tongues. Ducked into tiny shops crammed with Christmas decorations and came out with bags full of gifts for everyone.

"You're going to spoil Nora," Zora observes as Oliver adds yet another package to their growing collection.

"She deserves to be spoiled." He stops. "And don't say that like it's a bad thing, because I spoiled you too, ma'am."

Zora squeezes his hand and narrows her eyes. "Is that so ?"

"Mhmh," he says, lowering to her level, brushing her lips with his. "So stop saying nonsense if you want to see your gifts."

She smiles and rolls her eyes. "I hate that you are so perfect."

He chuckles. "What kind of gentleman am I if I don't spoil the women of my life?"

After, they end up in a small park tucked away from the main streets, sitting on a bench someone's cleared of snow. The world feels hushed here, muffled by winter, like they're the only two people left in the city.

"I talked to Adeline," Zora says finally. "She came to the apartment a few days ago."

Oliver stands straight and turns his face to her, feeling the urge to check if she's okay. "Really ? How did it go?"

"Messy. Good. Painful. Better than expected." Zora shifts closer to him. "We talked. Really talked. About Viktor, about what she did, about why."

"And?"

"And I think—I think maybe I can forgive her. Eventually. Not now. But someday." She looks at him. "Does that make me weak? Is it a stupid decision ?"

"No." Oliver turns to face her fully, his eyes serious. He brushes her cheek with the top of his thumb. "It makes you strong. Holding onto anger is easy. Letting it go is the hard part. And Adeline's your bestfriend."

"She loves him," Zora continues. "Viktor. She's loved him her whole life. And I understand that now, in a way I couldn't before."

Oliver's jaw tightens slightly. "That doesn't excuse what she did."

"I know. And I told her that. But I also understand it. The desperation. The fear of losing someone. The need she probably felt to be there for him also." She takes a breath. "Because I have that with you. If someone asked me to choose between you and anything else in my life, there wouldn't be a choice. It would be you. Every time."

Something shifts in Oliver's expression. Softens and intensifies simultaneously. "Zora—"

"I'm just saying I get it now. Why she couldn't let him go. Even when she should have."

Oliver reaches up, brushing snow from her hair with careful fingers. The gesture is so tender it makes her chest ache. "The difference is I would never put you in that position. I would never make you choose. And if I ever did something that hurt you the way Viktor hurt you—" His voice goes rough. "I'd walk away. Because loving someone means wanting them to be okay more than you want them to be yours."

"You're very wise for a Keeper."

"Keepers are extremely wise. It's all that time standing still, thinking."

"Don't fool me Keeper, you spend all that time thinking about lunch," she mocks him tenderly.

"I spend that time thinking about you." He says it simply, matter-of-factly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Zora's throat feels tight and she tries to hide the fact she is blushing. "That's very distracting for a professional athlete."

"Probably. But I don't care." His hand slides from her hair to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "You're my favorite distraction."

She kisses him then because she has to. His lips are cold from the winter air but she can feel the warmth of his mouth. She leans into the kiss, happy.

When they pull apart, Oliver's smiling. "I'm glad you found the strength to talk to her. I missed her too."

Zora nods and puts her head on his shoulder. He stands up. "Come on. You promised me that pub. The one you claim has the best Quidditch atmosphere in all of Bulgaria."

"It does have the best atmosphere."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"You're going to love it and then admit I was right."

"I never admit you're right. It's bad for your ego."

"My ego is perfectly sized, thank you very much," Zora says, smiling.

"Your ego has its own postal code."

She shoves him, and he catches her hand, pulling her up and against his chest in one smooth movement.

"I'm really happy right now. I wanted you to know that," he says, his nose brushing with hers.

"Yeah?" she says, smiling.

"Yeah." He presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Me too," she whispers.

"Good." He takes her hand again. "Now let's go get drunk and watch Quidditch."

"Best plan you've had all day."

The pub is packed when they arrive, warm and loud and smelling like beer and fried food. The match is already playing on multiple enchanted screens scattered throughout the pub—Vratsa Vultures versus the Heidelberg Harriers, and from the noise level, it's already intense.

They find two seats at the bar, squeezing in between a group of rowdy fans and an older couple who've clearly been coming here for decades.

Oliver orders Georgi drinks in absolutely butchered Bulgarian, and the bartender looks at Zora with undisguised sympathy.

"What did I say?" Oliver asks as the bartender walks away laughing.

"You asked for 'two waters of fire and also breads.'"

"That's not what I—I practiced that!", Oliver says, frustrated.

"You practiced wrong."

The rakija arrives in dangerous-looking glasses, and Oliver eyes them with suspicion. "This seems like a lot of alcohol."

"It's a normal amount," Zora says, shrugging.

"For who? Vikings?"

"For Bulgarians. Don't be a coward," she says, eyeing him.

"I'm not a coward, I'm sensible—"

"Coward."

"You're the worst."

"Drink."

They drink. Oliver's face goes through several expressions in rapid succession—shock, betrayal, acceptance, and finally something like enjoyment.

"Okay," he manages, shrugging. "That's actually not terrible."

"I told you", she says fondly.

The match is incredible. The Vultures' Seeker pulls off a move that has the entire pub on their feet screaming. Oliver's shouting analysis over the noise, his Keeper brain unable to turn off even when drunk, and Zora finds herself watching him more than the match.

The way his face lights up when there's a good play. The way he gestures wildly when he's explaining something, nearly knocking over his glass twice. The way he laughs, unguarded and genuine, when she makes fun of his commentary.

He's beautiful.

By the time the match ends—Vultures winning by thirty points—they're both pleasantly drunk and grinning. They stumble out into the snowy night, arms wrapped around each other. The walk back upstairs is full of Oliver trying unsuccessfully to sing along to the Bulgarian drinking song someone taught him.

He stops walking suddenly, spinning her around to face him on the stairs.

"What?" she asks softly.

"Nothing. Just looking at you." His eyes are dark, intense in the lamplight. "You're so beautiful."

"You're drunk", she says, laughing.

"I'm tipsy. There's a difference. And you're still beautiful." His hand slides into her hair, cradling the back of her head. "You're beautiful all the time. Always."

He kisses her then, and it's different from before. Deeper. More intense. His hands frame her face, and she rises on her toes to get closer, her fingers curling into his coat.

When they finally break apart, they're both breathing hard.

"Home," Zora manages. "We should—home—"

"Lead the way."

The climb up to the apartment feels eternal. Oliver's hand finds hers in the darkness of the stairwell, and she can feel his eyes burning her back. It feels electric between them.

Zora fumbles with her keys at the door, hyperaware of Oliver behind her. Close enough that she can feel his warmth. Close enough that when he shifts slightly, his chest brushes her back and she has to bite down on her lip as he starts to kiss her neck.

"Need help?" His voice is low, amused.

"I've got it."

"Hm. Right," he breathes against her skin.

She finally gets the door open and they stumble inside. Oliver kicks it shut behind them, the lock clicking into place with a finality that makes her pulse spike.

For a moment, they just stand there in the darkness of the entryway. Not moving. Barely breathing.

Then Oliver reaches out, his fingers finding her wrist, pulling her closer until she's pressed against him. His other hand comes up to her face, tilting her chin up so she has to meet his eyes.

Oliver's hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. The touch is possessive and gentle simultaneously, and Zora's breath catches.

"I want you, Zora," he says, his voice rough.

"I want you too," she breathes, arching a little towards him.

His hand tightens slightly in her hair, and then he's kissing her—deep and slow and devastating. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just thorough. Like he has all the time in the world and he's going to use every second of it to unravel her completely.

She feels his tongue in her mouth, hot and moving slowly. Her heart beats in a frantic way and she has to already hold on to him as her legs waver.

Zora's hands find their way under his jumper, seeking skin. She feels one of his hand taking hers and putting it on his heart. "Feel that, Zora ?" he says between kisses.

She nods, his pulse under her hand, wild and strong. "That's what you do to me, every fucking time," he says between her lips. "That's how I want you, how much I want you."

"Show me," she breathes. "Show me how much."

His hands slide down her sides, tracing her curves through her clothes, learning the shape of her. When he reaches the hem of her jumper, he pauses, his fingers playing with the fabric.

"Can I?" he asks.

"Yes. God, yes."

He pulls the jumper over her head slowly, his knuckles dragging against her skin deliberately. When it's off, he tosses it aside without looking, his eyes fixed on her.

"You're staring," she says.

"I'm appreciating."

"There's a difference?"

"Significant difference." His hands grab her waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin just above her jeans. "Staring is passive. Appreciating is active. Involves a lot more touching."

"I'm very in favor of touching."

"Good to know."

His hands slide up her sides, slowly, deliberately, his thumbs tracing patterns on her ribs. When he reaches the edge of her bra, he pauses, his fingers playing with the fabric.

"You're thinking too much," Zora says, her voice rough, needy.

"I'm savoring."

"Savoring?"

"This." His mouth moves to her other shoulder, kissing along her collarbone. "You. Every moment. I don't get you every day, so when I do have you—" He looks up at her, his eyes dark and intense. "I'm not rushing."

Her heart does something complicated in her chest. "Oliver—"

"Besides," he continues, his fingers finally slipping under the fabric, tracing the line where lace meets skin. "I like watching you come undone. Like knowing I'm the one doing it."

"Confident, are we ?," she whispers in his ear, holding on to his shoulders as he kisses her slowly, brushing his lips on her neck and shoulders.

"Observant." His thumb brushes against her breast through the thin fabric, and her breath catches, a moan escaping her lips. "See? Exactly like that. I love that."

She doesn't even have the strength to answer. He kisses the valley between her breasts, smiling, his hands sliding around to her back, finding the clasp. "May I?"

"Please." Her needy tone undoes him.

"Impatient," he says before undoing the clasp with practiced ease. His hands cup her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she arches into the touch.

"Fuck," Zora breathes.

He lowers his head, his mouth replacing his hands, and coherent thought becomes difficult. Zora's fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there, and he makes a sound of approval. Her fingers then wander down and pull his jumper over his head. They then trace the shape of his broad shoulders and the line of his muscles on his stomach, feeling them contract under her touch.

"Your turn to be stared at," she whispers, looking at him.

"Appreciated," he corrects, catching her hand and bringing it to his mouth. He kisses her palm, then her wrist, where her pulse is racing. "I much prefer appreciated."

"You're definitely appreciated."

He guides her hand to the button of his jeans, holding her gaze. "Keep going."

Her fingers are steadier than she expected as she undoes the button, lowers the zipper and pulls down his jean. His breathing has changed—rougher, less controlled—and knowing she's affecting him the same way he affects her sends heat pooling low in her stomach.

"Bedroom?" she suggests, though it comes out more like a question.

"Bedroom," he agrees. "Unless you want to give Irina a show when she comes home."

"Definitely bedroom."

They make it there somehow, hands and mouths never quite separating, stumbling and laughing and kissing. Oliver kicks the door shut behind them. He walks to her and she walks backward, their eyes never breaking contact, until her legs hit the bed and she slowly sits and lies on it.

He braces himself above her, and for a moment they just look at each other. His hair is a mess from her fingers. His lips are swollen from kissing. He looks wrecked and perfect.

His mouth trails down her neck, across her collarbone, lower. When he reaches her stomach, his fingers hook into the waistband of her jeans.

"These need to go," he says, kissing her just above the waistband, making her sigh.

"So take them off."

He does, slowly, taking his sweet, sweet time, his hands sliding down her legs as he pulls the denim away. When she's left in just her underwear, he waits a few seconds, looking at her with hunger. She can feel his hard breathing above her bare skin and the feeling is driving her crazy.

His hands slide up her legs, fingers tracing patterns on her inner thighs. "You're mine. How did I get this lucky?"

"Stop talking and touch me."

"So demanding." But he's smiling as he leans down, pressing kisses along her hip bone. His mouth finds her inner thigh, and her hips lift involuntarily. He pins them down gently, his hands splayed across her stomach.

"Patience," he whispers against her skin.

"I don't have patience."

"Then I'll teach you."

And he does. He takes his time. He kisses her sex through the fabric of her underwear first, never taking his eyes off her. Zora's heart races; she's afraid it'll let her go. She feels his large hands grip her thighs, and the warmth of his mouth landing on her sex, and it's too much.

Then his mouth moves to her other thigh, which he kisses slowly, letting his tongue linger in slow, sensual movements. With the fingertips of one hand, he plays with the lace of her underwear.

"You're killing me," she manages to say, her head thrown back, her hands gripping the sheet. For a simple answer, she feels him smile against her thigh. Then he lifts himself slightly and shifts the fabric of her underwear to the side, then finally places his mouth on her sex, earning a sound of pleasure that flows from Zora's lips.

He takes his time. He takes his time with slow, sensual movements of his tongue and his wet mouth. Then his fingers follow the rhythm of his mouth.

He takes his time until the world narrows to just his hands, his mouth, the way he seems to know exactly what she needs before she does. He takes his time, following the responses of her body and her voice.

He takes his time until she's gasping and begging and saying his name like a prayer.

But before he can finish what he started, she's pulling him up, her hands insistent.

"Wait—"

"My turn first," she says, pushing at his shoulder.

"Zora, you don't have to—"

"I want to."

She pushes him so he lies down on the bed. "Let's see if you're as patient as you say."

She goes on top of him and starts to kiss him, trying her best to recover from his mouth on her minutes before. As she kisses him, she begins to move against him, moving her hips, and she feels Oliver gasp between her lips. She feels his hands land possessively on her hips, but she smiles, shaking her head and grabbing his hands to pull them away.

"Patience," she whispers, chuckling. 

She starts to leave kisses on his neck, grazing the skin with her teeth, and down his chest, his stomach, lower. Zora slowly puts off Oliver's underwear. And even more slowly, with the tip of her tongue, she licks his sex from bottom to top, never taking her eyes off it.

He moans and grabs her hair with one hand, the other lost in the sheets.

And when she finally takes him in her mouth, he grabs her hair a bit tighter and swears. "Fuck—Zora—"

She takes her time too, using her mouth, tongue, her hand, changing the rhythm and the intensity of her movements, teasing him by stopping just before he reaches the point of no return, a smile on her lips, taking as much pleasure as he did in pleasing her.

But after a few more moments, when his breathing becomes ragged and his control starts slipping, he gently pulls her up. He grabs her face, thumb on her lips. "Turn around, now."

"Yes," she breathes as she slowly bites his thumb, looking at him in the eyes before sucking on it.

In one fluid movement, he flips her onto her hands and knees, his body covering hers from behind. Before doing anything, he dives on her neck, smelling her hair, her skin, leaving kisses, moving to her back, trailing kisses on her spine.

Oliver stands straight, his hands gripping her hips, steadying her.

"This okay?" he asks, his voice rough against her ear.

"More than okay. Please, Oliver—"

And then he's there, filling her completely, and they both groan at the sensation. He stays still for a moment, letting them both adjust, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, leaving kisses.

"You feel incredible," he whispers against her skin. "So perfect."

"It feels incredible," she says. "Now, please move."

He smiles and executes, starting slowly but quickly building rhythm. His hands tightens on her hips, thumb brushing the sun tattoo on the small of her back.

He straightens up, and the sight of Zora steals his breath.

Feeling her hips beneath his hands, the small of her waist, the sun etched on her honey-colored skin, the muscles in her back tensing, the nape of her neck framed by her hair, and that amber scent that emanated from her with the slightest movement.

Everything drives him wild. It's overwhelming. She's overwhelming.

He closes his eyes and tosses his head back, savoring every sensation. Every thrust pushes her forward slightly, and she braces herself, meeting him movement for movement.

"God, Zora—" His breathing is ragged in her ear. "You're so—I can't—"

"Don't stop," she manages to say. "Please don't stop."

He doesn't and picks up the pace. One of his hands slides to her front, caressing her breast, the other leaning against the headboard. His other hand goes lower and starts to make slow movements on her sex, never stopping the thrust.

Oliver feels he's close, Zora's sounds of pleasure doing nothing to quell his own. The wooden headboard sinks into his palm as he grips it tighter, trying to control himself. But it's useless when he feels Zora coming in a moan. He follows her moments later, her name broken on his lips as he buries himself deep and holds there, trembling.

They collapse together onto the mattress, both breathing hard, hearts racing, bodies still shaking. Oliver pulls her against his chest, pressing kisses to her shoulder, her neck, anywhere he can reach.

"That was—" he starts.

"Yeah," she agrees, because words seem inadequate.

They lie there in the darkness, skin hot and racing hearts gradually slowing. Oliver's hand finds hers, interlacing their fingers, bringing them to his lips.

"I love you," she whispers gently. "So much."

"I love you too, Zora Krum," he says. She turns in his arms to face him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

Eventually they clean up, stumbling to the bathroom together, laughing and talking loud, forgetting about Irina who has probably returned since. When they finally settle back into bed properly—clean, tangled in fresh sheets, Zora puts her head on his torso.

"Funny that I still haven't actually met Irina properly," Oliver says, his hand playing with her hair. "I've been here twice now and managed to avoid her both times."

"You haven't avoided her. And you won't see her tomorrow, she has to leave early to go to her dad's for a family reunion. If she hasn't killed herself before," Zora explains, laughing. "She's just always out dating or partying or drinking or doing god knows what with god knows who."

"Very conveniently." He grins. "Though after tonight, I think she definitely knows I exist."

Zora groans, hiding her face against his chest. "Oh god. She's going to be absolutely insufferable about this."

"What do you mean?"

"She's always teasing me about you. About how I "smile like an idiot" when your letters arrive. About how I get all distracted before weekends when I know you're coming. This—" she gestures vaguely at their naked bodies tangled together, "—is going to give her ammunition for years."

Oliver laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath her ear. "I like her already."

"You say that now. Wait until she interrogates you over breakfast about your 'intentions.'"

"My intentions are very honorable."

"Your intentions about five minutes ago were decidedly not honorable."

"Fair point." He tilts her chin up to kiss her. "But my long-term intentions are extremely honorable. Does that count?"

"What are your long-term intentions, Captain ?" Zora asks, and her voice is light but there's something more serious underneath.

Oliver's expression softens. His hand cups her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. "To love you. To make you happy. To take care of you. To make love to you. To cook for you." He pauses. "For the rest of my life."

Her breath catches. "For the rest of your life?"

"Too soon?" he asks quickly. "I'm not—I'm not proposing right now or anything. I just mean—I want a future with you. A real one."

Zora's eyes are suspiciously bright. "I can see it too. The future thing. With you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She kisses him softly. "Though fair warning—that future includes you cooking bulgarian meals for the rest of your life, every Sunday, starting tomorrow morning."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he says gently before kissing her. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗ 

Hello my loves

New chapter! I hope you liked it. 

I hope you liked the last part too, hehe, I made myself blush.

Sorry for the wait, but I've had a lot of work and accumulated fatigue since the end of September, and I went on vacation, hence the delay!

I hope you're all doing well and that you're still enjoying the story!

Thank you for your support, likes, and comments, I see everything, please never stop!I love you.

LMA <3