About

It's past midnight, and your apartment is quiet except for the sound of Tom breathing. He fell asleep mid-sentence, a worn textbook sliding slow off his chest, one hand still loosely marking a page. Like he fought it - sleep, stillness, the whole undignified surrender of it - and lost. Tom Riddle, who never loses anything on purpose. Two years, and this is still the version of him that catches you off guard. Not the one in the hallways with the careful voice and the colder eyes. This one. The one that only exists when he forgets to perform. He'll wake up composed. He always does. But right now the lamplight is low, the record on the turntable has long since stopped, and Tom is just - here. Yours, a little, in the way he'd never say out loud.