The sharp scent of sweat, metal, and worn leather clung to the air as Daphne stepped into the National Quidditch training centre. The corridors echoed with distant shouts, the thuds of impact, the low hum of wards, and the whoosh of brooms crashing against enchanted barrier walls. But the weight room itself was nearly empty.
Except for him.
Daphne paused in the doorway, her eyes flicking briefly to a faded portrait of Oliver holding the Quidditch Cup aloft, the youngest captain in British history to win the English League. His wind-tossed hair, soaked in champagne, shimmered with enchantment, and the miniature team behind him cheered on loop, raising their brooms in triumph. One of the players in the background kept dropping his broom mid-air, only to levitate it back up with a frustrated flick. It hung slightly crooked on the far wall. She blinked once, then straightened her posture, jaw tight.
Oliver stood with his back to her, finishing a set of pull-ups, muscles flexing under the soaked fabric of his black training shirt. His shorts hung low on his hips, revealing a glimpse of a sculpted abdomen that tightened with each lift. Sweat glistened along the edge of his jaw, his curls damp and unruly.
Daphne froze in the doorway. For a moment, doubt whispered that maybe she shouldn't be here. It wasn't courage that brought her here. Just the need to prove she still had control of something... even if it was him.
Maybe she should turn away. But the pull was too strong. She told herself she wasn't here for this. That it was coincidence. That she was in the area.
Lies, all of them.
He didn't notice her at first. Not until he dropped down with a grunt, grabbing a towel and turning. His eyes widened.
"Princess?" he said, the word slipping out before he could catch it, less teasing this time, more stunned, as if the sight of her knocked the breath out of him.
Her heart stuttered at the nickname. A sharp pang, both familiar and unwelcome, stabbed through her.
"What are you doing here?"
Daphne lifted her chin, arms crossed like armor. "Passing by. Thought I'd see what you actually do with your day."
Oliver grinned, swiping the towel across the back of his neck. "You chose now? I'm disgusting."
"No argument here," she said, but her voice lacked its usual bite. Her guard flickered, if only for a heartbeat.
He raised a brow, watching her too closely. "Give me ten minutes, I'll shower."
She wasn't sure what she wanted. Just that it had to be him. She stared. Waited exactly three seconds. Then stepped forward.
"Don't bother," she said, her voice low and tight. "I'm not here to wait."
Her pulse thudded in her ears, betraying the calm she tried to project.
Oliver blinked. "What..."
She was on him before he could finish. The air between them crackled, the scent of salt, metal, sweat, and something darker she refused to name.
Their mouths collided with desperate heat, her fingers threading into his damp hair, tugging him down. He groaned, low and startled, as she shoved him against the nearest wall of mirrors. Her hands pulled at his shirt, dragging it up, revealing skin hot from exertion and slick with sweat.
"Daphne..."
"Shut up," she whispered against his lips.
She muttered a quick charm to muffle sound, then sealed the door with a flick of her fingers. The room stilled.
"Merlin," he rasped. "You're unbelievable."
"And you talk too much."
Her hands were everywhere, rough, needy, possessive. His shirt hit the floor. They didn't speak. Didn't think. Just kissed, mouths crashing, desperate and open, teeth grazing, breath stolen. Her hands tugged at his waistband. His fingers fisted the fabric at her hips.
"You're going to ruin me," he murmured, lips brushing her jaw.
"Then try to survive me," she said against his throat.
He backed into the mirror, pulling her flush against him.
Her body pressed into his, friction and heat rising fast. Her hands moved lower, deliberate and slow.
She didn't want tenderness. She wanted power. Control. And his silence when she dropped to her knees was the only victory she needed.
His breath hitched. "Daphne..."
She looked up once, fingers already tugging his shorts down. He was hard, straining, and she didn't hesitate. Her lips wrapped around him in one smooth, unhurried motion.
He groaned, head falling back. "Fuck..."
Her tongue worked him with ruthless focus, her movements precise, relentless. He held himself still, jaw tight, trying not to lose control.
Just when his hips began to twitch, he gripped her shoulders and pulled her up.
"No... no, not like this."
He kissed her, desperate, hands sliding down to cup her thighs. But he didn't lift her. This time, he backed them toward the floor, guiding her down with him, until she lay beneath him on the mat.
He dragged her underwear down, fingers brushing over her heat.
"Already wet," he muttered, voice raw. "What is it about sweat and danger that turns you on, princess?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her body moved with his instinctively, her back arching, eyes half-lidded.
He stroked her once, twice, then lined himself up and thrust in... not slow, not gentle.
She gasped, head falling back, her thighs spreading wider as he filled her completely.
"You like the ache, don't you?" he panted, grinding deeper.
"I like you desperate," she hissed. "Don't stop."
He obeyed, snapping his hips harder, deeper, making her cry out. The slap of skin echoed in the silence, matched only by ragged breath and broken moans.
Her orgasm came sharp and fast, her body trembling beneath him. "Fuck... Daphne..." he gasped, forehead pressed to hers, as if saying her name kept him grounded.
She bit into his shoulder to muffle her scream. He followed with a low, guttural moan, spilling into her, clutching her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
They stayed there, tangled and breathless, both too dazed to move.Silence hummed through the room, not empty, but alive, filled with the sound of their uneven breathing and the slow return of gravity.
He leaned forward, brushing a kiss to the tip of her nose... a silent truce in the aftermath of their storm.
Daphne's breath hitched, surprised by the softness. She smiled without meaning to, and he caught it, his grin widening like a secret shared. For a moment, vulnerability softened the edges of her usual armor.
When he finally pulled back, he looked dazed and smug all at once. He kissed her. Softly this time. Just once. Then grinned.
"Turns out," he whispered, brushing the tip of her nose with his, "you do like getting dirty."
To his complete shock, Daphne let out a breathless laugh.
And neither of them said what that laugh meant.
Maybe because neither of them wanted to admit it felt dangerously close to peace.