Sage’s words hung in the air, a blunt, harsh reality check that you desperately needed. She was right: the planned and articulated version of you that had done everything with Ethan, down to following his diet, was supposed to be gone. That girl that should have been buried under a pile of cardboard boxes and gold-embossed wedding invitations all those weeks ago.

“New fiancée,” you absentmindedly replied as you tried to squeeze a pair of sandals into the side of your suitcase. You whispered, “What if this is all a mistake?”

Sage’s expression softened quickly, her hand covering yours to comfort you. “Then it’ll be a mistake in Europe. And don’t you dare doubt yourself.” 

“It’s just not me!” You exclaimed while Sage rolled her eyes.

“Listen, I know that for the first time in your life, you're doing something completely insane. But maybe you need this to step out of your comfort zone!” She held up a swimsuit, eyebrow raised as she looked at you with a horrified look that crossed her face. “The first step being throwing this away.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“No! Absolutely not.” You turned away towards your closet to collect more dresses to pack. A little twinge in your stomach pulsed as you pondered over the entire situation, if it’d even been the right thing to do after all these weeks. For the first two weeks after Rafe left that folder on your counter, you had completely frozen, as if touching it would’ve burnt you alive. It pained you not to know the contents of its package, but you knew it’d hurt you even more to see everything they would’ve done, while you were expected to move on as if the last eleven years were simply a snapshot that you never thought would mean so little. 

It wasn’t until one night that curiosity had gotten the best of you, leading to you typing Charlotte’s name into the search bar on Instagram. You should have removed every trace of them both to give them no access to your life, regardless of how much of a trainwreck it is behind the scenes. Yet still, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut that part off, perhaps out of nostalgia or that Charlotte had truly been nice to you, someone who’d held your hand as she’d laugh while retelling about a memory she’d shared with Ethan, or when she’d shown up at your doorstep with soup and medicine after you’d spent three days bedridden with the flu because Ethan had been away on a business trip.

Maybe that was what made it all hurt so much more.

It would’ve been easier if she’d been cruel, or if she’d been some villain that had deliberately set out to destroy your life. Instead, she had been woven into it, invited into your home for dinners and holidays like family, trusted with secrets and stories that you hadn’t shared with many others. She’d sat beside you while discussing wedding venues, smiled as you showed her photographs of dresses, and hugged you tightly when you told her how excited you were to spend the rest of your life with Ethan.

It barely registered in your mind as to what you’d been doing when you clicked on her profile, yet you immediately regretted that you’d done so. The image was still burned into the back of your eyelids. It was a photo of Ethan and Charlotte at a vineyard, the lighting perfectly golden. He was laughing, his arm draped around her waist in a way he used to hold you, while she looked at him like he was her entire world. The caption had read: The best chapters are the ones we never planned. Counting down the days. It was disgustingly adorable. 

It was a slap in the face when you saw your college best friend, one who was your friend before becoming yours and Ethan’s couple friend with her husband, looking like she’d be celebrating with them in the background. They weren't hiding; they were outright flaunting the life they’d supposedly “won”, yet stole from you and Rafe. 

That was the exact moment you had grabbed your phone, dialled the number in the folder, and told Rafe to count you in.

“Hey, earth to my nun of a roomie!” Sage’s voice snapped you out of the memory. You blinked, turning back around to see her tossing your old, sensible one-piece onto your bed with utter disdain. Before you could defend it, she lunged toward your closet, digging past the sweaters until she pulled out a hidden drawer at the very bottom.

“A-ha!” Sage emerged from your dresser with a triumphant grin, holding up multiple scraps of fabric that made your cheeks instantly flush.

It was a pile of striking, incredibly sultry bikinis you had bought on a total whim months ago during a late-night online shopping spree—and had promptly hidden away, too self-conscious to ever actually wear them around Ethan. Sage wriggled her eyebrows suggestively, dangling the small strings in front of your face. “Now this is what you pack for a euro-summer, babe. This screams ‘I am hot, single, and down for a rebound.’”

“Sage, oh my god, no. I am not wearing that,” you groaned, reaching for your one piece and putting it in, but she playfully swerved out of your sight.

“You absolutely are,” Sage insisted, shoving the bikinis directly into whatever space was in your suitcase. “Look, even if the whole sabotage plan goes sideways, you’re going to be under the Mediterranean sun. You need to put this in—even if it just means you get to hook up with some drop-dead gorgeous Italian or Greek guy to finally get over your ex-fiancé.”

She winked, leaning over your luggage. “Or, you know... there's always your partner in crime.”

“No, Sage, don't start,” you warned, though a nervous, electric flutter danced in your chest at the mere mention of Rafe. “He’s going through it too. The last thing we could ever do is hook up with each other. Plus, he doesn’t have the best…past.”

“And who told you that?” She queried, deadpan apparent in her tone. “The same guy who ended up with his fiancée?” Sage wasn’t wrong; it was a bit unfair to judge someone whom you’d barely known aside from the information Ethan had told you from a biased lens. It was obvious that he hadn’t approved of Rafe, often voicing his disapproval for him, which had you believing that perhaps he truly wasn’t worth your time. Though, ironically, looking at the evidence, Ethan was the one who turned out to be the only one who’d had you debating whether he was worth your time now.

"Fair point," you muttered, pulling the zipper around the suitcase, hopefully shutting any second thoughts of backing out as you finished packing. Sage firmly gripped your shoulders, the unwavering belief she had in you evident in the way she looked into your eyes. "Go have some fun, get your lick back from that man, and for once, do something that's just for you."

Your suitcase felt heavy in your hand as you dragged it along the polished marble tiles in the airport, the anticipation and anxiety of this whole ordeal you’d gotten in bubbling deep within your stomach. The whole Uber ride was constantly checking your ticket, along with that moment replaying in your head like a record over the chains of events that’d strung together, yet you still couldn’t comprehend how it’d even come to be. 

It was the only thing that could consume your mind at work while the numbers on your monitor stared tauntingly back at you—another reminder of him that’d been etched into your life. Math might’ve been okay for you; finance wasn’t too bad for you to bear either; however, it was never your forte nor something you’d found yourself particularly drawn to. It only made sense because of how Ethan had framed it, leading you to both pursue the same career, even if the little voice at the back of your head nagged for the opposite.

Your spiral down memory lane was abruptly stopped when a low, gravelly voice cut through that haze. “You’re late.” 

Leaning against the support columns near the check-in desk was an unmistakable figure, his sunglasses resting atop his head despite the airport being entirely indoors, one hand shoved into the pocket of his navy jacket, the other absentmindedly gripping his phone. Your breath hitched at the sight, perhaps that this was truly about to happen. 

“I’m twenty minutes early from when we agreed to meet,” you frowned, instinctively looking towards the large clock suspended above the departures board.

"Could've been earlier."

Your eyebrows knitted together. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed." 

He only shrugged before turning on his heel. "C'mon." 

You stared after him in disbelief before hurrying to catch up, your suitcase bumping against your ankle. By the time you reached the priority counter, Rafe was already handing over his passport. 

“We’re checking two bags,” he told the attendant, his voice carrying that effortless authority he always seemed to have. You reached into your tote bag, sliding your own passport and printed confirmation onto the sleek marble surface. “I’ve already checked in.”

“With what ticket?” Rafe asked, puzzled. 

“The one that I bought?”

Rafe froze, like the gears in his head had stopped turning, and blaring alarms came on instead. Slowly, he turned his head toward you, his sharp eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. “...You what?”

“I… bought a ticket?” you replied, looking back at him as if the answer was obvious. "I'm sorry, am I confusing you?"

“No, I heard you.” His jaw clenched, a familiar stiffness taking over his shoulders. “I’m asking why.”

“Because it’s my ticket? It didn’t make sense for you to buy it.”

“The hell it didn’t.”

Beside you, the airline attendant suddenly found the keyboard in front of her incredibly interesting, her fingers typing rapidly to pretend she wasn't listening. You lowered your voice, stepping closer into Rafe's space, entirely aware of the expensive scent of his cologne cutting through the sterile, static airport air. It had you thinking about how much  “Rafe, you’ve already paid for the hotel, the ferries. Literally everything.”

“And?” he challenged, leaning a hand on the counter.

“My point is that I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own flight. I'm not a charity case.”

Rafe let out a sharp breath through his nose, running a hand over his buzzed hair before looking away toward the terminal windows. “Jesus Christ. D’you know how that looks? It looks like I dragged someone halfway across the world and made her pay for her own seat.”

You let out a small, bitter scoff, the exhausting weight of the last seven weeks making you bold. “Who cares what a bunch of strangers think?”

“I do,” the answer came so fast, so raw, it caught you entirely off guard. Rafe met your eyes again, his expression unreadable, stripped of his usual arrogance and instead, leaving something deeply frustrated underneath. Ward’s voice always echoed in the back of his head, demanding perfection, someone who was a natural leader, a man of status to match the prestige their family’s name held. To Rafe, letting you pay felt like a direct blow to his capability rather than an inconvenience. “I asked you to come, so ’m paying.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, your grip tightening around the strap of your tote bag.

“Me?” Rafe let out a humourless laugh, stepping into your space. “You act like letting someone do something for you is going to kill you. What is it with you and letting people take care of you?”

You shifted your weight, the cool, sterile air conditioning of the airport suddenly feeling suffocating. “I don't like owing people. I don't like being in debt.”

Rafe studied you for a long moment, his gaze tracking the defensive, rigid line of your shoulders, the slight tremble of your lower lip, and the stubbornness that wouldn’t crack. The heaviness of his gaze made you double down on him, your own expression mirroring his studying one as you refused to let yourself succumb to whatever Rafe had been trying to emphasize otherwise.

“You don’t have to do everything the way Ethan did.”

Your head snapped up, the mention of your ex hitting you like a physical slap. “What?”

“If the guy made you split every single bill or made you feel like a burden every time he spent a dime, that’s his problem,” Rafe said, his tone entirely matter-of-fact. “You’re here with me. So next time, let me pay for the damn ticket.”

For the first time since he’d stormed into your apartment, you found yourself completely speechless. You could only stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs as the weight of his words settled over you, unsure if you had the energy to defend your moral ground or fight Rafe for assuming anything.

The silence stretched between you until the airline attendant cautiously cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “...Sir, ma'am? Would either of you like to check those bags?”

Your heads snapped towards the attendant, an embarrassed flush making you feel hot while Rafe cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah, just uh-get those checked in.”

With not a word spoken to each other, you and Rafe made your way onto the airplane, only to go part ways upon climbing aboard, with Rafe headed towards the front while you made your way to the back. Being in economy had never bothered you, and seeing your dispute with Rafe having gone south, it felt better not to have to face the one person you’d be stuck with for the next few days. But as your back hit the cushioned seat, the plane’s wing in your sight from the window, you were forced to remember how you ended up here, or the irony of your situation. 

“But Italy is so overrated, and there’s barely anything exciting there,” Ethan exclaimed as you flipped through a travel magazine. The bright blues of the water and the small passages that could hold more value than they were intended for appealed to you, even if they were just ink on a page in front of you. “I think you’d like it more in Australia, trust me, it’ll be so much better.” 

“Italy’s pretty fun too, though, like here! Look at the Emerald Grotto!” You pointed at its image, though the disdain on Ethan’s face was pretty telling otherwise. 

“Australia has the same thing.” 

You looked back down at the photograph, mulling over the fact that it probably did.

“Really?”

“Probably better.”

"Oh." You looked back down at the magazine before offering him a small smile. "Then Australia it is." With one last look at the page, you pondered whether you’d ever get to go, but pushed that thought away because perhaps he was right. Australia had so much to offer that perhaps one place could never, or so you told yourself as you forced yourself to flip the page, trying to forget the idea of spending the summer in someplace that was almost everything.

Yet now, you found yourself on a flight to the same exact place he’d been bashing about, only for him to agree to go with someone else. Someone else who wasn’t you, someone who you hadn’t ever felt insecure of until now.

The hazy Italian sun flooded through the tiny airplane window, a stark contrast to the sterile fluorescent lighting of the cabin. The humid air of Rome wrapped itself around you the moment you stepped out of the airplane, replacing the stale, recycled air from inside with the energy that made you feel lighter than you’d been for the past two months. The scent of espresso drifted from a nearby cafe, mixing with the warmth of the sun-soaked pavement and the subtle note of cigarettes, yet somehow, it made everything feel more vibrant than home. It was all so surreal, and for a brief moment, you forgot why you were here in the first place. 

Before even landing, you’d noticed the terracotta rooftops peeking out from under the plane as you flew above them, your parents’ voices suddenly surfacing in the back of your mind as they reminisced about the summer they’d spent lazing through Italy before you’d been born. They'd always promised they'd take you one day, your mother insisting you'd fall in love with the little cafés hidden between cobblestone streets while your father swore you'd spend more money on gelato than souvenirs.

If only you’d had the chance with Ethan. 

By the time you navigated your way through customs and dragged your feet toward the baggage claim carousel, the jet lag was already starting to settle heavily into your bones. The area was a chaotic sea of weary travellers, with drifted conversations in both Italian and other languages flowing effortlessly around you, though Rafe was impossible to miss. He was already standing right at the edge of the moving belt, his dark sunglasses back on, looking completely unaffected by the nine-hour flight.

As you finally caught up to him, your mouth opened to say something, but the words died in your throat when you noticed the rigid, lethal stillness in his posture. He was staring intently at a pair of matching, designer leather suitcases that had just tumbled onto the carousel. They were unmistakable; large, monogrammed, and the luggage tags showed to be none other than Charlotte’s and Ethan’s, with their names embossed in the same gold tone.

Before you could even process the sheer coincidence of their bags arriving on an earlier connection, Rafe stepped forward. His movements were swift, practiced even, with not a sliver of hesitation. He reached down, hoisting Ethan’s heavy bag off the belt with one hand. With a quick, violent flick of his wrist, he ripped the personalized leather name tag right off the handle. He didn't stop there, grabbing Charlotte's bag and tearing her tag off too, tossing both pieces of plastic into a nearby trash bin without a single shred of remorse.

Sure, it was cruel, but something in Rafe made it feel more cruel to him that Charlotte had discarded their relationship, left him behind, and still willingly went ahead with the plan that he’d done for her. Perhaps the first time he’d done for anyone, purely out of making an effort to show his love for her.  

“Rafe!” you gasped, your eyes widening as you looked around the crowded terminal, panic surging through you. “What are you doing? Someone’s going to see you!”

“Let them look,” Rafe muttered, his voice a low, venomous rumble as he deliberately pushed both of their untagged bags off the moving carousel, sending them sliding aimlessly onto the concrete floor behind a massive pillar where they’d be completely obscured from view. He turned to you, a dark, chaotic glint in his eyes. “Good luck to them trying to find those anytime soon. Let's go.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a mix of adrenaline and terror coursing through your veins as you remembered that this was truly happening. You didn’t even have time to recover before Rafe gripped your elbow, steering you firmly through the sliding glass doors of the arrival terminal and into the bustling, humid Italian air. A crowd of private drivers stood behind a barricade, holding up signs with various surnames printed on them. Rafe’s eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk until they locked onto a man in a sharp black suit holding a sleek white placard that read in bold, black letters: CAMERON.

“Still can’t believe she was going to go on MY dime,” Rafe muttered and shook his head before marching you both forth toward the man. “C'mon, keep up.” 

The driver’s face instantly lit up with a warm, professional smile the moment he took in Rafe’s expensive jacket and your presence beside him. “Buongiorno! Mr. Cameron? And the beautiful new bride, Mrs. Cameron?” the driver asked in a thick, melodic Italian accent, gesturing toward a luxurious black Mercedes idling at the curb.

“Oh, we’re no-”

“Yes,” Rafe interjected before you could finish your sentence, and immediately, your head snapped towards him in astonishment. The lie slid smoothly from his mouth, his voice dripping with an effortless charm that was sure to have anyone falling for him. “That’s us.” Your breath hitched, and it only got worse when you felt Rafe’s hand slide down to wrap firmly around yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a tight, warning grip that silenced you instantly.

“Ah, meraviglioso! Congratulations to you both!” The driver beamed, stepping forward to take your suitcase. But before he opened the car door, he paused, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a small, beautifully wrapped velvet box tied with a satin ribbon. He handed it directly to you with a respectful bow. “A complimentary welcome gift from the hotel. We wish for you to have this the moment you touch down in Italy to celebrate your marriage.”

You held the heavy velvet box in your hands, the plush material pressing into your palms as you looked from the driver to the sleek car. You glanced up at Rafe, whose jaw was clenched tight, though a victorious, razor-sharp smirk played on his lips. You were officially holding the gift meant for the woman who stole your fiancé, sitting in the car meant to take them to paradise. There was no turning back now; you were completely in the driver's seat of their stolen life.

The second the driver disappeared to load the luggage into the trunk, you turned to Rafe. “You didn’t cancel any of your reservations?” You frowned. “How’d she know you had them booked in the first place?” 

Rafe, who was completely engrossed in looking out the window, looked back at you with a somewhat satisfied smirk on his face. “I was going to until I saw her email inbox. She’d been forwarding every confirmation to herself.” 

He said it so matter-of-factly that it almost made you forget just how invasive that sounded. “She never changed the password.”

“So... you read all of them?”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, but he couldn’t tell himself if it was out of pity for him or how dumb she’d been to overlook such a thing. “It wasn’t like I was going looking for recipes, now was I?”

“You know...” he continued, “at first I was pissed.”

“At first?”

“I was gonna cancel every booking she had.”

You blinked. “You were?”

“Mhm.”

“And then?”

His smirk widened. “Then I realized she'd already be expecting that.” The corners of your lips twitched despite yourself.

“So instead,” he continued, turning back towards you, “I figured it'd be a hell of a lot more fun if we just... beat 'em to everything. Like how they’re losing their shit right now.”

Following Rafe’s finger pointed at the airport behind the windows, you could see a poor desk attendant having to deal with exasperated people who’d been arguing with him. It was none other than Ethan and Charlotte, luggageless, while Ethan’s one vein began to bulge how it always did when he was distressed. You found yourself enjoying it more than you should have, a laugh escaping before you managed to bite it back, “Oh my god.” 

It was then, when the car drove away, you found yourself almost feeling bad for how much trouble Rafe had already put them through. Yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, laughing at it didn’t make you feel guilty.

It probably should have been obvious that for a honeymoon, Rafe would’ve booked a honeymoon suite, yet neither of you had realized it would be a bedroom you’d have to share. The bed, which was bigger than four of your twin-sized beds combined, had a huge bouquet of roses, with a note that had a congratulatory message written on it. Just beyond that was a terrace with a whole overview of the private estate's lush Roman gardens, the distant, sun-drenched rooftops of the historic city stretching out beneath a pale blue sky.

It was breathtaking, romantic even, yet everything that probably shouldn’t have been experienced with Rafe by your side. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whispered, your voice echoing off the vaulted, white-washed ceilings of the villa.

Your eyes slowly travelled from the majestic view back to the single, massive bed dominating the center of the room. The sheer white canopy netting hung elegantly around it, and the sprawling arrangement of blood-red roses sat right in the middle of the silk sheets like a glaring red flag. Behind you, the heavy wooden door clicked shut. Rafe dropped his duffel bag onto the terracotta tiled floor with a dull thud and tossed his sunglasses onto a nearby marble console table, his eyes sweeping over the room with a sudden, rigid tension that hadn't been there a moment ago.

He picked up the cream-colored card resting against the vase, his eyes scanning the elegant cursive. A cold, bitter laugh escaped his lips. “‘May your love bloom as beautifully as the coast. Warmest wishes to the happy couple, Mr. and Mrs. Cameron.’ Happy my ass.” Rafe said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble as he walked toward the bed. He ripped the card in half, tossing the pieces carelessly onto the mattress to kill the reminder of who Mrs. Cameron was supposed to be in this case. 

“Rafe, there’s only one bed,” you pointed out, the panic finally breaking through your jet-lagged haze. Your heart did a strange, erratic flip against your ribs as you thought of what would inevitably have to happen if there wasn’t another bed. “When you said we were booting them out of your reservations, I thought you meant we’d have separate rooms. A suite usually has a pull-out couch, or a second bedroom, or—"

“Darlin’, this is the honeymoon suite,” Rafe interrupted, his tone entirely matter-of-fact as he turned to face you. He loosened the top button of his shirt, the sharp lines of his jaw tight as he observed how on edge you were. As the fabric shifted, the afternoon light spilling through the terrace doors caught against the tanned skin just beneath his collar, your eyes lingering for a fraction too long before you forced yourself to look away. “There are no other rooms. This is what I paid for when it was supposed to be a honeymoon.”

You stared at him dumbfoundedly, your heart spiking in both frustration and confusion at Rafe’s reaction to the lack of space for you both, while the reality of the situation was crashing down on you. You were thousands of miles away from home, in a country Ethan had told you wasn't worth visiting, about to share a bed with Rafe Cameron—a man who was currently acting as the architect of a chaotic revenge plot.

“I can go ask the front desk if they have a vacancy,” you muttered, already half-turning back toward the door, your middle-class instinct to fix the problem kicking in. “I can pay for a standard room. It’s fine, I’ll just—”

“Nah, nah, nah. Not this shit again,” Rafe snapped, his hand shooting out to catch your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was firm, the warmth of his hand sending an unfamiliar current up your arm that you immediately hated yourself for noticing. It had only been a touch, one meant to stop you from walking away, yet your body had reacted as though it had forgotten whose hand it belonged to. 

He stepped closer, towering over you, the expensive scent of his cologne completely overtaking the room's lemon-scented air. “There are no vacancies. This is peak season in the country, and frankly, I’m not lettin’ you spend your money on some subpar room when my name is on the deed for this entire place for the next four days.”

You looked up at him, breathless at the sheer intensity he held in the cerulean hues of his eyes. “So what do you suggest we do, Rafe? Just sleep together? Like it's nothing?”

Rafe’s gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes, as if he were considering it. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it sporadically, sometimes lying at night, wondering if you’d be needing someone’s touch more intimately. Except, you were currently getting on his nerves a lot more than you did before, which made it hard to desire. 

“We’re adults,” he said softly, a dangerous, low cadence taking over his voice as his fingers slowly uncurled from your wrist. “The bed is huge. Jus’ keep t’your side, I’ll keep t’mine. We’re here to do a job, remember? Don't let a piece of furniture make you chicken out now.”

Neither of you moved. The breeze drifting through the terrace doors stirred the sheer canopy overhead, carrying the scent of citrus blossoms from the gardens below. Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang across the city, yet neither of you seemed capable of looking away first.

It was you who broke eye contact, stepping around him toward your suitcase with a muttered, "I'm taking the left side." Rafe let out a quiet hum behind you. "Wasn't gonna argue with you, Angel."

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, already irritated by how effortlessly he got under your skin, yet somehow still unable to decide whether his lack of protest was disappointing or relieving.

“This is where they’re supposed to be in a bit for their reservations,” Rafe said matter-of-factly after looking up from his phone screen. He looked to see you fidgeting with the side of your dress as you stared at the restaurant, uneasiness radiating from you. “Hey, uh- y’don’t need to stress ‘bout it.” 

You stopped twisting the fabric of your dress, cutting your eyes toward him with a flat, unimpressed look. "I'm not stressing, Rafe, I'm just… calculating the risk of everything." You levelled him with a firm gaze, making sure he knew you weren't about to fold or scurry off to hide the second things got real. "If we're committing to this, we can’t fuck this up."

Rafe’s lips twitched, a sudden, genuinely amused gleam cutting through his serious demeanour. "Fair enough, but you're wit' me. Nothing's gonna happen."

The nervous flutter in your stomach didn't fully melt until the hostess led you out onto the main terrace. The second your heels hit the stone floor, it was as if the air in your lungs were suddenly gone. The view was entirely unfair for the current circumstances you’d come here for. The restaurant was carved directly into the cliffside, hanging over a sea that looked like liquid sapphire under the setting sun. Below, the historic rooftops of the coastal town glowed in warm, golden hues, and the soft strumming of a mandolin drifted through the air, almost exactly how you’d imagined it, yet more. 

"Oh my god," you breathed, completely forgetting to be on guard for a split second. "I gotta hand it to her, she’s got taste."

"Yeah," Rafe murmured, though when you glanced at him, he wasn't looking at the sunset. He was scanning the layout of the patio, checking the perimeter like a man preparing for a casino heist. Once seated at a prime, frontline table overlooking the water, a waiter in a crisp white tuxedo slid two heavy, leather-bound menus into your hands. “Buonasera. May I start you with some wine, or are we ready to order?”

You opened the menu, your eyes scanning the Italian words as a sudden, deeply annoying wave of blankness washed over you. For all these years, your culinary identity had been entirely dictated by Ethan. 'We don't like seafood, remember, babe? Let's just share the truffle pasta.' You realized with a sickening jolt that you didn't even know what you liked to eat anymore because of how long you’d spent adapting to his preferences to keep the peace; your own personality had completely stalled.

"We'll do the Branzino al Forno," Rafe spoke up smoothly, not even looking at his menu. "And a bottle of the '21 Brunello."

The waiter nodded, pen poised. "And for the lady?"

“She’ll have the lemon risotto, but hold the capers.” Rafe froze immediately after the words left his mouth, while you blinked, staring across the table at him, lowering your menu. The second instinct he had to immediately jump to this order stunned him, the memory of it all making him peeved. “Actually, what do you want?”

You looked at him, just as ashamed as you softly replied, "I don't know."  A heavy, incredibly ironic silence settled over the table. You were a blank slate, entirely stunted by Ethan’s control, and Rafe was a carbon copy of Charlotte’s ghost, ordering her favourite dishes out of sheer, co-dependent habit. You were two fractured people trying to play roles that didn't even belong to you.

The waiter stood awkwardly between the two of you, clearly unsure of what was happening. "...Would you like another minute?" 

“No, it’s uhm, okay. I’ll try the risotto, but keep the capers please.” The waiter disappeared, causing silence to settle on the table that was heavy with shame and guilt. Somehow, between the two of you, neither one actually knew what they liked. Not because you'd never had the chance to discover it, but because somewhere along the way, the people you'd loved had quietly started deciding for you.

“To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever ordered for myself,” you confessed to Rafe, not really caring if he’d been listening or not. “Ethan mostly did it because his diet was more complicated and ‘better’, whatever that meant, so I guess it was safer just to follow that.”

Rafe let out a quiet breath through his nose before shaking his head once. "Jesus." A humourless smile crossed his face while rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I don't think I have either."

"You literally just did."

"I wasn't orderin' for me." His gaze drifted toward the view, a distant look in his eyes. "I was orderin' what Charlotte would've gotten."

Before you could say anything, Rafe reached across the table, straightening the candle before adjusting the position of your wine glass by less than an inch.

"What?" He asked, suddenly feeling hotter under your analyzing gaze as you watched him.

"Nothing."

He smoothed down the front of his jacket, adjusted the watch on his wrist, then glanced around the restaurant for what felt like the tenth time since you'd sat down. You couldn't quite figure out what he was looking for, or why he cared so much. Suddenly, a rise in voices and its ensuing commotion near the hostess stand caught your attention, causing you both to look in that direction. Through the small gap between people and their menus raised, you saw them.

Ethan and Charlotte walked onto the terrace looking like they’d been to hell and back. Their clothes were wrinkled, their hair was windblown from the coastal air, and Ethan was clearly carrying the stress of their previous mishap, his face red from the humid trek up the cliffside steps. But to your surprise, they were still clearly in love—Ethan was murmuring an apology, his hand resting against the small of her back—but the romantic illusion was definitely cracked.

“I hate to say this, but I feel bad that their trip started off this way,” You confessed, taking in the way her hand was wrapped around his arm, as Ethan’s eyes looked at her with a glimmer of love. Even with it all, you somewhat found it adorable how they’d still managed to find comfort in each other, not letting the circumstances affect them. 

Rafe looked at you before looking in their direction, seeing the amount of love you still held for Ethan in your eyes as your pupils widened with a glint of bittersweet that made it obvious that you were replaying the moments when it’d been you and Ethan in that exact position. He’d seen it one too many times at every backyard barbecue, every social event, at any and every setting your paths would cross, and yet, no part of him questioned if Charlotte had ever looked at him with that same gaze. Because for some reason, he knew she didn’t. 

Then, looking at the two, he couldn’t help but tense under how Charlotte had eased into Ethan’s touch, while most of the time, she was usually stiff under his. The realization was enough to make his stomach turn as he recounted all the times in the past two years that he’d told himself that she wasn’t affectionate, that physical touch was simply not her thing. That she showed love differently, and he was asking for too much every time he'd reached for her hand only to be met with frigidness and a polite smile. Even in their dishevelled, agitated state, she leaned into him like he was her gravity, a natural reflex that Rafe had never managed to evoke from her no matter how many luxury vacations or diamonds he threw her way.

He shifted his gaze back to you, watching the way your lower lip trembled slightly before you bit it down, forcing the bittersweet nostalgia back into the shadows where it belonged. A sudden, unfamiliar spike of resentment flared in his chest, not at Ethan, but at the sheer injustice of it all. You were sitting here, practical and sharp, holding onto a love that had been completely weaponized against you. On the other hand, he was sitting across from you, drowning in the phantom echoes of a relationship that had probably been a lie from the very first page.

Rafe tore his eyes away from them with a scoff, shaking his head once as if the movement alone could rid him of the sight. “Nah, fuck that. I’m hoping they get food poisoning from this place.”

“Rafe!” You giggled at his bluntness, making Rafe smile despite his mind saying otherwise. “That’s excessive!”

“Yeah? Well, it’s either that or them getting an STD-they’re coming this way. Look the other way!” Rafe reached for your hands, your nimble fingers finding a place in his palm as he rubbed his thumbs across your fingers in a loving manner. For the first time all evening, the knot sitting in your chest loosened just enough that you forgot—if only for a few seconds—that the two people sitting twenty feet away had once been the center of your entire worlds.

"I don't understand why our reservation was pushed back an hour," Charlotte complained in her honey-like voice as they were led past your table toward a cramped, dark corner near the kitchen doors. "And we were supposed to have a water view!"

“It’s okay, honey. We'll make the best of it,” Ethan soothed her, making you roll your eyes at their calm demeanours.

As they disappeared into the back corner, Rafe turned back, a victorious, entirely chaotic smirk spreading across his handsome features as he snapped his fingers, gesturing the waiter back over. 

"Sir?" the waiter asked politely.

Rafe leaned in, "The couple that just sat back by the kitchen—the Americans. Send them a complimentary bottle of this.” He pointed at the menu. “And tell them it's a special gift from the kitchen to celebrate their... delay."

“I must advise you, sir. That is very bitter; they’ll have a headache in two sips.”

“I know,” Rafe smirked, sliding a crisp hundred-euro note across the tablecloth with practiced ease. The waiter’s eyes widened slightly at the bill, but he smoothly pocketed it with a respectful nod. “Right away”

You watched the waiter walk off, then turned your gaze back to Rafe, who was looking entirely pleased with himself. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as you studied him. "You know, for someone who claims he doesn't care about anything, you are deeply obsessed with how the world sees you. And getting revenge."

Rafe’s smirk only grew bigger at the mention of it. "It keeps me alive."

“You got nothing else to live for?” You raised your eyebrows.

“It’s either that or making my dad proud.” 

“Doesn’t it get suffocating though?” You challenged, the analytical side of your brain digging in. “Trying to fit into a box?”

The question hung heavily in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Rafe didn't answer; he just stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, the sudden wall between you growing ten feet high. The reality was that you didn't really know each other, which made you feel worse about pushing it. You were just two tragic casualties of the same war, forced into a beautiful place under terrible circumstances.

The rest of the dinner was a quiet, slightly awkward affair, with small talk about how the food was good. You ate your risotto—which, ironically, you actually enjoyed—and watched from afar as Ethan took a sip of the terrible house wine, his face instantly twisting in disgust while Charlotte had a grimace on her face that she tried to mask as pleasure.

You found yourself looking into the bathroom mirror, trying to think of all the ways you could stall getting into the same bed as Rafe for the night. The nightly skincare routine was scattered on the bathroom counter and had all been applied with five minutes for each step, trying to delay every second you’d have to face him after awkwardly ending whatever banter you both had going on. 

With a deep breath, you looked up to the sky, eyes closed as you pleaded, “Please let him be asleep. Or hooking up with another woman in their room. Or anywhere but here.” 

As you stepped back into the room with whatever false confidence you could muster up, you looked to see Rafe, shirtless as he lay on the bed in his pyjama pants, scrolling absentmindedly on his phone. But once Rafe glanced up, for a second, he forgot what he'd been reading.

The pale satin of your pyjama set caught the warm glow from the bedside lamps, the fabric shifting with every hesitant step you took toward the bed. It wasn't revealing by any means, yet something about the way it draped over you so effortlessly made it impossible for him to look away. You looked softer than you'd been all day, more like the woman he'd watched laugh across the dinner table rather than the one who'd spent the afternoon arguing with him at every opportunity.

He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes back down to his phone before you caught him staring.

"You took forever."

You rolled your eyes. "I was hoping you'd disappeared by now."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Mmm, tough luck, Angel."

A quiet smile tugged at your lips upon hearing the nickname, despite yourself. You climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, making a dramatic effort to keep as much distance between the two of you as humanly possible. The mattress dipped beneath your weight. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the awkwardness of the situation feeling more apparent than ever.

You reached over to switch off the lamp before pausing.

"You know," you said quietly, turning back to see Rafe already looking at you, "today could've gone a lot worse."

"We're still alive."

"I was thinking more along the lines of not getting caught."

"We didn't."

"No thanks to you stealing their driver."

"Aye, they weren't usin' him."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

"You're truly something else."

"I've heard."

Silence settled over the room again, though this time it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable. You found yourself stealing a glance in his direction. The dim light softened the sharpness that usually lived in his features. Without the tailored shirts and expensive watches he'd worn all day, he looked different from all the times you had seen him; he looked younger and more relaxed. Less like the polished businessman he'd spent years trying to become, and more like himself, even if you hadn’t met that version yet.

The thought caught you off guard, making you quickly turn your attention toward the ceiling. Beside you, Rafe turned back to stare stubbornly at his phone screen, though he hadn't read a single word in the last minute. 

Jesus Christ, he thought to himself. He needed to stop looking at you in the light he was seeing you in right now. This was temporary anyway. You were temporary. You were just the girl he'd been dragged into this ridiculous revenge scheme with, nothing more, nothing less.

"Night," he muttered, finally locking his phone before setting it on the bedside table.

"Good night," you whispered back, turning towards the balcony door to see the tinge from the street lights glow from under. For what felt like an eternity, the only sounds were the distant hum of Rome beyond the doors and the quiet rustling of sheets every time one of you shifted, both painfully aware that there was another person only a few feet away.

Eventually, the steady rhythm of breathing replaced the silence. Tomorrow was another day, another opportunity to ruin their day, yet you hadn’t realized how much you dreaded doing it with the stranger sleeping on the other side of the bed.

dividers: @cursed-carmine @saradika-graphics

taglist update!!!: hi all, i mean this with my heart when i say I truly get so happy when see any of you asking to be on the taglist for eys. unfortunately, i’ll have to close the taglist solely because its getting hard for me to maintain, as i’m writing on top of working a corporate job which has become more demanding as i’ve gotten promoted. feel free to have the notifications on my my notif blog @/starkeyscumdoll to be updated. i'm so sorry to disappoint anyone and thank you for understanding! :’)

everyone arrived carrying the exact same baggage they'd graduated high school with, they'd just packed it into more expensive suitcases.

the campus practically encouraged the illusion. red-brick academic buildings covered in ivy that looked beautiful from a distance but smelled permanently of damp stone after it rained. tree-lined walkways littered with coffee cups and bike locks.

students lying across the grass between lectures with laptops balanced on their knees, pretending to study while gossiping about people they'd only met three weeks ago.

everywhere you looked, someone was trying desperately to become someone else. you'd stopped trying a long time ago. you'd been here nearly three years. you knew which lecture halls had broken air conditioning, which library floors stayed silent. which vending machines actually stocked edible food. which professors rounded grades and which ones absolutely did not.

your weeks never changed. eight a.m. lecture. coffee. work. library. sleep. repeat. it wasn't glamorous, definetly wasn't exciting but it worked.

it had to. your scholarship depended on it. your rent depended on it. your future depended on it. you didn't have parents wiring you emergency money every time life became inconvenient.

if you wanted something — you earned it. every single time, which was exactly why people like rafe cameron made your eye twitch.

everyone knew rafe even if they'd never spoken to him. his reputation usually entered a room before he did. president of one of the biggest fraternities on campus, captain of the lacrosse team, son of ward cameron—the kind of wealthy businessman whose name ended up on buildings after writing one cheque.

he drove a truck worth more than your tuition, wore watches that probably cost more than your apartment and the worse thing of all? never seemed particularly concerned about consequences.

he was loud without being obnoxious enough for anyone to call him out.

confident enough that people mistook it for charm. girls smiled at him before he even opened his mouth, laughed at his jokes before he even finished them.

professors gave him extensions they'd never give anyone else. the dean apparently knew him by first name. not because he was exceptional because he practically lived in disciplinary meetings.

you'd never understood the appeal. sure. he was attractive. painfully so. all sharp jawlines and messy blond hair that somehow always looked intentional. the sort of smile that probably sold people bad ideas but underneath all of that — he carried himself like the world owed him something. like every room belonged to him the second he stepped inside it. it drove you insane.

the first time you met him was during freshman orientation. you'd been carrying too much which, in hindsight, felt incredibly on brand. two coffees balanced carefully in one hand, three textbooks hugged against your chest despite classes not starting for another week your scholarship paperwork tucked safely between the pages.

you remembered feeling strangely optimistic. excited, even. then, the future still looked neat. he'd walked backwards out of the student union while laughing at something one of his friends said when someone directly slammed into you.

hard.

coffee flew everywhere. your books hit the pavement with a heavy thud. loose papers scattered across the concrete like playing cards. hot coffee soaked straight through your shirt.

for one completely silent second — all you could do was stare. brown liquid dripped steadily off the corners of your notes, ink bled into meaningless blue smudges.

you remembered standing there completely speechless while rafe stared for exactly three seconds before laughing. actually laughing. "shit." you could hear it immediately: he sounded inconvenienced, like he'd bumped into a chair, not ruined someone's morning.

you looked down at the ruined papers. then back at him. "...are you kidding?"

he reached into his wallet, peeled off three hundred-dollar bills and held them out. "buy new ones."

you looked up. baseball cap. backwards. sunglasses tucked into messy blond hair despite the fact there wasn't even any sun. one hand shoved lazily into his pocket.

"...what?"

"buy new ones."

you stared. "you think that's the problem?"

he blinked once, like you'd told him the sun was green. "...isn't it? it covers it."

"that's not —"

"probably extra."

you'd never wanted to throw coffee at someone more in her life. instead you'd shoved the money back into his chest like nobody had ever rejected the solution before. "not everybody can fix every problem by throwing cash at it."

you bent down, gathered the ruined papers, and walked away before he could say anything else.

behind you, you heard one of his friends call his name. then, after a beat: "your loss, then."

that should've been the end of it. it wasn't. college campuses were smaller than people realised, especially when you shared the same major. the first lecture you had together, he arrived twenty-three minutes late.

the professor didn't even stop talking. rafe wandered in carrying an iced coffee and absolutely no shame. he looked around the lecture theatre before his eyes landed on the only empty seat.

next to you. of course. he dropped into it, chair squeaking loudly. he looked over. "...hey." you kept writing. "still mad?" when you was silent, "i said my bad."

without looking up, you replied, "that's probably the most sincere apology you've ever given."

he was quiet for a second. "you got jokes."

"i've got notes."

"can i borrow them later?"

that finally made you look at him with the exasperation you gave petulant children. "...no."

"why?"

"because you should've come to class."

"i'm here now."

"twenty-three minutes late."

"still counts."

you looked back at the lecturer. conversation over. rafe watched you for another second before leaning back in his chair. "...mean."

he had an answer for everything. unfortunately every economics lecture became a battle. he talked constantly. if he wasn't talking to you, he was talking over the lecturer. if he wasn't talking, he was asleep. or scrolling through his phone. or throwing rolled-up paper at one of his frat brothers across the room. once he got caught watching a lacrosse highlight reel during a quiz.

the professor simply sighed and took his phone away. another professor would've failed anyone else. rafe got it back at the end of class with a warning. you nearly lost your mind.

"i don't understand why they let him get away with everything," you muttered one afternoon.

your roommate, kiara, looked up from her laptop. "because he's charming."

"he's manipulative."

"same thing to some people."

you groaned. "he doesn't even try."

"that's kind of his thing."

"it's infuriating."

she laughed. "you think about him an awful lot."

you looked horrified. "only because he keeps existing near me."

midterms arrived. the library looked like a disaster zone. students asleep over textbooks, empty energy drink cans stacked on desks, highlighters everywhere.

you'd claimed your usual corner on the fourth floor hours ago. it was nearly midnight now. quiet. finally. until — a chair scraped loudly across the floor opposite you.

you closed your eyes. "...please don't."

"don't what?"

you looked up. rafe. hoodie. backwards cap with a smirk already waiting underneath. "sit somewhere else."

he looked around dramatically. every other seat was taken. "...can't."

"try harder."

"you're funny."

"you're annoying."

he sat anyway. you lasted exactly seven minutes before closing your textbook, packing your bag and leaving. behind you he laughed loud enough to earn three separate shushes.

the following afternoon, an email appeared in your inbox.

please stop by my office after today's lecture.

professor hayes. strange. you assumed it was about your research paper or graduate recommendations. or maybe the internship you'd applied for through the department.

you certainly weren't worried. professor hayes liked you. he'd told you more than once that you were one of the strongest students he'd taught. so after class, you knocked twice before stepping into his office. "come in."

his office smelled like old books and coffee. the walls were lined with overflowing shelves. papers stacked in careful piles across every available surface. he smiled when he saw you. "have a seat."

you did. "you wanted to see me?"

he nodded. "i did." he folded his hands together. "you're one of the strongest students in this department."

you smiled politely. "thank you."

"which is why i wanted to ask you something."

"of course."

"would you consider tutoring another student?"

easy enough. you'd tutored first-years before. the money helped. "who is it?"

he glanced down at the folder on his desk like he was preparing for your response. "mr. cameron."

your smile disappeared. "no."

he blinked. "i'm sorry?"

"no."

"you haven't heard the details."

"i don't need the details."

"he's failing."

"that sounds like a him problem."

the professor sighed. "he's capable."

"he's lazy."

"he needs help."

"he needs consequences."

another sigh. "the department is paying."

you hesitated. "paying?"

he named the hourly rate. your heart sank. it was enough to cover nearly two months of groceries. he noticed the hesitation immediately. quietly, he added, "i know you're working two jobs."

damn him. you looked down at your hands. rent. tuition. textbooks. everything suddenly became numbers in your head. you hated that money made this difficult. you hated even more that you couldn't afford to say no. after a long silence— you sighed. "fine."

professor hayes smiled. "excellent."

you stood already regretting the decision. "when does he start?"

he checked his watch. "today."

"TODAY?"

before he could answer there was a knock against the open office door. "you done convincing her?"

you turned, and there he was. leaning lazily against the doorway like he owned the building, hands in the pockets of an expensive hoodie, baseball cap backwards. that same infuriating grin. his eyes met yours. the grin disappeared.

"...seriously?"

you said it at exactly the same time he did. professor hayes beamed. "perfect. i think you two are going to get along just fine."

the walk across campus felt significantly longer than it usually did. maybe because every step brought you closer to spending two uninterrupted hours with the most irritating man you'd ever met or maybe because professor hayes had smiled when he'd handed you the tutoring schedule.

actually smiled as though he'd just solved world peace instead of creating what would almost certainly become the department's biggest liability.

you clutched the folder a little tighter under your arm. inside were rafe's grades. or, more accurately — the complete lack of them. you'd skimmed them exactly once before immediately wishing you hadn't.

economics: forty-three.

statistics: thirty-eight.

business law: absent.

marketing: incomplete.

comments filled the margins in red ink. shows potential but does not apply himself.

excellent participation when present. attendance remains a concern.

please come to office hours.

the phrase shows potential appeared so many times it almost became insulting. potential wasn't achievement. potential didn't pass exams.

potential certainly didn't explain how someone could coast through life with the confidence of a straight-a student while collecting failing grades like souvenirs.

you pushed open the heavy library doors.

warm air wrapped around you immediately.

the familiar smell of old paper and burnt coffee settled your nerves—slightly.

the fourth floor was nearly empty.

late afternoon sunlight spilled through the enormous windows, stretching long rectangles of gold across rows of wooden tables.

it was quiet. study room twelve sat at the very end of the corridor. small. glass walls. one table. four chairs, a whiteboard. you unlocked the door with the key the librarian had given you and stepped inside.

your notebook landed neatly on the table. so did three sharpened pencils. highlighters. sticky notes. the textbook. you'd even printed practice questions.

because if you were doing this— you were doing it properly. you checked your watch. 3:58. two minutes early. exactly as planned.

3:59. 4:00. 4:02. nothing. you weren't surprised. 4:07. still nothing. you tapped your pen against the table. once. twice. 4:11. the door finally opened without so much as a knock.

rafe wandered in, backwards cap, grey hoodie with fraternity letters stretched across the chest, phone in one hand. keys spinning lazily around his finger.

he glanced around the room then at you. "'s looks depressing."

you didn't even look up from your planner. "you're eleven minutes late."

he checked the expensive watch on his wrist. "ten."

"eleven."

"close enough."

you slowly closed your notebook. met his eyes. "if you're eleven minutes late every session, by the end of the semester you'll have missed nearly three full hours."

he blinked. "did you just calculate that?"

"yes."

"that's..." he laughed once, sort of nervously. "...kind of terrifying."

"sit down."

instead of sitting, he wandered around the room. looked out the window. picked up one of your highlighters. swirled it between his fingers.

"don't touch my things."

he looked at the highlighter. then at you.

"...it's a highlighter."

"it's mine."

he set it down. exactly where it hadn't been before. you hated that even more. "you always this particular?"

"you always this difficult?"

"depends who's asking."

"me."

"...then yeah."

you took one slow breath. "are you actually interested in passing this class?"

he shrugged. "my dad is."

"that wasn't the question."

another shrug. he finally dropped into the chair opposite you, stretching his legs out beneath the table. "there."

"thank you."

"you're welcome."

you slid the textbook across. "page eighty-six."

he looked down then back up. "...didn't bring mine."

you stared."you knew you were coming to a tutoring session."

"yeah."

"and you didn't bring the textbook."

"forgot."

"your notebook?"

"...forgot."

"a pen?"

he patted his pockets dramatically. "also forgot."

silence. finally, you reached into your bag and placed a spare notebook and pencil in front of him. he smiled. "thanks."

"don'tmistake preparation for kindness. page eighty-six."

he opened the book with exaggerated slowness. the silence lasted all of twenty seconds. "so..."

you looked up. "...what?"

"how come you're always studying?"

"because i'm at university."

"yeah, but like..."

he gestured vaguely. "all the time."

"because unlike some people, i have to work for my grades."

he leaned back. "you think i don't?"

you almost laughed. instead, you pushed his latest exam across the table. forty-three. circled in thick red pen. "convince me."

his jaw tightened, only for a second, so quickly you almost missed it and then the grin came back. "low blow."

"accurate blow."

"professor hayes said you were nice."

you frowned. "he lied."

"clearly."

another silence settled between you. he picked up the pencil and spun it around his fingers yet didn't write a single word. you watched him for a moment, really watched him. for someone who acted so effortlessly confident, he hadn't actually looked at the exam once.

his eyes kept sliding around it. past it. over it. anywhere but directly at the grade. interesting. you made a note of it mentally.

"why economics?"

he blinked. "what?"

"why this major?"

"family business."

"do you like it?"

he answered too quickly. "doesn't matter."

the room fell quiet again. for the first time since he'd walked in, there wasn't a joke waiting. no smirk. no sarcastic comment. just a simple answer that sounded strangely rehearsed. then, almost immediately, he caught himself: the grin returned. "you psychoanalysing me now?"

"i'm trying to figure out if teaching you is a waste of my time."

he smiled. "and?"

you looked him dead in the eye. "the jury's still out."

in the next 20 minutes, rafe hadn't written a single word. e just stared at the textbook, page eighty-six.

you sighed. "read the first paragraph. out loud."

"seriously?"

did it look like you were joking? "yes."

he pinched the bridge of his nose. "this is humiliating."

"it's tutoring."

"same thing."

"read."

another long sigh. the sort of sigh that belonged to a child being asked to clean their room. he finally started reading. stumbled twice, skipped an entire sentence & mispronounced a word you knew he'd heard before, then stopped halfway through. "i hate this."

you looked up. "reading?"

"being bad at something."

that wasn't the answer you expected. you leaned back slightly. "you're not bad at it."

he laughed, actually laughed. there wasn't anything funny about it. "you've seen my grades."

you looked down at the papers spread across the table. forty-three. thirty-eight. missing assignments. late submissions. you'd assumed laziness, carelessness, someone who simply couldn't be bothered. "why are they so bad?"

he shrugged. "didn't do the work."

"i know that."

"that's the answer."

"it's not."

his jaw tightened. "you always this nosy?"

"only when i'm supposed to be helping someone."

he looked away towards the windows. outside, students crossed the quad in little groups, laughing loudly enough that you could hear them through the glass.

frat boys. sorority girls. backpacks. coffee. normal.

"they're bad because..." he started then stopped. "...forget it."

"finish the sentence."

"why?"

"because i'm asking."

he looked back at you. "you don't give up, do you?"

"no."

"because if i fail enough..."

he rubbed at the label on his drink. "...i don't have to go back."

you frowned. "...go back where?"

"home."

the word came out flat. empty. "the outer banks." he looked out the window again, rubbing the back of his neck while his voice got progressively more hoarse. "everybody thinks it's paradise." he laughed under his breath. "guess it is." another pause. "unless you grow up there."

you didn't interrupt. he seemed to appreciate that.

"people think money fixes everything." he picked absentmindedly at the edge of the paper in front of him. "it doesn't. especially there." his voice had gotten quieter now. "everything's divided."

he drew an invisible line across the table with his finger. "you've got the kooks." another line. "you've got the pogues." he gave a humourless smile. "and everybody decides who you are before they even know your name."

you'd heard the terms before. mostly through stories & tourists. students from the outer banks. it always sounded more like folklore than reality.

he didn't sound like he was telling a story. he sounded exhausted.

"i'm supposed to be..." he searched for the word. "perfect. captain, fraternity president, ward cameron's son." every title sounded heavier than the last. "doesn't leave much room for anything else."

the room was very quiet. you realised he still hadn't looked at you. not once. he'd spent the entire conversation staring at the table.

"professor hayes said you asked for tutoring."

he nodded. "i did."

"why?"

he smiled faintly. "because my dad would've laughed if i admitted i needed help."

"so i..." he shrugged. "used his account."

your eyebrows shot up. "what?"

"his university donor account." he glanced over, finally meeting your eyes. "he leaves himself logged in to everything."

you blinked. "you emailed professor hayes pretending to be your father?"

"pretty much."

"that's probably academic misconduct."

"probably."

"and fraud."

"little bit."

"you're insane."

"been told."

you stared at him. trying to work out whether he was joking. he wasn't. "why not just ask?"

that made him smile. not smugly. sadly. "because nobody like me asks for help. where i come from," he continued quietly, "if you can't do something, you either fake it..." another pause. "or somebody else does it for you." he looked down at the failing grades. "turns out neither works forever."

you watched him for a long moment. this wasn't the version of rafe cameron everyone else on campus knew. there was no grin, no effortless confidence, no jokes. just a tired twenty-one-year-old who looked like he'd spent years pretending he had everything under control.

it almost made you feel sorry for him. almost because then he ruined it.

he looked back at you. the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "you're different than i thought."

"i don't remember asking."

"i figured you'd be one of those people who likes fixing everyone."

you frowned. "i don't."

"good."

"'cause i'm not interested in being fixed."

there it was. the wall. straight back up. whatever honesty had slipped out a minute ago disappeared behind the same lazy grin he'd walked in wearing.

he reached for the pencil. spun it between his fingers. "besides..." his eyes met yours. "i'm mostly here because professor hayes said you were the smartest person in our year."

"...okay?"

"wanted to see if it was true."

your eyebrow lifted. "and?"

he shrugged. "jury's still out."

you actually laughed. the audacity of him saying that after arriving eleven minutes late, without a textbook, notebook, or pen, was almost impressive.

"that's rich."

"you've done absolutely nothing."

"i showed up."

"late."

"still counts."

you leaned forward.

"listen carefully."

his smile widened.

"yes, ma'am."

"if you're going to waste my time every tuesday and thursday afternoon, i promise you i'll make those two hours the most miserable part of your week."

he held your gaze for a long moment far longer than necessary. "can't wait." he stood, grabbed his untouched coffee, and headed for the door. his hand rested on the handle. "same time thursday?"

"unless you fail to show up."

he looked over his shoulder, that infuriating grin back in full force. "i'll be here." a beat. "wouldn't want you thinking you won."

the door clicked shut behind him. the room finally fell silent again. you looked down at the pristine notebook you'd brought specifically for tutoring. he hadn't written a single word. not one. you closed it with a sharp sigh. "unbelievable."

outside in the hallway, rafe shoved both hands into the pockets of his hoodie and walked away with that same cocky stride everyone on campus knew.

anyone passing him would've thought the session had gone exactly how he'd wanted.

they didn't see the way his jaw clenched once he was out of sight or how tightly he was gripping the strap of his backpack because if there was one thing rafe cameron hated more than failing — it was the fact that, for two whole hours, someone had looked straight through every version of himself he usually performed...

and he hadn't been able to stop them. which meant, whether either of you liked it or not — he'd be back on thursday. and he'd make absolutely sure you regretted agreeing to teach him.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

AN: please leave thoughts & feelings about this below! also i am so super tired so if there's plot holes pls lmk cause it wasnt intentional im js so drained but pumped this out lmao

"why do you keep bothering me?" you were fourteen when you finally asked him.

rafe froze. you'd caught him stealing your beach towel. again. "what?"

"seriously."you grabbed the towel from his hands. "why?"

he stared. you stared back. waiting. eventually he scoffed. "you're annoying."

"okay."

"that's it?"

you shrugged. "you're annoying too." then you walked away, leaving him standing there looking strangely offended.

the years passed. you lived three houses apart which meant you saw each other constantly. morning runs. beach days. cookouts. parties. the grocery store. everywhere. rafe was just... there, like an incredibly irritating neighborhood cat.

except something started changing, so slowly you could've missed it.

it began when you were seventeen.

you were carrying groceries home when someone grabbed the heaviest bag from your arms. you nearly punched them until you realized it was rafe. "jesus christ."

he ignored you. "why're you carrying all this?"

"because that's generally how groceries work."

he rolled his eyes and kept walking beside you, holding the bag. you lingered back a bit, expecting him to throw them into the road or the bush you were nearing. when he didn't, because it never came, it was weird.

then there was that boat party. someone bumped into you hard enough to nearly knock your drink from your hand. before you could even react, rafe was there. "watch where you're going."

the guy immediately backed off. you blinked. "did you just defend me?"

"don't make it weird."

"it is weird."

that was weird, too.

then suddenley it was everywhere, as if the past years he had spent constantly pestering you never existed. he started carrying things for you, saving you seats, bringing you drinks without asking, remembering things.

the remembering was the strangest part.

"your mom still making that lemon cake?"

you looked up from your phone. "what?"

"the lemon one."

"how do you remember that?"

rafe immediately looked like he regretted speaking. "i don't."

"you literally just did."

"whatever."

weird. so weird.

you mentioned it to kie one afternoon. "i think rafe cameron's having some kind of personality crisis."

she nearly choked. "what?"

"he's being nice."

silence. "oh my god."

"what?"

"you don't know."

"know what?"

she looked at you like you were hopeless which was rude.

the next week, things got even stranger.

your car wouldn't start. you were sitting in your driveway trying not to lose your mind when a truck pulled up beside you.

rafe climbed out. "what happened?"

"it won't start."

he glanced toward your car then held out his hand. "keys."

"excuse me?"

"keys."

twenty minutes later your car was running. "thanks."

"yeah."

you stared. he stared back awkwardly which was new. rafe was never awkward. rafe was usually obnoxiously confident. "can i ask you something?"

his shoulders visibly tensed. "depends."

"why are you being nice to me?"

silence. actual silence. and you watched panic flash across his face. real panic, the type you see in horror movies when they realise they're about to get killed.

which made absolutely no sense.

"what?"

he looked away. "nothing."

"rafe."

"drop it."

"no."

"because i wanted to."

"why?"

"because."

"that's not an answer."

his jaw clenched. you could practically see him trying to decide whether to run away which was honestly fascinating. finally he muttered, "i'm trying to be better."

you blinked. "better?"

"yeah."

"for me?"

as soon as the words fell out of your lips, rafe looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

oh. oh.

your eyes widened, jaw dropping. "wait."

he immediately looked away. "don't."

"you like me."

he winced and you started laughing. not because it was funny. well,. maybe a little but also because suddenly every weird thing from the past year made sense. every awkward conversation. every favor. every protective glance. every strange act of kindness. all of it.

"oh my god."

"stop saying that."

"you have a crush on me."

you laughed harder and for a moment he looked exactly like the twelve-year-old boy who used to steal your backpack except now there was something softer underneath. something nervous, hopeful.

you smiled. "you're a lot nicer when you're trying to impress me."

rafe groaned, but you didn't miss the smile that he tried to hide, which was cuter than the confession.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

Mattheo didn’t even glance up from his plate. “Didn’t ask for it, Hufflepuff.”

His voice was low, edged with that familiar bite. Sharp tongued as ever.

Around you, his friends, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy exchanged looks. Theo smirked into his pumpkin juice.

You shrugged, undeterred, and reached for some toast. “You didn’t have to. You skipped dinner yesterday. Figured you might be hungry.”

He finally looked at you then, dark eyes narrowing. “Stalking my eating habits now? Cute.” The sarcasm dripped like venom, but you just beamed at him, biting into your own toast.

Across the table, Pansy snorted. “Merlin, she’s at it again. Give it a rest, sweetheart. He’s not going to suddenly turn into Prince Charming because you bring him fruit.”

“I’m not expecting charming,” you replied lightly, defending yourself with a small laugh. “Just making sure he doesn’t starve while plotting world domination or whatever it is you lot do before Potions.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “Bold for a Puff. Most of your house would’ve run by now.”

You met his gaze steadily. “Most of my house doesn’t see the point in running from someone who hasn’t actually done anything to them.” Your eyes flicked back to Mattheo. “Besides, I like sitting here.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He took the apple though after a long pause and bit into it with more force than necessary.

You counted that as a win.

This had become routine. Weeks, maybe months now, of you orbiting him like a persistent moon.

Good mornings in the corridors, even when he responded with nothing but a grunt or a cutting remark about your “annoying cheerfulness.”

Little things: fixing the strap on his bag when it broke during Transfiguration, saving him a seat in the library (which he ignored and sat somewhere else, only for you to move anyway), defending him when some Gryffindor idiot muttered “Death Eater spawn” loud enough for the hall to hear.

His friends had started teasing you mercilessly at first.

“Another lap around the Riddle fan club?” Blaise had drawled one evening in the Slytherin common room after you’d somehow ended up there (Theo had dragged you along, claiming you were “funny” and “harmless”).

“Careful, love,” Pansy had added with a wicked grin. “He bites.”

You’d just shrugged and settled onto the couch like you belonged. “I’m not scared of teeth.”

Over time, the teasing softened. You laughed at their jokes, bantered back, helped Theo with Charms homework, and even managed to get Draco to admit your taste in Quidditch teams wasn’t completely abysmal.

You became part of the group, almost by accident. They got used to your presence. Mattheo… tolerated it.

Or at least, that’s what he showed.

Lunch was more of the same. You slipped into the seat beside him again, ignoring the way Lorenzo Berkshire raised his eyebrows across the table.

“Saved you the last treacle tart,” you whispered, sliding the plate over. “I know they’re your favorite.”

Mattheo exhaled sharply through his nose. “You keeping a bloody list or something?”

“Maybe.” You grinned, unbothered. “Someone has to notice these things.”

Theo kicked Mattheo under the table. “Mate, she’s literally handing you desserts on a silver platter and you’re acting like she hexed you.”

“Shut it, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, dangerous. But his hand closed around the fork anyway.

You chatted easily with the others, Pansy about the latest fashion disaster in the common room, Blaise about the upcoming match, Draco about some pureblood nonsense you mostly tuned out.

Every so often you’d glance at Mattheo, offering a comment or a small smile. He rarely responded with more than a grunt or a sarcastic jab.

He never spoke to you nicely. Not once.

Yet you kept showing up. After classes, in the corridors “How was Arithmancy?” even when he brushed past you with a muttered “Don’t you have badgers to hug?”

You sat with the Slytherins at dinner, laughing when they roasted each other, fitting in like a bright patch on dark fabric.

His friends noticed.

One evening in the Slytherin dungeons, after you’d left (having fixed a rip in Mattheo’s robes with a quick charm and a cheerful “See you tomorrow!”), Theo finally snapped.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Riddle.”

Mattheo leaned back in his chair by the fire, nursing a glass of firewhisky. “Problem?”

Blaise chuckled. “She does more for you in a day than half the girls throwing themselves at you ever have. Brings you food, defends your sorry arse, actually listens when you’re in one of your moods”

“I don’t have moods,” Mattheo cut in coldly.

Mattheo’s eyes darkened. “She’s just another girl hovering. They all do it eventually. Looking for the thrill of the ‘dark’ prince or whatever bollocks they tell themselves.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “She’s not looking for thrill, you dense git. She likes you. Properly. And she’s not scared off by your award winning personality.”

“She’s a Hufflepuff,” Mattheo said dismissively, though his grip on the glass tightened. “Too soft. Too… good. She’ll get tired of it.”

Theo laughed. “She’s been at it for months. Sat through your worst days. Defended you to McGonagall when you got detention for that stunt with the Gryffindors. And you still treat her like dirt.”

He was possessive by nature, territorial. But admitting she mattered? That was weakness. And Mattheo Riddle didn’t do weakness.

“She’s nothing,” he said finally, voice low and sharp. “Just background noise.”

His friends exchanged glances. They knew better. They saw the way his eyes followed her when she left the room, the subtle shift when she sat beside him. The hidden softness he buried under sarcasm and ice.

You, meanwhile, walked back toward the Hufflepuff basement with a small, satisfied smile. He’d eaten the tart. He’d let you sit there. Progress, in your book.

You weren’t naive. You knew he was cold, conflicted, carrying shadows most people couldn’t imagine. But you saw the good, buried, fighting to surface. You weren’t afraid. And you weren’t going anywhere.

Mattheo could pretend to tolerate you all he wanted.

You’d keep showing up until he couldn’t pretend anymore.

———

It was a rainy Thursday when things shifted, just a little.

You were waiting outside the Potions dungeon after class, two umbrellas tucked under your arm (one borrowed from the Hufflepuff common room because you knew he’d “forgotten” his again).

Students streamed past, giving you odd looks. A group of Ravenclaws whispered behind their hands.

Mattheo emerged last, collar up, expression stormy. His eyes landed on you and narrowed.

“Don’t,” he said before you could speak, brushing past.

You fell into step beside him anyway, unfurling one umbrella and holding it over both of you. “It’s pouring. You’ll catch a cold and then complain about it for a week.”

“I don’t complain.” His voice was clipped. “And I don’t need a bloody babysitter.”

“Too bad. I’m self appointed.” You smiled up at him, rain pattering loudly against the fabric. He didn’t take the umbrella from you, but he also didn’t speed up to leave you behind. Small victories.

Theo and Blaise caught up, grinning like idiots.

“Look at that,” Theo drawled. “Domestic already. Riddle, you gonna let her carry your books next?”

Mattheo shot him a withering glare. “Fuck off.”

You laughed softly. “I already did his Arithmancy notes last week when he was… occupied.” You didn’t mention the detention he’d earned for hexing a seventh year who’d called him a monster in the corridor. You’d simply copied the notes in your neatest handwriting and left them on his usual spot in the library.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “See? She’s useful. Unlike you when you’re brooding.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He said nothing the rest of the walk.

Dinner that evening brought new company.

A tall Gryffindor boy, Cedric’s old friend, Marcus something, had wandered over to the Slytherin table, apparently on some inter house project nonsense. He stopped right beside you, flashing a bright, easy smile.

“Hey, I’ve seen you around. You’re the Hufflepuff who talks to this lot without running. Impressive.” His eyes lingered. “We’re having a study group in the library tomorrow. Potions theory. You seem like you know your stuff. Want to join?”

You felt Mattheo stiffen beside you before you even answered.

“That’s sweet,” you said politely, “but I usually study with these guys. Thanks though.”

Marcus didn’t take the hint immediately. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Less… intense.” He glanced at Mattheo meaningfully.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Mattheo beat you to it.

“She said no.” His voice was low, dangerous, laced with that dark charisma that made people listen. He didn’t even look up from his plate, but the temperature around the table seemed to drop. “Run along, Gryffindor.”

Marcus hesitated, then shrugged with a nervous laugh. “Alright, Riddle. Didn’t mean to step on toes.” He left.

Silence fell for half a second before Pansy cackled. “Territorial much?”

“I’m eating,” Mattheo muttered. “Don’t need distractions.”

You turned to him, heart doing a small flip at the possessiveness he’d just shown, even if it was wrapped in irritation. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve handled it.”

“Clearly.” His sarcasm was sharp. “You were about to agree.”

“I wasn’t.” You poked his arm lightly. He didn’t pull away. “I like sitting with you lot. Even when you’re grumpy.”

Draco snorted into his goblet. “Grumpy. That’s one word for it.”

The real crack appeared two days later.

It was late evening in the Slytherin common room. You’d been dragged there again, this time by Pansy, who wanted your opinion on a dress for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.

You ended up staying, curled up on the couch with a book while the boys played a lazy game of Exploding Snap nearby.

Mattheo was in one of his moods. Silent, sharp edged, staring into the fire like it had personally offended him. You knew the signs by now something from his past, or a letter from home, or just the weight of his own name pressing down.

You stood up quietly and disappeared toward the dorms corridor (Pansy had shown you where the spare blankets were kept weeks ago). When you returned, you draped a slightly warmer one over his shoulders without a word.

He tensed. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You looked cold.” You sat back down beside him, closer than usual. “And you always steal the good blanket when we’re down here.”

“I don’t steal…..” He stopped, exhaling through his nose. For once, he didn’t shrug the blanket off. His fingers curled into the fabric anyway.

Theo watched the exchange with open amusement. Later, when you stepped away to grab drinks for everyone, he leaned toward Mattheo.

“You know she’s in love with you, right? Properly. Not the silly crush shit.”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked toward your retreating figure. “She’s delusional.”

“Or you’re blind,” Blaise added quietly. “She defends you to teachers, to randoms in the hall, even to her own housemates who think she’s lost her mind. Brings you food, fixes your shit, sits with you even when you’re a complete bastard to her. And you still act like she’s nothing.”

“Because she is nothing,” Mattheo snapped, voice low and venomous. But his eyes betrayed him,they followed you as you laughed at something Pansy said across the room.

“She’ll wise up eventually. Get tired of playing saint to the villain.”

Draco shook his head. “You keep telling yourself that, mate. But the way you nearly hexed that Gryffindor for just talking to her? That wasn’t nothing.”

Mattheo didn’t reply. Inside, the conflict raged. You made things easier, yes. Mornings were less bleak with your stupid cheerful “good morning” and perfectly ripe apples. His robes didn’t fall apart. He hadn’t missed meals. And the way you looked at him… like he was worth saving… it terrified him. Because if he let you in, if he admitted how much he’d come to expect your presence, then you became leverage.

A weakness.

And people like him didn’t get to keep soft, bright things without breaking them.

He was possessive. The thought of you smiling at someone else like you smiled at him made magic crackle at his fingertips. Territorial. He wanted you close but he refused to give you anything back. It wasn’t fair. He knew that. He just didn’t care.

Or so he told himself.

The next morning you were there again, sliding into your usual seat with a bright, “Good morning, Mattheo,” and placing a small vial beside his plate.

“Pepperup Potion,” you explained before he could sneer. “Just in case. You sounded a bit off last night.”

He stared at the vial, then at you. Something in his chest twisted uncomfortably, warm, annoying.

“You’re exhausting,” he said flatly. But he took the vial. Tucked it into his robe pocket like it was nothing.

You just grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Across the table, his friends shared knowing looks. They were done watching him self destruct in slow motion.

One of these days, Mattheo Riddle was going to have to face the fact that the persistent Hufflepuff had already wormed her way past every wall he’d built.

And when that happened… well. Even he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

———

Slytherin party,

The common room pulsed with music and low green light, the party in full swing after Slytherin’s narrow win over Ravenclaw.

Music thrummed from enchanted speakers, firewhisky flowed freely, and clusters of students laughed too loudly, danced too close, and forgot for one night about OWLs, NEWTs, and the shadows hanging over the wizarding world.

You’d shown up with Pansy, who had insisted on you wearing a simple but flattering black dress she’d “borrowed” from somewhere.

“Blend in for once, Puff,” she’d teased. You’d laughed and gone along with it. By now, no one batted an eye when you appeared in Slytherin territory. You were one of them. Sort of.

Mattheo sat in his usual spot on the large leather couch near the fireplace, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.

A glass of firewhisky dangled from his fingers. His expression was the same half bored, half dangerous mask he wore most days.

You had claimed the spot beside him earlier, but the crowd had shifted. Now a Slytherin girl, sixth year, long dark hair, sharp cheekbones and sharper ambition had taken your place.

Literally. She was practically in his lap, one hand trailing down his chest, laughing breathily at something he hadn’t even said.

“Mattheo,” she purred, loud enough for you to hear over the music, “you really are the most interesting one here. All that mystery… I bet I could make you smile if you let me try.”

She leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear.

Mattheo didn’t push her away. He also didn’t pull her closer. He simply took a slow sip of his drink, eyes distant, like she was background noise. No smirk, no flirtation, no interest. Just cold tolerance.

You stood a few feet away, watching for a moment. A small sigh escaped you, not dramatic, not heartbroken, just… tired.

You knew this game. Girls threw themselves at him constantly. The dark aura, the dangerous reputation, the undeniable charisma, he attracted them like moths to a cursed flame. And he usually let them hover until they got bored.

You turned away and spotted Theo leaning against a stone pillar, nursing his own drink and watching the scene with clear amusement.

“Hey, Theo,” you said brightly, walking over and bumping his shoulder. “Think we’ll see another Exploding Snap disaster tonight, or has Lorenzo learned his lesson?”

Theo grinned down at you, glad for the distraction. “Doubt it. He’s already three drinks in and eyeing that pack of cards like an idiot. You good?” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the couch.

You shrugged, leaning beside him. “I’m fine. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. Think she’ll last longer than the last one who tried?”

Theo chuckled. “Nah. He’s not even pretending tonight. Look at his face, pure ice. Poor girl doesn’t realize she’s talking to a statue.”

You laughed softly, genuine and light. Talking with Theo was easy. He had become a real friend over the past weeks, someone who actually listened when you rambled about Herbology or the latest book you’d read.

“I was going to ask Mattheo if he wanted to dance later, but… maybe not. He looks like he’d rather hex the music.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, studying you. “You’re really not bothered by that?” He nodded toward the girl, who was now tracing patterns on Mattheo’s arm while he stared into the fire.

You took a sip of your butterbeer. “Bothered? A little. But I’m not going to compete by climbing all over him. That’s not me.” Your voice stayed calm, sweet but honest. “He knows I’m here. If he wants me to leave, he can say it. He never does.”

Theo shook his head, half laughing. “You’re something else, you know that? Most girls would be over there hexing her by now. Or crying in the corner.”

You smiled, eyes drifting back to Mattheo despite yourself. “I’m not scared of him, or of this.” You gestured vaguely at the party. “Besides, I like talking to you lot. Even when he’s being… himself.”

Mattheo’s gaze had found you.

Even from across the room, even while the dark-haired girl whispered something in his ear, his eyes locked onto you and Theo. His jaw tightened. The girl’s hand slid higher on his thigh and he shifted away just slightly but didn’t stop her. His fingers flexed around his glass until his knuckles paled.

He didn’t like it.

Not the girl. Her touch felt like nothing, irrelevant, annoying. But you standing there, laughing with Theo, looking perfectly at ease in his common room, in his world… that twisted something ugly and possessive in his chest.

You were supposed to be orbiting him. Not chatting and smiling at Nott like it was the most natural thing.

Yet he said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched, brooding.

Later, the girl finally gave up with a dramatic huff and stalked off to find easier prey. Mattheo didn’t even watch her leave.

You eventually wandered back, sliding onto the couch beside him now that the seat was free. Your shoulder brushed his.

“Enjoying the party?” you asked lightly, offering him a fresh drink you’d grabbed on the way.

Mattheo took it without thanks, setting his empty one aside. “It’s loud,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked to you, scanning your face like he was searching for cracks. “You and Nott seemed cozy.”

There it was the sharp edge. Not quite jealousy admitted, but close.

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Theo’s funny. We were just talking about how terrible Lorenzo is at cards.” You paused, then added, “You could’ve joined us. Or told that girl to give you space if she was bothering you.”

He scoffed, leaning back. “Didn’t need to. Not interested.” His voice dropped, sarcastic and low. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant attention to feel important, Hufflepuff.”

You didn’t flinch. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on giving her any competition.” You reached over and straightened his already loose tie with gentle fingers, a small habitual gesture.

“You looked bored. Thought maybe you’d want actual company instead of… whatever that was.”

Mattheo stared at your hands on his tie, then at your face. The conflict raged behind his eyes, wanting to snap at you, push you away, and simultaneously wanting to pull you closer so no one else could even look at you the wrong way. He settled for his usual defense.

“You’re too much,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away from your touch.

———

Weekend ends, and the new week already started badly for Mattheo.

A letter from his father’s old circle had arrived that morning cryptic, demanding, laced with expectations he wanted nothing to do with but couldn’t fully escape. Combined with a brutal detention from Snape and losing a Quidditch strategy argument to Draco, his mood was blacker than the dungeons.

The kind of day where the shadows around him felt heavier, and everyone with sense stayed out of his way.

Everyone except you.

You had noticed immediately during breakfast. His shoulders were tense, jaw locked, eyes darker than usual.

Still, you slid into your usual seat beside him with a gentle smile, placing a steaming cup of his favorite black coffee (extra strong) in front of him.

“Morning, Mattheo,” you said softly. “Rough night? I brought you….”

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a whip. Louder and sharper than he’d ever been with you. The entire Slytherin table went quiet.

You blinked, hand still hovering near the cup. “I just thought….”

Mattheo turned to you fully, eyes blazing with barely contained fury and exhaustion. “You thought what? That your pathetic little acts of kindness would fix anything? That I want you here every single fucking day breathing down my neck like some lovesick puppy?”

The words cut deep. His friends froze.

“Mattheo…” Theo started quietly.

“No.” Mattheo didn’t even look at him. His gaze stayed locked on you, cold and unrelenting.

“I’m done with this. Done with you hovering, done with the apples and the notes and the stupid blankets and the defending me like I’m some broken charity case. Leave me and my group alone. Go back to your Hufflepuff flowers and mind your own business for once.”

The silence was suffocating.

You stared at him for a long second, heart twisting painfully in your chest. Your eyes stung, but you refused to cry in front of them. Not here. Instead, you swallowed hard and stood up slowly.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, voice small but steady. “I’ll leave.”

You turned and walked away without another word, head high even as your hands trembled at your sides. The Great Hall felt endless. A few people whispered, but you didn’t look back.

Mattheo didn’t watch you go. He gripped his fork until it bent, then shoved his plate away and stormed out. His friends exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing to him. Not yet.

Three days passed.

You kept your word. No more good mornings in the corridor. No more saving seats. No more sitting at the Slytherin table.

You ate with your housemates, smiled politely when people asked what happened, and threw yourself into Herbology and helping in the kitchens, anything to stay busy.

You missed them. You missed him. But you respected his wishes. If he wanted space, you’d give it to him, even if it hurt.

The Slytherin group felt the absence immediately.

Lunch on day one was too quiet. No one to laugh at Lorenzo’s terrible jokes or argue Quidditch with Draco. No soft voice reminding them about upcoming assignments.

By day two, Pansy was scowling at everything. “This is ridiculous. The table feels empty.”

Theo kept glancing toward the Hufflepuff table where you sat, surrounded by your housemates but somehow looking… dimmer. Less bright.

Day three, Blaise finally said it out loud in the common room: “She’s makes this lot tolerable. Can we bring her back”

Mattheo was there, slouched in his usual chair by the fire, pretending not to listen.

He hadn’t spoken much in three days. His mood hadn’t improved, in fact, it had soured further. The little things you used to handle were piling up. His bag strap had broken again. He’d missed dinner once because no one reminded him. The common room felt colder without your occasional presence.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. No weaknesses.

His friends disagreed.

On the evening of the fourth day, the group made their move.

Pansy and Theo cornered you after Charms class, blocking your path to the Hufflepuff basement with determined expressions.

“You’re coming with us,” Pansy declared, linking her arm through yours.

You blinked in surprise. “Pansy, I can’t. He said…”

“He’s an idiot,” Theo cut in. “A miserable idiot. The common room has been dead without you. Draco’s even more unbearable. Lorenzo keeps losing at cards because no one’s betting against him properly. Come on. Just for a bit.”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

Blaise appeared behind them, smirking. “Too late for that. Mattheo’s been brooding like the Dark Lord himself since you left. We miss you, love. Properly.”

After a few more minutes of gentle insistence (and Pansy threatening to drag you), you gave in. You let them lead you down to the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering the entire way.

And there, in his usual spot by the fireplace, sat Mattheo.

He looked up when the portrait hole opened. His eyes landed on you immediately, widening for half a second before the guarded mask slammed back into place. He said nothing.

The others moved casually, like this was normal. Pansy pulled you toward the couch. Theo dropped into the seat across from Mattheo with a pointed look.

“Look who we found,” Theo announced lightly. “Our favorite Hufflepuff.”

You stood awkwardly for a moment, offering a small, uncertain smile to the group. “Hi.”

Draco nodded at you, almost relieved. “About time. The silence was getting pathetic.”

You sat down carefully, not beside Mattheo this time, but on the opposite end of the large couch, giving him the space he’d demanded. Your hands twisted in your lap. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his stare burning into the side of your face.

The conversation started slowly, Pansy complaining about homework, Blaise teasing Lorenzo, but it gradually warmed up. You laughed softly at one of Theo’s jokes, the sound familiar and bright again. For the first time in days, the common room felt alive.

Mattheo remained silent, watching you from the shadows of his seat. His jaw was tight, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest. The conflict was clear in his eyes, the same storm you’d always seen, only sharper now. He’d told you to leave. You had. And now that you were back (because of them), the relief mixing with his anger and possessiveness was making his chest feel too tight.

He still didn’t speak to you.

Laughter echoed off the stone walls as Lorenzo dramatically retold his latest failed attempt at asking out a Ravenclaw, complete with sound effects.

Pansy was curled up beside you on the couch, showing you fabric swatches for some upcoming event, while Theo kept sliding in clever quips that made everyone groan or laugh.

You smiled and participated. You really did. You complimented Pansy’s choices, teased Lorenzo right back, and even debated Quidditch tactics with Draco when he dragged you into it. It felt good to be back among them.

They had become real friends, and their obvious relief at having you there eased some of the ache in your chest.

But with Mattheo… it was different now.

You stayed on the far end of the couch. You didn’t slide closer like you used to. You didn’t offer him the fresh drink Blaise had passed around. You didn’t reach over to fix the cuff of his sleeve when it rode up.

Every time your eyes accidentally met his, you gave a small, polite nod and looked away again. Careful. Guarded. Not cold, you couldn’t quite manage that but no longer shining that bright, effortless warmth directly at him.

Mattheo noticed.

He sat in his usual chair, legs stretched out, nursing the same glass of firewhisky he’d barely touched. His dark eyes followed your every movement. The way you laughed freely with Theo. The way you leaned into Pansy’s side comfortably. The way you existed in his space without orbiting him like before.

It irritated him more than he wanted to admit.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Pansy murmured to you at one point, low enough that only you could hear. Her eyes flicked toward Mattheo. “Still sore about what the idiot said?”

You shrugged lightly, tracing a pattern on the couch leather with your finger. “I’m here for you guys. Not… not to push anything. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want the extra stuff from me. I’m respecting that.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “He’s a dramatic prick. He didn’t mean half of it.”

“Maybe.” You offered her a small smile. “But I’m not risking it again. Not right now.”

Mattheo’s grip tightened on his glass. He’d heard enough.

When Theo stood up to grab more drinks and you naturally followed to help him carry them back, Mattheo’s voice cut through the air sharp, sarcastic, aimed straight at you.

“Careful, Hufflepuff. Wouldn’t want you overexerting yourself playing servant again.”

You paused, holding two glasses steadily. The group quieted a little. You met his gaze evenly this time, no flinch, but no smile either.

“I’m just helping a friend, Mattheo,” you said softly. Calm. Not defensive. “No big gestures. No hovering.”

You set the drinks down and returned to your spot without another word. No apple. No blanket. No gentle check in about his clearly still terrible mood.

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

Theo cleared his throat. “Smooth, mate. Really winning her back with that one.”

“Shut up, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, but his eyes stayed on you. That possessive streak was flaring hot under his skin. You were here, in his common room, surrounded by his friends, yet you were keeping him at arm’s length. It felt wrong.

The next few days followed the same careful pattern.

You sat with the group at meals again, but not directly beside Mattheo. You chose seats between Pansy and Blaise, or across from Theo.

You still defended the group when outsiders made snide comments, your Hufflepuff loyalty ran deep but you no longer singled Mattheo out.

No more personal good mornings whispered just to him. No more saving his favorite desserts. You were warm with everyone else, bright and kind like always.

With him, you were… polite.

“Pass the salt, please?” you’d asked at dinner the next evening, voice neutral when your eyes met his.

He’d slid it over without a word, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Later in the common room, when you’d laughed at one of Draco’s rare jokes and bumped knees with Theo accidentally, Mattheo had snapped at Lorenzo over nothing, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips.

His friends saw it all.

“You’re an absolute bellend,” Blaise told him bluntly one night after you’d left for curfew (earlier than usual, another new habit). “She’s giving you exactly what you asked for and you look like you want to burn the castle down.”

Mattheo leaned back, staring at the dying fire. “She’s acting like I’m a stranger.”

Draco snorted. “You told her to leave you alone. Loudly. In front of the entire hall. What did you expect? Eternal devotion on command?”

“I expected….” Mattheo stopped himself, running a hand through his messy curls.

He didn’t know what he expected. He’d wanted space, wanted the annoying persistence gone. But now the absence of her specific light left everything feeling flat. The little comforts he’d pretended not to notice were glaringly missing. And worse, seeing her still smiling, still caring, but redirecting all of it away from him… it stirred something ugly and jealous and needy he refused to name.

He was emotionally conflicted on the best of days. This was torture.

A few nights later, the group was studying (or pretending to) in the common room. You were helping Pansy with her Transfiguration essay, heads bent together, your neat handwriting filling the page. Mattheo sat nearby, book open but unread.

You felt his stare again. Heavy. Burning.

When Pansy got up to fetch another book, leaving the two of you momentarily semi-alone, you glanced up. His eyes didn’t waver.

You offered a small, cautious smile. “Need help with anything? The essay’s brutal this week.”

Mattheo’s response was instinct sharp-tongued and defensive. “Don’t start that again.”

You closed your ink bottle slowly, expression softening but staying reserved. “I’m not starting anything. Just offering as a friend. Like I do for the others.”

The distinction stung more than he cared to admit.

He wanted to snap again. Push harder. But the words caught in his throat when he saw the careful walls behind your eyes the way you were protecting yourself now, even while sitting in his world.

You waited a beat longer, then turned back to your own work when he stayed silent.

Mattheo Riddle watched you, the same storm raging behind his guarded expression. He was possessive. Territorial. And right now, the girl who had always chosen him was choosing distance, even while staying close to everyone else.

It was driving him mad.

The common room was quieter tonight, the fire crackling softly as most students had retreated to dorms or the library for last minute revisions. Only the core group remained scattered across the couches and armchairs, Pansy flipping through a magazine, Theo and Blaise arguing over chess moves, Draco reading with a bored expression, and Lorenzo half asleep.

You had been sitting with Pansy again, but something had shifted in you. You’d watched Mattheo. Really watched him. The way his eyes tracked you when he thought no one noticed.

The tighter set of his jaw whenever you laughed with the others. The restless tapping of his fingers. He was regretting it. You could see it, the conflict, the stubborn pride warring with whatever softer thing lived under all that armor. He wanted you close again. He just didn’t know how to say it.

Time to test the theory.

You stood up casually, stretching, and moved across the room. Instead of your careful distance, you dropped down on the couch right beside Mattheo, close enough that your thigh pressed lightly against his. The same spot you used to claim every night before the blow up.

Mattheo tensed instantly, dark eyes snapping to you.

You didn’t look at him right away. You simply leaned forward, grabbing a spare quill from the low table and twirling it between your fingers like nothing had changed. “Theo, pass me that book on curses? I want to check something for Pansy’s essay.”

Theo raised an eyebrow but tossed it over with a knowing smirk.

As you settled back, your shoulder brushed Mattheo’s. You felt the sharp inhale he tried to hide.

He lasted maybe thirty seconds.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words came out harsher than he probably intended, laced with that unwilling venom. “Decided to test how much shit I’ll take before I snap again, Hufflepuff?”

You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze. There was no flinch in your eyes, only quiet understanding.

You saw it: the regret flickering behind the ice, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out but refused to let himself.

“I’m just sitting here,” you said softly, voice even and sweet. “Like I used to. You haven’t told me to move.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump. He tried again, the meanness spilling out despite himself, like a defense mechanism he couldn’t turn off.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have to. Thought I made it clear you’re exhausting. Always there, always fixing things no one asked you to fix. Find someone else to play hero for.”

The words stung, but you saw straight through them. His eyes betrayed him, lingering on the way your hair fell over your shoulder, on your hand resting near his leg. He wasn’t pushing you away physically. He wasn’t standing up.

He was just… lashing out, the same way a wounded animal snaps at the hand trying to help.

You smiled. Small. Knowing. “You don’t mean that.”

He scoffed, looking away into the fire. “Don’t tell me what I mean.”

But he still didn’t move.

Emboldened, you shifted even closer, tucking your legs under you so your knee rested against his thigh. You reached over and gently tugged the loose thread on his sleeve that had been bothering you for days, something you would’ve fixed without thinking weeks ago. He froze under your touch but didn’t pull back.

“Mattheo,” you murmured, low enough that the others pretended not to hear, “you can keep saying mean things if it makes you feel better. I’m not leaving this time unless you really want me to. And I don’t think you do.”

His breathing hitched. For a moment, the guarded mask cracked completely. Something raw and conflicted flashed across his face, possessiveness, relief, anger at himself, that hidden softness he buried so deep.

His hand lifted halfway, like he might touch your arm, then dropped back down.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder, sharper, still failing at kindness “You’re going to regret sticking around when I inevitably ruin whatever this is.”

You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder for just a second, testing, pushing, offering. “Maybe. But I’m still here.”

He didn’t shrug you off. Didn’t stand up. Didn’t tell the group to kick you out.

Instead, after a long, heavy silence, his body relaxed, just a fraction, against yours. His arm stayed draped along the back of the couch, fingers inches from your shoulder. Territorial. Close. Accepting.

Pansy caught your eye across the room and hid a triumphant grin behind her magazine. Theo didn’t even bother hiding his smirk as he moved a chess piece.

Mattheo still hadn’t spoken to you nicely. Not really.

But he wasn’t pushing you away anymore.

Your theory had been right. He regretted it. He wanted you back in his orbit closer than before, even if his sharp tongue hadn’t caught up to that truth yet.

You’d rest your head against his shoulder for a moment here, brush his hand while passing a drink there. He tolerated it all with his usual gruff silence and occasional sharp remark, but the tension rolling off him was palpable.

His friends had had enough.

Pansy caught Theo’s eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod. The plan they made that morning was in motion.

“Truth or Dare,” Pansy announced suddenly, clapping her hands. “I’m bored out of my mind and someone needs to entertain me.”

Lorenzo perked up immediately. Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. Blaise smirked like he already knew where this was going.

Mattheo narrowed his eyes but said nothing, he rarely backed down from a challenge, even a stupid one.

You smiled softly. “I’m in.”

The game started innocently enough. Lorenzo admitted to stealing Pansy’s favourite lipstick.

Draco chose dare and had to charm his eyebrows pink for the next ten minutes.

Theo got asked about his latest failed hookup and laughed it off.

Then Pansy turned her sharp gaze on you.

“Truth or Dare, darling?”

You felt the shift in the air. Mattheo’s posture stiffened beside you.

“Dare,” you said, because backing down in front of this group had never been your style.

Pansy’s smile turned wicked. “I dare you to kiss Theo. Proper kiss. Ten seconds.”

The room went still.

Theo raised an eyebrow, clearly in on it, but kept his expression playful. “Only if she wants to. I’m not above being used for a good cause.”

You glanced sideways at Mattheo. His hand had curled into a fist on the armrest, knuckles white. His jaw was locked so tightly it looked painful. Dark eyes burned holes into Theo, then flicked to you, possessive, stormy, conflicted.

Your theory had been right. He was cracking.

You leaned forward slowly, giving Mattheo every chance to say something. He didn’t. He just watched, breathing shallow.

You turned to Theo, cupped his cheek lightly, and pressed your lips to his. It was soft, brief, exactly ten seconds. Theo kissed back gently, more performative than anything, and pulled away with a dramatic sigh.

“Not bad, Puff,” he teased, winking.

You sat back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, heart racing for an entirely different reason. You didn’t look at Mattheo immediately.

The crack appeared.

Mattheo let out a low, dangerous sound, almost a growl. Magic crackled faintly around him, making the fire flare for a second.

“Enough,” he said sharply, voice dripping with venom. “This game is fucking stupid.”

Pansy feigned innocence. “Jealous, Riddle?”

“I’m not jealous of Nott getting pity kisses,” he snapped, the words unwilling and too quick.

His eyes finally met yours raw, territorial, and something deeper. “She can kiss whoever the hell she wants.”

But he looked like he wanted to hex Theo into next week.

You saw the tiny fracture in his restraint. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to pull you into his lap and erase what just happened. The hidden softness bleeding through the anger. He cared. Deeply. He just wouldn’t admit it yet.

The game continued awkwardly for a few more rounds before dying out.

As people started heading to bed or pretending to study, the group quietly regrouped near the fireplace once you’d stepped away to grab water.

“Close,” Theo muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Did you see his face? He nearly lost it.”

“Not enough,” Draco said. “He’s still too stubborn. One little kiss isn’t cracking that reinforced concrete he calls emotional walls.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “New plan then. We need to push harder. Something that forces him to choose publicly. Maybe Hogsmeade this weekend. We get her to ‘casually’ flirt with someone else. Or we set up a situation where she has to be alone with one of us and see how long it takes before he drags her back.”

Blaise chuckled darkly. “Or we make him think she’s actually moving on. He’s possessive as hell. If he believes he might lose her for real…”

Theo glanced over at Mattheo, who was now staring into the fire like it had personally betrayed him. “He’s already regretting everything. We just need one more push and that restraint of his is dead.”

They all looked toward you as you walked back, none the wiser to their scheming.

Mattheo’s eyes followed you the entire way, dark and intense. The crack was there. Now they just had to widen it until he had no choice but to admit what everyone else already knew.

———

The Hogsmeade weekend arrived under a crisp, clear sky the first proper snow dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar.

Students poured out of the castle gates in excited clusters, scarves wrapped high and pockets jingling with allowance money.

The Slytherin group had claimed their usual spot near the Shrieking Shack path for pre butterbeer strategy, but today their energy was sharper, purposeful.

The new plan was simple and ruthless : push Mattheo until his restraint shattered completely.

Pansy had looped her arm through yours as you all walked down the snowy path. “Stick close to me at first,” she whispered, lips barely moving. “Then ‘accidentally’ wander off with Theo or Blaise when we reach the village. We’ll make it look natural.”

You glanced at her, then at Mattheo walking a few steps ahead, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable. “You’re really doing this?”

Theo fell into step beside you, grinning. “He needs it. The kiss barely made him twitch. Time to light a proper fire under his arse.”

You exhaled, a mix of nerves and reluctant amusement fluttering in your chest.

Part of you still felt the sting from his harsh words days ago, but another part, the one that saw every hidden crack in his armor, wanted him to finally admit what was so obvious to everyone else.

“Just… don’t go too far. I don’t actually want to hurt him.”

“Too late for that,” Blaise murmured from behind. “He’s been hurting himself plenty.”

Mattheo slowed slightly, eyes flicking back toward you. You offered him a small, neutral smile the same careful one you’d been giving him since returning to the group. He didn’t return it, but his gaze lingered.

The village was bustling. Honeydukes was packed, Zonko’s even louder. The group moved as one at first, weaving through the crowd.

You stayed near Mattheo out of habit, your shoulder occasionally brushing his in the narrow street. He didn’t pull away.

Inside the Three Broomsticks, you all claimed a large corner booth. Firewhisky for the boys, butterbeers for everyone. Conversation flowed easily until Pansy executed the first move.

“I need to check out that new robe shop,” she announced, standing up. “Come with me, Draco? I want a second opinion.”

Draco sighed but followed, shooting the rest of you a knowing look. Lorenzo tagged along “for snacks.” That left you, Mattheo, Theo, and Blaise.

You took a slow sip of butterbeer, then turned to Theo with a bright, deliberate smile. “Theo, didn’t you say there’s a new shipment of cursed artifacts at Dervish and Banges? I’ve been wanting to see that silver dagger you mentioned last week.”

Theo’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Absolutely. Let’s go before the good stuff disappears.” He stood and offered you his hand.

You took it without hesitation, letting him help you out of the booth. Your fingers lingered in his just a second longer than necessary. “Mattheo, Blaise, we’ll be back soon,” you said casually, like it was nothing.

Mattheo’s entire body went rigid. His glass hit the table harder than needed. “Since when do you give a fuck about cursed artifacts?”

You shrugged, still holding Theo’s hand. “Since Theo told me they’re fascinating. You know I like shiny, dangerous things.” Your tone was light, playful the same sweetness you used to direct only at him.

Theo tugged you gently toward the door. “We won’t be long, mate.”

Blaise stayed behind, nursing his drink and watching Mattheo like a hawk.

The snow crunched under your boots as you and Theo walked down the high street.

You didn’t go straight to Dervish and Banges. Instead, Theo led you on a slow, meandering route stopping at a stall selling enchanted jewelry, laughing loudly at your jokes, standing a little too close when showing you a necklace with a tiny snake charm.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you muttered, cheeks pink from the cold and the performance.

Theo grinned down at you. “It’s for the greater good. Look behind us, don’t turn too obviously.”

You risked a glance. Mattheo was stalking after you both, coat flapping open, expression thunderous. Blaise was a few paces behind him, failing to hide his amusement.

Your heart skipped. The plan was working.

Theo leaned in closer, pretending to examine the necklace around your neck, his fingers brushing your collarbone. “Smile at me like you mean it,” he whispered.

You did, soft, warm, the kind of smile that used to be reserved for Mattheo’s rare good moments. Theo laughed like you’d said something brilliant.

That was when Mattheo snapped.

“Having fun?” His voice cut through the snowy street like a blade. He stopped right beside you, eyes locked on where Theo’s hand still rested near your shoulder. The possessiveness rolled off him in waves, dark and electric. “Didn’t realize you two were suddenly so fucking cozy.”

Theo raised an innocent eyebrow. “Just showing her the artifacts, like she asked. Problem?”

Mattheo’s jaw worked. He looked at you, really looked.

There was that storm again : jealousy burning hot, restraint fraying at the edges, the unwilling mean streak fighting against something deeper.

“You’re really doing this?” he said to you, voice low and sharp. “Parading around with Nott after everything? Thought you were supposed to be the one who saw ‘good’ in people. Not throwing yourself at the first idiot who smiles at you.”

The words stung, but you saw right through them again. His hands were clenched. He was one breath away from dragging you away from Theo. The crack from the truth or dare game had widened significantly.

You stepped just a little closer to Theo, testing. “I’m not throwing myself at anyone, Mattheo. I’m just… spending time with friends. Like you told me to do. Remember? Stop hovering. Stop fixing things for you.”

Mattheo’s eyes darkened dangerously. For a second you thought he might actually hex Theo. Instead, he grabbed your wrist not painfully, but firm enough to feel possessive.

“We’re going back to the group,” he growled. “Now.”

Theo smirked. “Whatever you say, Riddle.”

You let Mattheo pull you along, his grip staying locked around your wrist the entire walk back to the Three Broomsticks.

He didn’t let go even when you reached the booth. He sat down and tugged you into the seat directly beside him closer than you’d been in weeks. His thigh pressed against yours. His arm draped along the back of the booth, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder like a silent claim.

He was still being an arse, muttering sarcastic comments under his breath and shooting Theo lethal glares, but he wasn’t pushing you away.

The plan had started. And it was already cracking him open.

Pansy and the others returned shortly after, taking in the scene with barely concealed triumph. Mattheo didn’t speak to you nicely. Not yet.

But the territorial hold on your wrist, the way his body angled toward yours like a shield, and the raw, conflicted heat in his eyes said more than his sharp tongue ever could.

The restraint was dying.

The rest of the Hogsmeade afternoon passed in a charged haze.

Mattheo didn’t release your wrist for a long time. Even after you all returned to the Three Broomsticks, his arm stayed slung possessively behind you on the booth, fingers occasionally brushing the back of your neck like a silent warning to everyone else.

He was still sharp tongued, snapping at Lorenzo for talking too loud, throwing barbed comments at Theo, but he kept you glued to his side.

The group wasn’t done yet.

As the sun began to dip and snow started falling heavier, they all gathered outside, Pansy with a calculated sigh “It’s getting late. We should head back, but some of us still need to pick up things from Honeydukes. Theo, you mentioned wanting more of that fizzing whizzbees?”

Theo caught on instantly. “Yeah, and I could use help carrying stuff.” He looked straight at you. “Come with me? You’ve got better taste in sweets than these lot.”

You felt Mattheo’s body coil like a spring beside you.

Before you could answer, you turned to him with that same soft, testing smile you’d been using. “Do you mind? I’ll be quick.”

His dark eyes flashed. The crack was widening dangerously. “Yes, I fucking mind,” he bit out, the words escaping before he could stop them. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”

They went quiet. Even Draco raised an eyebrow.

You tilted your head, pushing just a little more. “Why not? You’ve made it very clear I’m exhausting. That I should stop hovering around you. I’m just hanging out with friends, Mattheo. Like you wanted.”

That struck hard. Mattheo’s hand slid from the to your waist, gripping firmly. Territorial. Needy in a way he’d never allowed himself to show.

“You know that’s not ” He stopped, jaw clenching. The internal war was visible, the mean, guarded part of him fighting the part that had grown addicted to your presence, your care, your unwavering light.

Theo slowly, offering his hand again with an exaggerated grin. “Ready when you are, love.”

Pushing further Theo says “It’s just sweets, mate. Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”

Mattheo’s eyes darkened. He pulled you flush against him in one sharp movement, right there on the snowy street in front of everyone. No grand speech. No soft vulnerability. Just raw, irritated truth wrapped in his usual barbed tone.

“Yeah. I’ve got a fucking problem with it.” He glared at Theo, then looked down at you, jaw tight. “You win, alright? Happy now?”

You tilted your head, staying close but testing him one last time. “Win what?”

Mattheo let out a sharp, sarcastic breath, his breath visible in the cold air.

“This. You. The constant hovering and fixing and defending my sorry arse like I’m worth the effort.” His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it became more territorial.

“I told you to fuck off because it was easier. Because you make shit… simpler. And I hate how much I’ve gotten used to it.”

He glanced at the group, who were all watching with barely hidden smirks, then back at you. His next words came out gruff, almost annoyed at himself for saying them.

“I don’t want you orbiting anyone else. Not Theo. Not some Gryffindor prick. No one. You’re annoying as hell and far too soft for someone like me, but I want you next to me. Where you’ve been. Stop with the careful polite bullshit you’ve been doing since I snapped at you. Just… be there again. Like before.”

It wasn’t flowery. It wasn’t sweet. It was Mattheo, reluctant, possessive, laced with sarcasm and that dark charisma.

He leaned in closer, voice dropping so only you could hear the rest. “And if Nott tries to hold your hand again, I’ll break his fingers. Clear enough for you, Hufflepuff?”

You smiled softly, reaching up to fix the collar of his coat like you used to. He didn’t stop you.

“Crystal clear,” you murmured.

Mattheo huffed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he slung his arm firmly over your shoulders and started walking back toward the castle, keeping you tucked tightly against his side. The others fell in behind you, Pansy looking victorious and Theo chuckling quietly.

“Fucking finally,” Blaise muttered.

Mattheo shot them all a sharp look. “Say another word and I’ll hex every single one of you.”

But his hand stayed on your shoulder the entire walk back. No more pushing you away. No more pretending he didn’t care. He still wasn’t nice, not really, but the walls had come down in the only way Mattheo Riddle knew how.

And you were right where he wanted you.

———

The castle was quiet by the time you slipped through the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering against your ribs.

It had been a long evening after Hogsmeade. Mattheo had kept you close the entire way back, but he hadn’t said much more after his gruff admission. The weight of everything still felt new and fragile.

You were nervous. Actually nervous, for the first time in months around him. Your fingers tightened around the rolled up essay you’d finished copying for him (Arithmancy, due tomorrow).

It was a small thing, an old habit, but it gave you an excuse to see him before bed.

You knocked softly on the door to his dorm. Theo and the others were still downstairs, giving the two of you space.

Mattheo opened it in a loose black shirt and trousers, hair messy like he’d already been running his hands through it. His dark eyes softened a fraction when they landed on you.

“Essay,” you mumbled, holding it out. “I know you hate this topic, so I made notes on the side.”

He took it without a word, stepping back to let you in.

The room smelled faintly of him, smoke, cedar, and that sharp edge of magic that always clung to him.

You lingered for half a second too long, then leaned in quickly, pressing a soft, shy kiss to his cheek before immediately turning to leave.

“Sorry, goodnight,” you whispered, cheeks burning as you tried to rush back out.

A flick of his wrist and the door slammed shut, locking with a sharp click.

You froze, back to him. “Mattheo, I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to push, I just”

He was on you in two strides.

His hands came up on either side of your head, caging you against the door with his body. The wood was cool behind your back; he was burning hot in front.

That stern, smug look was fixed on his face, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction, one corner of his mouth curved in that dangerous half smirk.

“Do it again,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

You blinked up at him, still flustered. “I… what?”

“Kiss me again,” he repeated, leaning closer until his breath brushed your lips. “Properly this time. Don’t run.”

Your heart stuttered. The nervousness melted under the intensity of his gaze. You rose onto your toes and kissed his cheek once more, slower this time.

Then, gathering your courage, you turned your head and brushed your lips softly against his.

Mattheo made a low sound in his throat, half satisfaction, half relief. One hand left the door to slide into your hair, tilting your head as he deepened the kiss, claiming your mouth like he’d been waiting weeks to do it. Possessive. Hungry. But there was something almost gentle underneath the fire.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. The smug look had softened into something warmer, more private.

“You’re still an idiot for thinking I’d let you run after that,” he muttered, sharp tongued as ever, but his thumb stroked your cheek. “Told you earlier, you’re mine. That means you don’t get to kiss me and bolt, Hufflepuff.”

You laughed breathlessly, the last of the nerves dissolving. “I was scared you’d regret it tomorrow morning.”

Mattheo huffed, pulling you away from the door and toward his bed. He sat down and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

“I regret a lot of things,” he admitted gruffly. “But not this. Not you.” He pressed another kiss to your temple, almost absentmindedly. “You make my life easier. Better. Even when I’m a moody bastard. So stay.”

You nestled into his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” His voice dropped, that dark charisma curling around the words. “Because I’m territorial as hell, and I’ve decided you’re stuck with me now.”

From outside the door, you both heard Theo’s muffled voice “Finally! Can we come in yet or are you two still snogging?”

Mattheo didn’t even look up. “Fuck off, Nott!” he called back, but there was no real heat in it.

You giggled against his neck. He squeezed you tighter, a rare, quiet chuckle rumbling through his chest.

For the first time in a long time, Mattheo Riddle looked… content.

Still guarded, still sarcastic, still carrying shadows, but with you curled in his arms, the weight seemed lighter.

You had seen the good in him from the start. Now he was finally letting himself believe it too.