#day eight

“Well,” you said, voice lilting with mischief, “you always correct me when I’m wrong, sigh dramatically when I make bad notes, and act like you’re being tortured whenever I smile-so yes, Professor.”

He bit back a smirk, dropping into the chair across from you. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. You love it.”

He didn’t respond. Because maybe he did.

You pushed the plate toward him. “Snickerdoodles. My mum always made them when we studied together. Cinnamon helps memory, apparently. You need that.”

Mattheo blinked at you, half amused, half baffled. “You baked these?”

You nodded, curls bouncing. “Of course. What kind of study session doesn’t have snacks? Don’t worry, I didn’t poison them-though, if you’re mean about my handwriting again, I might next time.”

He stared at you for a second longer than he meant to, then reached for one. The sugar cracked slightly under his fingers, still warm. He took a bite-and something in him stilled.

Sweet, soft, familiar.

You were watching him, chin in your hand, that ever-present gleam in your eye like you were seeing the world through some invisible bit of sunlight no one else could find. “Good?”

He swallowed, nodding once. “Too good.”

You grinned. “Perfect. Fuel for the tortured genius.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer whimsical,” you corrected, flipping through your notes. “It sounds more mysterious.”

“Mysterious isn’t the word I’d use.”

“What word would you use, then?” you asked, scribbling something onto parchment without looking up.

He hesitated, leaning back in his chair, the corners of his mouth tugging faintly. “Sweet.”

You looked up then, surprise flickering across your features before softening into something gentler-quieter. “Well,” you said finally, with a shy little smile, “you’re sweeter than you think too, Mattheo.”

He didn’t answer. Just reached for another cookie, pretending to study while your soft humming filled the air between them. The candlelight flickered over your face-your nose scrunched in concentration, your hair messy from running your hands through it.

And for the first time that week, maybe that month, Mattheo Riddle didn’t feel quite so cold inside.