Then Theo appeared.

You noticed him first by the way the chair beside you shifted, though he didn't sit in it. Instead, he hovered there, quiet and tired-looking, his school tie loosened, dark hair falling messily over his forehead. His eyes, usually sharp with dry amusement, looked heavy today.

You softened immediately.

"Theo?" you asked gently.

He said nothing at first. He only stepped closer, leaned down, and wrapped his arms around your shoulders from behind. His face disappeared into the crook of your neck.

You froze for half a second in quiet surprise before your hand instinctively came up to rest over his arm.

"Bad day?" you murmured.

Theo hummed against your skin. It was a low, unhappy sound.

"That bad?"

He just nodded slightly, his nose brushing your neck, and tightened his hold around you. His body curved over yours like he had been holding himself together all day and had finally found somewhere safe enough to fall apart a little.

You let your quill drop onto the parchment, focusing on him fully. "What happened?"

"Don't want to talk about it," he mumbled quietly, voice muffled against your skin.

"Okay."

He seemed grateful for that. His shoulders loosened slightly, though he didn't let go.

For a while, you let him stay there. You could feel the warmth of him against your back, the soft rise and fall of his breathing against your skin. His thumbs moved absentmindedly over the sleeve of your jumper, slow and soothing, as if he were comforting himself with the texture of it.

You turned your head just enough to brush your cheek against his hair. "I do have to study, you know," you said softly.

Theo went still.

Then, with all the dignity of a wounded prince, he whined.

It was quiet, barely more than a breath, but it was so unlike his usual composed self that you had to bite back a chuckle.

"Theo."

"No."

You laughed under your breath. "No?"

"No," he repeated, voice low and petulant as if he were a 5-year-old. "You studied yesterday."

"That's not how exams work."

"They should."

You tried to turn back toward your notes, but Theo only buried his face deeper into your neck, his arms tightening around you as if he could physically prevent you from returning to your work.

"Theodore Nott," you warned, though there was no real bite in it.

He just made another miserable sound and nuzzled further. "Five more minutes," he muttered.

"You said that fifteen minutes ago."

"That was a different five minutes."

You smiled despite yourself.

Theo must have felt it, because he pressed a little closer, his lips brushing the side of your throat in something too soft to be a kiss and too tender to be accidental.

"Please," he whispered softly.

That made you pause.

Theo didn't beg often. He rarely asked for anything directly in general. Usually, he hovered at the edges of affection, pretending not to need it until you offered it first. But now his voice had gone quiet and rough, stripped of all sarcasm.

You reached back and touched his hair softly. His breath caught slightly in his throat.

"Really terrible day?" you asked quietly, voice laced with a gentle worry.

He nodded once, and it made your heart ached.

With a sigh, you pushed your books away and carefully turned in your chair. Theo loosened his grip just enough to let you move, but not enough to let you go. The moment you faced him, he stepped between your knees and leaned into you again.

You cupped his face. He looked so exhausted as if he'd been running around the Hogwarts since the last you saw him.

"Oh, Theo," you breathed out softly.

His eyes flickered over your face, guarded and vulnerable all at once. "I just wanted to see you."

"You did see me."

"No," he said, frowning slightly as if it was obvious. "I wanted this."

Before you could ask what he meant, he folded himself into you, arms sliding around your waist as he tucked his face back into your neck. You wrapped yourself around him instinctively, one hand at the nape of his neck, the other resting between his shoulder blades.

He exhaled like he had been waiting all day to breathe. "You're warm."

"And you're freezing."

"Mhm."

"You need to take better care of yourself."

"I have you."

"That is not a care plan."

"It's my favorite one."

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers kept moving gently through his hair. Theo melted under the touch. His entire posture changed, the tension draining from him bit by bit. He leaned more heavily into you, trusting you to hold him together, and you did.

The library around you faded into the background. There was only Theo, tired and clingy and soft in a way he showed almost no one else. Theo, who looked like winter to everyone else but felt like a quiet fire when he was this close. Theo, who hid his bruises behind clever remarks and cold eyes, but came to you when the day had been too much.

"You know," you said quietly, "Madam Pince is going to throw us out if you keep standing here like this."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Then you'll have to stop studying."

"You're impossible."

He gave a small, satisfied hum. You felt him smile against your skin.

"There he is," you murmured warmly.

Theo lifted his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to meet yours. "Who?"

"My Theo."

Something in his expression shifted. The teasing disappeared. For a second, he only looked at you, blinking slowly.

Then his face softened so completely that it nearly broke your heart.

"Yours?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. "If you want to be."

His hands tightened at your waist. "I do." No hesitation. No sarcasm. No clever deflection.

Just the truth.

Your thumb stroked his cheek. "Then yes. My Theo."

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch like the words had settled somewhere deep inside him.

"You make everything quiet," he whispered.

You swallowed slightly and softly kissed his head. "Is that a good thing?"

His eyes opened again, darker now, gentler. "It's the best thing."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you simply pulled him closer. Theo followed easily, sinking into your arms until his forehead rested against your shoulder.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You held him while the torches burned low and your abandoned notes lay forgotten on the table. His breathing evened out slowly, his fingers no longer clutching at you quite so desperately. Every now and then, he shifted closer as if reminding himself you were still there.

Eventually, you murmured, "I really do have to study."

Theo groaned.

You just laughed softly. "Theo."

"Five more minutes."

"You are going to say that forever."

"Yes."

"Theo."

He lifted his head, just enough to look at you through his lashes. "Your scent and warmth make me feel at home."

He seemed embarrassed the second the words left him. His gaze dropped, a faint flush touched the tips of his ears. But you didn't tease him — you just can't when your heart was aching so terrifyingly beautiful in your chest at his words. You only pulled him back in and kissed the side of his head gently.

The books could wait.

The essay could wait.

The exam could even wait, at least for a little while.

Theo had spent the whole day being sharp-edged and silent for the rest of the world. But here, with you, he was soft. Here, he was safe. Here, he could bury his face into the crook of your neck and ask for five more minutes like it was the only thing keeping him together.

So you held him tighter.

"Okay," you whispered. "Five more minutes."

Theo sighed, warm and relieved against your skin.

Theo flicked you a look, lips twitching. "Your commentary is absolute shit. But that doesn't stop you from opening that pretty mouth of yours."

You kicked him lightly in the thigh, socked foot bouncing off his lean muscle. "Ow," he deadpanned, and flicked one card at you like a weapon. It smacked your forehead before fluttering uselessly to the sheets.

You laughed, grabbing it. "Terrifying."

"You should be," he said with a nod, but he was already smirking. That was who Theo was — he always looked a little too unbothered, a little too pretty sitting there with his collar loose, hair falling in his eyes, like the world could collapse and he'd still be dryly amused.

The problem with having Theo Nott as your best friend was exactly this: he was utterly dangerous without trying.

Which is maybe why, when you both got bored of the cards and you scrolled absently on the tablet you gifted him on his birthday, you didn't think before pulling up the browser and saying, "So what's the weirdest shit you've watched on here?"

Theo arched a brow from where he was sprawled against the headboard. "Define weird."

"Don't act like you don't know what I mean," you shot back, grinning up at him. "Come on. Everyone's searched something at least once that they'd never admit."

He hummed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing like he was amused at your boldness. "You mean porn."

You shrugged, pretending not to care though your cheeks went warmer. "Yeah. Porn. Unless you're about to tell me you've never—"

His scoff cut off your teasing. "Obviously I have."

"Well?" you pushed curiously with an arched eyebrow.

Theo tilted his head, studying you for a moment. His voice dropped just a fraction, that playful teasing he reserved only for you. "What do I get if I tell you?"

You froze for half a second. You hated when he did that — turned a simple conversation into something that made your stomach twist warmly. "Bragging rights?"

Theo's mouth curved into a smirk. "Shit prize." But he took the tablet from your hands, long fingers brushing yours, and typed something into the search bar. He didn't show you right away, just smirked at the screen, then angled it toward you.

Your jaw dropped the second your eyes landed on the screen. "Oh my god."

Theo chuckled in amusement, low and warm. "Too much?"

You slapped his arm, laughing. "That's— what even is that position? Is he trying to break her spine?"

"Flexibility training," he deadpanned with a nonchalant shrug.

You snorted so hard you nearly dropped the tablet off the bed. "You're sick."

"Please. You asked yourself." He looked far too smug, lounging like a cat while you tried to recover from the scene. Then, without asking, he tapped the next video down the list. Something tamer, but still porn.

You should have told him to shut it off. Instead, you found yourself watching curiously.

At first, it was funny. The over-exaggerated moans, the cheesy dirty talk. You mocked the way the guy kept saying "yeah baby" and "fuck" like he'd been programmed with only two phrases. Theo snorted every time the camera zoomed in unnecessarily close to the girl's face. It was the kind of thing best friends could laugh at without thinking twice.

Except... you were thinking twice.

Because you noticed how close you'd ended up sitting, your knees almost brushing his. How his shoulder shifted against yours when he leaned back at the headboard. How he absentmindedly spun the ring on his finger while watching, and how his expression wasn't as detached as you expected. Relaxed sure, but now with more intent.

When the girl on-screen gasped, Theo's tongue darted briefly over his lower lip, and your stomach flipped, dangerous and warm.

Nope. Absolutely not. This was Theo. Your Theo. You were just imagining it.

But then he glanced sideways and caught you watching him instead of the screen, he smirked.

"What?" you demanded, arching your brow in a defensive gesture.

"You're quiet," he pinpointed lightly with a slight hum. "Unusual."

"I'm just... processing."

He chuckled, tilting his head slightly, but didn't push. "Sure." His eyes flicked back to the tablet, then to you again. "And you're blushing."

"I am not."

"You are," he said with a smirk, far too pleased with himself. "Cute."

Your heart jumped. Cute? Theo called you a million names — idiot, menace, brat — but cute? That was reserved only for special occasions. And worse, he looked like he meant it.

The video kept playing. You tried to laugh at it again, but your voice came out thin. Theo leaned just a little closer, close enough that you caught the faint cologne at his collar. Close enough that when the man on screen groaned, you felt heat curl in your stomach in a way that had nothing to do with the actor.

It was all about Theo.

And suddenly you realized: best friends didn't actually sit this close watching porn together. Not without meaning something else.

Your pulse hammered. You glanced at him again, and this time, you swore his gaze dipped to your mouth before he caught himself and looked away.

Shit.

The room felt smaller by the second, the air warmer and thicker.

Theo hadn't moved much, but it was the awareness that had changed. His thigh brushed yours like it always did, only this time it wasn't casual. His arm rested behind you on the headboard, his fingers grazing your shoulder, and you felt every nerve in your body trip over itself because suddenly, it mattered.

The video kept playing, but neither of you was really watching it anymore.

"You can turn it off," Theo said finally, voice lower than usual. "If it's too much."

You forced a laugh, though your throat was dry. "It's not. Don't worry."

He looked at you, sharp eyes steady, like he was testing that. Then his mouth curved slowly, that teasing edge softening into something heavier. "Alright, then. Don't get shy on me now."

Shy? You wanted to smack him as usual when he teased you. But your body betrayed you — pulse raced, legs shifted subconsciously, and you couldn't meet his gaze for long without feeling like you'd combust.

The silence stretched, broken only by the obscene wet sounds from the tablet. And then, like the universe couldn't handle the tension between you two anymore — you both reached for it at once, fingers colliding.

You startled, jerking your hand back quickly, but Theo caught your wrist before you could move away. His grip was firm, warm, familiar but all new in a strange intimate way. "Jumpier than usual," he murmured.

Your breath hitched. "Well, it's because you're being—"

"What?" He tilted his head, studying you, thumb dragging lazily against the inside of your wrist. "Honest?"

The word sank into you, heavy and dangerous. Because yeah, that was exactly what this all was. Too honest. Terrifying in its novelty, but exhilarating all at once. Unavoidable.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn't hesitant, wasn't careful. Theo kissed like he'd thought a lot about it before, like he already knew the shape of your mouth, like your lips were destined to end up against his. His hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face to his, while your fingers bunched in his shirt. He tasted faintly of menthol cigarettes and something darker, and when you gasped, he swallowed the sound like he owned it. His tongue slid against yours, slow and deliberate, making you shudder at the sheer heat of it.

The tablet slipped forgotten onto the sheets.

"Fuck," you breathed out against his mouth.

Theo smirked, breath warm on your skin as he pressed his forehead to yours. "That's the idea."

You laughed shakily, but it broke into a gasp when his hand skimmed down your side, slipping under your shirt to trace warm and bare skin. Your whole body shivered at the contact, heat sparking everywhere his fingers touched.

"Theo—"

"Tell me to stop," he said, voice strained now, though his mouth was still curved. "And you know I will."

But you didn't. Couldn't. Didn't want to. Instead, you dragged him closer, kissing him again, more desperate this time.

The shift was immediate. Theo groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating through you as he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Inevitable. Blissful. Amazing. His hands gripped your hips, grounding you as you rocked instinctively against him. The friction made your head spin, and his breath hitched against your throat.

"Still just friends?" he tried to tease, but his voice was a bit too breathless.

"Do friends get hard like this?" you shot back, grinding just enough to feel him under you. The twitch of his cock against you made you both hiss.

"Point taken," he muttered, before kissing you again, rougher, more intentional this time.

Clothes blurred after that. Tugging, pulling, laughter breaking through between kisses when your shirt got stuck over your head, his muttered "bloody hell" as your fingers fumbled with his belt. The kind of chaos only two people too comfortable with each other could create.

But when you finally got his trousers shoved down and felt him, hot and hard against you, everything stilled.

Theo's forehead pressed to yours, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. "We should— fuck, we should slow down."

"Do you want to?" you asked as you looked at him, voice barely more than a whisper.

His eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark. "No."

Your body reacted before your mind did. You ground against him again, and Theo groaned, head dropping to your shoulder. His hands dug into your hips like he was fighting himself.

"Just the tip," he rasped suddenly, voice breaking on the words. "Let me, fuck— I want to feel you. Just the tip."

You shuddered, heat pooling low and heavy in your stomach. The way he said it — pleading, wrecked — undid you more than his hot and solid body against you. "Theo..."

"Please," he whispered, lips brushing your ear. "I just need to feel you."

Your chest heaved, words spilling out of your mouth before you think twice. "Just the tip."

It was a lie, and you both knew it.

Theo lined himself up, slow and careful, and pressed forward until the head of his cock slid into your soaked entrance.

The world tilted.

You gasped. The stretch was sharp, overwhelming, delicious, your walls clenching around him instinctively. Theo swore under his breath, clutching your waist like a lifeline. "Fuck. Fuck, so tight—"

Your nails dug into his shoulders. Every nerve ending in your body lit up, the feel of him, even just like this, was dizzying, stunning. "Theo, oh my—"

"I know," he whispered, voice shaking. He kissed your throat, your jaw, your cheek, everywhere he could reach. "I know, love. Just a little... just—"

He tried to stay still, but your hips shifted on instinct, sucking him deeper inch by inch until he was halfway inside. Your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the delicious burn, the feeling of fullness.

"Not just the tip," you whimpered softly.

His laugh was broken, wrecked and warm against your skin. "Yeah, no chance of stopping now."

And then he rocked the rest of the way in, slow but steady until he was seated fully, your walls stretching around every inch of him. You moaned at the delicious sensations, thighs trembling, body shivering on top of his.

Theo's forehead dropped to yours, sweat beading at his temple. "You feel, fuck, you feel unreal."

He gave you a second to adjust, his thumbs stroking your hip soothingly. But when you clenched around him so amazingly, he groaned and pulled almost all the way out before thrusting back in. The movement sent sparkles of pleasure down your back, dragging another helpless sound from your throat.

Every tiny movement made you jolt, your body alive and burning with shivers. You could feel every vein, every throb of him. Theo fucked you slow but deep, savoring each sound you made, each tremor of your body on his. Every time your walls fluttered around him, his rhythm faltered, breath catching, like he couldn't believe it either.

Each time he bottomed out, you moaned without thinking, legs tightening around him to pull him even closer. Your nails dug crescents into his back, cries growing louder with every deliberate and delicious push. Theo's usual composure was completely gone now, his groans raw in your ear, his restraint unraveling with every twitch of your pussy.

"Taking me so good," he panted hoarsly, his pace picking up. "My perfect girl. My best fucking friend." His lips found your ear, hot breath making you shiver. "Never gonna look at you the same after this."

You shattered around him then, the orgasm crashing through you so hard that your vision blurred. Your body convulsed, walls clamping down around him. Theo cursed loudly, hips stuttering at the sensations.

He fucked you through it, every thrust dragging out the pleasure until you were sobbing his name in his shoulder. The twitch of his cock, the hitch in his breath, told you he was close too.

"Where?" he gasped.

"Inside," you begged without thinking. "Please, want to feel it all."

His groan was guttural, broken, as he slammed deep one last time, spilling inside you with a shudder that shook his whole frame. You felt the warmth flood you, felt the twitch of him as he pulsed, and that feeling dragged another aftershock from your already wrecked body.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, the only sound your ragged breathing and the faint, forgotten moans still coming from the tablet on the floor.

Finally, Theo shifted slightly. He looked at you, hair damp, lips curved into a lazy and sated smile.

"You're fucked," he murmured warmly, eyes still dark. "We're fucked."

You laughed weakly, tugging him closer for another kiss. "Best friends, huh?" you managed breathlessly.

The room roared in approval. Bottles clinked, someone yelled "strip beer pong after!" and Blaise quietly snorted into his drink. You raised your hands in mock defeat, cheeks already warm from all the alcohol and attention.

You cast a glance across the room. Theo was lounging on the couch, half-drunk and grinning, shrugging his shoulders slightly as if saying it's up to you. And just beside him, sprawled back with a glass of firewhisky dangling from his fingers, was Mattheo Riddle.

He was lounging on the velvet couch, dark curls mussed, smirk stretched across his lips as he watched the chaos with sharp, hooded eyes. You'd caught him looking at you three times already tonight. Four, if you counted the moment he tugged on a lock of your hair and told you, "You clean up nicely," before vanishing toward the drinks table.

Your brother's best friend. Your personal nightmare. Your—Merlin, you didn't even know what he was to you anymore.

He was wearing black again. Of course. Sleeves rolled up, hair a bit messier than usual. That same lazy smirk on his face like he knew every dirty thought you'd ever had about him. And maybe he did.

But he was Theo's best friend. That should make him off-limits. But unfortunately, it made him even more bloody appealing.

"Alright!" Pansy called, clapping her hands as she stepped onto a table. "Let's make it interesting"

A chorus of cheers echoed through the room. You groaned, rolling your eyes, but someone was already grabbing a hat and stuffing names inside.

"Fine, fine. Let fate humiliate me on my birthday" you said with a chuckle.

But your confidence wavered as your fingers dipped into the hat and pulled out a slip of parchment. You unfolded it and nearly choked.

Mattheo Riddle.

You glanced up. He was already looking at you, one brow arched in amusement like he knew exactly what was on that paper.

"No fucking way," Theo said from across the room, clearly having caught a hint.

"Rules are rules, mate," Mattheo said smoothly, standing and downing the rest of his drink. His smirk didn't budge. "I'm a man of honor."

You were trying not to laugh at his words as someone opened the door to a small broom closet tucked just off the corridor.

Mattheo turned to you, gesturing inside. "Ladies first, Nott," he murmured lowly.

You shuffled inside, brushing past the hanging cloaks and spare brooms, and nearly tripped over a crate of Quidditch gear. Mattheo slid in after you, closing the door with a casual click that echoed like a gunshot in your chest.

It was small. Stupidly small. You barely had room to shift your weight before Mattheo's chest was brushing yours.

"Well," he drawled, voice low and maddeningly smug, "this is cozy."

You crossed your arms tightly, trying to shield yourself from the sudden proximity. "Don't start. Try anything and I'll hex your dick off."

He laughed, the sound rich and far too attractive for his own good. "I haven't even started. Now that's how you start a birthday celebration. Violence and threats. Very on brand, sweetheart."

You hated that he was right. You also hated that it smells like him in here — cigarettes and something warmer, darker. Like worn leather and trouble. And it clouded your mind more than any alcohol.

"I can feel you staring," you muttered quietly.

"That's because I am staring," he replied without any shame. "You wore that dress just to make me suffer, didn't you?"

Your eyes narrowed in the dark, trying to adjust to the lack of light and see his expression. "You're not supposed to be looking."

"Oh, sweetheart," he said, leaning in until his lips brush the shell of your ear, "I've been looking for years."

Your breath hitched. That wasn't what you were expecting — not teasing, not flirting. Not that. You shifted back, but there was nowhere to go in the small space. His hands were on either side of your hips now, caging you in, though he wasn't touching you. Not yet.

"Theo's going to kill you if he finds out," you reminded him. Or yourself. You weren't so sure anymore.

"Then I guess we better not do anything worth killing me over," he murmured velvety. His breath ghosted over your skin, making you shiver in anticipation. "Unless... You're the birthday girl. Which means I should probably give you a present."

You scoffed slightly. "And what, exactly, do you think I want right now?"

His grin turned slow, dangerous. "I think you want me to kiss you."

You exhaled sharply, feeling hyperaware of his proximity, of this whole situation. "Mattheo, we are not making out in a broom closet," you tried to say firmly, but failed miserably.

"You sure?" he teased softly. And you could swear he was smirking right now. "Cause your heart's beating like you really want to."

You lunged to shove him — playfully, just to push him back and win some space to breathe — but in the dark, your hand landed against his chest. Solid muscle. Heat. And his fingers caught your wrist before you could pull away. He didn't let go.

"You always this feisty when you're turned on? I like it," he murmurs lowly.

"You think very highly of yourself." Your cheeks were burning now. And you didn't quite know whether it was from embarrassment at the truth in his words or from the heat in the stuffed closet.

"No," he said, gently tugging your hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss over your knuckles, "I think very highly of you."

Silence fell between you — tense, electric.

"I've seen the way you look at me,” he added, voice a bit rougher now. "Always when Theo's not looking. Like you want me to pin you against the nearest wall and ruin your perfect little birthday hairstyle."

You should've slapped him. You should've hexed him. You should've marched out of this closet and pretended this never happened. But your body wasn't listening.

Then Mattheo leaned in and kissed you. And it was nothing like you expected. It was slow at first, teasing — his lips just barely ghosting over yours, like he was testing you, giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn't.

You kissed him back, hands fisting in the front of his shirt as heat coiled deep in your stomach. He groaned softly into your mouth, one hand sliding to your waist, the other tipping your chin up so he could kiss you harder, deeper.

It was filthy. Desperate. Like he'd wanted this for a long time and didn't trust himself to stop. He tasted like firewhisky and sin, tongue pushing past your lips as you opened for him.

"Fuck," he breathed out, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dark closet. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

You smirked slightly, dizzy from the heat, from the intoxicating taste of his lips. "You started it."

"Yeah," he said a bit roughly, not being ashamed even a little, "and I'm gonna finish it, too."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours as his hand dragged slowly up your thigh, hitching your dress higher, sending shivers up your back. You couldn't help but let out a soft gasp against his lips.

"We've only got a few minutes," he murmured heatedly. "Better make them count, don't you think?"

You should've told him to stop. You should've reminded him that anyone could open the door, that your brother was just across the room, that this was reckless, and wrong, and—

But when his fingers slid beneath your panties and grazed over your already-wet heat, the only thing that came out of your mouth was a soft, broken moan.

Mattheo chuckled darkly against your neck. "Fuck… this is what I get for being a gentleman all these years?"

You were about to respond — something sharp and smart — but then two fingers slid between your folds, and your whole body jolted, leaning into his touch.

He groaned again, low and wrecked. "So fucking wet already. You want this as bad as I do, don't you, sweetheart?"

You nodded. You had to, because your mouth wouldn't work. Not when his fingers were teasing circles around your clit, not when his other hand was slipping the strap of your dress off your shoulder to expose the swell of your breast.

He bent down and took your nipple into his mouth, hot and demanding, sucking softly while his fingers rubbed slow, torturous patterns between your legs. You gasped, arching into him. "Fuck, Mattheo."

"Say it again," he murmured lowly, biting your nipple gently. "Say my name like that."

"Mattheo," you repeated breathlessly without a second thought, being too lost in the sensations, and he groaned like it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

He dropped to his knees in the narrow space, lips grazing your inner thigh in soft kisses as he slid your soaked panties down. "Best party game ever," he said, and before you could process his words or the wicked gleam in his eyes, his tongue was on you.

He licked you like he was starving, like he'd dreamed of this exact moment for so long — and fuck, maybe he had. You weren't sure when your back hit the wall or when your fingers desperately tangled in his curls, but you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but roll your hips into his mouth, wanting, needing more.

He moaned against you as he was enjoying it as much as you did, tongue flicking fast and filthy against your clit, two fingers thrusting inside you deep and slow, curling just right.

"You taste like sin," he muttered, voice muffled against your heat. "Like the best fucking mistake I can ever make."

One of his hands slid up your waist beneath your dress, possessive, comforting, his. Mattheo ate you out like it was all he'd ever known, like the party outside didn't exist, like your brother's voice could never echo behind the door, like he'd stay on his knees for you until the world burned down around him.

Your legs started to shake. You were getting close, so fucking close.

"Come for me," he said hoarsely, voice muffled against your cunt. "I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue."

And when he sucked just right and stroked that spot deep inside you— You shattered. Your moan was raw, almost desperate, your thighs squeezing around his head as your orgasm crashed over you, white-hot and absolutely overwhelming.

He rode it out, licking you through it, not stopping until you were gasping his name and pulling at his curls with shaking fingers.

He stood up, licking his lips with a smirk, eyes dark with heat.

"Happy birthday," he whispered roughly and smugly.

You let out a breathless laugh, still completely dazed from the intense climax. "If you tell Theo, I'll kill you," you mumbled raggedly.

He grinned like you said something amusing. "Tell him? Sweetheart, I'm trying to figure out how to do it again without him finding out."

A sharp knock cut through the haze.

"Time's up!" Theo's voice, way too close. "If I open this door and you're in a compromising position, I swear to Merlin—"

Mattheo leaned in, pressing a final brief kiss to your jaw.

His breath ghosts softly across the back of your neck, slow and even. Completely unbothered by the weather. Naturally. Mattheo sleeps like he fights: stubbornly determined to win.

You shift a little. Not enough to wake him — just enough to peek over your shoulder.

Honestly, you think it's unfair. No one should look this soft in sleep. Mattheo's curls are a mess, falling into his eyes. His mouth is relaxed, none of the usual sharp smirks or snarky comments. Just warmth. Just him. And you feel your chest squeeze with something gentle like every time you see him like this.

Merlin, you're so doomed.

You carefully pull the blankets up to his shoulders. He lets out a faint grumble, burrows closer, and tucks his face into the curve of your neck as if magnetized.

"Don't move," he mutters, voice gravelly and still half-asleep.

You stifle a soft laugh. "You're awake?"

"Mmh, no." His arm tightens around you. "But you're warm."

"You're heavy."

He makes a sleepy, offended noise. "Rude."

You just smile quietly and silly into the pillow.

For a long moment, there's only the quiet rhythm of his breathing and the distant pop of the room's fireplace. The rest of Slytherin is still asleep. It feels like the world is on pause, wrapped in the kind of early-morning hush you want to bottle and keep forever.

Eventually, your fingers drift down to his hand resting over your stomach. You gently trace the lines of his knuckles. He hums again, softer this time.

"Mattheo."

"Mmm?"

"It's freezing."

"You're freezing," he corrects, voice still thick with sleep. "I'm fine."

"That's because you're half-dragon."

He smiles into your skin. "Definitely half something."

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the flutter in your stomach.

"Should we get up?" you ask softly.

"No," he answers immediately.

"Classes start in an hour."

"We'll skip."

"We're not skipping."

"We could," he tries, a lazy persuasion in his tone. "Stay in bed. Hide from the frost. I'll let you steal my jumper."

You pause.

"...The soft green one?"

His chest rumbles with a low chuckle. "I knew that'd get you."

You elbow him lightly, but he only pulls you closer again, tucking his legs around yours like he's trying to cocoon you.

"You're impossible," you say.

"You adore me."

You do. He knows it. You know it. The entire castle probably knows it.

But instead of answering, you wiggle free just enough to turn and face him. His dark eyes blink open, heavy-lidded with sleep, gaze soft. Always soft when he looks at you. He seems younger like this, less guarded — like the world hasn't quite put its claws in him yet.

He studies you with a slow, lazy smile for a moment. "Hi."

"Hi."

His fingers find a loose strand of your hair, curling it around his finger. "Come back here."

"You have to get up eventually," you protest half-heartedly.

"Incorrect. Absolutely false. Propaganda."

You laugh quietly. "Tell you what. I'll make tea."

Mattheo opens one eye curiously. "Tea?"

"With honey."

"Honey?"

"And the cinnamon biscuits you stole from the Great Hall."

"You saw that?"

You raise an eyebrow.

He sighs in defeat. "Fine. Tea it is then."

You push the blankets aside — instantly assaulted by the cold — and Mattheo protests dramatically as you escape his arms.

"Cruel," he calls after you. "Heartless. Abandoning me in my time of desperate need."

"It's been thirty seconds."

"Thirty agonizing and dreadful seconds."

You shake your head with a smile, tossing him a pillow on your way to the fireplace. It hits him in the chest, and he gasps as if mortally wounded.

While you set a kettle charm to heat, you hear him groaning behind you. You glance back. He's sprawled across the bed, hair wild, wrapped tightly in the blankets like some sleepy, sulking serpent.

"Stop being so cute," you say.

He blinks. "I'm not cute."

"You're extremely cute."

"That's slander."

"Uh-huh."

After a moment, you pour the tea, adding honey until it's just the way he pretends he doesn't like it. Mattheo claims he drinks it plain — like a real grown-up man — but every time you slip in honey he finishes the cup without a word.

You bring the two mugs over, and he immediately sits up, patting the space beside him.

You settle in, and the second you do, he wraps the blanket around both of you. His cold toes press against your shin, making you yelp.

"Mattheo!"

His grin is pure mischief. "See? I told you you're the freezing one."

"That's because you're using me as a personal heater!"

"Exactly." He takes a sip of tea, satisfaction spreading across his face with a hint of amusement. "Perfect."

You watch him for a moment. The soft morning light. His messy curls. The way he tilts his head when he tastes something he likes but refuses to admit it. The warmth of the blankets, and his shoulder resting lightly against yours.

It feels... easy, right.

Peaceful, in a way neither of you grew up with.

"You know," you say quietly, "I like mornings like this."

He turns to you. "With me?"

"With you."

Mattheo's smirk falters — just barely — replaced by something warmer, something careful.

Almost shy.

He leans forward until his forehead nudges yours gently. "Yeah," he whispers. "Me too."

The moment stretches, soft and delicate, before he presses a kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek. Then, finally, your lips — slow, lingering, sweet.

When he pulls away, he looks at you like you've single-handedly brought warmth into a place that's always been too cold.

"What?" you ask.

He shakes his head slightly, smiling in that rare, unguarded way you love. "Nothing. Just... stay close today, yeah?"

You nudge his shoulder. "I always do."

"Good," he murmurs, settling contentedly against you again.

The tea cools. The biscuits disappear. The sun finally rises, lighting the room with soft gold.

And the two of you sit there under too many blankets, sharing warmth, sharing quiet, sharing something gentle in the beginning of winter — as if the world outside can wait a little longer.

For now, it's just this.

Just you.

Just him.

It was always the same game: him tossing flirting lines, waiting for you to blush or scoff, and you, usually brushing it off with a roll of your eyes. He thrived on your reactions — the little flustered looks, the widening of eyes, the muttered retorts, the hitching of breath. Mattheo Riddle loved control, loved knowing he could shake you without breaking a sweat. And most of all, he loved your reactions to just his words.

But today, something in you snapped differently.

You'd caught him lingering in the corridor again, shoulder pressed against the wall in a lazy posture like he owned it, gaze locked on you the moment you appeared. That damn smirk that made you feel weak in the knees already tugged at his mouth, slow and deliberate.

"Careful, sweetheart," he drawled, voice warm and low. "Keep walking past me like that and I might start thinking you're trying to get my attention."

Normally, you would've rolled your eyes. Maybe tossed him a muttered 'in your dreams' and kept going. But instead, you let yourself pause and turned to face him. Tilted your head just slightly, lips curving into a slow smile that mirrored his own in a way that made his eyes narrow in interest.

"Maybe I am trying to get your attention," you said, smooth and casual, though your heart hammered traitorously in your chest. "What are you going to do about it, pretty boy?"

For the first time you remember, Mattheo's expression faltered.

The smirk slipped, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. His brows shot up, and he blinked like he wasn't sure he'd heard you right. Then he laughed softly, not his usual sharp sound, but one edged with something nervous.

"Oh," he breathed out, straightening from the wall as if he suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. "That's... that's new."

He raked a hand through his curls, a telltale sign he was trying to recover, but his eyes betrayed him — wide, darting over you with a flash of uncertainty and curiosity. The unshakable Mattheo Riddle, who always had the upper hand in everything, looked like you'd just pulled the rug out from under him.

"Don't tell me," you teased with a small satisfied smile, stepping closer so your shoulder brushed his arm deliberately as you passed, "that you can dish it out but can't take it, Riddle."

After a moment of charged silence, the corridor swallowed the sound of your footsteps as you walked away, leaving him standing there, still half-turned toward you. You didn't look back on purpose, but you could feel the weight of his gaze lingering, heavier than usual.

Ahead, the boy sat bound to a heavy oak chair, its carved arms worn smooth by time. Leather straps snaked around his wrists and ankles, pulsing faintly with enchantments that hummed like a low, sinister heartbeat. Every twitch he made had tightened them further, a cruel design that turned his useless struggles into crueller punishment.

He was no one special — just a Charms classmate who had lingered too long in the library earlier that day. His eyes had lingered on you, his grin too warm as he praised your meticulous notes, fingers brushing yours when he reached for the same book. A fleeting moment, innocent enough, but to Tom, it was a trespass.

He hadn't spoken when he saw it. He'd been lurking in the stacks, a shadow among the shelves, his presence unnoticed until the air grew cold and sharp. You had felt it instantly — the way his gaze sliced through the moment, freezing the boy mid-sentence. Your classmate had stammered, oblivious to the danger, but you knew better.

You had seen the glint in Tom's eyes, that beautiful, terrifying madness you recognize so well. Insanity that made your stomach twist with dread and something else. Something that made your thighs clench.

Now, that boy sat pinned like an insect under glass, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead. The school robes were rumpled, tie askew, as if he'd been yanked here by force. His eyes darted wildly, meeting yours for a fleeting second before flinching away, landing on Riddle, who stood behind you like a dark guardian.

Tom's hand slid to the small of your back, pressing firmly, guiding closer to the bound figure. The heat of his touch had seared through your robes, grounding even as your pulse raced.

"Look at him," Tom murmured, his voice like cold silk. "See how his eyes dart? He thought he could touch what's mine. Thought he could smile at you, brush your hand, as if you weren't already claimed."

The boy jerked against the straps, the leather creaking loudly in the quiet chamber. "I—I didn't know!" His voice cracked, high and desperate, his cheeks flushing with humiliation. "I swear, I didn't mean—"

"Oh, you didn't know?" Tom's laugh was a low, derisive thing, slithering through the air like a dead curse. He stepped closer, his presence towering, suffocating. "You looked at her like a dog in heat, eyes greedy, hands itching to take what isn't yours. Utterly pathetic."

He turned to you, his fingers gripping your chin, tilting your face to meet his gaze. His eyes were a storm — dark, glittering, bottomless, like staring into the heart of a void. There was mania there, yes, but also something reverent, a hunger that was as much worship as it was possession.

Your breath caught, shame blooming hot in your chest, spreading like wildfire. You shouldn't have wanted this now. You shouldn't have felt that twisted thrill coiling in your stomach at the thought of being owned like this, but gods, the way he looked at you, like you were his most prized possession, made your breath come short.

Tom kissed you hard, claiming, his teeth grazing your lower lip until you tasted the faintest hint of metal. It wasn't a kiss, not really — it was a conquest, a branding, his tongue invading your mouth with ruthless and precise intent. You whimpered into it, hands clutching at his robes, caught between pushing him away and tugging him closer.

He pulled back, just enough to speak, his lips brushing yours. "I'm going to fuck you," he said, voice clear and deliberate, each word echoing in the quiet room like a vow. "And he's going to watch. He'll see how you unravel for me, how you beg for me. He'll know you're mine. He'll learn his place."

Your pulse had spiked, a frantic rhythm in your throat, as Tom's fingers slid along your jaw reverently. There was madness — beautiful, glittering, endless, like the depths of a cursed well. His eyes, dark and piercing, held yours captive, and you felt the heat rising in your cheeks, a shameful flush that betrayed how his possessiveness stirred something deep and needy within you.

Your knees weakened, a shudder running through you as Tom pushed you toward the bed. The mattress creaked under the weight, black silk sheets cool against your heated skin.

The skirts of your robes fanned out around you. You felt exposed already, the boy's gaze a weight you couldn't quite shake. He was staring now, unable to look away, his breathing shallow and erratic, a flush creeping up his neck.

You wanted to hide, to curl into yourself, but Tom's hands were already on you, dragging your skirts up with impatient tugs, baring your thighs to the chill air and the guy's unwilling eyes.

"Tom," you whispered, voice trembling, caught between protest and plea. Shame coiled in your gut, but it was tangled with a pulsing need, a heat that grew more unbearable with every second of his presence. You were awful for this, for the way your body responded to him under these circumstances, but you couldn't stop it.

His hands moved your skirt, yanking the hem up with impatient tugs. You squirmed, a soft impatient whine escaping your lips as Tom's fingers trailed up your inner thigh, teasing the edge of the undergarments.

Your body betrayed you, growing wet and warm at each deliberate touch. His tongue traced your throat, hot and slow, fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding your center with devastating precision.

Tom circled your clit, teasing, just shy of too much. You bit your lip, trying to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out. But it was no use — a soft and choked sound broke free from your mouth anyway, echoing shamelessly in the chamber.

"Look at him," Tom ordered again, his voice a low purr as he tugged your hair, turning your head toward the boy. "See how he wishes it were him touching you like this? How he's hard despite himself?"

You glanced at the bound person, and Merlin, Tom was right. His trousers strained visibly, his face a mask of shame and reluctant arousal. You flushed deeper, mortified, yet the sight only made you clench tighter around nothing.

Tom growled low in his throat and parted your folds with two fingers, dipping inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust. You arched into his hand, unable to stop yourself as the slick and obscene sounds filled the room.

"And you, inferiority, look at her," he snapped, eyes never leaving your face. "See how wet she is for me? Dripping, aching, made for my touch. Never yours. Never."

Your moan broke free again, loud and desperate, as his fingers thrust deeper, wet sounds filling the chamber. His other hand pressed against your stomach, pinning you to the bed, keeping you in place as your hips bucked involuntarily into his touch.

You were lost in it, pleasure coiling tight, shame amplifying every sensation. You shouldn't let this happen, with the almost stranger watching, but Tom's touch, his absolute control, the unbelievable pleasure made any resistance impossible.

"She's perfect," Tom murmured, his tone softening, almost reverent, even as his fingers thrust harder and faster into your welcoming heat. "Made for me. Molded to fit me, to break for me. You'll never hear her voice crack like this for you."

He leaned down, lips brushing your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You'll never touch her," he told the boy, voice dropping to a hiss. "Never hear her moan like this, never feel her come apart. You'll go back to your miserable meaningless life, haunted forever by the miracle you've seen."

He withdrew suddenly, leaving you empty and whining, walls clenching around nothing. The clink of his belt was loud in the silence, a deliberate and cruel sound that promised what was to come.

He freed himself, thick and heavy, the sight making your mouth water despite the shame burning in your chest. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, pausing to watch your face contort with need. The boy's eyes were glued to the scene, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, his face a mix of horror and fascination.

"Tell him," Tom whispered, lips brushing your ear, his voice a dark caress. "Tell him who you belong to. Say it loud."

"Y-you," you stammered breathlessly, voice breaking, trembling with desperation and shame. "Tom—only you. Please, I'm all yours."

That was all it took. Tom thrust into you, hard and smooth, the force knocking the breath from your lungs. Your gasp echoed off the stone walls, sharp and raw, as he set a punishing rhythm. One hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat for his teeth. The other gripped your hip, fingers digging in so hard you knew you'd wear his marks for days.

"Mine," he growled with each snap of his hips, the word a mantra, a vow, a curse. "Every inch of you. Every gasp, every shiver. Mine." His cock filled you completely, stretching you deliciously and sinfully. Each thrust of his hips drove deeper, claiming every part of your insides. You were lost in it, in the brutal rhythm, in the way he owned you so thoroughly.

The boy tried to look away, tears glinting in his eyes, face burning with humiliation. But Tom snarled, "Eyes open. Watch how she takes me. Watch what you'll never have."

With a flick of his wand, taken from the sheets, the guy's head jerked, eyelids forced wide, locking his gaze on you. You caught his gaze for a moment, and the mix of envy and revulsion there made your core flutter, a twisted thrill you couldn't deny.

Your body arched overwhelmed, every nerve alight as Tom drove into you with relentless fury. He was unhinged, half-wild with jealousy, half-drunk on the power of displaying you like a prize. You clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, moaning his name in broken gasps. "Tom, only yours, please," you pleaded, the words spilling out, fueled both by shame and need. You were awful, terrible, for the way this turned you on, for the way his possession consumed you.

His teeth sank into your neck, marking with bites that stung and burned, bruises that would bloom purple by morning. "Let him hear," he growled against your skin, his voice rough and low. "Let him know you come apart for me alone. Feel how you tighten around me? That's because you and your sweet little cunt know who you belong to."

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and circling with expert pressure. The pleasure built, sharp and unbearable, coiling tight in your core. You were gasping, sobbing his name, body arching into him as you chased the edge. The other person's presence only heightened it, the shame amplifying every sensation until you were drowning in it.

Orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, ripping a sob from your throat as you thrashed beneath him. His name spilled from your lips like a mantra, voice raw and broken as blissful sensation consumed you. Walls clenched around him, milking him as pleasure burned through every nerve of your body.

Tom followed moments later, a guttural growl tearing from his chest as he spilled inside you, hot and deep. Hand clamped around your throat, pinning you in place as he rode out his release, claiming you from the inside out.

He stilled at last, sweat slicking his brow, chest heaving. His eyes flicked to the boy, a smirk curling his lips at the sight — his face a mask of horror, trousers stained with his own reluctant release.

"Remember this," Tom said, voice cold as winter steel, laced with superiority. "She's mine. I've marked her so deeply, you'll carry this image to your grave. If I catch you so much as glancing her way again, this will feel like mercy."

Tom's grip on you softened, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your skin as he pulled you close. He pressed a kiss to your temple, gentle and reverent, a stark contrast to the brutality of moments before. The guy whimpered, shifting uselessly in his bonds, but Tom didn't spare him another glance. His focus was solely on you, his eyes softening with a rare fondness.

"Perfect," he murmured, brushing damp hair from your face, touch tender now. "My perfect girl. No one else will ever have you like this."

He was talking to Theo and Enzo about some ridiculous bet they had going, but you weren't paying much attention, too busy trying to keep yourself from shivering, but too lazy to go to the dorm and dress something warmer. Apparently, though, Mattheo noticed.

Without a word, he pulled his sweater over his head and, before you could even protest, dropped it onto yours.

You blinked. "What—?"

"You're freezing. Just wear it," he muttered, shaking out his curls.

The wind was still relentless, and as much as your pride wanted you to decline, the warmth from the fabric was already sinking into your skin. The sweater was warm, soft, and — most notably — it smells like him. Hesitantly, you pulled it over your head, and immediately, you were enveloped in his scent — something woodsy with a hint of smoke, like firewhiskey and late-night trouble.

The sleeves were too long, swallowing your hands completely, and when you glanced up, Mattheo was watching you with a smirk tugging on his lips.

"Looks better on you anyway," he said before turning back to the conversation, as if he hadn't just casually sent your heart into overdrive with his sweet gesture and boyish smirk.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

It was supposed to be temporary. Just until you got back to your dorm. But somehow, you kept wearing it.

It started that evening when you curled up in the common room with a book, still wrapped in the warmth of Mattheo's sweater. He didn't say anything about it, just raised an eyebrow as he passed by, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

Then it was the next morning at breakfast. You were too tired to notice, but Mattheo definitely did, his usual smirk faltering slightly when he spotted you across the Great Hall.

And then, in the library, when you absentmindedly pulled the sleeve over your fingers while reading a book with focused expression on your face.

By the third day, it had become a thing.

"You do realize that's mine, right?" Mattheo finally asked, sliding into the seat beside you in Potions.

You glanced down at yourself, feigning innocence. "Oh, is it? I must've forgotten."

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Right. You forgot."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

It wasn't until a few nights later, when you were both sitting by the fire in the common room, that he finally said something real about it.

You were curled up on the couch, absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of his sweater. The fire cast a golden glow over everything, making the room feel warmer than it probably was. Mattheo, lounging in the chair beside you, was watching you — not that you noticed at first.

But when you finally looked up, you caught him staring.

"What?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He didn't answer immediately. Just tilted his head slightly, a lazy smirk playing at his lips, but there was something softer in his eyes. Something hesitant.

"Nothing," he said at last, voice quieter than usual. "Just thinking I might never get that sweater back."

Your fingers froze against the fabric. The way he said it — it wasn't teasing, not really. There was something else there, something unspoken.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his gaze. "Do you... want it back?"

Mattheo studied you for a long moment, then let out a slow exhale, shaking his head slightly with a small smile tugging on his lips.

"No," he admitted. "I think I like it better on you."

Mattheo had promised to help, and, as always, true to his word, he was already lounging on the couch, legs spread casually, his dark eyes watching you with that quiet intensity that always made your pulse quicken. He wore a simple black shirt with no sleeves, which exposed the veins in his forearms, his hair was tousled as if he'd run his fingers through it absentmindedly while waiting for you. The faint scent of his cologne — smoky wood and something darker, more heady and intoxicating — lingered in the air, a comforting and familiar reminder of his presence.

"Alright, sweetheart," he said, his voice low and steady as he patted the spot beside him. "Let's hear it. Run through the whole thing for me."

You nodded, taking a deep breath to steady yourself, and launched into the rehearsal. You stood in front of him, gesturing as if addressing a room full of people. Your voice was gaining strength as you delved into the details of your project. The words flowed from memory, each slide's content etched into your mind.

Mattheo listened intently, his gaze never wavering, nodding occasionally as you hit key points. When you finally finished, you exhaled sharply, your hands trembling slightly as you set the notes aside.

"So?" you asked, searching his face. "What do you think? Was the transition in the middle smooth? Did I explain the data clearly enough?"

"That was solid," he said, his tone calm and genuine. "The structure flows well, you nailed the transitions between sections. Maybe tighten up that middle part on the data analysis; it's a bit wordy, but the content's strong. You've got this, love. It's impressive work."

His praise warmed you, but it couldn't fully dispel the storm brewing in your chest. You sank onto the couch beside him, fiddling with the edges of your notes. "Thanks, but... what if I mess up? Maybe I should adjust the intro again. Or add more examples? I keep thinking about all the ways it could go wrong."

Mattheo's brow furrowed slightly, and he reached out, his hand enveloping yours in that familiar way — his fingers larger, warmer, tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. It was one of those instinctive touches he did without thinking, a physical reassurance that always managed to ground you. But tonight, your mind raced too fast for it to fully take hold.

"You're overthinking it," he murmured, his thumb pressing gently into your palm. "You've put in the work. You're prepared. But I can see it's eating at you."

His eyes searched yours, dark and perceptive, as if he could read every anxious thought swirling in your head. He shifted closer, his free hand sliding to your waist, pulling you gently toward him. "Come here. Sit with me."

You hesitated for a second, but the pull of him was always irresistible. You let him guide you, straddling his lap until you were settled against him, your thighs bracketing his hips. His hands rested on your waist, firm and secure, holding you steady. The heat of his body seeped through your clothes, a solid anchor in the midst of your spiraling thoughts.

"Mattheo, I—" you started, but he cut you off with a soft shush, his lips brushing your temple in a feather-light kiss.

"Shh... I know." His voice was a low rumble against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. "You need to let go of those 'what-ifs' for a bit. Trust me to help you with that." One hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. "We're going to focus on something else. On us. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded, your breath already coming a little shorter. In the safety of your relationship, his dominance was never about control for just control's sake — it was about trust, about him knowing exactly how to make you feel safe and cherished. And right now, with anxiety clawing at the edges of your mind, you craved that feeling of empty-headed security where your thoughts could only focus on him and his voice.

"Good girl," he whispered, the words sending a familiar hot wave of thrill through you. His hands guided your hips, settling you more firmly against him, and you felt the growing hardness beneath his jeans pressing against your core through the thin fabric of your leggings. The contact was immediate, intimate, sparking a low heat that began to build in your belly.

He didn't rush. Mattheo never did when it came to this. To you. Instead, he started with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, grinding up against you in an achingly patient rhythm. The friction was subtle at first — just enough to tease, to make you aware of every point of contact. Your hands found his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscles there as you mirrored his movements, rocking against him instinctively.

"That's it," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "Just feel this. Feel me." His hands squeezed your hips, guiding you to grind down harder, the denim of his jeans rough against the soft fabric covering your most sensitive spots. Each drag pulled a soft gasp from your lips, the pressure building steadily, coiling tighter with every pass.

Your mind tried to cling to the presentation — the words you'd rehearsed, the slides you'd agonized over — but Mattheo's touch was relentless in its distraction. His lips found the curve of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the skin, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through you.

"You're doing so well for me," he praised, voice husky. "Letting go already. I can feel how wet you're getting, sweetheart. Soaking through so pretty for me."

He was right. The heat between your legs grew slicker with each grind, your arousal dampening the fabric, making the slide against him smoother, more intoxicating. You whimpered softly, your hips moving on their own now, chasing the friction as the anxiety began to fade into the background. All that mattered was the way he filled your senses — scent enveloping you, hands anchoring you, hard length of him pressing insistently and deliciously against your clit with every roll.

But Mattheo knew your body too well. Just as the pleasure started to crest, building toward that sweet release, he slowed his movements, his grip on your hips tightening to still you. "Not yet," he breathed out, lips brushing your collarbone. "We're taking this slow. I want you to feel every second of it. No rushing."

You whined softly in protest, body trembling with the denied edge, but he held you firm, his control absolute and reassuring. "Please," you gasped, trying to rock against him, but his strength kept you pinned, forcing you to hover on that precipice. The ache was delicious, a throbbing need that consumed your mind, pushing the last remnants of coherent thoughts into oblivion.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, one hand cupping your jaw to tilt your face to his. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there was that underlying tenderness that always made your heart ache. "You're mine to take care of. And right now, I'm going to make sure you forget everything but this, alright?"

He rolled his hips up once, hard and deliberate, grinding against your clit in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

As he built the friction again — his hips rolling up in that deliberate, unyielding rhythm — your body betrayed every ounce of your crumbling resolve. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably around him, muscles clenching and releasing in futile protest, while a slick heat pooled relentlessly between your legs, soaking through your leggings and making every grind feel obscenely intimate.

Emotions warred inside you: frustration at the denied release twisted into a desperate, aching gratitude for the way he commanded your pleasure, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a reverent possessiveness that made your heart stutter. You felt exposed, vulnerable, yet utterly safe in his grasp. Tears welled in your eyes not from pain but from the overwhelming intensity of being held on that razor-sharp edge. Your breaths came in shallow, ragged sobs as you whispered pleas that dissolved into whimpers. Your nails scraped red trails down his shoulders in a bid to anchor yourself against the tidal wave he withheld.

The denial amplified every sensation, turning the simple brush of his thumb over your hardened nipple into an electric jolt, your mind fracturing into fragments of pure want, until all 'what-ifs' about tomorrow evaporated, leaving only the profound, shuddering trust that he would eventually grant you the shatter you craved.

With each pullback, the ache inside you deepened into something primal. Your core throbbed with an empty, insistent need that radiated through your limbs like liquid fire, leaving you flushed and feverish, skin prickling with sweat that cooled in the air between you.

Physically, it was torture wrapped in bliss — the swollen sensitivity of your clit pulsing against the rough denim, every rejected peak sending shockwaves that made your toes curl and your back arch involuntarily. While emotionally, it stripped away the last shreds of your anxiety, replacing them with a raw, consuming adoration for him, for the way he murmured "Just a little longer, sweetheart, you're doing so perfectly for me," his voice a velvet lifeline that tethered you to him.

"You're trembling," he observed, voice low and satisfied, as if savoring the way your thighs quivered around him. "So close, aren't you? But not without my say-so." He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, sloppy kiss, his tongue stroking yours in time with the slow grind of his hips. The taste of him — traces of coffee and something uniquely Mattheo — flooded your senses, making you moan into his mouth.

Time blurred as he kept you there, on that knife's edge of pleasure. Sweat beaded on your skin, your breaths coming in ragged pants as you clung to him, hips moving instinctively against his. The world narrowed to the heat between your bodies, the slick slide of fabric, the way his erection throbbed against you, promising more. "Mattheo, I can't—" you pleaded, voice breaking as another wave built, your core clenching desperately around nothing.

"You can," he assured cooingly, nipping at your lower lip. "And you will. For me. As a good girl you are."

The praise hit you like a spark, sending fresh arousal pooling between your legs. He sped up just a fraction, the friction now relentless against your swollen clit, each grind pulling shameless whimpers from deep in your throat. Your hips bucked wildly, seeking release, but he controlled the pace, drawing it out until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming need.

Finally, when your body was a taut bowstring, every nerve alight and screaming for mercy, he pressed his lips to your ear. "Now, sweetheart. Come for me. Let it all go."

The command shattered you. Your orgasm crashed over you in a tidal wave, body arching against him as pleasure ripped through every fiber. You cried out his name, hips grinding frantically against his hardness, the friction prolonging the ecstasy until you were shaking, vision blurring with the intensity of it. Your face contorted in bliss — eyes fluttering shut then wide open, lips parted in a silent gasp that turned into a whimpering moan, cheeks flushed with heat as waves of release pulsed through you, leaving you utterly undone and radiant in his arms.

Mattheo's gaze locked onto your expression, dark eyes drinking in every detail: the way your brows furrowed in overwhelming pleasure, the tremble of your lashes, the sheer vulnerability and beauty of your surrender. It was that sight — your blissed-out face, lost in the ecstasy he'd drawn from you — that pushed him over the edge.

His breath hitched sharply, a low, guttural groan escaping his throat as his own release hit him hard, unexpected and all-consuming. The friction of your desperate grinding against his throbbing length through the layers of fabric became too much. He felt the hot rush build and spill, soaking into his jeans in rhythmic pulses that mirrored your contractions. His hips bucked involuntarily beneath you, chasing the shared rhythm, his hands gripping your waist tighter as if to fuse you closer. "Fuck, sweetheart," he rasped, voice rough with awe, "seeing you like this... it's everything."

The admission hung between you, raw and intimate, emphasizing how deeply your unraveling fueled his own, his body trembling with the aftershocks as he held you through it all, murmuring soft praises. "That's my girl, so perfect, so beautiful." His hands stroked your back in soothing circles while he savored the way your satisfaction echoed in his veins.

As the aftershocks finally faded for both of you, you slumped against his chest, breaths evening out in tandem. The anxiety that had plagued you earlier was gone, replaced by a hazy, contented glow.

Mattheo shifted beneath you, a satisfied hum rumbling in his chest despite the mess, but he made no move to clean up yet. Instead, you felt a soft tender kiss to your sweat-dampened hair. Then he lifted you gently and carried you to the bedroom with effortless strength, his touch lingering on your skin.

He set you on the bed, disappearing briefly to fetch a glass of water from the nightstand — one of his bedtime rituals, always ensuring you had what you needed.

"Drink," he said softly, pressing it to your lips until you took a sip. Then he helped you out of your clothes, cleaning you up and slipping one of his shirts over your head, the fabric soft and smelling of him, before quickly tending to himself.

"Feeling better?" he asked, tucking you against his side under the covers, his fingers threading through your hair in that instinctive way that made you want to purr.

You nodded, nestling closer to his warmth. "Yeah. Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He chuckled lowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You'll kill that presentation tomorrow. And I'll be waiting right here after, ready to celebrate with my clever and sweet girl." His hand found yours under the sheets, giving it a gentle squeeze before settling for a soft caress.