Thalia

@thalibaby here is my gift to u!! so sorry it took so long, i’ve had a lot happen in the last few weeks!! i love paul n embry with all my heart, so i hope u like these moodboards!! u seem like an absolute icon and i hope u enjoy :) happy (late) holidays 🩷🩷

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙪𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙛𝙡𝙮 𝙀𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩

pt.3 of The Girl in the Bumblebee Tights

summary: The most beautiful things come from change.

characters: mattheo riddle. hufflepuff! reader. mentions of slytherin boys

warnings: NONE BUT GOD THIS MAKES MY HEART ACHE WITH LOVE

word count: 1.8k

a/n-i’m so glad that you all loved this little series!! it was so fun to write and i truly love whimsical hufflepuff! reader. sunshine x grumpy is one of my favorites along with opposites attract. i believe that this will be my last big part of the story. but i will be open to do little drabbles of them :)

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He had always prided himself on being an enigma. Mattheo Riddle was cold, indifferent, and almost cruel at times, he never allowed anyone close enough to see what was behind his mask. But then you came into his life, and somehow, without even trying, you began to unravel him.

Literally me rn:

𐙚 ⋮ wc: 5.4k

𐙚 ⋮ content: pure embarrassment + foul language. if you don’t enjoy my content, there’s no need for you to stick around. i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage with.

𐙚 ⋮ TATBILB: au navigation.

POPULARITY IS ONE SON OF A BITCH.

there are people who walk through the halls of hogwarts unnoticed. faceless, nameless, and forgotten, they were tides in the sea of robes and magic. however, there were individuals who swam against the ripple of anonymity, refusing to be pulled under by the waves of inconspicuousness. they chose to make their own rules, navigate their own waters and leave a mark upon the shoreline.

instead of casting life's rope to haul them back from the edge, they were the hidden hands that shoved them in the first place. the ones who never meld into the background, who stand at the center of it all.

it’s strange to think about, isn’t it? there are always a few selected people who hold that kind of popularity. the ones others follow, not out of admiration, but out of some sort of restriction. it’s like walking through an art museum: every piece holds its own beauty, its own story, but there’s always those few masterpieces that draws every gaze. the kind people crowd around, whisper about, try to replicate, even if they’ll never quite capture its meaning.

their names are gossiped, their presence felt before they even step into a room. professors tolerate them, sometimes with amusement, sometimes with annoyance, because brilliance comes with mischief, and mischief is something they have in total; younger years either worship or fear them, the upper years watch them, peers are caught in the balance of wanting them and wanting to be them.

they are untouchable, not because they are out of reach, but because touching them means stepping too close to the flame.

and so, instead of burning, you wrote them letters.

each sealed with your feelings, mashed onto parchment, meant to stay hidden forever. not all at once, of course - each one over the years, like chapters in a story. it almost amused you, the way you somehow had a crush for every single one of them at different points in time, yet never once found the courage to confess.

that’s how it usually goes, isn’t it? you get caught up in silly crushes while growing up, and when you’re older, you look back at your desperation with nothing but secondhand embarrassment.

as you grew up, you randomly remembered all the absurd things you did just to catch their attention: only to let out a small, embarrassed noise at the memories. all the countless times you rearranged your schedule just to ‘accidentally’ bump into them in passing was laughable.

MATTHEO RIDDE ⟢ FIRST YEAR.

your books had been knocked from your arms by an older slytherin, an ugly sneer on his face as he strode past you. you barely had time to react before mattheo riddle - mattheo fucking riddle, a name already dipped in warnings stood before you. he didn’t ask if you were okay. he didn’t pick up your books for you like a storybook hero. no, riddle turned on his heel and shoved the fifth year’s books straight from his hands, scattering them across the corridor.

“whoops,” he had said. “looks like it’s your hands that don’t work.” the fifth year had shoved one of his larger books into your arms, then mockingly claimed that your hands were too sluggish and chubby to catch it. embarrassingly, you couldn’t help but wish riddle hadn’t been there to hear it.

despite the embarrassment, you spent weeks replaying that moment, the way his dark curls had fallen over his eyes, the way his confidence had filled the space like something out of a movie. it was the first time someone had made your heart stutter.

and so, you wrote.

a letter filled with the giddy, innocent wonder of a first crush, scribbled on parchment with ink stains and crossed out words. you had covered it in an explosion of glitter, carefully placing tiny stickers to give it the perfect touch.

BLAISE ZABINI ⟢ SECOND YEAR.

zabini did not need anyone. from an early age, the boy carried a mood of some sort, instinctively drawn to self reliance in all things. that was the truth everyone knew about him. he was too untouchable, too above the idea of schoolyard romances. if mattheo riddle was fire, then blaise was ice, a frozen cube of a boy that never quite let himself break.

still, for a moment in second year, you thought maybe; you had seen a crack in the ice.

you had been paired with him in potions, a class where he normally worked alone because no one wanted to risk disappointing zabini. he was easily one of the smartest students in your year, his knowledge of potions so expansive it almost felt intimidating, like he saw the magic in every ingredient long before it touched the cauldron. gifted asshole.

but snape had made it clear that partners were mandatory that day, and so there you were, standing beside him, the sharp scent of crushed ingredients between you.

it was fine at first. civil, even.

“stop. you’re chopping it wrong,” blaise had murmured, reaching out before you could react, his hand grazing yours as he adjusted the knife in your grip.

your breath had caught. his fingers remained for a second longer than necessary before he pulled away. the earth had wobbled. not because of the correction, but because blaise zabini did not touch people unnecessarily.

you remembered how, every time his friends tried to pull him into a hug, he would shove them away with a hand to their chest, only for it to escalate into a scuffle that often ended with them tumbling to the ground. it always happened out of nowhere, drawing stares from those around them; but they seemed to drink in the attention. you always seemed to long for a sip of it too, watching them with an almost obsessive focus. creepy, yes, but it was just a silly schoolgirl crush, it didn’t really matter.

however, later that night, you had written a letter.

DRACO MALFOY ⟢ THIRD YEAR.

draco malfoy had always been draco malfoy. loud. annoying. annoying. annoying. did you mention annoying already? a boy whose existence grated on every nerve. but as third year descended upon hogwarts, something changed.

it was the hair.

it was ridiculous how something so simple could make someone entirely different, but when he came back from summer with that platinum blond hair perfectly styled, suddenly, the world saw him in a new light. and so did you. malfoy had always been an insufferable son of a bitch, and he still very much was: only now, he had a new hairstyle to go with it.

it was dumb. but one day, you had found yourself watching him across the great hall, and when he caught you staring, he had smirked.

and, godric help you, you flushed.

that night, you wrote a letter - shorter than the others, but still decorated in the same girlish, glittery way before tucking it safely into a round, blue box with a little bow on top. and even though the crush had only lasted a week, the embarrassment of it still hung back.

THEODORE NOTT ⟢ FOURTH YEAR.

you had always been decent at flying. not extraordinary, not the kind of player who hailed attention like the house team’s star chasers, but you could hold your own. that day, though, something felt off. maybe it was the cold stiffening your fingers. maybe it was the distraction of the game, the way bodies blurred past you in streaks of yellow and green.

maybe it was the fact that theodore nott was playing beater. maybe that was why your nerves felt stretched thin: he was, without question, one of the best beaters on the pitch. it shouldn’t have mattered. he was just another slytherin on the field, just another figure snipping through the sky with alleviation.

somehow, you found your gaze catching on him more than once: on the way his hands gripped the bat, the control he had over his broom, as if flying were something that came as naturally as breathing.

you weren’t supposed to be looking at him when it happened. the bludger came out of nowhere.

one second, you were watching the quaffle switch hands, and the next, a ball of iron was hurtling straight toward you. fast. far too fucking fast. your breath caught in your throat, because there was no time to move, no time to —

despite the panic crashing through your veins, he emerged: quick and silently, a shadow pruning through the storm.

theodore gashed through the sky in a single movement, swinging his bat with just enough force to deflect the bludger at the last possible second. the impact sent a violent crack resonating through the wind.

your stomach dropped. his arm must have taken most of the force. surely it hurt like a bitch: but he didn’t let it show.

before you knew it, just like that, he was gone. back into the fray, back into the sky. you didn’t move right away: heart still racing, hands clenched tight around your broomstick. he could have easily let the bludger hit you, easily giving his team the upper hand. and while you knew you’d have done the same for anyone in danger, the thought still sent a tickle to your ears.

you had never thought much about theodore nott before. he was clever, yes. mysterious, in that way that made people whisper about him. but he had always been distant: detached.

but today, for one second, he had been close. and you couldn’t stop thinking about it. so you wrote. wrote about how maybe you had always liked him, even before you realized it.

LORENZO BERKSHIRE ⟢ FIFTH YEAR.

lorenzo berkshire was never supposed to be someone you found yourself crushing on. you thought your feelings would have stopped at theodore: liking four out of the six of them was already absurd enough.

but then he laughed.

it was stupid. so fucking stupid. but enzo had this laugh: the kind that made you want to laugh too, even if you had no idea what was so funny. perhaps it was the way his eyes crinkled at the corners that made him look endearingly boyish, despite the sculpted lines of his jaw and the sharp, clever glint in his eye. or maybe it was the way he threw his head back, exposing the strong column of his throat.

he was one of the boys in their group you spoke to occasionally, the one who was easier to approach than the others, his presence devoid of the edge that made the rest so intimidating. so when he slipped into the seat next to you in charms, leaving behind his friends after yet another fight, it didn’t surprise you.

and by fight, you meant an actual, fisted brawl: busted lip, black eye, and all. riddle had a band-aid across his nose, making it instantly clear who he’d been sparring with.

in charms, you figured he must’ve gotten bored, because suddenly he leaned over and whispered some ridiculous joke in your ear. and you laughed: not because it was the funniest thing in the world, but because it was so stupid. he laughed too. there was something oddly beautiful about the sound of his laughter, so you joined in, making jokes about how riddle was probably furious while berkshire was living his best life sitting next to you. (they made up after class.)

he transformed into something more than just one of your crushes’ friends — he became the crush. so, you wrote.

by the next month, the crush had faded, leaving you cursing yourself for your impulsive habit: to inscribe upon the parchment the instant that a soul kindles a spark within your heart.

by sixth year, you had moved on, wrapped up in dating a gryffindor boy, grateful that the names inked in those forgotten love letters no longer remained in your mind. they were only passing figures in the corridors, familiar faces you sometimes partnered with in class, but never again did they stir that same breathless, schoolgirl longing.

by seventh year, when you and said gryffindor boy chose to go your separate ways, the love letters remained untouched, slipping into the deepness of your memory; once burning ink of passion that now pales like the final breath of a dying star, carved upon parchment that crumbles to dust at the merest touch.

“WHAT’S THIS?”

you lift your head from where you were picking at a piece of chewing gum that had exploded in your mouth, still tingling from whatever weasley concoction had made it fizzle. you look over at luna as she holds up a box: not just any box, which is what catches your full attention. a blue, circle shaped box with a bow at the top.

blue. circle shaped. box. bow.

your stomach drops.

no. no. no. no.

you know the feeling you get when you're on a rollercoaster at the very top, the panic rushing to your stomach and throat as the impact is about to come? that's exactly how you feel right this very moment.

you push yourself off the floor in a panic, scrambling toward her, but it’s too late. she’s already lifted the lid, her pale blue eyes scanning inside with that dreamy curiosity of hers. merlin, you wanted to die. right then and there. wanted the floor to crack open and swallow you whole. you hadn’t laid a finger on that box in nearly two years. the last time you wrote a letter, in a moment of horror, you thought, what if someone finds these? so you shoved them away, crossed your heart and hoped to die than go near that box again.

but of course, fate wasn't on your side. not that it ever truly was, but this time, it made it unmistakably clear. like a puppeteer pulling strings, it yanked you off the verge of chance and flung you into the void of assurance.

every year, the hufflepuff dorms shift to make space for new students, which means cleaning up to make room for a possible new roommate. and because you had too much stuff, you asked luna to help you sort through it all. a terrible mistake: you really should have checked what you were asking her to go through first.

her pale fingers skim over the parchment, eyes tracing the familiar loops and slants of your handwriting. “oh,” luna says, blinking at the letters inside. “these are love letters.” thanks luna, for pointing out the obvious: it’s not like those letters aren’t the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever written!

you snatch the box from her hands, heart skipping as you clutch it against your chest. “luna — why were you in my trunk?” you had told the girl to arrange items on your desk, not your trunk.

she tilts her platinum head of hair, radish earrings swinging. “i was looking for my spectrespecs. thought i might’ve left them in there.” she smiles. “but this is much more entrancing.”

your mouth opens and closes like a fish. “they’re old. i wrote them ages ago.” two years, to be exact. “it doesn’t matter.”

luna, of course, does not believe that. she hums, leaning forward, inspecting you in that knowing way she always does, like she’s peering into the inner workings of your mind. it always terrified you when she would halt all her movements just to read you, but that was her unique way of observing, so eventually, you grew used to it. “did you ever send them?”

you hesitate.

“aha!” she squeals. “you didn’t.” if there was one thing you and your best friend shared, it was a love for romance novels. while getting lost in the world of fiction was always fun, telling her about your love letters was an immediate no. you knew she’d never stop talking about it if she found out. the huge smile on her thin lips only confirmed it, her face was practically shouting: love story in the making?

you immediately shut it down. a heavy sigh escapes the back of your throat as you flop back onto the bed, pressing the box against your forehead. “‘course not. they were never meant to be sent.”

they never were, actually. these letters were meant for you and the little scenarios you’d create in your mind before bed, depending on which crush you were thinking about, imagining a future together: all that ‘girl with a crush on a boy’ shit.

there was a second long silence before you felt the box shift against your forehead. luna casually plucked a letter from it, inspecting the name scribbled on the front.

maybe you should’ve gotten up immediately and snatched the letter from her hands, but she had already read the first name — written sloppily with purple glitter tracing his first name and the ‘i’ in his last name, which, instead of being a simple dot, had been transformed into a small heart.

you didn’t need to see it to know exactly which one she was holding.

riddle. first year you had been ridiculous: writing a letter to him, of all people, convinced it was a safe way to get over your wide eyed crush. you had told yourself it would just sit in the box forever, silly childhood feelings.

it was hidden, in a place you thought was secure, a secret you’d protected with careful hands. but no matter how well you concealed it, some things, like truth — could only remain in the dark for so long. “mattheo riddle.” luna’s soft voice spoke his name in a delicate tune. you knew it was only the sweetness of luna’s angelic saying that softened it. “isn’t he dating sylvia?”

god, just hearing your ex best friend’s name made you scoff under your breath, barely suppressing the irritation; to cut a long story short, you and sylvia had the most horrible fallout in fourth year, and you’d rather not utter her name again — ever — or delve into anything that even remotely tied you to her. “yeah, follows her around like a fuckin’ puppy.” you knew you were being a bit of a hater toward their relationship, by the simple bias you had against sylvia. but, to be fair, it was hard to ignore them when she made it her mission to be all lovey dovey and kissy faced with riddle, especially while you were still dating that gryffindor boy.

it was only day two since you’d arrived at hogwarts for your eighth and final year, and you were honestly surprised sylvia hadn’t come to bother you yet. maybe some sort of fucking miracle change had occurred over the summer, and she’d finally decided to leave people who couldn’t tolerate her alone.

you rip the letter from luna’s fingers, shoving it back into the box with the others. “this stays between us, okay? no one can ever see these.”

and not to mention, if sylvia ever found out you’d written a love letter to her boyfriend, doesn’t matter if it was years ago, she wouldn’t even get angry. instead, you knew she’d have a field day shoving it in your face — something she already did: but this time, she’d take it to a whole new level. you knew that wicked, manipulative side of her all too well, sadly.

luna hums again. “you should be more careful about where you keep things.” you certainly were now. though, there’s something almost impish about the way she says it, but before you can press her on it, a group of hufflepuffs come barging into the dorm, disrupting the moment.

it’s fine, you tell yourself. the letters are safe.

“I NEED YOUR HELP.”

you’re sitting in your usual spot in class, when cedric sits beside you, leans over, a somewhat flustered expression on his face. diggory has been one of your closest friends since first year: alongside sylvia and luna. but where loyalties knotted and lines were drawn, he had the luxury of neutrality. instead of choosing sides, he floated between both circles.

he stayed with sylvia when riddle wasn’t shadowing her like some overprotective bodyguard. and when he wasn’t in her rotation, he was with you and luna.

you throw a quick glance toward professor flitwick, who was preoccupied a few rows away, attentively guiding a student through their spellwork. with his focus elsewhere, there was little chance he’d notice the two of you whispering. turning back to cedric, you tilted your head slightly. “with?”

“y’know,” he starts in a quiet voice, glancing around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping, “cho’s a bit… of a clean freak, yeah?” he makes a hand gesture, almost comically over exaggerating.

you raise an eyebrow, not sure where this conversation is going.

he continues, now looking thoroughly embarrassed, but still trying to keep the conversation light. “she’s… y’know, super into everything being pristine. like, even when… y’know, we get a bit… close.” he pauses, his face flushing a little more.

“i just can’t, well… finish, if you know what i mean. it’s like… the pressure? she’s all, ‘make sure the sheets are perfect,’ and i’m over here just trying to survive.”

you blink a few times, surprised, but you can’t help but chuckle at cedric’s awkwardness. “you’re saying the pressure of cleanliness is ruining your… performance?” you ask, trying to suppress your laughter.

it was far from a laughing matter for him, but for you? oh, it was nearly impossible to keep a straight face. how could he just drop something like that so casually — in a room full of witches and wizards meant to be focused on their work? the nonsense of it made your shoulders tense with the effort of holding back laughter. with everything else in class feeling mind numbingly dull, this was, without a doubt, the most fascinating thing you’d heard all class. and someone help you, because all you wanted to do was let out the most loudest, full bodied laugh.

he rolls his eyes miserably, looking like he’s about to sink into the ground. “exactly. i can’t even you know… the thing. the thing,” he says, waving his hand around dramatically, as if to symbolize the entire awkward experience.

despite your urge to laugh a little longer, you could tell cedric was genuinely looking for advice. you bit back your enjoyment and stole another glance at flitwick: still distracted, before turning your attention back to cedric. he had already taken advantage of your momentary silence, casually copying from your notes to make up for the time he’d missed.

they were probably all wrong; but hey, that was his problem for copying off a hufflepuff instead of a damn ravenclaw. “okay, okay, cedric, listen. first off, you need to get it through her mind to let go of the idea that everything has to be perfect. it’s not the sheets, it’s the vibe. a clean environment? sure. but obsessing over every little detail just makes it worse.”

cedric looks at you in disbelief, clearly not expecting such a level headed answer. or any answer at all. “really?” he asks, looking all hopeful.

“really,” you confirm, nodding. “you’ve gotta relax. stop thinking about the perfect moment and just… be in the moment. and as for the ‘finishing’ part, take your time. It’s about… comfort, not pressure.” you wouldn’t lie: your experience didn’t extend far beyond kissing and holding hands. your relationship with the gryffindor had never past that, never lurched into something deeper. you were painting a picture of what ideal intimacy looked like to you; what would make you feel safe, at ease. and though it was your vision, your creation, you found yourself wanting nothing more than for someone to step inside the canvas and become part of the art.

it was almost ironic: everyone always came to you for advice, yet you rarely took your own. it put things into perspective in a way that was a little tragic.

cedric’s eyes widen, processing what you’ve said. “you really think that would work?” he asks, a little unsure but clearly willing to try anything at this point.

you give him a nod. “trust me. and maybe, you know, leave the cleaning for after. that way, you’re not worried about, well, ruining anything.” you add. “also, stop making the hand motions. those aren’t helping anyone.” if everyone weren’t so absorbed in their own work and happened to catch cedric’s hand gestures, you didn’t even want to imagine what judgments they’d draw about your conversation.

cedric laughs. “alright, alright. i’ll give it a try. thanks.” he gives you a playful nudge. “if you ever need tips for anything else, just let me know. you’re the expert, apparently.”

you roll your eyes. “don’t push it, cedric. just focus on your work for now, yeah?”

“yes, ma’am,” he muttered before turning back to his work, quill scratching against parchment. you did the same, shifting your focus back to your own notes, carefully transcribing the movements of flitwick’s wand as it traced patterns in the air.

for a few moments, silence settled over the classroom. the only sound was flitwick’s instructions, guiding the class through each exact motion. everyone was focused. everything was still. it was peaceful.

but that peace shattered the moment the heavy classroom door slammed open.

all at once, heads snapped toward the door. even professor flitwick faltered mid sentence, trailing off into silence as he blinked in confusion. leaning lazily against the doorframe stood mattheo. which was odd: he had no reason to be here. ravenclaws and slytherins were meant to be across the castle for care of magical creatures right now; you knew that for a fact. luna had been so eager for class this morning that she hadn’t even waited for you at breakfast, already slipping away with an excited bounce in her step.

as always, the room fell into silence. a gryffindor girl near the front shot her friend a look, brows furrowed in silent question. beside you, cedric exhaled a quiet sigh, muttering under his breath, “wrong class.”

mattheo riddle despised gryffindors and hufflepuffs, and the feeling was entirely mutual: no middle ground, no exceptions. hufflepuffs are kind, yes, but when it comes to mattheo and his group, it’s like their breaking point.

completely unfazed, riddle let his gaze sweep across the room, scanning faces as if searching for someone. and then, his eyes found you. they didn’t flicker away, didn’t move past you like just another face in the crowd. no, they locked onto you with the confidence of someone who had found exactly what he was looking for.

in that terrifying moment, you swore on neville longbottom’s life that your soul nearly departed from your body.

mattheo pushed off the doorframe and strode inside. every row he passed seemed to turn in his path, eyes tracking his every move. you nearly rolled your eyes at the way his smirk deepened; clearly enjoying the attention. like always.

his presence was a dark sun, and all eyes were planets drawn irrevocably into rotation. you were an asteroid, hurtling through the crowded solar system, every smile was a meteor shower you wished would burn up the popular crowd, every laugh a supernova you hoped would consume their perfect little world.

professor flitwick frowned slightly but didn’t immediately criticize him. “mr. riddle, i believe you’re mistaken — this class is for hufflepuffs and gryffindors. your schedule should place you elsewhere.”

mattheo’s dark eyes flicked to him, a stupid smirk tugging at his rosy lips. “yeah, i know,” he said smoothly. “but i needed to borrow one of your students for something important.”

shit, shit, shit, please don’t let it be you. please don’t let it be you.

there were murmurs throughout the classroom now, people whispering theories to each other. some gryffindors looked annoyed, some hufflepuffs curious. no matter how much they despise him, being seen leaving class with mattheo riddle would boost their social status and popularity, making them a little more well known. no one, however, seemed more confused than you: because you could feel mattheo’s gaze settle directly on you.

what did he want? did sylvia send him to get you? or was there something else you were needed for? fuck, maybe it wasn’t even you —

“the girl right there.” riddle pointed directly at you. you tried to hide behind your book, really, you did. “next to diggory.” cedric, being the oblivious idiot he is, raised his hand so everyone could see exactly who he meant.

you pinched the side of his stomach, causing cedric’s pale hand to snap back down. you shot him a glare. “fuck you,” you whispered. especially since you’d just given him the best advice of his life. hell, you were even considering taking it for yourself. now, you couldn’t help but hope this fucker had the worst sex life in existence.

you could feel the stares: on the side of your face, at the back of your head, right in front of you. the students in the rows ahead twisted in their seats, one arm resting behind their chairs, heads tilted as they all get a look at you.

professor flitwick narrowed his eyes. he wasn’t stupid enough to be deluded; he knew about riddle and his lies. “and what exactly is this ‘something important’?”

mattheo didn’t hesitate. “professor snape asked me to fetch her. something about a -” he made a mixing gesture with his hand. “ - mix up with her potions essay. he wants to see her now.”

you frowned. that was… odd. you were sure you had turned in your essay on time. and why would snape send riddle to retrieve you of all people? professor flitwick, still hesitant, studied mattheo for a moment before sighing. “very well. but do come straight back once this is sorted.”

you barely had a moment to process what was unfolding before mattheo turned on his heel and strode out of the classroom. your heart raced as you scrambled to gather your things, the whispers around you growing louder by the second. you refused to acknowledge them, shooting cedric one last disgusted curl of your lips before following riddle out of the room, where he had already walked out.

as soon as you stepped into the corridor, the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind you, silencing the muffled talk from the classroom. now, it was just you and riddle, standing alone in said corridor. he had his hands tucked in his pockets, waiting. you turned to face him, confusion clouding your thoughts. hadn’t he said snape wanted to see you? “alright, what’s —”

then you saw it.

no. not this. why now? why you? why here? why ever? why are you alive right now?

the letter.

the same letter luna had found in your dormitory just nights ago was now in mattheo’s hands — glittering and covered in stickers. your breath caught in your throat. “where did you get that?” you asked, and fuck, your voice cracked just a little. the embarrassment pressed down on you, layer after layer. please, someone, anyone, say this is a joke. step out from behind the stone walls and shout ‘april fools’ — anything to stop this moment from being real. because, in that instant, you felt like you might actually faint from humiliation.

mattheo’s expression was weird as he twirled the letter between his fingers, eyes gleaming with something just as weird. everything felt so fuckin’ weird, weird, weird. “so,” he titled his head. “you have a habit of writing love letters, huh?”

“to five different guys? in the same friend group?” he said, then let out a low whistle, shaking his head with a smirk. “what a fuckin’ heartbreaker you are, baby.” your mind went blank. he knows. he fucking knows about the other letters. panic flooded through you like a wave. shit, shit, shit. this is bad. this is really bad. this could only mean one thing:

the letters are out.

all of them.