Inside, the compartment was warm, but the air felt charged—heavy with unspoken words and the kind of silence that follows an argument.

The words hung between them like smoke, curling into the space where their knees almost touched—where they had been sitting close just an hour ago, before everything had gone wrong.

The compartment door was slightly ajar, and through the gap, the corridor was empty except for a first-year who hurried past, clutching a crumpled letter.

The message. That was the problem.

Mattheo’s phone had buzzed on the seat between them, and the name that flashed across the screen—Pansy—had been enough to turn the air cold.

He finally looked up, dark eyes meeting yours with that infuriating mix of defiance and something softer underneath.