Mattheo’s hands found his lap. Grip tight. Knuckles white. Because you were right there. Smelling like vanilla and something floral. Like the kind of expensive perfume that came in tiny bottles with French names.

You settled into the seat beside him. Pulled your bag onto your lap. Silver rings catching the candlelight. A bracelet glinting at your wrist.

A third-year girl across the table. Wide-eyed. A mix of awe and terror.

She made a vague gesture near her chest.

You turned to look at him. Surprise flickering in your gaze.

His ears were red.