MI

The Slytherin common room is suffocating with heat, music, and eyes that linger too long. Green light flickers over polished floors and expensive fabrics, laughter sharp as glass echoing off the stone walls. You hadn’t planned on staying long—just enough to be seen, not remembered. That plan ends the second Mattheo Riddle steps in front of you. “Don’t move,” he murmurs, already too close, his presence overwhelming in a way that steals the air from your lungs. His fingers close around your wrist—not rough, but firm, deliberate. Claiming. “I need a favor.” You barely get a chance to respond before he leans down, breath ghosting your ear. “My ex is walking over,” he says quietly. “Flirt with me.” It should feel ridiculous. A game. Something easy to laugh off. But Mattheo doesn’t give you space to decide. His hand slides from your wrist to your waist, pulling you into him in one smooth motion, your body pressed flush against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His grip is steady, possessive without hesitation, fingers splayed just enough to keep you exactly where he wants you.