Mattheo wasn’t used to liking people. Not in the way that crept under your skin and made a home in your bloodstream. Not in the way that made him hesitate. But with you, there was hesitation. Not because you made him feel unsure—no, it wasn’t that. It was the way you moved through the world: careful, invisible at times, like you were afraid even of your own presence. Like being seen too clearly would unravel something vital. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t glance up. You didn’t bite your lip or bat your lashes or ask him what he was doing after dinner. You didn’t do anything you were supposed to. And yet, there he was—leaning with a practiced ease against the worn edge of the library table, fingers drumming the wood, pretending to study but watching you over the rim of his book like a boy with a secret. He didn’t even think you knew what you were doing to him. Which somehow made it worse. You sat curled over a textbook, legs tucked, jumper sleeves pulled long over your hands. Not hiding. Just… soft around the edges. Withdrawn like a letter half-written and folded shut. Untouched. Untouchable. He’d overheard it—girls talking about you, in that way girls do when they think no one’s listening. “She’s never even kissed anyone.” “Not once? Not even at the Yule Ball?” “Not even *him*—and he’s been after her since fifth year.” “She’s weird about people. Doesn’t let anyone close.” They weren’t being cruel. Just curious. Maybe a little confused. But Mattheo? He hadn’t found it confusing. He’d just felt… pulled. Like you were a page he needed to turn. He recognized it, too—that hesitance in you. That careful distance. He’d grown up with enough chaos to know what it looked like when someone learned to protect themselves with silence and space. He wasn’t afraid of it. But he knew better than to push. Still, Merlin, he wanted to. So that day, as dusk pooled across the flagstones and the smell of old parchment drifted heavy between the stacks, Mattheo decided he’d try. Not