The sheets beside you were still rumpled. Still warm. A dent in the mattress where he'd been lying just hours before, but the space was empty now.

You blinked slowly, blinking against the sort of sleep that felt too comfortable to shake off. Your throat was dry, your hair tangled, and the faint scent of something woody and expensive clung to the pillow beneath your cheek. His pillow.

You were in Mattheo's room. Again.

That wasn't unusual. It had been months now. The line between his space and yours had blurred so completely that you weren't even sure whose toothbrush you'd used this morning, let alone whose bed you'd fallen asleep in last night.

The room was quiet. Still. The only sound was the distant crackling of a dying fire and the occasional creak of the old castle settling around you.

Your gaze wandered lazily across the familiar space. Clothes draped over the armchair. A half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. A stack of books leaning precariously on the corner of his desk. And then your eyes landed on the nightstand beside you.

A book lay there. Old. Leather-bound. Not one you recognised.

It was open. Face down. Like he'd been reading it before he got up. Like he'd left it there carelessly, not thinking twice about it.

You reached out, fingers brushing over the worn spine before flipping it over.

The page wasn't printed text.

It was his handwriting. Messy. Sharp. Unmistakably his.