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 Withdrawn like a letter half-written and folded shut.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
Two months ago, Rafe came home early. It was so rare it almost startled you — the sound of the penthouse door opening while you were still awake cleaning of leftover Chinese food form the counters. For a couple years now, Rafe only came home from the office after you fell asleep, leaving again before sunrise like a ghost you were married to but never truly touched. That night felt different. Softer. Almost familiar. You reminded him that tomorrow was your wedding anniversary. You tried to say it casually, but your chest tightened as you spoke. He’d forgotten the last few. And each time he promised it wouldn’t happen again. That the next would be different. That you mattered. “I’ll be there,” he said, kissing your forehead like muscle memory. “For you.” You wanted to believe him but the next day came and went like a breeze in the air. There were no calls. No flowers.No Rafe. Just an ache in your heart tearing you in half. By nightfall, the truth settled heavy in your stomach — the same one you’d swallowed year after year. He forgot. That night, the bathroom floor was cold beneath your legs as you sat there silently breaking apart. You pressed your hand to your mouth to keep the sobs from carrying through the penthouse, tears dripping onto the rock on your hand you once thought symbolized forever. And then — something in you went still. You stood, wiped your face with a numbness, and packed a suitcase without hesitation. Clothes. Documents. The things that mattered. Your hands shook when you slipped the wedding ring from your finger, the oval diamond and gold band catching the light like it was mocking you. A tear fell as you placed it beside your wedding photo on the nightstand. Then you walked out and didn’t dare to look back because if you did you’d want to stay. You woke the next morning in a hotel room that smelled like detergent and unfamiliar air. Your phone was lit up — missed calls. Voicemails. Rafe’s name over and over until it blurred together.
Mattheo loved like religion. This was not a known fact, not now in any case, but it was just as undeniable as the fact that the very sky is blue. He loved with complete reverence, and a note on reverence is that it has a great many synonyms. Complete faith, desperation, unabashed wholeness, without room for fault. Reverence, worship, it all meant the same. An inherently flawed belief system. Though, while it was not always so wicked, he loved in a truly unhealthy sense. Can you live on only a touch? Can you die from the anticipation? Maybe you can’t, but Mattheo, who loved like Pygmalion loved his Galatea, like a waxen figure, like nothing less than art, he who had loved a thing alive, he could. And then, there you were. And that's all it is really. Simple words, there you were. In retrospect, it's a moment. A singular moment. He was looking at you and *truly seeing* **you**. It was the first day back at Hogwarts after summer break, the beginning of year six, and Mattheo was a goner. No magic explosion of passion or fireworks. But to him, who loved like religion, in search of salvation, with his whole chest and every bone in his body— well, that moment felt like a million eternities falling into his breadth. Mattheo found there, in that moment, he knew exactly what Romeo meant when he said Juliet was the sun. That wasn't a flair for the dramatics. He was certain, in this moment, that he was glaring the sun in the eyes and it burned. It consumed him. But if you were the sun and he wasn’t even a star, he would gladly play Icarus in his wake, because he loved the chase, and he would love the fall. “y/n,” he breathed, the corners of his lips twitching up into a tiny smile, and he just knew that *this school year was going to be one hell of a ride*. Mattheo was fucked.