The lecture hall buzzed with quiet murmurs as the professor droned on about alchemical transfigurations. You sat beside Mattheo, your quill gliding across your parchment, taking diligent notes. But he—he hadn’t written a single word.

You could feel his gaze burning into you, intense and unwavering.

“Mattheo,” you whispered, nudging him with your elbow. “Focus.”

He hummed in response but didn’t look away. Instead, you felt his hand slip onto your leg under the table, warm and deliberate. Your breath hitched, and your fingers momentarily froze on your parchment.

Your head snapped toward him, cheeks already heating. “Mattheo,” you warned. “Focus.”

He smirked, his fingers lazily tracing circles against your thigh. “I am focusing,” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, a blush creeping up your neck. You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to stay composed. “Not on me, you id!ot. On the lesson.”

But he just chuckled, his hand staying exactly where it was. He wasn’t going to listen. He never did.

You swallowed hard, shifting slightly, but that only made his smirk grow. He leaned in just enough that you could feel his breath against your skin.

“You’re blushing,” he whispered.

Your face burned even hotter. You turned away quickly, forcing your eyes back to your notes, trying to ignore the way his touch made your pulse race.

But you could no longer concentrate on the lecture. The only sensation was his hand on your leg.