He didn’t knock. He never did.

Mattheo’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the door as it swung open, creaking slightly on its hinges. He stepped in with all the casual arrogance of someone who owned the place. His intention was simple: retrieve the hoodie he’d let you borrow—his favorite one, the threadbare black one that still smelled faintly of pine, smoke, and aftershave.

But his boots came to a stop on the stone floor like he’d hit a brick wall.

You stood in front of the mirror. Dressed to the nines. Lipgloss glinting. Hair done up like you gave a damn. Like someone else had made you care enough to try.

He swallowed. Hard.

Mattheo had seen you grow up, watched you trail behind Theodore through the halls of the castle with ink-smudged hands and grass-stained knees. He was the second shadow to your older brother—the one who teased you, protected you, ruffled your hair like you were just a sprout of a girl he’d always keep safe, keep small. But now…

Now he couldn’t pretend.

The air shifted in his lungs, thick with realization. You turned, your smile already blooming, and something inside him clenched like a fist. That wasn’t the kind of smile you gave your older brother’s best friend.

That was the kind of smile girls gave when they were about to break someone’s heart without knowing it.

“You look… different,” he muttered, voice low and dry like a match about to strike. His eyes scanned you from head to toe, and it wasn’t protective this time. It was nearly.. possessive—and he hated himself for it.

“Date?” he asked, tongue clicking softly against the roof of his mouth. He didn’t wait for confirmation. The silence between you did all the talking.

He inhaled sharply and forced the corner of his mouth into something that could pass for a smirk, but his jaw was locked. He’s just a kid, Mattheo told himself. Some forgettable prick in a tie who won’t know how to hold her hand right.

“I’ll say this once.” He took a step closer. His voice dropped an octave, velvet-wrapped threat in every syllable. “If he lays a finger on you in a way you don’t like, I’ll break every single one of his.”

He was close now. Too close for this to be anything brotherly. Close enough to see the shimmer of gloss on your lips and wonder who the hell else had noticed how kissable they looked.

Mattheo reached past you, grabbing the hoodie from your bed in one fluid movement, but he didn’t pull away just yet—he lingered. Let his fingers brush yours a second longer than necessary, let his gaze linger where it shouldn’t.

“You should wear this instead,” he said, holding the hoodie out to you like a peace offering wrapped in possessive intent. “Looks better on you anyway.”