Mattheo strolls in, his shirt half unbuttoned and no intention of behaving.

“B/tch, what’s for dinner?” he says.

Theodore stares at him. “What the f/ck is going on?”

Draco turns to Theodore, voice low. “He called her a bi—”

“Pasta,” you say, your eyes on the sauce.

Theodore doesn’t blink. “I’m going to k/ck him—” he says to Draco.

Mattheo scoffs. “Did you just let me do that?” he says to you, tilting his head. “If I ever talk to you like that, you better smack the sh/t outta me.”

“She won’t,” Theodore smirks, stepping closer. “So can I?”

Draco snorts. “By all means. I’ll hold your coat.”

"Set. The. Table," you say. "Or I swear I'll turn this entire meal into a fighting arena."

Everything stills for a beat.

Mattheo lifts his hands. “Okay, chef. No need for violence. Yet.”

Theodore raises an eyebrow. “You know what’s wild? You act this reckless and I’m the one she warns about.”

Mattheo grins. “Because you’d actually do it. I just like the drama.”

“You like the sound of your own voice,” Draco mutters, pulling out plates.

Mattheo points at him. “And you like pretending you’re above this.”

“You’re the reason I drink tea at eleven p.m.,” Draco says.

“You’re the reason I need therapy,” you add.

Draco blinks. “Uncalled for.”

You smile. “No, that one was fair.”

Mattheo leans on the counter, watching you like you’re more interesting than everything else in his life. “So,” he says, “do I still get pasta?”

“If you keep your mouth shut for five minutes,” you say.

“That’s not possible,” Theodore mutters.

Mattheo smirks. “You’re not wrong.”