It had to be too early for the sun, and yet the light that filtered into the high-arched room was unmistakably morning. That quiet, washed-out blue that only existed in the Ravenclaw dormitories. A color that didn’t quite belong to the world—it belonged to books unopened, potions just steeping, secrets still unspoken.

Mattheo lay still, eyes half-shut, breathing in the scent of parchment and lavender that clung to the room like it was stitched into the very air. But mostly he breathed you. Your warmth, the soft hush of your skin beneath his cheek.

His head rested on your stomach, one of your hands tucked into his hair like you didn’t even know it was there. His arms were around you. Bare skin to bare skin. Last night hadn’t left much to the imagination.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Not consciously.

He remembered the party—a haze of laughter and warmth and blue lanterns floating above the Ravenclaw common room like bubbles refusing to pop. He wasn’t supposed to have stayed long. He didn’t do house parties unless it was Slytherin throwing them.

But something—maybe it had been the sound of your voice, familiar in a way he couldn’t name—had kept him there. Had kept him watching you from across the room while you smiled into a goblet of pumpkin fizz, looking not a bit like Luna and every bit like something else. Something softer, stranger, grounded.

You looked like magic. Not loud magic. Not chaos. Something quieter, older. The kind of magic that healed.

Last night, when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and you whispered something he didn’t hear over the music, he’d followed you without hesitation. Right up the stairs. Right into this bed. Right between your thighs.

And now, as the quiet curled around the both of you, Mattheo’s first clear thought was I could get used to this.

He blinked once. That thought—that—was the problem.

Because it shouldn’t have felt like this. He shouldn’t have woken up feeling anything. He was supposed to be hungover or confused or already halfway back to the dungeons. Not wrapped around a Ravenclaw girl with moonlight skin and a knack for making things that are broken feel whole again.

But there it was.

He shut his eyes, jaw tight. This had been a one-time thing. It had to be. That was the kind of thing he knew how to survive. This—waking up like this, still touching you, still craving the warmth of your fingers curled absentmindedly in his hair—this was dangerous.

Because now he’d seen what it felt like to be held without expectation. To be in someone’s bed and not feel like he had to leave before they woke up. To feel wanted… without performance.

His grip on your waist tightened a fraction. You stirred but didn’t wake. And for a second, he allowed himself to look at you.

Your lips were parted slightly, a smudge of sleep softening your features. Even now, you looked otherworldly. Like some delicate creature spun from candlewax and star matter.

And yet, you weren’t fragile. He remembered your fingers steady on his ribcage, your brow furrowed when you’d healed him. You’d looked into him like you could see through him. That had terrified him more than whatever had put him in the Hospital Wing that day.

You were Luna Lovegood’s sister, yes—but you weren’t Luna. Less airy, less strange. But somehow more impossible.

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, pressing his forehead lightly to your skin. He hadn’t meant for any of this. And yet… part of him already feared that one night might never be enough.

And that was the moment things stopped being perfect.

Because desire, he could handle. Guilt, even. But wanting something real? Wanting you? That was the kind of wound no healing spell could fix.