party.

Mattheo had asked you to come with him—said he didn’t want to show up alone. You were already close—closer than most people realized—so you didn’t hesitate. You weren’t the party type, but with him? You’d go anywhere.

The place was loud the second you stepped inside. Music pulsed like a second heartbeat, vibrating through the floors and the soles of your shoes. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and whatever expensive cologne half the Slytherin boys had drowned themselves in. Bodies moved in every direction—dancing, laughing, shouting, stumbling. Chaos disguised as celebration.

Mattheo had vanished into the crowd after saying a quick “I’ll be right back,” and that was over an hour ago. Maybe two. It was hard to tell when the lights were low, the drinks were strong, and time felt elastic. People pulled you into conversations, into shots, into the blur of it all—and you let them. It was easier that way.

A few drinks in—okay, maybe six, or seven—you’d stopped counting. Your limbs were light, your face warm, and your head tilted just slightly to the side whenever you tried to focus on something too long. You were reaching for another shot—your seventh, probably—when a hand closed around your wrist.

Mattheo.

He looked calmer than he had any right to in a place like this. His curls were damp from the heat, eyes sharp despite the haze. His jaw clenched when he saw the glass in your hand.

“Stop that,”

he said, voice low but firm as he took the shot from your fingers like it was nothing.

Then he looked at you.

“That’s enough.”