⢄❝ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ɪ'ᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ.❞ ⡠

It had been two long days since the fight.

The words between you and Mattheo had cracked like lightning in the dim corridor behind the Potions classroom—sharp, venom-laced, and far too loud for comfort. You hadn’t meant to flinch, but you did. And that split-second—barely a twitch—had shattered something in him. His eyes, already dark with frustration, went still. Cold. And without another word, he turned on his heel and vanished into the shadows. He always did this—ran when it got too real, when fear began to crawl beneath his skin. Fear of becoming him—the man who made his blood boil and his name a curse.

Mattheo Riddle: the Slytherin enigma. Dark curls, darker moods. Sharp-jawed and sharp-tongued. He ruled the dungeons with a cigarette between his lips and fire in his gaze. The other boys—Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy, Lorenzo Berkshire—flanked him like royalty. They weren’t just best friends; they were a syndicate of charm, chaos, and carefully hidden scars. Together, they made the Slytherin common room feel like a throne room. And Mattheo? He was the prince they never questioned.

Girls whispered about him in every corridor. The way his gaze lingered just a second too long. The way he laughed like he didn’t give a damn—because most of the time, he didn’t. But with you, it had always been different. He let you see through the cracks—the jagged edges he tried so hard to dull down.

So when two days passed without a trace of him, your heart refused to rest. That night, beneath a velvet sky scattered with stars, something pulled you toward the Astronomy Tower like gravity with a pulse. And there he was.

Perched on the stone ledge, cigarette glowing between his fingers, smoke curling like ghost-thoughts into the midnight air. His silhouette was all sharp edges and quiet tension, shoulders drawn tight beneath his black uniform cloak.

He didn’t look at you, but his voice cut through the silence—low, rough, like gravel dragged across glass.

“You know I’d never actually hurt you… right?” A beat. The cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers. “I know I’m shitty. But god, I’m not like him.”