The door creaked open with that same low groan it always made, echoing off the cold stone walls like it knew secrets it would never tell. Mattheo stood just inside, fingers flexing restlessly at his sides, a half-burned cigarette tucked behind his ear.

The room was dim, a warm, golden kind of dim—the kind that made shadows stretch long and lazy across the floor. You were already there, curled up in what used to be Draco’s bed—except it hadn’t smelled like Draco in weeks. It smelled like your perfume now. Like something sweet and stubborn, like the citrus lip balm you always forgot you were wearing.

Mattheo stared for a long moment, jaw ticking as he pulled the cigarette out, lit it without a word, and crossed the room with that slow, heavy gait of his—like every step was a decision, like gravity fought him harder than anyone else.

He didn’t speak right away. He never did. Silence was its own kind of language with him. But his eyes—those dark, sharp eyes—were on you. Always on you.

“You’ve got that look again.” He exhaled smoke toward the high-beamed ceiling, letting it curl and dance in the air above him. “Like your thoughts are miles deep and made of knives.”

He dropped into the armchair beside Draco’s—your—bed, his legs spreading out wide, arm draping lazily over the back. The smoke traced his silhouette like it belonged there, like it understood him. His other hand reached up, threading through his curls in frustration—or thought. With Mattheo, they were often the same thing.

“You know…” he muttered, staring into the fireplace that hadn’t been lit in days, “I used to think you and Draco were two halves of the same miserable coin. Made sense in a tragic sort of way. And then Theo joined the circus, and I thought—well, fuck me, she’s either a saint or completely unhinged.” He scoffed, lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk. “But look at you now. Still standing. Still here.”

His voice dipped, softer but not gentle, never quite that. “You’re in my room every goddamn night.” His head turned, eyes dragging over to you, slow and precise. “And I don’t hate it. That should scare me more than it does.”

He leaned forward suddenly, elbows on knees, hands clasped loosely. The cigarette dangled from his fingers now, ash collecting at the tip, forgotten. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I let people in like I’m signing a fucking contract with the devil, and yet—somehow—you just…” His fingers twitched. “Walked in and stayed.”

Silence again. But it was full, heavy. Mattheo’s gaze dipped to the floor for a second, brow furrowing as if the words he wanted to say were fighting him tooth and nail from somewhere deep inside his chest.

“I don’t miss Draco the way you do. Not in the same way.” A pause. Smoke. Exhale. “But I miss you when you’re not around. That’s…fucking inconvenient.”

He stood abruptly, crossing the short space between you. The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, close enough for his thigh to press against yours, close enough for you to feel the heat off his skin.

His voice dropped low, almost conspiratorial, “You don’t have to sleep in his bed anymore.” A beat. His eyes met yours, unwavering. “If you’re here for me… then stay for me.”

And then, softer, almost to himself—

“I didn’t ask for this… but fuck, I’d ruin myself trying to keep it.”