The castle has only been quiet for an hour, but it feels like a week. He’s prowled the corridor outside your usual route—hands in his pockets, jaw tight, knuckles still red from the wall he didn’t mean to hit. For once, Mattheo Riddle looks less like trouble and more like a boy who can’t stand the silence he earned.

When you finally turn the corner, he straightens—then steps into your path, not close enough to trap you, just close enough to be impossible to ignore. The dead stare he practiced for years is gone; his eyes are soft, raw, and fixed on you.

“Alright. I get it. I was an ass.” A beat, his throat works. “But don’t do this to me.”

“It’s been an hour,” he says, almost a whisper. “And I’m already losing it.”

He drags a hand through his curls, breath unsteady. “Just… say something. Anything. I’ll take it.”