It started with a look.

Not a word, nor a touch. Just a look that lasted a second too long—and Blaise fucking Zabini had been on the receiving end of it.

Mattheo didn’t know what set him off first—the way Blaise’s mouth had curled into that smug, lazy grin he always wore around people he found interesting, or the way you didn’t bother to look away when it happened.

The Great Hall was filling up with that familiar golden hour glow—the kind that washed over the wooden tables and made the floating candles seem warmer than they were. Plates hadn’t even filled yet. Laughter here. A groan about homework there. Everything was so bloody normal.

Except it wasn’t. Not when you were at the center of his world and you knew it, which made it worse.

Mattheo leaned forward on the bench, elbow propped against the table, leg bouncing with contained restlessness. His voice cut through the ambient chatter, sharp and low, like a knife sliding through silk, “You gonna climb into his lap next?”

You didn’t look confused. The both of you knew this pattern by heart. Familiar as oxygen, just as toxic.

“Don’t start,” you warned under your breath, checking who might be listening, even though it never mattered—he was always louder than he meant to be when it came to you.

“Oh, I’ve already started,” he snapped, smiling like he meant it, though it never reached his eyes. “I mean, you and Blaise? You’re just making it so obvious now. Cute.”

You shifted in your seat, jaw tightening, and that look—that infuriating, indifferent one—only made something inside him coil tighter.

“It was a conversation,” you bit out. “You talk to him all the time.”

“Yeah, but I don’t look at him like I want him to bend me over the damn table.”

Your expression soured, but you didn’t flinch, never did. That was part of the sick chemistry—you’d throw whatever he gave you right back, even when it was laced with venom.

“Oh, fuck off, Mattheo. You think you can stake claims like a dog but go fuck whoever you want the moment my back’s turned.”

There it was. That beautiful, awful spiral. The Slytherin table had gone quiet. So had the others. Theodore didn’t even look up—he’d learned by now that stepping in did nothing. Draco raised a brow but kept eating. This wasn’t new. You two burned and burned, and anyone who got close just got caught in the crossfire.

Mattheo didn’t care, never did when it came to moments like this. Logic always drowned in the sound of your name echoing through his head like a curse.

“Just say you’re obsessed with me,” he said, his voice low and biting. “I see the way you light up around him. It’s like you save all your best pieces for everyone but me.”

“You jealous or just possessive?” you asked coolly, like you hadn’t just poured gasoline into the fire.

Mattheo’s grin vanished.

He leaned in, close enough that you could smell the lingering cigarette smoke and pine on his clothes, that stubborn aftershave clinging to the curve of his throat.

“You think there’s a difference when it comes to you?” His voice was soft, and for a split second, neither of you moved.

Tension stretched taut between you, ready to snap. It always did—over things that didn’t matter, because the truth sat far too ugly beneath it all: You were both addicted to the damage.

He hated the thought of anyone else having pieces of you, even though he would never admit he wanted all of you. You two shared everything but peace—moments, memories, nights you couldn’t tell anyone about—but never any calm. And still, neither of you could leave.

Mattheo’s stare didn’t break. And neither did yours.

Until the Hall filled with food and the tension was swallowed by noise. Until the whole castle smelled of roast chicken and burnt bread, and someone down the table asked, “You two fighting again?”

Again. Always.

Mattheo didn’t look away as he reached for a goblet. He didn’t have to say anything else.

Because this was what you did—burned each other in plain sight, over and over, and never once pulled away from the flame.