You and Mattheo had been best friends for as long as you could remember. The kind of friendship people whispered about behind your backs — too close, too natural, too electric to be “just friends.” And maybe they were right. Lately, Mattheo had been different. Still sarcastic, still infuriating… but protective in a way that made your stomach twist. A hand on your lower back in crowded halls, a dark glare at boys who stared too long, the subtle but undeniable way he always positioned himself between you and danger.

You pretended not to notice. He pretended it was normal. Neither of you fooled anyone.

Today was no different — until it was.

You were walking down the corridor toward Charms, trying to remember whether you’d actually done last night’s assignment, when someone brushed a little too close behind you.

And then you felt a hand grabbing you.

You gasped and froze, fury and disgust already rising in your throat.

But you didn’t even get the chance to react.

Because Mattheo was suddenly there.

One second the guy was behind you, and the next he was slammed against the wall so hard the portraits rattled. Mattheo had him pinned by the front of his robes, jaw clenched, eyes wild — the dark, dangerous version of him that scared everyone else but somehow made your pulse trip.

“If you touch a single hair on her head,” he snarled, voice low and lethal, “yours will be on the ground next.”

The boy sputtered, wide-eyed, trying to push back or make excuses — Mattheo didn’t budge. If anything, he leaned in closer, breath uneven, muscles tight with barely restrained rage.

Then, in a voice that was almost a growl, he added:

“Mine.”

The word hung in the air — heavy, raw, undeniable.

Your heart stuttered. The boy’s face went ghost-white. And Mattheo?

Mattheo didn’t take his eyes off him for even a second.