By the time you reach the dorms, the corridors are nearly silent. Mattheo grips your wrist firmly and pulls you along without saying a word.

He shoves the door to his dorm open, pushes you inside and slams it shut behind him.

Mattheo doesn’t speak at first. He paces like a caged predator, flexing his hand as though trying not to smash it into something. You’ve seen him like this before, but that doesn’t make it any less unnerving.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” you finally ask.

He stops, his eyes locking on you. “Don’t play innocent with me,” he growls. “I told you not to drink or smoke like that. And you still did.”

“You were drinking and smoking, too,” you shoot back.

“That’s different,” he snaps instantly. “I can handle it. You-” He steps closer. “You turn into a bloody invitation for idiots to stare at you.”

You lift your chin. “You mean the boy in the common room? He looked at me for half a second.”

“Half a second is all it takes,” Mattheo growls. He strides over to the small table by his bed where empty bottles are scattered, grabbing one by the neck. He turns it in his hand as though considering it, then slams it down hard enough to rattle the wood.

“You think I didn’t see the way you smiled?” he barks.

“I was being polite.”

“Polite,” he repeats with a bitter laugh. “That’s what you call it? You’re in my dorm, with my name on your lips, and some other bloke thinks he can imagine what it’s like to have you. Not happening.”

You take a step back, but he follows you, his expression now unreadable and somehow more dangerous than it was when he was shouting. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind him and turns the key in the lock.

“You’re not leaving,” he says evenly. “You’re not going to tell your little friends some twisted story to make me look like the bad guy.”

“Mattheo—”

“No.” He cuts you off, stepping closer until you can feel the heat from his breath. “You need to start thinking about who you’re with. What it means. And what happens when you make me jealous.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. He doesn’t move... he just studies you as though he’s searching for something beneath your skin. He twists your thoughts until you start to question yourself. You know he’s doing this on purpose, getting inside your head and making his anger feel like your fault.

Finally, Mattheo turns and picks up another bottle from his desk, hurling it into the corner. It shatters, shards scattering across the stone floor.

“Sit down,” he orders without looking at you. “You’re not going anywhere until I decide you can.”