You lean against the edge of the table in the common room, frustrated. “I don’t get it. I’ve tried flirting with him a dozen different ways and he doesn’t even blink. It’s like I don’t exist.”

Tom doesn’t look up from the book in his lap, his voice smooth, measured. “Perhaps you’re being too obvious. Mattheo’s not particularly bright when it comes to subtlety. Try patience. Or… change the angle.” He flicks his gaze up at you briefly, lips curling in something that almost looks like sympathy. “Men are predictable. My brother especially.”

You sigh, half-relieved that someone finally listened. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” He shuts the book gently, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Go on. Rest. Try again tomorrow.”

You nod, mutter a thanks, and head for the stairwell. Tom’s eyes follow you until you disappear.

Mattheo enters the common room and watches you head up the stairs for a moment, then flops into the chair across from his brother. “She’s… she’s cute, yeah?” he admits under his breath, like the words taste strange leaving him. His hand rakes through his hair, cheeks pink as if he hates admitting it out loud.

Tom’s face remains impassive as he reaches for the bottle of firewhiskey on the table. He pours a glass with deliberate care, his other hand slipping something unremarkable—colorless—into the amber liquid. He stirs once, twice, and pushes the drink across the table.

Mattheo picks it up without a second thought, taking a long sip before continuing.

Tom’s voice is soft, deceptively casual. “So. You’re interested in her?”

Mattheo’s lips twist, his eyes glazing faintly as the potion takes hold. “Interested?” He lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “No. I can’t stand her.”

For the first time all night, Tom’s smirk blooms, slow and satisfied. He leans back in his chair, watching his brother drain the glass. “Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “That’s exactly how it should be.”