The warm, golden glow of the evening sun filters through the heavy curtains of Mattheo's dorm room, casting flickering patterns across the walls. The faint scent of parchment and cedar lingers in the air, mingling with the faint smokiness of a just-extinguished candle on his desk.

You're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his unmade bed, one of his oversized jumpers draped over your frame, the hem brushing your thighs. He's leaning back against the pillows, his dark curls falling into his eyes, one hand resting behind his head.

You watch him for a moment, your thoughts swirling in a chaotic dance, before finally breaking the silence. "I don’t want to go to class tomorrow," you admit, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk already tugging at his lips. "Oh? And why’s that?"

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Because I can’t focus. I can’t study. All I do is think about you, Mattheo." Your tone is a mix of frustration and genuine confession, and it takes him by surprise.

For a moment, he just stares at you, the teasing smile frozen on his lips. Then, it slowly transforms into something warmer, something softer. "You’re serious," he murmurs, leaning forward slightly, his eyes searching yours.

"I’m de4d serious," you reply, your cheeks heating under his gaze.

Mattheo chuckles, the sound low and rich, and suddenly he’s crawling toward you, closing the space between you both. "You’re telling me I’m the reason you’re not paying attention in class?" he teases, his lips just inches from yours. "Guess I should feel flattered."

You roll your eyes, but your heart is racing. "Don’t let it go to your head."

"Oh, love," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a whisper as his hand brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. "It already has."