The first time you met Mattheo, it was with your wand pointed at his throat. The gleam in his dark eyes wasn’t fear—it was intrigue. Even as a Dëath Eäter, he had a reputation for being unpredictable, dangerous. But what he didn’t expect was you.

Every duel after that felt like a game of cat and mouse. Sparks flew—literally and figuratively. Spells collided in the air, but so did your words, sharp and biting.

"You’re not as clever as you think, RiddIe," you snarled one night, your wand steady in your hand.

"And you’re not as immune to me as you pretend to be," he shot back, his smirk infuriatingly confident.

But somewhere between the battles and barbed words, the line between hate and something else began to blur.

It was during a mission gone wrong, the two of you cornered in a dark alley, backs pressed together, breathing heavy from dodging curses.

"I should leave you here," you muttered.

"You could," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, "but you won’t."

You hated that he was right.

The first kiss was a mistake—at least, that’s what you told yourself. A heated moment after another fight, your hands tangled in his shirt, his fingers digging into your waist like he couldn’t stand the space between you.

But it didn’t feel like a mistake when he whispered your name like a secret.

Now, the war rages on around you, but in stolen moments, you find him. His touch is rough, his words still edged with sarcasm, but there’s something softer beneath it all—a vulnerability he shows only to you.

"We’re still enemies," you remind him one night, tracing the dark mark on his forearm.

Mattheo catches your hand, pulling you closer, his eyes burning into yours. "Not here," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "Not when it’s just us."