The common room is almost empty now, just a few scattered students. You’re curled up in the corner of the sofa, one earbud in, music humming quietly as you watch the flames flicker.

Theodore is lounging in his usual spot, sitting across from Mattheo.

"Alright," Theodore says, eyeing Mattheo with a smirk. "What’s your type?"

Mattheo doesn’t respond at first. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turns his head toward you.

"Her." Mattheo says.

Theodore lets out a soft laugh, like he thinks it's a joke—until he sees Mattheo’s expression. He’s still watching you. There’s no smirk on his face, no teasing in his eyes.

"Lips like hers." Mattheo says. "Eyes like hers." he adds, his voice softer now. "Everything like her." Mattheo says, and there’s a weight to his tone that sinks deep into your chest.

Theodore’s grin fades. He glances between you and Mattheo, a little surprised. "I didn't think you'd actually say it out loud."

Mattheo leans back in his chair, exhaling like he’s just let go of something he's been holding in for too long.

"Why not? She is perfect." Mattheo says, and then he winks.

You try to look away, but it’s too late—he saw the blush rise to your cheeks. And when you finally dare to glance up, his grin has softened.

Like maybe this wasn't just a passing moment.

Like maybe he meant every word.