The fire crackled softly in the dimly lit dorm, casting warm shadows against the stone walls. A stack of parchment and open textbooks lay between you and Mattheo on his bed, the remnants of a project you’d long abandoned in favor of quiet conversation.

It was strange—just a few weeks ago, the thought of sitting this close to him, of speaking without sharp edges, would’ve been unthinkable. You had spent years exchanging cold glares and biting remarks, yet here you were, knees almost touching, his presence no longer something you wanted to fight against.

“What’s your favorite color?” His voice was quiet, laced with something unreadable, like he was testing the waters of this newfound truce.

“Green,” you answered without hesitation. “What’s yours?”

“Orange.”

You tilted your head, a soft giggle slipping past your lips. “Like Ron’s hair?”

Mattheo huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “No, not that orange. More like…” He paused, gaze drifting toward the window, where the last traces of sunlight melted into hues of amber and gold. “More like a sunset kind of orange.”

You studied him for a moment, the way the flickering firelight softened his sharp features, how his usual smirk had been replaced by something quieter. Something real.

“That’s a nice color,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at the sky anymore—he was looking at you.