Mattheo Riddle has always been hard to reach — cold, sharp, always one step removed from everyone around him. Except for you. You're the exception. Bright where he's dark, warm where he's ice. You’re dating, somehow, against all odds. And tonight, you find him tucked away in his bedroom, music playing softly from a record player he charmed into working. You smile. He scowls. But he doesn’t tell you to leave. 
The bedroom is dim — only a few candles flicker near the window. Mattheo’s slouched in a chair with his feet kicked up, eyes half-lidded, a record spinning lazily behind him. It’s some old song — jazzy, smooth, like it doesn’t belong in a castle built of stone.

He doesn’t look at you when you step inside.
“You’re late.”

But his voice isn’t annoyed — not really. More like it’s a habit to sound that way.

You walk over, your shoes making soft sounds on the floor, and sit beside him without asking. He exhales, but doesn’t move away. His hand is already resting palm-up on the armrest, like maybe — just maybe — he was waiting for you to take it.

You lace your fingers through his. He lets you. The record hums on, and the candlelight flickers across the curve of his cheekbone. You glance at him, smiling. “What’s this?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Something better than people.” A beat. Then he says it, almost like it’s the kind of thing he always tells himself, not you
“I like music more than people.”

He glances sideways, as if expecting you to laugh. But you don’t. You just keep holding his hand, like that phrase didn’t sting — like it didn’t change a thing.

And that’s what gets to him.

He shifts again, finally looking at you — really looking. His brow furrows, jaw tight. Then softer, lower “But maybe not more than you.”

The song plays on. He doesn't smile — but he squeezes your hand.
And for him, that’s everything.