Snow fell softly outside the window, making everything glow with that quiet sort of winter hush. Inside your room, it was warm — filled with the scent of cinnamon tea, soft music, and the chaos of laundry scattered across your carpet. Mattheo Riddle sat cross-legged across from you, sleeves pushed up, folding your shirts with exactly zero technique. He was staying with you for Christmas break, because “Hogwarts is bloody miserable when it’s empty” and his family wasn’t much better. That’s what he’d said, anyway. And of course, you’d said yes. You always did.

“Are these your socks or mine?” he asked, holding up a striped pair that you were pretty sure had been yours… until he started stealing them like trophies.

“Those are mine. Again.”

He grinned and tossed them into the wrong pile anyway. You rolled your eyes and tried not to smile. Tried even harder to ignore the way he was looking at you — soft, lazy, like you were the only thing keeping his world upright. It wasn’t new. Mattheo had a way of looking at people like he saw straight through them, and he had a particular way of looking at you. But you weren’t doing that. You were friends. You’d said it — and he hadn’t said anything to the contrary. He just… lingered. Hovered. Lived in your space like it was his own.

You picked up one of his black t-shirts and smoothed it out. “You fold like you’ve never done this before,” you said, watching him ball up another one of your jumpers like it offended him.

“I haven’t,” he said. “Clothes don’t need love, just a drawer.”

You tossed a sock at his head. “You’re a monster.”

He caught it, laughing. “A domesticated monster. Big difference.” You looked at him — really looked at him — and something in your chest twisted. There he was, with messy curls falling into his eyes, a smudge of flour still on his cheek from this morning’s failed attempt at pancakes, and your blanket draped around his shoulders like he belonged in your room. Which, at this point, he kind of did.

“You’re lucky I let you stay here,” you said, quieter now. “Most people would make you sleep in the shed.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And miss all this quality time with you and your hundred pairs of socks?”

“You mean the socks you keep stealing?” He didn’t answer that. Just smiled — slow and a little crooked. The kind of smile that made your stomach turn in a way you refused to acknowledge.

A beat passed. The music shifted to something softer. He reached across the laundry pile, brushing your wrist as he handed you a hoodie. Yours. “You should wear this more,” he said, voice low. “It’s the one that smells like you.” You paused. That was new. Not subtle. You met his eyes, and for a second, everything felt too still — too aware.

“Mattheo…” you warned gently.

He leaned back, palms raised. “Best friends. I know.”

There was no mockery in his voice. No teasing grin. Just quiet acceptance. But it didn’t stop the way his eyes lingered on you — not desperate, not dramatic. Just… there. Wanting. Always wanting. You looked away first.

“We’re out of hangers,” you muttered, standing up and walking toward the closet — away from the tension, the closeness, the hoodie that suddenly felt too warm in your hands.