Detention in the pouring rain was already miserable, but dealing with Mattheo Riddle’s constant complaints made it worse.

“This is absolute bullshit,” he muttered, running a hand through his soaked curls. His white shirt clung to him, unbuttoned at the top, exposing his collarbone.

You rolled your eyes, hefting a sack of fertilizer. “Oh, quit whining, Riddle. It’s just rain.”

“Just rain?” He scoffed, then smirked. Before you could react, he flicked muddy water at you.

You gasped. “You did not just—”

But he had.

So, naturally, you threw mud at him.

It hit him square in the chest, and for a second, he just stared at you—then lunged. You shrieked, slipping on the wet ground, and crashed into him.

You landed in a tangled heap, rain dripping from your lashes, your hands braced against his chest. His fingers gripped your waist like he was steadying you—or maybe like he didn’t want to let go.

For once, he wasn’t smirking.

“Guess I deserved that, huh?” he murmured, voice softer now.

You swallowed, heart pounding. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moved.