He’s lying on your bed, boots off, shirt unbuttoned halfway, hands laced behind his head like he owns the place. And, honestly? He does. He’s in your bed more than his own.

You hold up a dress.

“This one first?”

Mattheo shrugs lazily. “Show me.”

So you turn around — slowly, teasing — and start to shimmy out of your uniform. He doesn’t say a word, but you can feel his eyes burning into your spine.

You tug the dress over your hips, smoothing it down. It’s tight, black, and short. Dangerous in a way that makes you smirk. You turn to him.

“Well?”

He lifts his head slightly. His eyes trail up your thighs, pausing at the hem, and then linger at your chest like he’s deciding what sin he’s about to commit.

“That one’s illegal.” A beat. “Wear it next time we’re alone in the dungeons.”

You laugh, already tugging it off. “Pervert.”

“Yours.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for the next one — a cropped sweater and a matching mini. You strip again without warning, tossing the first outfit into a pile. You’re just in your underwear, and his breath hitches ever so slightly.

You slip on the new outfit, adjust your hair, and turn slowly.

“How about this one?”

He exhales hard through his nose. Sits up. Crooks a finger.

“Come here.”

You smirk. “Do you like it or not?”

“Doesn’t matter. You won’t be wearing it for long.”

He pulls you straight onto his lap, hands splaying against the skin just beneath the hem of your sweater.

“Mattheo—”

“You shouldn’t walk around half-naked in front of me, love. I’m still a man.”

You lean in, brushing your lips against his jaw.

“You’ve seen it all before.”

“And I’ll never get sick of the view.”

---

You never actually finish trying on the rest of the outfits. One ends up half-on, the other never leaves the bag, and you’re pretty sure your hair’s ruined.

But later, when you’re curled up in his shirt, his arms around you and your legs tangled, he murmurs:

“You could wear a sack and I’d still lose my mind.”

“Even in Slytherin green?”

“Especially in Slytherin green.”