Theodore was no stranger to attention — especially not during a match. 'Girls love me,' he thought with a smirk.

He moved as if it were second nature, the broom gliding beneath him with practised grace. The crowd was a blur of faces and shouts, but he felt the eyes. He always did. Occasionally he threw a wink or a flash of that grin - just enough to set hearts fluttering.

But only one pair of eyes mattered.

You sat in the stands like you owned the whole place, your chin resting lazily in your palm, a bored expression painted across your face. As if the chaos of the match was beneath you. As if he was beneath you.

Until your gaze locked with his.

A slow, knowing smirk tugged at your lips — the kind that made his pulse skip. And then you stood.

He faltered, just for a second.

Your hands pulled off your jumper, revealing a fitted emerald green crop top that made his stomach twist. His eyes dropped — and froze.

Mrs. N0tt.

The words were printed boldly across your chest like a claim, a challenge, and promise at the same time.

His grip tightened on the broom.

Not now, he told himself, dragging his focus back to the game. Not yet.

With a burst of speed and a final, determined dive, he won the match. The crowd exploded around him. Cheers, screams, his name echoing off the stands.

But none of it mattered.

Because when he turned, breathless and triumphant, eyes immediately searching for yours — you weren’t watching him.

You were laughing at something some boy had just said. His entire chest flared with heat — anger, jealousy, want — all tangled into one.

He didn’t care who the guy was.

You were his problem. Only his.

Without a word, he jumped off his broom and stalked toward you. Every girl still screaming for him — and he couldn’t care less.

His eyes locked on yours. “Mrs. N0tt,” he growled, “we need to talk.”