It was sickeningly domestic, the way you fit into his space. Not just physically—in the hollow of his chest, the crook of his arm, the familiar bend of his sheets around you—but something deeper. Something bone-deep.

Mattheo didn’t have to ask you to come to his dorm that night. The unspoken was always louder between the two of you than any verbal exchange could ever be. So there you were, limbs tangled in lazy comfort, the slow spiral of your lollipop disappearing past your lips with idle, hypnotic rhythm.

It wasn’t even late. The dorm was alive beyond the veil of his drawn, charmed curtains—Draco’s laugh filtering through once in a while, Theodore’s footsteps, Blaise’s voice low and sharp. But none of it mattered.

The rest of the world blurred when he had you here, trapped in this tiny world the two of you had built in linen and shadows. Your thighs bare beneath one of his shirts. His hand draped low on your waist. The lollipop—originally yours—now an object of shared custody, though he’d made it clear he had no intention of taking turns like a civilized person.

He’d stolen it first with nothing more than a raise of his brow and a quick swipe from your hand. But he hadn’t just popped it in his mouth. No, that wasn’t his style.

Mattheo wasn’t built for simplicity. He’d stared at you for a beat too long, smirking like he was up to something, and then dragged the glossy, wet candy slowly down the side of your neck.

You hadn’t flinched. You were past that—past shyness, past questions, past asking why. The both of you existed now in that hazy place between comfort and curiosity, where affection bled into experimentation and nothing felt off-limits.

Mattheo’s tongue followed the trail he left behind. He lingered where your skin was warmest, his breath coiling against you as his mouth chased the sugared residue he’d painted there.

The lollipop clicked against his teeth as he pulled it back into his mouth, the sharp taste of artificial cherry and your perfume mixing in a way that was addicting. He tilted his head, watching you through the low light.

“You’re sweet,” he muttered under his breath, voice lazy and low. His fingers skimmed up the side of your thigh, not with intent to start anything, not yet—just to remind himself you were here, real, warm, his.

The lollipop pressed against your collarbone next, slow and deliberate, before he dipped his head again, tongue flicking, mouth greedy and open, chasing the flavor as if you were the candy, and not the other way around.

Everything about you two had grown… deeper. At fourteen, it had been wide-eyed and uncertain, all stolen glances and firsts that felt too big. But now, at seventeen, it had morphed into something lived-in. Rawer. Slower, sometimes. Filthier, often.

The kind of closeness that made him feel like he could bleed something human. For you.

In the hush of the bed, with the outside world sealed off, Mattheo let himself feel it all—your skin beneath his mouth, the shared taste of sugar and heat and trust. It wasn’t serious in the way people expected. It was deeper. Familiar in the most intoxicating way.

And when he looked at you like that—head tilted, lollipop back between his lips, the tip of his tongue stained red—he was just Mattheo. Yours.

“Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted,” he drawled, voice rough with the kind of affection he rarely let anyone hear. And Merlin, he meant the lollipop—but he was looking right at you.