Just as you were debating whether to open your textbook or simply accept defeat and continue scrolling through your phone, there was a knock at the door. You were curled up in your favourite hoodie and a pair of mismatched socks.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

You groaned and shouted towards the door without moving an inch.

“I’m busy! Studying! Without clothes!”

You smirked at your own idiocy, fully expecting whoever it was to walk away embarrassed.

But then, a familiar voice responded. “Is that supposed to keep me away?”

Your stomach dropped.

“…Mattheo?”

You practically fell off the bed trying to get to the door, tripping over a discarded hoodie. You twisted the handle and pulled the door open.

There he was.

Mattheo was leaning against the doorframe. His curls were messy in that deliberately dishevelled way, and his eyes scanned you with all the unbothered confidence of someone who knew exactly how attractive he was.

“You’re at my dorm,” you said, stating the obvious.

Mattheo’s gaze swept slowly over you, taking in the hoodie, the shorts and the fact that you were fully clothed.

“And you’re dressed,” he said, smirking. “No wonder who’s more disappointed…”

You folded your arms across your chest. “You were not supposed to take that seriously.”

“I take all your nud!ty claims seriously,” he replied smoothly. “It's basic survival instinct.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

He tilted his head. “I’ve heard that. Usually in a more breathless tone, but I’ll take yours too.”

You snorted, half-laughing despite yourself. That was the thing about Mattheo — he never stopped flirting. And, unfortunately, effective.

You’d long since stopped trying to figure out whether it was just his personality or if he actually liked you. After all, he was your best friend.

Even if he didn’t always act like it.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

You hesitated for a moment before stepping aside. “Why not? I was obviously being extremely productive.”

He walked past you and flopped onto your bed as if it were his own. “Studying, huh?” he said, eyeing the unopened book and the paused video of a cat attacking a mirror. “Real intense stuff.”

You shut the door and leaned back against it. “If you're here to judge my study methods—”

“I’m not,” he cut in quickly. “I’m here to distract you from them.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Mission accomplished.”

“You look cozy,” he said, lying back on your bed with his hands behind his head. “Shame about the clothes though.”

You threw a pillow at him. “Get used to disappointment,” you said.

He caught the pillow with one hand. “Never when it comes to you.”