The library is quiet. You and Hermione are sitting at a table in one of the quiet corners, pretending to study halfheartedly, although you have lost interest in the books in front of you a long time ago.

Hermione watches you with her perceptive gaze. “You and Mattheo are more than friends.” She says, her voice low, but certain.

You flinch slightly, your fingers pausing over your notes. A small, nervous laugh escapes before you can stop it. “What? No... we are just friends.” You say, brushing it off.

But even you hear the hesitation in your voice — the edge of something that doesn’t sound like truth. Your words hang in the air, too light for the weight you feel in your chest.

Last night replays in your mind... the way he’d looked at you in the quiet, eyes darker than usual but so open, so real. The feeling of his hand finding yours in the dark. The things you’d whispered when you thought no one would ever hear.

But behind the nearest shelf, he stands still, the book he'd come to return forgotten in his hand. He hadn’t planned to listen. He’d just been looking for you. But now he’s heard everything.

Just friends.

His jaw tenses. It stings more than he thought it would — hearing you say it out loud. But something inside him doesn’t want to leave it there. Not this time.

A quiet moment passes, and then there’s the soft creak of a floorboard behind you.

You turn, startled, as Mattheo steps into view. His eyes flick from Hermione to you, unreadable. Hermione straightens but says nothing. She gathers her books quickly, sensing the shift in the air. “I’ll… leave you two alone.” She murmurs, giving you a quick glance before disappearing between the shelves.

Mattheo doesn’t sit. He stands across from you, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. "Just friends?” He says. “That’s what we are?”

“I didn’t think you heard that.” You admit softly.

“I did.” He says. “And I don’t know what last night meant to you, but to me… it wasn’t nothing. It didn’t feel like something I needed to pretend didn’t happen.”

You look up at him, and for a moment, all the noise of the library disappears. It's just him. The weight of his eyes. The quiet disappointment that hurts more than anger ever could.

“I wasn’t pretending.” You whisper. “I just… didn’t know how to explain it. Or what it even is.”

Mattheo moves closer, slowly, until he’s standing right next to you. He leans down just enough for only you to hear. “Then tell me the truth.” He says. “Do you want to go back to pretending? Or do you want to be brave for once and admit it’s more than that?”