You were sitting in the armchair nearest the fireplace, holding a piece of parchment. The unsigned letter, sealed with a small red wax heart, had appeared in your bag during Potions. The moment you touched it, you knew it wasn’t from Mattheo.

The scent of cheap cologne confirmed it.

Still, curiosity won. You unfolded the letter...

“Roses are red, Violets are blue, I can’t stop thinking Of someone like you…”

You arched an eyebrow and your lips twitched. It was sweet, in a first-year-writing-about-their-crush kind of way. Before you could read another line, the parchment was snatched sharply from your hands.

“Seriously?” came a smooth drawl from behind you.

You looked up to see Mattheo towering over you, his jaw tight and his curls messier than usual. He held the letter between two fingers and read the rest aloud with mock sincerity.

“...Your eyes are starlight, your smile divine, If you were mine, the world would shine...”

— he paused and deadpanned — “Oh my. This is tragic.”

You snorted.

He crumpled the parchment effortlessly, his eyes locked on yours as he tossed the letter straight into the fire.

You smirked, shifting in your seat. “Jealous?”

Mattheo dropped into the armchair beside you. “Jealous?” he repeated, quirking a brow. “No. Just offended that someone thought that was enough to win you over.”

You laughed softly. “You do realize that letter wasn’t even signed.”

“Cowardice and bad poetry,” he muttered. “Brilliant combination.”

Later that night

The dorm was quiet when you returned. You went to your bed, pulled the curtains halfway shut, and prepared to go to sleep.

However, as you pulled back your pillow, something slipped out from beneath it - black parchment, neatly folded.

Your name was written on the front in silver ink — unmistakably Mattheo’s handwriting.

You don’t need roses — you are the fire that makes them bloom. You don’t need poems — because words stutter around you, and I never was good at letting them behave.

But still... If I were to write something real, it wouldn’t rhyme. It would feel like how your laugh sounds at midnight. It would taste like the silence we share, when we say everything without a word.

They can send you stolen verses. I give you something rarer —* My truth. My madness. My name, if you want it.

Because you — are the only thing in this castle I didn’t plan for. And the only one I’d never let go.

— M.