As always with these boys, the conversation had devolved into something crude.

Draco was half-laughing, half-complaining about the last girl who got clingy. Blaise was throwing in details that were definitely exaggerated. Lorenzo and Theodore were rating their own “performance,” throwing jabs at each other like it was a competition, while Regulus said nothing — but his smirk spoke volumes.

You were tucked into the armchair closest to the fire, your legs curled beneath you. You were trying to read the same paragraph for the third time. Your fingers tapped lightly against the page, but you weren’t turning it. Not with Mattheo's voice distracting you.

“It’s not about how many times,” Mattheo said lazily. "It is about the intensity."

That earned a chorus of low chuckles.

You roll your eyes and shut your book. “Do you ever think about anything other than 'that', Mattheo?” you ask, your voice sharp with exasperation.

The room shifts. The others are still grinning, but now they’re watching, waiting.

Mattheo looks over at you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. His smirk — the one that always makes you want to slap him or kiss him or both — curves at the corner of his mouth.

“Only when I’m not busy imagining you b3nt over something,” he says.

This time, the room doesn't explode with laughter — it falls silent. Everyone hears the way he says it. Like he means it. Like he’s thought about it more than once.

You lift your chin. “If I ever b3nd over something, it won’t be for you,” you say. You mean to sound icy, but your voice lands somewhere between shaky and breathless.

Mattheo leans forward, his elbows rest on his knees. “You already did, princess,” he murmurs. “Twice. You just don’t like remembering it when your legs were shaki!g.”

You freeze.

The words crash into you, heavier than they should be. Your breath stumbles. You don’t know if you’re flushed from anger or something you don’t want to name.

“Y-You wish,” you mutter, but the stutter gives you away.

Mattheo smiles. “Do I?” he says softly.

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

Because you’re still looking at him. And he’s still looking at you, as if waiting for you to admit what you both remember.