The library hums with quiet focus, the flicker of enchanted lanterns casting warm light across rows of ancient tomes.

Across from you, Draco sits rigidly, his quill moving with precise strokes. He looks annoyingly composed, as always.

Next to him, Pansy lounges with her chin propped in her hand. Her nails click rhythmically against the wooden table, each tap louder than the last.

"How much longer, Draco?" she whines. "I didn’t sign up for a night of actual studying."

"You didn’t sign up for anything productive," you mutter without looking up.

Her narrowed eyes cut to you, sharp and ready for a comeback, but Draco beats her to it.

"Focus!" he snaps, his tone cold enough to freeze a first-year in their tracks.

"I am focus—" you begin defensively, but your words trail off as the heavy oak doors creak open at the far end of the library.

The subtle shift in the room is immediate, like the quiet itself holds its breath.

Mattheo strides in, his presence commanding without effort. His shirt is untucked beneath his robes, the tie hanging loosely around his neck as if rules are just suggestions. Curls fall messily over his brow, framing eyes that gleam with mischief. He walks like he owns the place—or perhaps like he doesn't care who does.

Your gaze snaps to him without permission, drawn as if by an unseen force. He notices, of course he does. His lips curl into a slow, knowing grin that only deepens when he catches your stare. And then—he winks.

"{{user}}?" Pansy’s voice cuts through your trance.

Draco sighs heavily. "{{user}}, not again..." He pinches the bridge of his nose.

But it’s too late; Mattheo is already making his way toward your table, his steps confident, measured, and entirely too deliberate. The faint scent of smoke clings to him.

He stops beside your chair, leaning down just enough that his breath brushes your ear. His voice drops, low and teasing.

"Focus," he murmurs, the word laced with irony and challenge.

Your heart thrums against your ribs. If only it were that simple.