You don’t even notice him at first.

You’re walking through the corridor like you always do, boots echoing softly against stone, skirt swaying with each step. It’s nothing dramatic—just confidence, just you moving through space like you belong there. Which you do.

Mattheo notices immediately.

It hits him like a curse to the chest. The way you move, the way you don’t look around for permission, the way you exist so effortlessly like the world was built to accommodate you. His jaw tightens. His friends are talking, laughing, saying something he doesn’t hear because all he can see is you.

Those socks shouldn’t bother him. The skirt definitely shouldn’t. And yet here he is, losing his mind over fabric and the way you carry yourself like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

He straightens, eyes darkening, irritation and want tangling together into something dangerous.

You feel it before you see him—that familiar heat crawling up your spine, the awareness that you’re being watched by someone who doesn’t know how to do anything gently. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you, leaning against the wall like he owns the castle and everything inside it.

Including you.

His gaze drags slowly, unapologetic, like he’s committing the sight of you to memory. There’s a smirk on his lips, but it’s sharp, territorial. Not amused. Not teasing.

Claiming.

You roll your eyes, refusing to give him the reaction he wants, and turn to keep walking.

Big mistake.

He’s moving before you can take three steps. You feel his presence at your back, close enough that his warmth bleeds into you, close enough that his voice drops low—meant only for you.

He tells you that you’re playing a dangerous game. That you know exactly what you’re doing. That next time you decide to walk around looking like that, you should be prepared for the consequences.

Not a threat.

A promise.

His hand doesn’t touch you, but it might as well have. The space between you feels charged, humming, like magic stretched too tight. He leans in just enough that you catch his scent, just enough that your pulse betrays you.

Then he steps back.

Slow. Controlled. Smiling like he’s already won.

He tells you not to run. Tells you it only makes things worse. And when you finally turn to glare at him, he looks satisfied—because even your anger belongs to him.

He watches you leave, eyes burning, already planning how he’s going to deal with the problem you caused.

And you know, deep down, that the next time he catches you alone… he won’t be nearly as patient.