The common room was cloaked in warmth, the glow of the fire casting long shadows across the walls. You sat curled on the corner of a leather couch, your legs tucked beneath you, fingers absentmindedly twisting the fraying edge of your sleeve. Beside you, Theodore lounged with his usual composed indifference, the flicker of flames reflecting in his sharp eyes.

He broke the comfortable silence without warning. “He’s calling you by your last name now,” he remarked dryly, voice steady but edged with meaning.

You blinked, turning to him with a slight frown. “That’s not a thing, Theo.”

The faint arch of his brow told you he thought otherwise. “Right. Because he’s totally indifferent, yeah?” He tilted his head, lips curling into a faint smirk. “Except he remembers every single word you’ve ever said... but still pretends to be annoyed when you talk too much?”

The comment hit you harder than you cared to admit. Your throat tightened, but you forced a laugh, waving it off. “What are you even talking about?”

Theodore’s gaze lingered on you for a long beat, knowing and deliberate. “Classic,” he murmured simply, leaning back against the couch like he’d just dropped some universal truth.

Before you could argue—or maybe demand what exactly he meant—the door to the common room creaked open.

And there he was.

Mattheo strode in with that effortless confidence that was uniquely his, dark curls falling messily across his brow. His hand raked through his hair as he walked, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, as if the world had amused him once again.

Then his gaze landed on you.

Your breath caught in your throat. The smirk faltered, just slightly, replaced by something unreadable. His eyes lingered longer than they should have, the weight of his stare tugging at you from across the room.

Mattheo’s expression shifted back to indifference as he turned toward his usual spot by the fire, collapsing into a chair.

“You see what I mean?” Theodore muttered beside you, barely audible over the crackle of flames.