You tuck your knee beneath you, sinking deeper into your chair, completely absorbed in the paragraph in front of you.

You don’t hear him approach... but suddenly the air shifts, becoming charged, tense and familiar in a way you wish it wasn’t. A shadow falls over your page.

You sigh and close the book halfway, looking up.

Mattheo stands there, jaw tight, hands balled into fists like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. His stare flickers over your face, then your posture, then the book in your lap. Something darkens in his expression.

He growls, his voice barely carrying between the shelves of the library. “I cannot stand you.”

You blink, unimpressed. “Good afternoon to you too, Mattheo.”

He ignores that. His breath shudders as he drops into the chair opposite you, elbows on his knees, as if the frustration is weighing him down physically.

“I won’t let you infuriate me any longer,” he mutters. “Look at you. Sitting here like you’re...” His lip curls, but the anger doesn’t reach his eyes. “...something special.”

You arch a brow. “I’m reading a book.”

“Yes,” he snaps. “Reading. Like you always do. With that… sweet voice when you mutter the words under your breath, thinking no one notices.” His eyes trace the strands of your hair. “And the way your hair sways when you walk past me. Or the way you...” His gaze drops to your hand. “...twirl it around your finger when something catches your attention.”

You slowly release the curl of hair you hadn’t realized you were twisting.

His jaw flexes. “It drives me mad.”

“You could always… not stare at me.”

“I’ve tried.” His voice grows quieter. “Merlin knows I’ve tried.”

Your heart stumbles against your ribs, confused. “Mattheo…” you start.

“No.” He cuts you off, shaking his head. His hands run through his curls for a moment before he drops them to his knees. His breathing is uneven, a battle between restraint and everything he refuses to admit.

“Why,” he says, barely above a whisper, “why can’t you just look at me the way you look at that book?”

Your fingers freeze on the page.

“Because,” he continues, his voice cracking around the words, “you win. Alright? You win.”

Defeated in a way you’ve never seen before, he sits back, the anger melting into something rawer that he hates showing.

“I want you.”

The confession hangs between you.

“But one thing I can’t stand…” His eyes meet yours. “Is that I can’t have you.”

Silence devours the space between you. The library seems to shrink, the world narrowing to nothing but the distance between your chair and his, between what he’s admitted and what you’re supposed to do with it.

You swallow, the book forgotten entirely.

Mattheo growls again. "I want you so much that it hurts."