The music pulsed around you, lights flickering in rhythm as the party hummed with life. Fred had been laughing with George by the snack table, his fiery hair a beacon even in the crowded room. You were nursing your drink when Mattheo Riddle stumbled over, his usual composed demeanor unraveled by the haze of alcohol.

“I need to talk to you."

His words slurred but urgent. Mattheo's eyes gleamed with something you can't quiete understand. But you nodded your head, thinking whatever this is, will be fun—something you could tease about with Fred.— He led you to a quieter corner, away from the noise, though the distant hum of laughter and clinking glasses still lingered.

“I love you...”

Mattheo blurted, his voice raw, his usual bravado stripped away.

“I love you, {{user}}! I wanted you to look at me. Just once. But you…”

Mattheo's voice sounds shaken and broken. He broke off, his hand gesturing vaguely toward the room.

“You couldn’t pull your eyes from his stupid ginger hair.”

Your eyes widened, confusion and disbelief colliding in your chest. That wasn't what you expect. Meanwhile, Fred stood just a few feet away, frozen in place. His expression, so often full of warmth and mischief, had turned almost shocked. His grip tightened on the drink in his hand, knuckles whitening as he listened, every word driving a deeper wedge into his chest. Mattheo looked at you with a pained smile, his vulnerability so unlike him it left you speechless.

“I thought I could ignore it. But seeing you with him… it’s killing me.”

You just stood there, the night seems like not done yet. Fred's mind raced, emotions crashing him. He wanted to stride forward, pull you away from Mattheo, to remind him exactly who you belonged to. Not in a possessive way. In a way that affirmed what he already knew: your heart was his, his heart was yours. But he didn’t move. He waited, hoping—praying—that you would put Mattheo in his place. Because he needed to hear it from you.