mattheo riddle was losing his mind.

he wasn’t the type to sulk after a loss — at least, that’s what he told himself — but after this many losses, he figured he was owed some sort of win. ever since he’d been pulled in as a spy for an under-the-radar organization targeting criminals who preyed on the aristocratic section of the wizarding world, his overseer had decided to toughen him up. mattheo had a silver tongue, a natural instinct for deception, but his coordination in a fight was a different story. so they’d hired you.

and merlin, what a mistake for his ego. you were easily one of the most skilled fighters mattheo had ever seen. precise. fluid. lethal. there was a sort of poetry in how you moved, like a blade slicing through water — clean and efficient. but it wasn’t just your skill; it was you. the way your eyes flicked over every detail. the way your voice cut through his excuses with dry humor. you’d gone from “temporary combat trainer” to the one person he was excited to see when he came in for work.

unluckily for him, he hadn’t beaten you once. not once. he’d tried every tactic he could think of — feints, misdirection, pure brute force — but no matter how sharp his punches or how fast his footwork, you were always three moves ahead.

and it was wrecking him. with a capital W.

the first week, he brushed it off. the second, he was mildly annoyed. by the end of the third month, he was staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m., mentally running through every sparring session, every weakness, every way he could tilt the match in his favor.

when he showed up to training the next morning, his duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, his expression unreadable except for the spark of something feral in his eyes. he went through the warm-ups with his usual lazy grace, knuckles brushing the punching bag as you corrected his stance, his smirk sharpening a fraction more every time you touched his wrist or elbow to adjust him.

then it was sparring time. blocks, counters, footwork, sweat slicking his temple, muscles burning as he pushed harder. for a moment it felt like maybe — maybe — he could finally catch you off guard.

halfway through the match, both of you paused to catch your breath, the air heavy with tension. mattheo reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and peeled it off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. his grin was all teeth, the kind of grin that promised trouble and, finally, a win in his favor.

“let’s continue?” he asked tauntingly, eyes glinting with the need to come out victorious.