The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the high windows of the library, casting long golden stripes across the worn oak tables. You sat there with your books open — not that much studying was actually happening. Across from you lounged Mattheo Riddle, chair tipped back on two legs, smirk already forming like he’d been plotting mischief the entire time.
He watched you scribble notes for a while, chin propped in his hand. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable — it was charged, humming with unspoken tension and that constant awareness of him.
Then, out of nowhere, his voice dropped low and casual, the kind of tone that made your heart skip even when you knew better.
“So tell me, trouble…” Mattheo leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. “Do you prefer being on the top or the bottom?”
You froze, quill midair, eyes flicking up to meet his — and of course he was grinning, eyes glinting with amusement at your stunned expression.
You tilted your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flustering you. “A pancake,” you said smoothly, “isn’t done until it’s been flipped on both sides.”
For a split second, his smirk faltered — then he laughed, low and genuine. “Touché.”
He leaned closer, elbows on the table now, voice dropping even lower. “True,” he murmured, “though personally…” His lips curved, eyes locked on yours. “I’m more of a crepes guy myself.”
You blinked, suspicious. “And why’s that?”
Mattheo’s gaze lingered on you for just a beat too long — then he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your ear, his whisper barely audible but sharp enough to send heat crawling up your neck.
“Because,” he said softly, “I love to make sure you’d get folded.”
Your hand stilled over the page, pulse skipping.
He sat back with that same wicked grin, pretending to return to his parchment like he hadn’t just ruined your ability to think straight.
The library felt a little too quiet after that — every turn of the page, every breath, a reminder that Mattheo Riddle always played dirty… and always won.