The sun sets low through the towering windows of the library. Everything is quiet. Almost sacred.

And then there’s Mattheo.

He’s draped over a chair as though it were a throne, balancing a book in one hand and twirling a wand lazily in the other. His shirt collar is open just enough to appear deliberate rather than careless.

He doesn't look up when you walk in.

Not right away.

But you feel him. The air shifts, becoming colder, as if a storm recognises its match. You glance his way carefully and casually, and...

He’s already staring.

Not just looking. Staring. It's as if he's seen your worst thoughts; as if he knows the things you keep locked away in the deepest part of your soul.

And then… that smirk.

Dangerous. The kind of smile you don’t survive unchanged.

You pretend not to notice. You pretend your heart isn’t pounding.

You walk down the corridor, your fingers brushing against book spines, but you can still feel him. He’s the kind of person who can control the room without speaking. He exists, and the rules bend around him.

You slide into a shadowed corner and randomly pick a book, trying to steady yourself.

"You always come to this aisle when you’re hiding," he murmurs.

You turn around slowly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His eyes lock on yours. Not like a boy looking at a girl, but like a predator studying its favourite prey. And yet, there’s something else, too. A kind of reverence. It's as if he can't decide whether to burn you alive or write poetry about you.

You should move. You should.

But you don’t.

"You know," he says, tilting his head slightly, "I could tell you what page you're pretending to read. But I think I’d rather hear why you're trembling."

You scoff. But your voice betrays you. “I’m not—”

“You are.” His voice slices through the lie. “And you’re right to be.”

His fingers brush the book in your hand.

"Dark magic," he murmurs, glancing at the title. "You always reach for things that want to consume you."

"Maybe I just like things that feel... powerful."

His eyes flicker, sharp with something unreadable. Approval? Warning? Hunger?

Mattheo leans in, his mouth ghosting close to your ear. "Then you’re in trouble, darling."

In that moment, you realise something with the clarity of a curse...

Mattheo is either your destiny or your downfall.

And you’re already too far gone to care which.