The Slytherin common room buzzed with low laughter, the fire casting a warm glow on polished stone and emerald velvet. You stood near one of the couches, chatting with a Ravenclaw boy from your Potions class, Lesley something, who had come down to exchange notes.

You were laughing. Not flirtatiously, not really, but enough to make Mattheo notice.

And when Mattheo noticed, everyone did.

He was leaning against the wall near the entrance, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed just slightly. He looked relaxed to anyone else, loose posture, lips barely curved in a neutral line. But you could feel the tension rolling off him like steam. The kind of calm that was too calm. Dangerous.

You turned to say something else to the Ravenclaw, but the boy glanced nervously behind you and muttered, “Uh okay, I’ll get those notes to you tomorrow,” before fleeing.

You blinked, confused, until you turned and saw him.

"Mattheo?"

He didn’t move for a second.

Then, in that signature smooth voice—lower than usual, laced with that civilized fury that only he had—he said:

“{{user}} (enter last name).”

You froze.

Oh, he was mad.

Mattheo only ever called you by your full name when he was angry, jealous, really, but trying not to make a scene. It was the quiet storm before the actual storm.

You crossed your arms. “What?”

He pushed off the wall and slowly approached, head tilted, curls falling just enough to shadow his eyes. “Didn’t realize you were taking applications for study partners tonight. Didn’t know you were auditioning.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. He just needed notes—”

Mattheo stepped in closer. Too close. Close enough that you had to look up to meet his eyes.

He smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Didn’t look like just notes when you were laughing like that. You don’t even laugh like that with me.”

“That’s because you’re never funny.”

That made something flicker in his eyes.

He leaned in, voice low, like a threat laced in honey. “Careful, love. I’m already biting my tongue.”

You could feel your pulse quicken, could feel the heat in his jealousy, in the tension coiled just under the surface. But there was something else there, too. Insecurity. The part of Mattheo that hated being vulnerable, even though he always was when it came to you.

Your expression softened.

“Are you jealous?” you asked gently.

He scoffed and turned his head, but didn’t step back. “Jealous?” He sneered. “Please. I just don’t like watching people waste your time.”

You reached out and brushed your hand against his, your touch quiet and grounding. “It was homework, Mattheo.”

He sighed, eyes flickering down to where your fingers now rested against his.

“I know,” he murmured. “I just can’t stand watching other people get your attention when I’d kill for half of it.”

You smiled, the kind of smile that disarmed him instantly. “You already have all of it, idiot.”

He looked at you, really looked at you and the storm passed.

“Alright,” he whispered, leaning down, his lips barely brushing your forehead, “but if he asks you for notes again, I’m hexing him.”

You laughed softly against his chest. “Of course you are.”