You already know him before he’s even in the room. Mattheo Riddle, always leaning against something, arms crossed, eyes flicking to you with that smirk that says he’s two steps ahead of everyone else. You catch him in the hall, and suddenly you’re noticing every little thing—how he moves, how his voice drops just slightly when he speaks to you, how he always somehow ends up closer than anyone else.

He’s the type to get into a fight, just so you’ll patch him up, your fingers brushing against bruises he refuses to admit hurt. He’s the type to keep his hand on your thigh when he doesn’t need to, a quiet claim that makes your pulse jump every time. He pisses you off on purpose sometimes, and you know he finds it cute—he’ll be grinning when you’re glaring.

He watches you differently than the others. When your eyes light up at something small, he notices, and for a second the rest of the world disappears. He kisses you in the middle of arguments, soft and deliberate, like he’s rewriting the fight with his lips. He’s terrified of the idea of being a father, but you can already picture him—he’ll be perfect when the time comes, even if he won’t admit it.

He’ll push everyone away when life is too much, even you, though somehow you always stay. He hugs you from behind when you talk to someone else, jaw tight, heart loud, and you know exactly why. He hates touch from anyone else but craves yours, and he’ll scowl at your braiding his hair but secretly lean into it, letting you control him for a little while.

He notices everything. He notices your laugh, your smirk, the way your hand brushes against his. He pretends to hate when you call him Matty, but you’ve caught him smiling anyway. He loves seeing his clothes on you and watching you wear them like they were made for you.

You’ve learned something about Mattheo Riddle in your time with him: he’s yours. And everyone else can just watch, because there’s no taking him away from you.