Mattheo’s knuckles still ached, split just enough to sting with every clenched twitch of his fist. The scent of blood lingered faintly on his sleeve, iron and impulse, but that wasn’t the thing gnawing at him as he followed you down the echoing corridor, the soles of his boots thudding low and sharp against the stone like a guilty heartbeat.

No, what haunted him was the way you’d looked at him—like he wasn’t your protector anymore. Like he’d crossed some invisible line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

You were five paces ahead and not slowing. Not even a glance over your shoulder. You hurled curses in your mother tongue, and though he didn’t speak fluent Italian, he understood every damned syllable. Rage didn’t need translating.

Christ, she’s pissed. Not that he could blame you. Not that he regretted a bloody thing.

His voice came low, but sharp, cutting through the empty corridor like a whip, “Would you slow the fuck down?”

You didn’t—you never did when you were pissed at him like this.

Mattheo swore under his breath and picked up the pace, curls falling into his eyes, jaw tight. “It wasn’t—fuck, it wasn’t because I don’t trust you.”

That was a lie.

It was because he didn’t trust the boy. The wandering hands. The stupid smirk. The way the bastard leaned in like he deserved your lips, like he’d earned that moment. The moment Mattheo knew you were saving, like some glittering, untouchable thing locked away behind thorns and pride.

And Merlin help him, Mattheo didn’t think anyone was good enough for you. Especially not that knobhead from Ravenclaw who wore cologne like armour and quoted poetry he didn’t understand.

“You think I give a shit that he’s in the hospital wing?” he snapped, voice rougher now, sharp like gravel dragged across stone. “I’d do it again. Worse.”

He lengthened his stride, closing the gap until he could practically feel the heat radiating off your back. You were still fuming, all tense shoulders and clenched fists, and he swore under his breath.

“You’re acting like I killed the bloody bloke,” he muttered darkly, grabbing your arm before you could round the next corner. He turned you, held you still. “He was about to kiss you, for fuck’s sake.”

You yanked your arm free with a glare sharp enough to gut him, but he stood his ground. Always did.

“You think Theo would’ve just stood there and watched if it were someone else’s mouth near yours?”

Mattheo laughed bitterly under his breath, the sound ugly and self-loathing. “You think I’m a monster for stopping him, but I’d be a bigger one if I let it happen.”

His fists opened, finally. The burn of broken skin cooled slightly in the draft.

What he didn’t say—what he couldn’t say—was that he’d imagined your first kiss too many times. That he hated himself for it. That he thought of it in moments when he shouldn’t have. That the second you stopped being Theo’s little sister in his head, he knew he was completely and irrevocably fucked. Because somewhere between the years and the arguments, the late-night library runs, the shared detentions, and the countless times he stood in front of you like a goddamn human shield—he had stopped seeing you as just Nott’s little sister.

Somewhere along the line, you’d stopped being off-limits.

And the worst part?

Mattheo Riddle, twisted, self-destructive, rage-fueled bastard that he was—he wanted you to know. Even if it ruined everything.

And so he just stood there, eyes on you, voice low—dangerously soft now. “I’m not sorry,” he said, tone rasped and stripped of anything false. “I’m not sorry I broke his nose. But I’m fucking sorry I hurt you.”