A promise in the dark

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧: 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬

                            𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄

Her hands were tangled in my hair, her lips moving hungrily against mine. The world outside the door had vanished—no thoughts of House rivalries, no whispers of what anyone would think. Just her. Just this.

She pushed against my chest, only to pull me closer again, like she couldn't make up her mind whether she wanted to fight me or kiss me into oblivion. I leaned into the latter. My hands slid around her waist, gripping her like she might disappear if I let go.

And then, just as abruptly as it started, she shoved me hard enough to break the kiss.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Clara snapped, stepping back and brushing her fingers over her swollen lips as though she could erase what had just happened. Her chest was heaving, and her eyes burned into me with a mix of anger and disbelief.

I blinked, leaning casually against the desk as if I hadn't just been caught up in the chaos of her. "What's wrong with me?" I repeated, my voice low, nonchalant, like I couldn't be bothered to care about whatever argument she was trying to start.

"Yes, you," she hissed, pacing the room now, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "What were you even doing in the library earlier? Since when do you care about anything remotely academic?"

I didn't answer. Didn't move. Just stood there, watching her unravel.

"And then—" She gestured wildly between us. "This! Whatever this is. You think you can just—ugh!" Her words dissolved into a frustrated groan, and she turned her back on me, gripping the edge of the desk.

I tilted my head, my lips twitching with amusement. She was furious. It shouldn't have been as entertaining as it was, but I couldn't help it. Watching her get worked up over something I couldn't even begin to explain was... satisfying in its own twisted way.

"I didn't hear you complaining a minute ago," I said lazily, folding my arms across my chest.

Her head snapped around, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "You're insufferable, do you know that?"

"Frequently." I shrugged.

Her jaw clenched, and for a moment, she just stared at me, like she was deciding whether it was worth yelling at me any further. Then she let out a breath and shook her head, her frustration giving way to something that almost looked like disappointment.

"Why do I even bother?" she muttered, more to herself than to me, before turning back toward the door.

But she didn't leave.

Instead, she stood there, her hand resting on the doorknob, her shoulders tense. I waited, watching her, the room thick with unspoken words.

Finally, she glanced back at me, her expression unreadable. "You're impossible, Mattheo."

I smirked, letting the silence stretch between us before replying. "And yet, here you are."

Her lips parted, like she was about to retort, but instead, she just rolled her eyes and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

For a moment, I stood there, staring at the empty space where she'd been, her scent still lingering in the air.

Impossible. Yeah, that was one way to describe it. But I didn't care. Not really.

Because even as she stormed off, furious and fed up, I couldn't help but feel like I'd won.

I stood there for a moment after she left, letting the echo of the door slam fade into the silence of the room. My smirk lingered, though it felt heavier now. The air still smelled like her—like parchment and something sweet I couldn't place.