A heart beneath the mark

30. Part

(Hannah Bennett's POV)

The hallway was colder than I expected, the torchlight flickering against the damp stone walls, but I hardly noticed the chill. My hands were trembling, clutching my books like shields I no longer needed. I was angry. Furious. And, somehow, more exhausted than I could ever remember being.

Because he was here. Mattheo Riddle. Standing just a few feet away, leaning against the wall with that impossible, infuriating composure, his dark eyes fixed on me like he owned some piece of me I wasn't willing to give. And I—God, I hated how my heart thudded every time I looked at him—was done holding it in.

"I—" I started, but the words stuck, tangled in my throat. My chest heaved as I swallowed, forcing them out anyway. "I don't get you! You write me letters, you... you save me in front of everyone like some... some knight in shining armor, and then you tell me it's just because you were bored?!" My voice cracked, and I felt my cheeks heat, hot and raw. "You think that's fair? Do you think I don't notice? Do you think I don't feel every single one of your stupid, mixed signals?"

He blinked, once, twice, and for the first time I saw something I didn't expect: confusion. Maybe even... fear? His jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.

I felt my anger rise further, my words tumbling out faster, sharper. "I'm tired, Mattheo! I'm tired of trying to guess what you mean! One day it's like you care, like—like maybe you even—" I choked back the word like me, because I couldn't admit it yet. Couldn't. "And the next day? The next day you act like I'm nothing! Like I'm just some... some stupid distraction for you to get bored with!"

His eyes flickered downward for a brief second, and I almost faltered, because I saw it again—something beneath the surface. Something soft, buried under years of arrogance and control. But I forced the next words out anyway, sharper, louder. "Do you even care? Or is this all just a game? Huh? Tell me, because I'm done pretending I understand!"

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. And then he did something I didn't expect: he stepped closer. Just a little, but it was enough that the space between us—the charged, electric space—felt like it could crack.

"You're loud," he murmured, and his voice, normally clipped and cold, carried a weight, a tremor that made me stop mid-rant. "Too loud. But... I... I can't... I don't know how to deal with this."

The words hit me harder than any insult ever could. Not because they were harsh—they weren't—but because they were real. Raw. Honest. And for the first time, I saw past the arrogance, past the walls he always put up. He was... caught. Overwhelmed. And somehow... maybe... scared.

My chest heaved, my knees felt weak, and I realized I'd been holding my breath. My anger faltered, just slightly, replaced by a strange, bewildering mix of disbelief and something that made my heart pound faster.

"I... I don't know how to handle you either!" I snapped, my voice trembling, my hands clenching into fists. "You think you can just... just show up, do... all this... and then expect me to act like nothing matters? Like I'm not..." I swallowed hard, the word nearly slipping, but I caught it: "...like I'm not trying not to care about you!"

His eyes widened, and his mouth opened, closed, opened again—he was speechless, completely off-guard. And God, I wanted to kick myself for noticing how his lips moved slightly, the way his jaw flexed.

Then, before I could think about it, before I could pull back and wall myself off again, he stepped closer—closer than I thought he would, closer than I'd allow anyone else—and the air between us felt electric, crackling. My breath hitched as the space dissolved, the tension building until it was almost unbearable.

"I—Hannah," he whispered, voice low, trembling just a fraction, "I... I don't mean—none of this..." His words faltered. "I don't mean to confuse you. I..." He swallowed. "...I can't stop thinking about you."

Time slowed. My knees threatened to give way. And then, impossibly, dangerously, our faces were inches apart. I could feel his breath against my skin, smell that faint mix of leather and something else—something I couldn't name. My heart slammed in my chest as if it could burst from the tension, from the closeness, from the truth neither of us had dared admit aloud.

And then—a hand. His hand brushed against my arm, gentle but grounding, and my pulse skyrocketed. The world narrowed until it was just him and me, the corridor, and the impossible magnetism between us.

I leaned in, almost unconsciously, as if gravity had shifted, as if the heat from his presence had pulled me forward. Our lips were nearly touching, the air thick, every nerve on fire.

And then—a voice.

"Bennett! Hannah, there you are!"

Callum. Of course it had to be Callum. His footsteps echoed, sharp and insistent, and the moment shattered like glass. I jumped back, heart hammering, spinning to face him.

Mattheo's hand lingered for just a second longer, then fell away. His dark eyes met mine, the storm in them fading into something... guarded. And then he took a step back, straightening, hiding whatever he had almost let slip. The air between us was still electric, charged, but impossibly, unbearably interrupted.

Callum's voice broke through again, louder this time. "You okay? I thought you—" He froze as he realized the space between Mattheo and me, the tension, the closeness, the chaos that hadn't been there before.

I swallowed hard, backing toward Callum without taking my eyes off Mattheo. My chest heaved, my hands shook, and a million things I hadn't said—things I wouldn't say—swirled inside me.

Mattheo's lips curved, just the faintest hint of a smirk, but there was no cruelty there this time. Not quite. Something else flickered—something unreadable—and then, without a word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, leaving me trembling, my heartbeat wild, and the weight of everything unsaid pressing against me like stone.

I leaned against the wall, staring after him, my mind spinning. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to curse him. I wanted to pretend none of this mattered. But the truth, loud and undeniable, burned through everything:

I didn't hate him.

Not anymore.

And maybe—I didn't even want to.