A heart beneath the mark

31. Part

The library smelled faintly of dust and candle wax, but I barely noticed. My mind was elsewhere, looping endlessly over last night, over the chaos of the party, and over him. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—the dark edges of his cloak, the sharp angles of his face, the way he had been standing near me even when I'd tried to lose myself in the crowd.

I remembered the moment he had approached, that impossible calm in the middle of the chaos, as if nothing in the music, nothing in the heat and the movement, could touch him. And yet, every time he looked at me, there was this... something. A flicker. A weight behind the eyes that made my chest ache.

He hadn't said much—just that smirk, the way his gaze lingered longer than polite, longer than necessary, the faintest tilt of his head that felt like recognition, like... understanding. He hadn't touched me, not really, but I had felt the brush of air between us, and it had made my heart pound faster than I'd thought possible. Almost unconsciously, I had moved closer to him, just a step, just a breath's distance. And then—Callum.

Callum had appeared at the exact wrong moment, his voice sharp, insistent. My body had jolted, and Mattheo had taken a single step back. Just a single step. And suddenly the tension, the pull, the almost-kiss that had hovered in the air, had vanished, leaving a residue of heat and frustration that I couldn't shake.

I had spent the rest of the night trying to avoid him, sneaking sips of butterbeer with Cho while my ears were attuned to every movement he made. And yet, every few minutes, I would catch him out of the corner of my eye—talking to someone else, laughing softly, leaning just slightly, casually, almost impossibly, in a way that reminded me of the power he had. And I hated myself a little for noticing.

Because it wasn't just noticing. It was thinking about him. Constantly. The way he had called me pathetic, the way he'd said it had all been "out of boredom," the way he had almost let something—something softer, something real—slip in that one hallway. And I hated it. Hated it. And yet, my stomach fluttered every time I thought about it.

I replayed the almost-kiss, the brush of his hand in the corridor, his eyes so close, so sharp, yet vulnerable in some way that he wouldn't admit. My lips tingled at the memory, and my heart raced with the frustration of knowing—knowing—that he could destroy me with just a word, just a look, yet I craved him more than I wanted to.

And then, faintly, I remembered something he had said that still echoed in my chest: "Burn it, Bennett. Before it burns you." The words had been cruel, yes, but now I realized there had been... warning in them. Concern. Fear. He hadn't meant to hurt me—not entirely. He hadn't wanted me to get lost in whatever I'd imagined about him. And yet, he had been impossibly... himself, guarded, cold, distant, and somehow, still... there.

The memory of the party pressed on me—the strobe of magic, the swaying bodies, the music too loud, the laughter too sharp—and through it all, Mattheo had remained an anchor, even as I tried not to see him. He hadn't touched me, hadn't spoken, except when our eyes met, when some silent conversation had passed between us, where words were unnecessary because everything was already written in the tension, in the slight twitch of his jaw, the way he'd leaned just enough to make my pulse race.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. Why can't I stop thinking about him? I whispered it aloud, as if saying it in the empty library might make it real, might make me understand it. And the truth hit me harder than I wanted it to: I didn't hate him. Not anymore. And perhaps... not even a little.

But then guilt flared, sharp and bright. Callum. Callum, who was kind and steady and had been nothing but patient with me, who had always been there in a way Mattheo never had. I liked him. I knew I liked him. But comparing him to Mattheo—God, I couldn't. Because Mattheo was fire, a storm, dangerous and irresistible. And the thought that I might actually want that, might actually care for him—hurt in a way I wasn't ready to admit.

I pressed my hands to my face, leaning back in my chair. Everything in me wanted to act like I didn't care, like he was just another student at Hogwarts. But my chest tightened, my stomach twisted, and I knew it was a lie. I thought about the brush of air near my cheek, the shadowed glance he had given me when he'd left the corridor that night. I thought about how he listened, even briefly, when I had raged at him earlier, how he had paused, just long enough to almost... understand.

And I realized something else: he wasn't gone from my mind. Not at all. Not even a little.

"Merlin," I whispered to myself, burying my face in my hands, "what do I do?"

Because right now, nothing felt simple. Nothing felt safe. Nothing felt... normal.

And yet, impossibly, impossibly, I couldn't stop thinking about him.