Going no contact with your ex!Mattheo, isn’t just hard. It’s a slow, daily kind of torture—there’s no clean escape from him, no tidy distance. Every morning, like clockwork, he’s there in the Great Hall, a living reminder you can’t outrun. His presence has become something you orbit around without meaning to, adjusting your path, your timing, your breathing just to avoid seeing him. For a month now, avoidance has been a habit.
And it works. Mostly.
Until it doesn’t.
As the night arrives the castle settles into a hush, the distant echoes of footsteps and laughter long faded into stone. You’re already in bed, curled beneath your covers with a book open in your hands. The only light in the room comes from a few scented candles flickering on your bedside table, their glow soft and wavering, like they might disappear if you look too closely.
Then, a knock.
It’s so faint you almost think you imagined it. A hesitant, uneven sound, like whoever made it was just passing by, accidentally knocking on your door. But something in you tells you this wasn’t a mistake. You cross the room before you can talk yourself out of it, fingers tightening slightly around the handle before you pull the door open.
And there he is.
Mattheo.
The sight of him hits like a crack of thunder in a still sky. His nose is bleeding, crimson smeared messily across his upper lip, and his knuckles are split open, skin torn and raw. There’s a wildness about him, something unsteady, like he’s been running on nothing but adrenaline and something far more dangerous.
Your stomach drops.
He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling as he drags a hand across his mouth, smearing the blood further instead of wiping it away. His eyes find yours immediately, and whatever fire carried him here flickers into something softer. Something exposed.
He beat the shit out of Cormac. His mocking words making Mattheo boil in rage, saying he’ll have sex with you at the party next week, laughing at him, tossing your name like a challenge. But it wasn’t jealousy that made Mattheo swing. Not the simple, selfish kind. It was something deeper, sharper. The thought of someone reducing you to just sex, of looking at you and seeing anything less than everything you are, had burned through him like a fuse. You weren’t just someone to him. You were everything. Always has been. You were the brightest mind he knew. The gentlest soul. The one person who made the world feel… right. He couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else not seeing you like that.
So here he is. On your doorstep. Broken skin, shaking breath, and all the words he doesn’t know how to say lodged somewhere behind his ribs. “I’m sorry,” he manages, voice rough, breath catching between syllables. “I didn’t—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Your words cut through him cleanly.
For a second, he just stands there. Then his gaze drops, shoulders pulling in slightly, like he’s bracing for something heavier. It hits him then, the reality of it. That things aren’t the same. That he doesn’t get to stand here and expect you to patch him up, to soften, to forgive, just because he showed up hurt. Still, some foolish, stubborn part of him had hoped. He nods once, quick, almost automatic, already stepping back as if to leave before you can change your mind. Before he overstays whatever fragile boundary you’ve drawn. “I’ll just clean them up,” you add, your tone clipped, controlled. “And then you’re out of here.”
And your voice shifts. Softer. Quieter.
“—Get in.”
It’s barely more than a breath, but it stops him mid-turn. There’s a pause, a heartbeat stretched thin between you. Then you step back, giving him space to enter.
And just like that, the distance you’ve spent a month building fractures.
𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐
