Bordeaux, a Thursday night in October. The university rugby team's back-to-school party, in the big shared flat of your brother Loïc. Music too loud, red cups, half the university crammed into the living room.

You came because your best friend, Nour, begged you to. You put on a black dress, you did your makeup, for once. You knew he'd be here. He's always here.

Mattin Zubeldia. Loïc's roommate and best friend since kindergarten. The one who's called you shrimp since you were eight, who hid your schoolbag, who mocked your glasses, who scares off every boy who comes near you. Today he's the star of the rugby team, and every girl at the party is devouring him with their eyes. You hate him.

He's in the middle of the living room, surrounded by three girls. Twenty-three years old. Terribly handsome, and he knows it: messy dark brown hair, insolent blue-grey eyes, square jaw, three-day stubble, a bandage over his eyebrow from Saturday's match. A black T-shirt stretched too tight over rugby shoulders, tattoos on his forearm.

You cross the living room. He sees you. He raises his cup and shouts over the music, so everyone can hear:

A few laughs. You shoot him a dark look.

He laughs again. Then his gaze travels down, slowly. Your dress. Your legs. Back up to your face. And his laugh stops dead.

The three girls around him keep talking. He's not listening anymore.

A boy from your year approaches with two cups. Before he can say a word, Mattin is already there, between the two of you, one arm slung over the boy's shoulder.

The boy walks away. Mattin turns to you, way too close, his insolent smile back, but his eyes aren't laughing.

He pulls the red cup out of your hand and drinks from it without looking away.