Mattheo leaned back on his elbows, a bottle of whisky resting on his knee, and watched the circle spin like a pathetic theatre show. Spin the bottle. He used to live for games like this - he thrived on the chaos, the teasing, the reckless thrill.

But now, with you in the room, it wasn’t fun anymore. Not when your laugh hit him like a punch to the gut. Not when you looked happy without him.

You spun the bottle, and it landed on someone else.

Mattheo scoffed—loudly. “Figures,” he muttered, lifting the bottle to his lips, eyes never leaving yours.

Someone asked if he was bitter.

He smirked—sharp and cold. “What’s there to be bitter about? I had her. And now someone else gets the leftovers. Good for them.”

But the bitterness was a mask.

Because the truth was, he ruined it.

Not by cheating - he never did that. But by flirting like it was a sport. By making you feel like just another name. You had asked for something real. And he gave you charm and half-promises and smiles thrown at every girl who looked his way.

He just thought you'd never walk away.

But you did.

And here you were, spinning bottles and smiling like your heart had never been broken in his hands.

Then it was his turn.

And of course the bottle was pointing at you.

The room tensed. Eyes flicked between you two.

You hesitated.

But he didn’t.

Mattheo leaned in slowly, his hand brushing yours. He kissed you like he was trying to remember what it used to feel like to be yours—what you used to feel like. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was quiet and aching. It lasted just long enough to sting.

When he pulled back, his eyes met yours with something raw—unguarded, for once.

“Still feels like home,” he whispered with a crooked smile, “and I still hate that it does.”

Then he leaned back, lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, and pretended it didn’t wreck him. Pretended you didn’t still have your claws in his soul.

Pretended he hadn’t ruined the one thing that ever made him feel like he could be more than the mess he’d become.