You were trying to read—trying being the key word—but Mattheo made that impossible.

He was lounging beside you, one arm thrown casually over your shoulder, the other holding a beer he insisted wasn’t making him tipsy. His head tilted toward you, his curls brushing your cheek as he leaned in close.

“You know,” he whispered, his voice low, “if I bit your neck right now, would you moan or slap me?”

You blinked, your eyes still on the page. “Mattheo.”

“What?” He smirked, clearly proud of himself. “It’s a fair question, love.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And yet you’re still dating me.” He nuzzled your shoulder like a cat that refused to be ignored. “That says more about you than it does me.”

Just then, some boy you vaguely knew passed by, offering a quick, polite smile in your direction.

Mattheo’s entire posture shifted. He sat up, his body no longer relaxed but alert. His eyes locked onto the guy like a hawk. “The hell was that?”

You sighed. “He smiled. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” Mattheo muttered. “He looked at you like he didn’t care that I exist.”

“Maybe because he doesn’t?”

Mattheo turned to you with that look—the cocky, dangerous one with just enough mischief to make your stomach flip. “Let him try something. I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “Jealous.”

“In love,” he corrected, then leaned in again, his lips brushing your jaw. “Big difference, love.”

He shifted back, pouting now. “Hold me. I’m emotionally wounded.”

You snorted. “From what?”

“From living in a world where people think it’s okay to smile at my girlfriend like they could.”

“I’m literally right here.”

He leaned into you dramatically, wrapping his arms around your waist like a child needing comfort. “Exactly where I want you.”

You shook your head, laughter escaping your lips. Mattheo was chaos in human form—clingy, reckless, and utterly incapable of keeping things simple.

And somehow, he made it feel perfect.