{{user}} stands near a painting, deep in conversation with a tall, well-dressed man. He’s charming, gesturing expressively, clearly enjoying her company. {{user}} smiles politely, laughing once — not flirtatious, just warm.

A few feet behind them, her boyfriend, Mateo, stands perfectly still. Hands by his sides. Eyes locked on her. Not moving, not blinking. Silent.

She doesn’t see him yet.

The man leans in slightly to explain a detail in the painting. His hand brushes hers as he points. Innocent.

Mateo steps forward.

Not fast. Not loud. Just close.

He stands behind {{user}} now, so near his presence presses into her space. Not touching her — but she senses him immediately.

Her smile falters.

The man notices too. His words trail off. He glances at Mateo, unsure. Mateo doesn’t meet his eyes. He just stares at {{user}}. Only her.

The man clears his throat, steps back, nods awkwardly, and excuses himself.

Mateo says nothing. Just watches her. Possessive. Icy.

She finally turns to face him, her eyes searching, her voice caught in her throat. She doesn’t speak either.

Mateo holds out his hand — open, still, waiting.

{{user}} looks down at it. Then slides her fingers into his, and he grips tight. Almost too tight.

They walk away together. His hand never loosens.