The kitchen was its usual mess when your brother and his friends were around—loud voices, laughter bouncing off the walls, snack wrappers everywhere. Mateo, as always, was at the center of it, playfully shoving one of the guys, tossing a chip at another, cracking jokes in rapid Spanish that had everyone cracking up.

“Bro, you suck at this!” one of them groaned as Mateo effortlessly dodged an attempt to tackle him.

“Not my fault you’re slow, güey,” he shot back, grinning as he ducked out of reach again.

You rolled your eyes at their antics, reaching for a drink when suddenly, two strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you in close.

“Hola, mi amor,” Mateo murmured, his voice suddenly softer, completely different from the loud, teasing tone he’d been using with the guys. His head dipped, his lips brushing the side of your temple.

You exhaled, leaning into him instinctively. He always did this—always softened around you, like he knew you needed something different, something gentler.

“You tired, princesa?” he asked, fingers tracing lazy circles against your hip.

You hummed in response, and just like that, Mateo was lifting you up onto the counter with ease, stepping between your legs. “You should sit, take it easy,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

His friends, still goofing off in the background, barely even noticed how he changed when it came to you. How his teasing turned into soft nicknames, how his touch went from rough playfulness to something careful—reverent, even.

Your brother, however, noticed.

“Dude,” he groaned, tossing a napkin at Mateo. “Can you stop acting like you’re in a telenovela for five minutes?”

Mateo just smirked, his focus still on you. “Nah, bro,” he said easily, tilting your chin up so he could study your face.