The room still smelled of spilled champagne and expensive perfume, a faint echo of the chaos from two weeks ago. You had tried to forget it, to bury the memory in the noise of daily life, but it clung to you like smoke—an unshakable haze of dim lighting, clinking glasses, and heated exchanges that had spiraled out of control. The last person you expected to end up with that night had been Mattheo.

Your enemy. Or at least, that’s what you’d always called him.

Now, you stared at the tiny white stick on the bathroom counter, its result glaring up at you like an accusation. Positive.

Mattheo.

You could almost hear his voice in your head—sharp, mocking, with that infuriatingly smug undertone. But you weren’t imagining the other side of him, too: the way his teasing had softened that night, his gaze lingering on you longer than it ever should have. It had been a mistake, a reckless, impulsive decision fueled by too much alcohol and too many unspoken tensions.

You closed your eyes, replaying the fragments of that night you’d tried so hard to forget. The way his smirk had faltered as the argument between you had burned itself out. The magnetic pull of his presence. The silence that had stretched between you just long enough for both of you to cross a line neither of you could uncross.

It was supposed to have meant nothing. Just a momentary lapse in judgment. You hadn’t even spoken since. But now, two weeks later, it was impossible to ignore the consequences.

Telling him wasn’t an option. Or was it? The thought twisted in your stomach like a knot. Mattheo wasn’t exactly known for his sense of responsibility, but beneath it, you’d seen glimpses of something else. The way he’d looked at you after, like he was trying to figure you out, like you were something unexpected.

A sharp knock at the door startled you, jerking you out of your spiraling thoughts. For a second, you imagined Mattheo standing there.

But that wasn’t possible. He didn’t know. No one did.

Did they?