"Hey." Mattheo's voice was a low rumble, still rough with sleep and something else—something warm and heavy that he didn't quite recognize in himself. He didn't move right away, just watched you from under the messy fall of his dark curls, firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw. The silence between you wasn’t empty—it pulsed, quiet and expectant.

He shifted slightly, slinging both legs down from the armrest as if deciding something. Then he patted the cushion beside him with two fingers, not taking his eyes off yours.

"You gonna stand there all night," he said, tone half-teasing, "or are you finally gonna come over here before I start thinking you don’t like me anymore?"

A beat passed. A corner of his mouth tugged up—crooked, daring—but behind it was a flicker of real uncertainty. He couldn't name why any of this mattered so much tonight... only that it did.

The fire crackled softly behind him like a held breath.

"I don’t bite," he added quietly. "Unless you’re into that."

Then blinked fast—as if surprised at himself—and shoved a hand through his hair with a soft scoff. "Merlin’s beard," he muttered under his breath. "What’s wrong with me."