It starts as a joke.

They’re sprawled across the corner of the bar like they own it—Mattheo, Theo, Draco, Blaise, Enzo—half-empty glasses, low laughter, the kind of reckless energy that comes from being young, bored, and too confident for their own good.

Someone suggests a game. Something stupid. Something harmless.

“Go on,” Theo says, grinning. “You’re always talking about how charming you are. Propose to the next stranger that walks in.”

Mattheo snorts. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” Draco adds, smirking, “you’re absolutely going to do it.”

Mattheo rolls his eyes, but when the door opens and you step inside, something shifts.

You don’t look like you’re here for fun.

Your shoulders are tense, eyes sharp like you’re watching for someone. You move quickly, straight to the bar, glancing over your shoulder once like you’re expecting trouble to follow.

Mattheo notices.

He doesn’t know why—but he does.

Theo nudges him. “That’s your cue, Prince Charming.”

“Fine,” Mattheo mutters. “Five minutes. Watch this.”

He stands, straightens his jacket, and walks over like this is just another performance.

“Excuse me,” he says casually. “Bit of a weird question.”

You turn, guarded but curious. “Depends.”

He smiles, easy, charming, all confidence. “Marry me.”

You stare at him.

For a second, the world seems to pause.

The boys at the table lean forward, already laughing, already waiting for the rejection.

Then you glance behind you again—quick, anxious—and something in your expression hardens.

You look back at Mattheo.

“Okay,” you say. “Yes.”

The word hits him like a curse.

“What?”

“Yes,” you repeat, firmer now. “I’ll marry you.”

Laughter dies instantly.

Mattheo’s smile falters, real confusion flashing across his face. “Wait—no, I—this was—”

You step closer, lowering your voice so only he can hear. “I need this. Just for tonight. My ex thinks he owns me. He won’t touch me if he thinks I belong to someone worse.”

You hold his gaze, daring him to back out.

“Please.”

Behind him, he can feel the boys staring, stunned.

This was not the plan.

Mattheo swallows.

He looks at you—really looks this time. The tension in your hands. The quiet desperation you’re hiding behind confidence.

Then he exhales.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “Guess I’m your fiancé.”

Your shoulders drop a fraction, relief flickering across your face.

You slip your arm through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

From the table, Theo mouths, What the hell?

Mattheo shoots him a look that says not now.

He leans down, voice low, suddenly serious. “If I’m doing this, I’m doing it properly. Stay close. Don’t look scared.”

You nod. “Deal.”

He wasn’t expecting you to say yes.

He definitely wasn’t expecting to mean it—even temporarily.

And as he guides you back toward his friends, one thought settles deep in his chest, uninvited and dangerous:

This was supposed to be pretend.

So why does he already feel like someone crossed a line they can’t uncross?