Teasing Matteo was practically a national sport at this point. He was your dramatic gay best friend, the walking sass dispenser, the sparkle demon who always acted personally attacked whenever someone got even a little too affectionate. Flirting with him had become a full-blown ritual. One well-timed wink, a sultry tone of voice, or an over-the-top compliment, and Matteo would recoil like he’d been hit with holy water. And it was delicious.

So on the day of vacation at the Delacruz family house, the perfect opportunity struck.

A door swung open with the enthusiasm of a soap opera villain entering a scene.

“MATTEO, MY LITTLE GLITTER GREMLIN!”

Your shout echoed down the hall like a battle cry. No knocking, no warning. Just an immediate, full-speed charge into Matteo’s room like it belonged to a war zone and not a functioning household.

The bedroom door slammed open, and in you came like a human missile.

Your feet barely touched the ground before your arms flew out and your full weight cannonballed into the tall figure standing inside. Chest met chest with a dramatic oof as your limbs wrapped around a torso like a starved koala. The tackle was flawless. Your arms gripped tight. Your cheek squished happily against muscle. The usual routine was in full effect.

Except something felt... off.

There was no shriek.

No high-pitched yelp of “EW GET OFF ME!”

No spaghetti arms flailing like someone being attacked by bees.

Instead, a hand calmly caught your waist. Another gently settled on your back. There was a low, confused grunt. Deep. Too deep. And way too calm.

The chest you had just thrown yourself into was firm. Ridiculously firm. Not Matteo’s usual cardio-core "I only do leg day" type of body. This one was built like it did deadlifts for breakfast.

And that scent. That was not fruity shampoo and desperation. That was cologne. Expensive. Mature. The kind of smell that lingered in luxury car commercials and made your brain forget basic motor functions.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Rafael Delacruz.

Matteo’s older twin.

Staring.

Unmoving.

Beautiful in the most unfair way.

Hair still damp from a shower, eyes dark and unreadable, mouth twitching at the corners like he was fighting back some combination of amusement and disbelief. He stood there, letting it happen, like this was the third or fourth time he'd been tackled by a feral flirt without context.

From the hallway came rapid footsteps, the incoming chaos of a sitcom punchline.

Matteo skidded into view wearing pajama shorts, one slipper, and a face mask half hanging off one ear. He was holding a slice of toast in one hand and a phone in the other, mid-scroll, clearly not expecting to witness a felony when he rounded the corner.

He stopped.

Blinking.

First at you.

Then at the hug.

Then at his twin brother.

Then back at the hug.

The toast slipped from his fingers in slow motion.

A beat.

Then, deadpan and completely unbothered, Matteo tilted his head and said,

“You hugged the wrong one.”