The night air was thick with tension, the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers doing little to soften the sharp edge between them. The garden, usually a place of quiet solace, was now a battlefield of unspoken truths and simmering rage.

Cedric stood firm, his breath steady but his hands curled into fists at his sides. His eyes, usually warm, were cold now, burning with frustration as they locked onto the figure in front of him.

Mattheo, in contrast, leaned lazily against a stone bench, his posture relaxed, almost amused. The moonlight caught in his dark curls, his lips curled into that ever-present smirk that only seemed to fuel Cedric’s anger.

"You need to back off," Cedric said, his voice taut. "She chose me."

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly, as if Cedric’s words were nothing more than a foolish joke. His fingers grazed the cool stone beside him, but his mind was elsewhere—somewhere far from this conversation, far from the garden.

Because he could still feel the ghost of your touch on his skin. He could still hear your breathless whispers in the dark, the way you clung to him last night, like you never wanted to let go.

"Did she?" Mattheo murmured, his voice laced with something dangerous, something knowing.

Cedric’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening, but Mattheo wasn’t looking at him anymore. His mind was lost in the memory—the warmth of your body, the way your lips traced along his jaw, the way your fingers tangled in his hair as you whispered his name like a secret only he was meant to hear.

When he finally looked back at Cedric, his smirk had only deepened.

"You sure about that?"