You barely get your key in the door before it swings open from the inside. Mattheo’s standing there, hoodie slung lover his torso, hair messy, holding a half-empty beer like he owns the place — which is impressive, considering it’s your apartment.

“About time,” he mutters, eyes raking over you lazily. “Was starting to think your date butchered you or something.”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him to drop your purse on the counter. “He didn’t.”

Mattheo hums behind you, closing the door with his foot. “Shame.”

He doesn’t ask how it went; he doesn’t have to. He’s already scanning your face, reading every twitch of your mouth, the color in your cheeks, the tension in your shoulders.

And then, with the kind of smirk you should’ve learned to avoid by now, he nods toward your room.

“You gonna tell me about it? Or should I just stay the night and help you take your mind off it?”

You glare at him, even as your pulse jumps. He just grins wider.

“Relax, sweetheart. I’m just being a good friend.”