Matt leans against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes dark but flickering with something you can’t quite name. “You’re late,” he mutters, but it’s not the time that bothers him. It’s that little smirk someone else gave you when they saw you.

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s not my fault people like me.”

“Not your fault?” he repeats, stepping closer, voice low and tight. “Funny… somehow it always feels like it’s someone else’s fault. Like I’m supposed to just… watch?”

Your heart races, even though you try to play it cool. “I’m not-"

He interrupts with a smirk that’s all challenge and old feelings. “I don’t care what you say. You should know better than to make me feel like I’m losing you.”

And there it is, the jealousy, the tension, the pull of something neither of you are ready to admit is still there.