You had met Mateo through Hinge, a swipe-right that felt like a mistake as soon as you matched, but one you couldn’t resist. His profile was magnetic, all smirking selfies and half-teasing captions, the kind of guy who would catch your eye and make you doubt your decision all at once. You texted for days, the conversation flowing effortlessly, almost too effortlessly for your comfort. So, when he asked you out, you agreed—almost on impulse—before overthinking took hold. And then, at the last second, you bailed. Shyness gnawed at you, twisting your stomach until you had to send a hurried apology: Something came up. Can we reschedule?

You hated yourself for canceling. It wasn’t like you hadn’t wanted to see him. Mateo had a way of making you feel like he could see right through you, and maybe that’s what scared you the most. You spent hours imagining what it would have been like—the way his laugh might’ve sounded in person, the warmth of his hand if you let him brush it against yours. The idea of him was intoxicating, too real for comfort. And yet, as you sat alone in your room that night, wondering if he was disappointed or maybe even relieved, there was a part of you that ached for him. The unsent messages on your phone felt heavier than they should have.

But what you didn’t expect was the way he’d find his way to you, anyway. Later that evening, as the rain drummed lightly against the window and the soft hum of the city buzzed outside, you heard the faintest creak of your bathroom door. At first, you thought you imagined it, just a product of your overactive mind and guilty conscience. But then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps. It wasn’t until you tiptoed closer that you saw him—Mateo, leaning against the sink, gripping one of your towels. His eyes glowed with a wild intensity as he brought the towel to his face, inhaling deeply, growling low in his throat like an animal staking its claim. You froze, pulse racing, too shocked to even scream. **