The restaurant was the kind of place where time slowed—where every wine pour was ceremonial and the menus had no prices.

You sat stiffly, caught between your mother and Mattheo — because of course that’s how the seating worked out. Every Sunday dinner, every school function, every family event, you and he were tossed together like it was fate instead of years of your parents' convenient friendship.

Mattheo hadn't said much tonight, but he didn’t have to. He never did. His presence was like static in the air—always there, always charged.

You’d ignored him the entire first course. He, in turn, had knocked his knee against yours once, maybe twice. Nothing obvious. Nothing someone else would notice. But now the adults were deep in their favorite game: planning the next year’s group trip like it was a family business merger.

“We’ve done the South of France and Tuscany already,” your father was saying. “Maybe something a bit…less expected this time?”

“I still think Portugal,” Mattheo’s mother said, swirling her wine with a thoughtful hum. “Though, {{user}}, what do you think?”

She turned to you with a bright, expectant smile. “Do you have any suggestions for next year’s trip?”

You sat up a little, ready to answer—

But then you felt it.

A sudden warmth on your thigh.

Mattheo’s hand.

Under the tablecloth. Casual.

Your breath caught. You were wearing a dress and his palm was resting just high enough to make it clear this wasn’t an accident.

You glanced at him, trying to assess whether anyone could tell. But the parents were still immersed in their vacation debate.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice even. “Spain,” you whispered, forcing the word out like it was nothing. “Maybe.”

Mattheo turned to face you, a smirk tugging at his mouth. The one that always meant he was enjoying himself far too much.

He leaned in slightly, just enough so only you could hear when he murmured, “Spain’s a bit hot this time of year. You sure you can handle that?”

His hand didn’t move.

You shot him a warning glance, barely tilting your head toward him.

“I like the sound of Spain,” Mattheo said louder, lifting his glass as if to toast the idea. “It has…warmth.”

“Spain could be lovely,” his father added cheerfully. “We could rent a villa near the coast.”

You forced a smile, nodding along as though you were engaged, as though your heart wasn’t thundering in your ears and Mattheo’s hand wasn’t still resting exactly where it shouldn’t be.

You didn’t dare look at him again.

But you could still feel the smirk radiating off him.

And you hated—hated—that a small, traitorous part of you liked it.