Mattheo lay sprawled on the bed, his chest rising and falling with the lazy rhythm of someone who had no interest in pretending to feel guilty about the chaos he caused. His dark curls clung to his forehead, a testament to the heat that had just passed between you.

You sat against the headboard, the crumpled sheets pooling around your waist, wearing nothing but the shirt he’d tossed your way earlier. This wasn’t the first time you’d been here, in this bed, in this moment—watching him perform this strange ritual like it was second nature—it wouldn’t be the last either.

Mattheo grabbed his phone. His finger stopped on a name, and without hesitation, he pressed it.

“Hey, yeah, it’s me,” he said. His free hand trailed absently over the rumpled sheets, brushing against your leg. You didn’t flinch—this was routine now.

“I’ve been thinking… Look, it’s not working out,” he continued. The faint, crackling voice on the other end protested—confused, hurt—but Mattheo’s expression remained calm, even faintly amused.

“You’re great, really,” he said, his eyes flicking to yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s just… I don’t think we’re right for each other. You deserve better.”

You could hear her voice rising, sharp with anger now, but Mattheo simply sighed, running a hand through his messy curls. “Yeah, okay. I get it. I’m the bad guy.” He ended the call abruptly, tossing the phone back onto the nightstand.

Mattheo turned toward you. “Well, that’s done,” he said, shifting closer. “Now, the real question: you staying the night, or do I have to get on my knees and beg?”

The smirk on his lips was wicked, his words teasing, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze—a rare crack in the cocky armor he wore so well.

You hesitated, the chaos of his past relationships briefly clouding your thoughts. But then he leaned closer, his voice softer, "You know it's better when you stay," his bravado fading just enough to show that, despite everything, you were the one person he couldn't let go of.