Eyelids heavy with restlessness, you step into the kitchen, the tile cool beneath your bare feet and the silence of the house stretching heavy around you. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you too aware of your own breathing, of the way Tom’s t-shirt clings to your skin, of the creak in the floorboard as you reach for a glass.

Then you hear it: a low exhale, footsteps on the cold floor.

You turn your head, and there he is.

Mattheo. Shirtless, of course, comfortably leaning back against the counter like he lives here, and he does, but somehow it still feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to take up space like that. There’s a mug in his hand, half-full and forgotten. His curls are messy, jaw shadowed in stubble, and his eyes, dark and unbothered, track the length of your bare legs with lazy interest.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low, rough from disuse or maybe amusement. His eyes flick to the glass in your hand, and he steps closer. Not too close. Just enough to make it obvious that if you moved, if you breathed wrong, you’d brush against him. His voice drops just slightly as he looks at you, gaze slow and sinful.

“You know, it’s a shame. How careless he is. If I had you in my bed, I wouldn’t ever let you leave it.”