The room is pulsing with music. You dance and sway to the beat as you sip your drink. The lights are dim, and the shadows play tricks on your blurred vision.

You don’t notice the footsteps behind you.

Then you feel it—two hands, warm and deliberate, sliding onto your waist. Someone pulls you gently back against their chest. You barely flinch, just laugh lazily and lean your head back.

"Sorry, I’m not into guys." You say, smirking, not even turning around.

"What?" A voice behind you says.

It’s not just any voice. It’s deep, amused, and entirely too familiar.

And there he is.

Mattheo.

Your boyfriend. His jaw tenses, just a little, and he stares at you like he’s not sure whether to laugh or be offended.

"You’re not into guys?" He repeats slowly, watching your face.

Your eyes widen. "Oh my god," You mumble. "Mattheo, I thought— I didn’t know it was you—"

"So you thought some random guy grabbed you," He interrupts, arms crossing, "and your first response was that?"

"I didn’t look!" You say, flustered. "I thought it was—like—a drunk stranger or something."

"You didn’t even flinch." He says flatly. "Do you want to clarify that little comment? Or should I start reconsidering our whole relationship?"

"I’m drunk." You mutter.

"You’re something." He says. He doesn’t move away. In fact, his hand returns to your waist.

"I’m into you." You say finally. "Obviously."

"Clearly." He says dryly. "But maybe you should prove it."

Mattheo’s expression changes. It’s subtle—but you know that look. It’s dangerous in the best way. "You want me to prove you’re into guys?" He says, his breath brushing your lips.