You barely have time to react. One second, you're just trying to keep yourself from falling, your hand landing instinctively on Mattheo’s leg. The next, his hand is covering yours, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Your breath stills as he tilts his head, watching you with a smirk that holds too much satisfaction.

"I’m sorry," you murmur, attempting to pull away. "Did I make you uncomfortable?"

His grip tightens just enough to keep your hand in place.

"Not in the slightest," Mattheo says smoothly, voice low, teasing.

You try to ignore the way his gaze darkens, the way his smirk deepens as his thumb brushes against your wrist. Before you can move, he guides your hand further up his thigh—slow, deliberate.

Your heartbeat stutters.

"Mattheo," you quietly warn him.

He leans in, just a little, his breath ghosting against your skin. "Yes, {{user}}?"

You should pull away. You should.

But you don't. And he knows it.