Mattheo always knew there was something you weren’t telling him. It clung to you like perfume, that half-smile you wore when you thought he wasn’t looking—sweet and smug and stained with something dangerous. He’d seen it before. On women who lived too fast, loved too loud, and left everything burning behind them.

It started with the phone calls. Late. Private. Whispered. He noticed. He always noticed.

By day six of staying with you, he’d memorized the layout of your house, the way the floorboards outside your room creaked if you stepped too far to the right, how the hallway light never worked unless you jiggled the switch twice. He’d stopped sleeping, mostly. Just laid there in your guest bed, staring at the ceiling, smoke trailing from his fingers, thinking about how your laugh had changed. A little louder. A little faker.

By day nine, he followed you. He wasn’t proud of it—but pride never stopped him before.

He watched you through a sliver of your half-closed blinds. You were dressed up. A dress he’d never seen before. Lips painted red like a dare. Neckline dipped scandalously low. And then he pulled up—some fuck in a shiny car and expensive watch, leaning over the gearshift like he owned the night. And worse, you smiled like he did.

Mattheo’s knuckles turned white around the windowsill.

⸻

He didn’t confront you that night. He waited.

Waited until you came back in smelling like cologne and money and lies. Waited until you were brushing your hair out, humming some song under your breath.

Then—his voice, sharp like a blade unsheathed, “You gonna tell me, or am I supposed to keep pretending you’re not fucking someone who could legally adopt you?”

He was leaning in your doorway now, arms crossed, shirt rumpled, hair a mess from the heat and his hands running through it a hundred times. His eyes were unreadable—but burning. Quiet fury, the kind that simmers until it scalds.

You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t done.

“One week and two days. Almost two fucking weeks I’ve been here. Watching you sneak out like some goddamn Bond girl, looking like trouble and thinking I wouldn’t notice.”

He scoffed, stepped into your room, slow and deliberate.

“Is he married?” Pause. “Does he buy you pretty things? Or are you just slumming it for the thrill?”

He laughed bitterly, voice like gravel dragged across glass. There was jealousy there, yes—but worse than that, disappointment. A betrayal that wasn’t even yours to commit, but still felt like it was.

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, “You’re not stupid, but that’s what pisses me off. You know men like that don’t want girls like you—they want trophies. Something young they can show off then toss away when it stops shining.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, sharp and hot.

“I’m your best friend. You could’ve told me.” Then softer, but not weaker, “You should’ve told me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed. It breathed. It hurt.

And still, he stayed.

Because despite everything—You were his. Not in some romantic, delusional sense. You were his person. His anchor in a world that never stopped trying to crush him. And you gave yourself away to someone else.

He took a shaky breath and turned his back on you. “Pack your things,” he muttered, eyes burning. “I’m not letting you spend another fucking night in this house. I’ll go talk to your mum.”