Mattheo sat on the edge of his bed, one leg propped up as his sketchbook rested against his knee. He had the pencil between his fingers, twirling absently as he stared at the half-finished sketch in front of him.

Then, the door swung open.

You stepped in like you owned the place, the soft thud of your boots against the floor breaking the silence. Your high ponytail bounced slightly as you walked. You barely spared him a glance at first, distracted by a book, but Mattheo? His attention was already locked onto you.

His fingers stilled on the page, and his smirk grew slow, deliberate. His mind was already spiraling, running with thoughts he shouldn’t be having. That ponytail—it was practically an invitation. He thought about how easily he could wrap it around his hand—

No.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed the thoughts away before they could get the better of him.

But he didn’t stop looking.

You caught the stare almost instantly. The way his eyes dragged over you, slow and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to admire every inch. His jaw flexed slightly as he bit back whatever thought was lingering behind that smirk of his.

Your brows furrowed. “Uh?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back lazily, his arms stretching out behind him as his gaze flickered down and back up—sizing you up in a way that made you shiver.

Then, finally, he answered.

“Nothing.”

The way he said it made it very clear—it was definitely something.