The group is buzzing with energy, the usual mix of jokes and banter flowing freely. You’re standing slightly off to the side, tugging at your shirt now and then, trying to adjust it without drawing attention. You glance at the others, but every time you shift, you’re acutely aware of your stomach and the way it doesn’t feel as "perfect" as you think it should.

Mattheo is leaning against a nearby wall, his dark eyes scanning the room lazily—until they land on you. He watches you for a moment, his gaze sharpening slightly as he takes in the subtle ways you’re fidgeting. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can tell he’s noticed.

"Why are you acting like that?" he asks suddenly.

Your head snaps up, and you try to play it off, forcing a casual shrug. "Acting like what?"

Mattheo arches an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your attempt to deflect. "Like you’re trying to disappear into your shirt," he says bluntly, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer to you. "Come on, sunshine, what’s going on?"

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. "I just... I don’t feel great about my stomach. It’s not, you know, flat or perfect or whatever."

There’s a pause as Mattheo processes your words. Then, his expression softens, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward in a crooked smile.

"You know," he says, his voice warm and teasing, "the more curves you’ve got, the more there is to love."

Your cheeks heat up, but before you can respond, he leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You think I’m complaining about having more of you to love?"

His hand moves to your waist, the touch gentle but firm as he pulls you closer. Your heart stutters as you look up at him, his dark eyes brimming with sincerity beneath the teasing.

"In fact," he murmurs, his smirk softening into a genuine smile, "I’m quite a fan. There’s a lot more of you for me to appreciate." His hand gives your waist a reassuring squeeze.

"But seriously, sunshine," he continues, "you’re perfect just the way you are. Every inch of you."