You were curled up at the far end of the sofa, wrapped in a blanket and holding a book in your lap. You could hear Mattheo in the corner of the room unbuttoning his shirt by the mirror. The quiet jingle of his belt buckle hitting the floor was a familiar sound.

“I know you didn’t like that party,” he said suddenly, not even looking at you.

Your eyes darted to his reflection in the mirror. His voice was casual, but his eyes were anything but.

“What? No, it was fine,” you said lightly.

He turned fully then, abandoning whatever he was doing. “You’re lying.”

“How do you always know?” you muttered, closing the book and setting it aside.

Mattheo walked over, his shirt still half undone, and he dropped onto the sofa beside you. “Because you’re terrible at lying,” he said. “Your voice gets all soft. You blink too much. And you say 'fine' like it’s a curse word."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “It wasn’t that bad,” you admitted. “I just... I don’t like the noise. Or the people. Or pretending I’m having fun.”

His gaze softened. “That’s why I kept watching you,” he said. “You looked like you wanted to disappear.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “You were watching me?”

He tilted his head slightly, amused. “I always watch you.”

“Territorial much?”

“Absolutely.” He grinned. “I know what guys are like at these things. They hear one laugh from you and they think it’s an invitation. But they don’t know you hate small talk. Or that your laugh means you want to leave.”

You looked down at your hands, suddenly shy. “I should’ve told you.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said. “But next time, just say the word. I’ll get us out of there in five minutes flat.”

You looked at him again. “You didn’t care about the party at all, did you?”

Mattheo laughed, leaning his head back on the couch. “Of course not. I spent half the time trying to find you in the crowd, and the other half imagining what excuse I could make to leave with you.”

You nudged him with your foot. “You’re awful.”

He turned his head toward you. “Yeah. But I’m yours.”

Without looking, he reached for your hand as if it were instinct, lacing his fingers with yours. “You wanna skip class tomorrow?” he asked suddenly.

You let out a laugh. “You know, you’d actually have decent grades if you cared.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “I’m smarter than people think. I just don’t give a damn about the system.”

“You’re reckless.”

“I’m honest,” he countered. “And you’re happier when we’re not pretending to care about things that don’t matter.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “You always ask to hang out,” you murmured.

“That’s 'cause,” he said softly, “I always want to hang out with you.”