You're curled up on the couch with a book in your lap, legs draped over Mattheo’s, when you glance up—half teasing, half distracted.

“Hey, RiddIe, can you pass me my wand?”

The second the name leaves your lips, the air shifts.

Mattheo blinks slowly. Then squints at you like you’ve just slapped him with your words instead of calling his name. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. His jaw clenches for a second before he cocks his head.

“RiddIe?” he repeats. He leans back a little, arms crossing tightly over his chest like he’s bracing for something worse. “What, are we strangers now?”

You blink, confused at first, then realize—you never call him that. Not when it’s just the two of you. Not when it’s warm and soft and safe.

You open your mouth to explain, but he lifts a brow, expression unreadable.

“I’ll give you one more shot.” His voice drops an octave, all slow challenge and a touch of pout. “Try again, sweetheart.”

You smirk, setting your book aside and crawling closer into his lap, hands resting lightly on his chest. “Alright, love,” you say with a little smile, dragging the word out just the way he likes it. “Better?”

He still tries to look mad, but his mouth twitches—betraying him.

“Much,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead like the whole thing never happened. “But you ever call me ‘RiddIe’ again, and I might start calling you Miss.”

You snort. “Oh, the horror.”

His grin turns wicked. “You’d hate it.”

You would. But with him? Maybe not that much.