You barely finished your sentence when Mattheo froze. Not dramatically — not loud — just still, like someone hit pause on him.

“Did you love him?” he asked.

You blinked. “Holy shit… you’re actually jealous.”

His jaw ticked. His eyes went darker, heat building behind them like a storm that refused to break. He looked at you the way only Mattheo could — like the truth annoyed him, scared him, and challenged him all at once.

“I said,” you teased, leaning in, “you’re jealous.”

Mattheo’s voice dropped, low and rough, the sound of someone losing a battle he refused to admit he was fighting.

“Yessss, love,” he finally muttered through gritted teeth, “I’m jealous.”

You watched him struggle — the way he swallowed, the way his hands flexed at his sides like he was fighting the urge to drag you closer.

“Happy now?” he asked, trying to smirk and failing spectacularly.

“Very.”

Mattheo exhaled sharply, stepping into your space until his forehead almost brushed yours. His jealousy didn’t look like rage or fear.

It looked like want.

It looked like him choosing you so intensely it hurt.

“Good,” he whispered, voice curling into your spine, “because you’re the only one I’ll ever be jealous over.”