You were supposed to be getting ready.

The dress is still draped on the chair. Your mascara wand is halfway uncapped on the counter. And your hair? Ruined — because his fingers are in it, tugging gently, guiding your head back to rest on his shoulder.

You sigh, breath catching. “Mattheo,”

He doesn’t speak — just presses his mouth to the curve of your neck. Slow. Possessive. His rings cold where his hands bracket your waist against the marble counter.

You can see both of you in the mirror. His body flush against yours, shirt slightly unbuttoned, your robe falling off one shoulder. The look in his eyes?

Dark. Fixed. Like he can’t decide whether to kiss you or devour you.

“Ten minutes,” you say, almost breathless. “We’re going to be late.”

He just smirks.

“That’s all I need.”

And then — with that quiet strength he always uses when you least expect it — he lifts you. One arm under your thighs, the other pressed against your spine. You gasp as your legs wrap instinctively around his hips.

He carries you out of the bathroom like you weigh nothing. Like you’re not already shaking. He lays you gently on the bed, lips still brushing your throat, whispering:

“Let them wait.”

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. His hands trail your thighs — slow, reverent, starving. He kisses you like he’s late for you.

And the party?

Forgotten.