Mattheo leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers lazily against the rim of his cup. “You are not afraid of me, are you?”

You meet his eyes, and the corner of your mouth lifts into a smile. “Afraid of you? Why would I be afraid of you?”

He chuckles, a sound that’s part amusement, part something darker. “Most people are.”

“Well,” you say, folding your hands lightly on the table, “I am not.”

Mattheo’s expression shifts, and he leans forward with his elbows on the table. “Maybe you’re not afraid of me,” he whispers, “but… I’m sure you’ve thought about me without clothes.”

The words land heavy, daring you to deny them.

You laugh. “Am I that transparent?” you tease.

Mattheo’s mouth quirks, pleased, his eyes gleaming like he’s already won something. “You’re like an open book,” he murmurs. “But the margins… the margins are where all the secrets hide. And I know that you want me.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “I want you.. I need you.. oh baby.” Your words are dripping with mockery.

Mattheo leans back slightly. “You are playing a dangerous game,” he chuckles.