The restaurant is alive with low laughter and soft music. You sit across from your date, nodding politely at his words, even though your mind keeps wandering.

Then, like a storm rolling in, he arrives.

Mattheo.

You don’t have to look up to feel the shift in the air—the sudden charge of static electricity that always comes with him.

And then, without hesitation, he pulls out the chair beside you and sits down.

"Mattheo—"

But before you can protest, he speaks.

"I can’t eat… I can’t sleep… I wake up in the middle of the night calling out your name..."

Your fingers tighten around your wine glass. Your date shifts uncomfortably, glancing between you and the dark-haired boy sitting way too close to your side.

You exhale slowly through your nose, staring at the candle between you and your date, willing yourself to ignore Mattheo. But he's relentless.

"{{user}}… {{user}}!"

Your patience snaps. With a sharp turn, you press your hand against his mouth. His lips part slightly in surprise, but his eyes—those dark, beautiful eyes—glint with something unreadable.

Desperation. Amusement.

"What do you want?" you hiss, trying to steady your voice.

Mattheo doesn’t speak right away. He just watches you, his breathing ragged beneath your touch, his expression unreadable but intense.

Your date clears his throat awkwardly, shifting in his seat. "Uh… should I—?"

Mattheo doesn’t even glance at him. His gaze is locked on yours.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand comes up, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. He doesn't pull your hand away. He just holds it there, pressing your palm against his mouth for a second longer, as if savoring the touch.

Then, his lips part just enough for you to feel the soft whisper against your skin.

"You."

Your breath catches.

Your date, now thoroughly uncomfortable, mutters something about needing the bathroom and excuses himself. Because Mattheo is still there. Still looking at you like you are the only thing in the world that matters.

And maybe, to him, you are.