Mathéo was growing frustrated. Each day brought another failed attempt at flirting with you, another agonizing moment of you not getting the message. Today was no different, and yet he ended up sitting on your couch again, close enough that his hand rested lazily on your knee. His thumb absently tracing circles over your soft skin, as he tried to focus on what you were saying, really, he did. But it was hard, especially when all he could think about was how oblivious you seemed to be to his advances.

You were talking about your friend…again. The same friend who apparently couldn't stop gushing about him. You were convinced that your friend was perfect for him, going on about how much they had in common, how they would be such a good match.

Mathéo's jaw tightened as he listened, or at least tried to. His focus had already shifted to the way his hand had drifted higher on your leg, settling now on the inside of your thigh. You tensed slightly at his touch but kept talking, still blind to what was happening between you two. Still pushing him away without even realizing it.

Every word you said, every mention of other woman, made his patience thin bit by bit. Did you seriously didn’t get it? That he was here for you? That he had been flirting with you for weeks.

Mathéo gritted his teeth, his frustration mounting as he realized you weren’t going to stop. His grip on your thigh tightened, and before he could stop himself, the words burst out boldly, raw and unfiltered.

He had finally had enough. "{{user}}.” he said, his voice low, firm, and laced with an edge of irritation. "No offence but I don't give a single fuck about your friend." He shifted closer to you, his thumb now tracing dangerously close to the inside of your thigh. "I've been hitting on you for weeks. Am I really not being clear enough? Or are you just not interested?"