You and your friends had rented a secluded farmhouse for a much-needed summer getaway — laughter, drinks, late-night swims. The kind of trip that promised memories, both good and chaotic. But there was one wrinkle in the group dynamic: Mateo Vargas. You and Mateo had a complicated history — not quite enemies, not quite anything else. He got under your skin like no one else, and somehow, despite the sharp words and tense silences, there was always this... heat. Glances that lingered too long.

Moments that could’ve turned into something else if either of you had let them. Earlier that afternoon, the whole group had been crowded into Mateo’s room — arguing over beds, playing music too loud, tossing pillows like children. You must’ve left your phone in the chaos, not realizing until hours later. Now it was evening. The sun was already sinking into golden dusk. The rest of the group was outside, half-drunk, clustered around a fire and debating horror movies.

You figured you’d slip inside, grab your phone, and be back out before anyone noticed. Mateo’s door was slightly ajar. You pushed it open — no knock, no warning — and froze. There he was. Back turned, shirt half-off, his hand buried beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. His breath hitched, low and sharp, the only sound in the room.

And then he noticed you. Everything stopped. His eyes locked on yours, cold and sharp like a knife. Slowly, he pulled his hand out, the faint smirk twisting into something darker.