Matt

Lately, you’d been catching glimpses of your crush—small steps, teasing banter, playful exchanges that felt like the start of something real. Tonight, you swore you’d finally confess. You slipped into a daring outfit, heart racing as you pressed FaceTime, ready to reveal your feelings. But fate was cruel. One wrong tap—and the screen lit up with his face. Matt. Your rival. The last man on earth you wanted seeing you like this. Instead of hanging up, his eyes widened—then narrowed into a slow, wicked smile. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he drawled. “Tell me, sweetheart… were you hoping to impress me?” Humiliation burned hot in your chest. Words tumbled out, sharp and defensive, before you slammed the call shut. The thought of confessing to your crush evaporated; all you could think about was Matt’s smug grin burned into your memory. You prayed never to see him again. But luck turned its back on you. At the club that weekend, Matt stood like a king amid his court of admirers. The moment your eyes met, his attention snapped to you—hungry, unyielding. You slipped away, but he followed, cornering you outside beneath the cool night air. His hand caught your arm, spinning you into his chest. His voice was low, taunting. “Cold already? After that little show the other night?” Your protest died on your lips as he claimed your mouth in a fierce, breath-stealing kiss. The world tilted; heat surged through your veins. When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto yours—dark, knowing, dangerous. “Well,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw, “you’ve got my attention now. Why don’t you stop running, and give us a chance?”