Days turned into weeks.
Weeks slowly turned into months.
And somewhere in the middle of all that silence, life kept moving whether Daniel and I were ready for it or not.
At first, Mateo had only been distraction.
A conversation after class.
Late-night calls.
Coffee runs between lectures.
But slowly, unintentionally, he became part of my routine.
Mateo was easy to be around.
Easy to laugh with.
He noticed small things, when I skipped meals during stressful weeks, when I looked exhausted after presentations, when I needed someone beside me without asking too many questions.
And after everything with Daniel, easy felt dangerous in the best way.
Soon everybody on campus noticed it.
Mateo and I together in the cafeteria.
Together in the library.
Together leaving evening lectures.
The whispers came naturally after that.
Especially after the kisses stopped being accidental.
At first it had been private.
Hidden.
But eventually Mateo stopped caring who saw him holding my hand.
And I stopped pulling away.
Across campus, Daniel changed too.
Or at least it looked that way online.
Mira appeared everywhere around him now.
Pictures at family dinners.
Formal events.
Group outings.
Smiling beside him in expensive clothes while comments flooded beneath every post talking about how "perfect" they looked together.
Exactly what his parents wanted.
Exactly the image his family could accept.
And Daniel played along.
At least publicly.
But people who actually knew him noticed the difference.
The smiles never lasted long enough.
His patience got shorter.
His temper quieter but colder.
Sometimes during gatherings, Mira would be talking beside him while Daniel stared blankly at his untouched drink like his mind was somewhere else entirely.
And whenever he crossed paths with me on campus,
nothing happened.
No fights.
No conversations.
No acknowledgment.
Just strangers passing each other like there hadn't once been history between us heavy enough to ruin us both.
It became routine.
Painfully routine.
One afternoon near the end of the semester, Mateo showed up at my apartment carrying groceries and acting entirely too confident about his cooking skills.
"You're about to witness greatness," he announced while setting bags on the counter.
I laughed for what felt like the first genuine time in weeks.
"You burned pasta last time."
"That was experimentation."
"That was smoke."
Mateo pointed a spoon at me dramatically. "No negativity in my kitchen."
Our laughter filled the apartment naturally after that.
Music played softly from my speaker while we argued over seasoning and bumped into each other moving around the small kitchen space.
For a while, things felt light again.
Normal.
Mateo reached for my waist while I stood near the stove, pulling my back lightly against him.
"You're distracting the chef," he murmured.
"You don't even know what you're doing."
"I know enough."
I rolled my eyes, smiling anyway.
The scent of basil and simmering garlic hung heavy in the air, but it was nothing compared to the electric current humming between us.
His hands gripping my waist, thumbs digging into the soft skin of my hips.
The heat radiating off him was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the cold, performative world we played in on campus.
"I'm trying to cook, Mateo," I laughed, though the sound was breathless, a ragged little thing that died in the back of my throat as he pulled me flush against him.
"Forget the pasta," he whispered, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly register that always made my knees weak. "I'm hungrier for something else."
He spun me around, my hip knocking against the stove knob with a sharp 'clack'.
He didn't let me steady myself.
His hands moved from my waist to the back of my thighs, hoisting me up until I had no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist.
"Mateo..." I breathed, my head falling back.
"Tell me what you want," he growled, his eyes locking onto mine, dark and possessive.
"Tell me exactly what you want me to do."
"You know," I whispered, my voice trembling. "You know what I want."
He didn't wait for a verbal answer.
He moved, carrying me toward the bedroom, his stride purposeful and predatory.
The hallway seemed to stretch, the shadows lengthening, but we didn't care.
We were in our own dark, private orbit.
He kicked the bedroom door open, the wood hitting the wall with a hollow 'thud'.
He tossed me onto the bed, the bed spring-creaking under my weight.
He was on me in an instant, his weight pinning me down, delicious and heavy.
"I want to feel you," I demanded, grabbing the front of his shirt, my knuckles white. "Right now. I want you to wreck me."
Mateo tore his shirt off, casting it into the abyss of the room, and then he was moving, his hands frantic, desperate.
He pulled my jeans down, his fingers sliding into the waistband, grazing the skin of my stomach, making me gasp.
"Oh, God," I whimpered as his hand dipped lower.
He slid his fingers between my folds, and I was already slick, drowning in my own need for him.
"So wet," he hummed, his voice a vibration against my neck. "You're already begging for it, aren't you?"
He pushed one finger inside, then two, stretching me, exploring the tight, heated cavern of my desire.
The sensation was electric, a sharp, piercing pleasure that made me arch my back off the sheets.
'Squelch.'
The sound of his fingers sliding in and out, slick and rhythmic, filled the room.
"Ah! Mateo, yes, there, 'ahh!" I cried out, my nails digging into the sheets, twisting the fabric. "Don't stop. Faster."
"I'm going to make you scream," he promised, his eyes burning into me.
He worked his fingers deeper, finding the sensitive spot that made my vision blur.
"You like that? You like being filled up like this?"
"I love it," I sobbed, breathless, my head thrashing on the pillow. "Fill me, Mateo. Please. I need more."
He groaned, a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated want.
He stripped away the last of his clothes, his arousal hard and pulsing against my thigh. He didn't hesitate.
He guided himself to me, the head of his dick pushing against my heat, a tantalizing pressure that made me whimper.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I blinked, my eyes hazy with lust. "I'm looking. I'm looking at you."
"Good."
He thrust forward, burying himself into me in one smooth, agonizingly slow movement.
The feeling of him filling me, stretching me, was overwhelming.
It felt like being anchored, like finally coming home.
'Slap. Slap. Slap.'
The sound of our skin colliding rhythmically echoed in the room, a primal, wet beat.
"Fuck," Mateo hissed, his jaw clenched, sweat beading on his forehead. "You feel so good. So tight."
"Mateo, oh God, "ah! That's it!" I cried, my voice cracking as he hit a spot so deep inside me, I felt my soul shudder.
I wrapped my legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, wanting to swallow him whole.
"I own this," he growled, his rhythm picking up, frantic and hard. "You're mine. You're not his. You're mine."
"Yours," I gasped, my fingernails raking down his back, leaving red welts in my wake.
"All yours. "Oh, yes!"
Every thrust was a conversation, a dark, carnal dialogue of possession.
He wasn't just fucking me; he was reclaiming me from the silence of the campus, from the performative ghost of Daniel.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice a low, rough hum. "Tell me who you belong to."
"I belong to you," I screamed, my body tightening around him, the waves of pleasure starting to crash over me, heavy and intoxicating. "I'm yours! Mateo, 'fuck, I'm yours!"
"Good girl," he hissed, his own control fraying.
He drove into me harder, faster, the 'thud' of the headboard against the wall keeping time with our heaving, ragged gasps.
I was spiraling, my core clenching, the pleasure white-hot and blinding.
I felt the build-up, the precipice, the point of no return.
"Mateo, I'm—'ahhh!" I shrieked, my body convulsing, the orgasm hitting me like a tidal wave, pulling me under.
Mateo followed seconds later, a low, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he buried his face in the crook of my neck, his body shaking as he emptied himself into me.
We collapsed, a tangle of limbs and sweat, hearts pounding in unison, the silence of the room returning, thick and heavy.
Then, the doorknob turned.
It was a slow, deliberate sound. Neither of us had locked it.
The door creaked open, just a crack, and then wider.
Saraph stood in the doorway.
She froze. Her eyes widened, scanning the scene, the discarded clothes, the sweat-slicked bodies, the evidence of their abandonment.
She had seen the vibes, the lingering glances, the way they leaned into each other, but the reality of it the raw, carnal truth of them, was a jolt.
I pulled the sheet up, my heart hammering against my ribs, my skin flushing with a mixture of post-coital daze and sudden, jagged panic.
Mateo didn't move, his dark eyes fixed on the intruder, his expression unreadable, a shield of indifference sliding into place.
"Saraph, I whispered, my voice a fragile, trembling thread in the suffocating silence.
Saraph didn't speak. She just stood there, the hallway light casting a long, shadow-drenched rectangle over the bed.
The air in the room, so hot and charged a moment ago, turned ice cold.
"I..." Saraph started, her voice sounding small, and uncertain.
Saraph's eyes moved between us before she exhaled slowly.
"Well," she muttered awkwardly, lifting the bag in her hand slightly, "this explains a lot."
My face flushed immediately. "Saraph...
"No, no," Saraph interrupted quickly. "I'm not judging."
Mateo rubbed the back of his neck once, tension obvious now.
Mateo slowly sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist, his gaze challenging, a predator caught in the act but refusing to apologize for the kill.
The tension broke, replaced by a jagged, sharp reality.
The love they had built, the sanctuary they had carved out, suddenly felt exposed, raw, and vulnerable to the world outside.
And as Saraph stared at them, the weight of everything they were hiding crashed down, pressing the air from the room.
Saraph laughed all the way out of the room while Mateo collapsed back against the pillows grinning.
I threw one of the pillows directly at his face.
"This is not funny."
"It's a little funny."
"Mateo."
"Okay," he said, still laughing quietly. "Maybe very funny."