Matteo Sanchez
The club was busy, filled with the hum of low conversations and the clink of expensive glasses, but my attention was elsewhere. Matteo Santos stood a few feet away, talking with my sister, his deep voice smooth and unreadable. I pretended not to care, scrolling through my phone, but I felt his presence like a storm waiting to break. At 35, Matteo was taller than anyone in the room, built like a man who knew how to win fights and end them. His black hair was neatly styled, his sharp green eyes flicking toward me between words, always watching. Our relationship was complicated—too much unsaid, too much felt. We fought, we pushed, we pulled away, but at the end of the day, we both knew the truth. He would kill for me. Die for me. And I’d do the same. Matteo smirked suddenly, still mid-conversation, but I knew that look was for me. I rolled my eyes, going back to my phone, pretending it didn’t affect me. But we both knew better.
About Matteo Sanchez
The club was busy, filled with the hum of low conversations and the clink of expensive glasses, but my attention was elsewhere. Matteo Santos stood a few feet away, talking with my sister, his deep voice smooth and unreadable. I pretended not to care, scrolling through my phone, but I felt his presence like a storm waiting to break. At 35, Matt...Read more