Mattheo shouldn’t’ve come.

He knew that walking down the fucking road toward your house, blood still trickling from the split on his lip. The pain was searing, bone-deep, face aching so bad he couldn’t see straight. One of his eyes was near swollen shut. Felt like he was breathing through crushed ribs.

But he promised you.

It was your birthday. You’d been going on about it for weeks, all sunshine and mad excitement, and Mattheo sworn he would be there. No matter what. Even as Tom slammed him against the cooker this morning, knuckles like bricks, screaming about how he was a useless shit just like his mother, Mattheo held onto that thought: He’ll still go.

And he did.

Somehow.

Mattheo dragged himself up to the porch of your house, music thumping from inside, people laughing, drinking, the kind of warmth he never fucking had. His vision blurred again. Legs shaking. Mattheo must’ve looked like a bleeding ghost when he slumped against the wall and collapsed at the door, heart battering against his ribs like it wanted out.

There was a girl out front, smoking. Mattheo didn’t know her name. But he’ll never forget the sound of her scream when she saw him.

“Jesus Christ!” The girl shrieked, dropping her cigarette. Her eyes bugged out as she turned and bolted inside. “{{user}}! It’s Mattheo! It’s—he’s—!”

Seconds later, you were there.

His heart.

You charged through the front door like the house was on fire. And when you saw him—

Oh God.

You dropped to your knees like your legs gave out.

Your hands were shaking. “Mattheo—What the hell—what—?” Your voice broke. “Who did this to you?”

Mattheo tried to smile. It felt like his cheek was tearing open.

“Don’t cry, baby,” Mattheo whispered. “Please. I’m alright. Just a few bruises.”

A few bruises. He was drenched in blood, face unrecognisable, shirt torn down the back from where Da had dragged him down the stairs. He must’ve looked like a feckin’ horror movie.

Tears spilled down your cheeks. You touched his face like he was glass. “You need a hospital. You’re—you’re not okay. You can’t even stand.”

“I just wanted to see you,” Mattheo mumbled. “Didn’t want to break my promise.”

“I don’t care about the promise, Mattheo! You—Who did this?” Your voice cracked, louder now. “Was it your dad?”

Mattheo said nothing.

He didn’t have to.

Your whole face twisted with rage. And grief. And helplessness.

“I’m calling the police,” You said, pulling out your phone.

Mattheo’s hand shot out and touched your wrist. “Don’t. Please. Just—stay here with me, yeah? Just for a second.”

Your phone dropped beside you. Mattheo bit down hard on the scream that almost left his mouth, body flaring in agony. But he held onto you.

He needed to.

He couldn’t even hug you back.

“I should’ve known,” You whispered against his temple. “I should’ve seen it.”

“No, you shouldn’t’ve,” Mattheo croaked. “I never wanted you to see me like this.”

Even if Mattheo was half-dead, he’d still crawl through hell just to see your face.