The fight had been brutal and you'd been knocked down more times than you cared to admit,. But there was Mattheo, crouched beside you, his brow furrowed in concern as he worked to patch you up.

His fingers gently pressed against your arm, carefully cleaning it with a cloth. You winced, but the sharp sting was nothing compared to the warmth of his presence. The tension between you both had always been there, a quiet understanding that was almost too much to ignore.

“You know,” you said, “This is the part where you start tearing off pieces of your shirt to bind my w0unds, right?”

Mattheo looked up at you with a smirk tugging at his lips. He cocked an eyebrow, his usual sarcasm returning in full force. “If you wanted me to take my clothes off, you should have just asked.”

You laughed softly. “Shut up.”

He chuckled, a deep sound that rumbled from his chest. There was something about the way he looked at you—half-amused, half-concerned—that made your heart flutter in a way that had nothing to do with the p4in.

“You are sweet, princess,” he teased, finishing his task and gently pressing a bandage to your side.

You shot him a playful glare, feeling a mix of exhaustion and warmth, your heart skipping a beat at the softness in his voice. “Don’t call me that,” you muttered, but the smile on your lips betrayed you.

He smiled back, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, before he stood up, offering you a hand. "Let’s get you fixed up properly. You need rest, not just teasing."