Mattheo had never been gentle. At least, that’s what he believed. He’d grown up with the whispers due to who his father was.

He’d seen people flinch when he got too close, seen their eyes dart to his hands like they expected fire.

So when you came along; smiling, kind, unafraid, he didn’t know what to do with it. Or with you. For the first month, he barely touched you. Not out of disinterest, but out of fear.

Fear of being too much. Fear of proving everyone right.

When you’d walk beside him in the corridors, your hands sometimes brushed, and he’d freeze like even that accidental contact might undo you.

You noticed, of course. You always noticed.

One evening, you found him sitting by the Lake, hood pulled up, cigarette burning low between his fingers, the night reflected in his eyes.

“Matt,” you said softly, approaching. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just flicked the ashes off his cigarette.

“You shouldn’t sit so close,” he murmured after a moment, voice low, heavy. “People might start talking.”

“About what?” you asked, genuinely curious. He huffed out a humorless laugh. “About how you’re wasting your time with me.”

You frowned, stepping closer. “You think being near you is a waste?”

“I think,” he said slowly, eyes lifting to yours, “that everything I touch ends up breaking. I don’t want that to be you.”

Your heart clenched.

He wasn’t being dramatic, he truly believed it. So you knelt beside him, close enough that your knees brushed. He went still immediately, breath catching.

“Then maybe,” you whispered, “you should let me prove you wrong.”

His eyes searched yours, torn between longing and fear. You reached out, slow and careful, giving him every second to pull away.

He didn’t. When your fingers finally brushed his, it was like a spark, not the scary kind, but the warm kind that melts through cold places.

He stared at your joined hands like he couldn’t quite believe they were real. Like he was waiting for you to disappear.

“You see?” you murmured. “You didn’t ruin me.” He let out a shaky breath, a laugh that sounded more like a confession.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “I’ve been told my whole life I’d turn into him. That there’s poison in me. That I’ll hurt the things I love.”

You squeezed his hand. “Then maybe it’s time someone tells you something new.”

“What’s that?”

“That you don’t have to be him. You never did.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you like he was memorizing the way you said it, like he needed to. Then, carefully, almost reverently, he raised your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

It wasn’t perfect. His hands still trembled. His walls didn’t crumble all at once.

But that night, for the first time, he let himself believe that maybe his touch could heal too. And when you leaned your head against his shoulder, he didn’t flinch. He just exhaled, quiet, unsteady, and whispered. “Maybe you’re the only thing I won’t ruin.”