The night bit colder than usual, wind clawing at his skin like it was trying to get in—trying to get under. Mattheo barely felt it.

You were trembling.

Theodore’s sister. His not-so-little shadow. The only girl in the world he’d let boss him around without complaint. And now you were splintering apart in his arms.

He didn’t know how long he’d been holding you; minutes, maybe hours. Time dissolved the second he turned around and saw you standing there—red-eyed, fragile, shattered in a way he hadn’t prepared himself to see. Not on you. Not you.

And now you were here, crumpled between his legs like something bruised and breakable, leaning into him like he was the last solid thing left in your world. He would be. Even if it killed him, he would be.

His jaw ticked. Hard.

He adjusted his grip slightly, dragging his arms tighter around you, possessive and quiet. The way a storm clouds up a sky without thunder—still and swelling. His palm splayed over your stomach like a warding sigil, thumb brushing idly, protectively, grounding you against the ache in your chest.

There was a cadence to your presence that struck something in his bones—familiar, tender, his to protect, in a way that didn’t need justification.

“I should’ve known,” he muttered under his breath, voice a low rasp, like a fuse burning down. “Should’ve seen it in his face. Little shit didn’t blink straight when he looked at you.” His tone wasn’t for you. It wasn’t meant to soothe—it was poison for someone else. “Thought I was paranoid. Turns out I was just right.”

You didn’t say anything, and he didn’t press. Your silence was sacred right now. But the way your body stuttered in his arms, the way you curled in tighter—it made something feral open its eyes inside him.

He dipped his chin, lips brushing your temple as he spoke—quiet, but not soft, “He said something to you? Or just played the part until you trusted him?” A bitter laugh nearly escaped, but it died halfway through his throat. “Fucking knew it.”

Your breathing hitched, and that sound? That little choke of pain? It burned.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he murmured, fingers weaving through yours where they trembled in your lap, clutching tight. “Not a piece of it. You give someone the stars, and they spit on your hands for bleeding.”

His eyes cut through the blackness like knives. “Tell me what he did. You don’t have to now. But I want it. Every detail.”

He let the silence hang, heavy but safe. You didn’t need words, not yet, and he wasn’t here to demand them—he was here to be a fucking fortress.

“You’re not weak,” he whispered after a beat, forehead pressed against the crown of your head now. “Crying doesn’t make you soft. It makes you real. And anyone who makes a girl like you cry—” he clenched his teeth, air hissing through them, “—he’s not walking away untouched. I don’t give a damn what rules I have to break.”

His arms tightened.

“You hear me?” His voice dropped an octave lower, dark and raw, “There’s nothing in this school or this world that’ll touch you again without going through me first.”

Mattheo pressed a kiss to the top of your head—slow, searing—and closed his eyes.

“You’re alright now, love,” he muttered, voice low, rough with restraint. “I’ve got you. You hear me? I’ve got you. Until you don’t need me to. And even then… I’ll still be here.”