You and Mattheo had been at each other’s throats for as long as you could remember, constantly bickering and trash-talking—though neither of you could say exactly how it all began.

After practice, Mattheo was walking through the empty corridors when he caught the sound of soft, pained sobs coming from a broom closet. Cautiously, he approached, and when he pushed the door open, he found you inside.

“Jesus… what are you—” he started, but froze.

When you turned to face him, he saw the bruises darkening your skin, the blood trickling from your nose. His irritation vanished in an instant, replaced by a sharp, gnawing worry.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, his voice tight with concern, eyes scanning you as if trying to will the pain away.