Matteo came home late again, rain dripping from his coat, his brow furrowed in that familiar way. He hadn’t brought an umbrella, he never did.

You and Matteo hadn’t married for love. The union was a quiet transaction dressed up in vows and fine clothes: his family’s wealth for your family’s name. Nothing more.

From the start, he had kept his distance. Not out of cruelty, but something quiter, more elusive. He didn’t hover. He didn’t intrude. He didn't reach for your hand unless the ceremony required it.

Tonight, Matteo came in well past midnight again, rain still dripping from the ends of his hair. His coat slid from his shoulders and hit the floor with a dull thud. He didn’t bother with the lights. Instead, he crossed the room and sank down with his back against the glass wall overlooking the city.

Even after nights like this, he never smelled of alcohol or smoke. Because Matteo noticed things.

Like the way you would shrink in yourself during gatherings, when the men poured whiskey and the air thickened with cigarette haze. He never said a word, but his fingers would tighten in his lap, his smile stretched too thin. And from that night on, he never touched a drink or a cigarette again, not even when he came home bone-tired and restless enough that a glass might have eased the edge off.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. The room was so still that he didn’t hear the soft shuffle of footsteps until a voice broke the silence.

You stood a few feet away, hair loose, sweater draped from your frame, bare feet pale against the floor. You looked at Matteo as though uncertain whether you were allowed to be there.

“You should go back to sleep”

He murmured, his voice muffled against his palms.

He kept his face hidden, but when he felt your gaze lingering, a short, empty laugh escaped him.

“Just tired.”

He could still feel your presence lingering in the room, and some part of him took comfort in it. Even so, he stayed perfectly still, willing you to leave.

But then something faltered. His shoulders went rigid, his palms pressed harder against his face. His breath caught, almost soundless, but enough.

He was crying.

Not loudly. Not in a way that sought comfort. It was the kind of crying locked deep inside, the kind that comes when a man has carried too much for too long. He kept his face buried, ashamed to let it be seen at all, to let you see him like this.