The sterile white of the infirmary is too bright, too quiet. You lie beneath crisp sheets, staring at the ceiling, mind clouded by fog and fragments. You remember your name. You remember your mark. You remember pain and chaos. But everything else? Blank. Just silence where memories should be.

The door creaks.

You hadn't heard anyone come in, but when you turn your head, he's there—leaning against the doorframe in all black, arms crossed, jaw set tight.

Mattheo Riddle.

Something stirs at the sight of him. Something you can’t name. Recognition that doesn't quite reach the surface.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asks. His voice is flat. Cold. Like he doesn't care—but his eyes say otherwise.

You shake your head slowly, watching him. “No.”

He nods once, almost mechanically, but doesn’t move.

There’s a strange tension in the room now—one you don’t understand, but can feel all the same. His gaze flickers over you, pausing on the bandage at your temple, the faint bruises around your wrists. You expect pity. He shows none.

"You're healing," he says quietly, almost to himself.

You narrow your eyes. “Do I know you?”

He flinches. Barely, but you catch it.

He pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, but not too close. Not like someone who belongs at your side. Not like someone who used to hold you like the world would fall apart without you.

“No,” he lies. “Not really.”

You nod, though it doesn’t sit right. His presence makes something ache in your chest, a phantom pain you can’t explain.

“I feel like I should,” you murmur.

Mattheo swallows hard, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“You were injured during the mission,” he says, tone clipped. “You lost some things.”

You give a small, bitter laugh. “Apparently.”

He doesn't speak again. Just stands there in silence, watching you like he’s mourning something you can't remember.

And you? You just wish you knew why his eyes feel like home.