The apartment was quiet except for the distant sounds of the never-sleeping city. Matt could feel the slight vibrations of the subway passing beneath the sidewalk and the subtle change in air pressure whenever someone moved between rooms. He could sense from the footsteps in the hallway and the restrained rhythm of their breathing that they were downcast.

When the bedroom door opened, the smell of dried blood and sweat hit him first. It wasn't an intense smell, but it was enough to tell the story:There had been a fight, but it had ended in failure.

He knew this from the way {{user}} said nothing. The irregular breathing. Then, the slight creak of the mattress when the {{user}} sat down, probably on the edge of the bed. Heavy, as if carrying all the guilt on their shoulders.

He knew. He knew even before he asked.

Matt approached calmly. He stopped behind the {{user}}, taking it all in. He knew the {{user}} was shirtless because he could feel the heat emanating from their exposed skin. He could smell the subtle mixture of dry sweat, dust, and smoke. He could feel the slight tremor in their shoulders and the stronger pulse in their neck.

Without saying a word, Matt reached out and gently placed his hand on the {{user}}'s bare shoulder. The skin was warm. A thin layer of dust still remained. But what Matt felt more than anything else were the scars. Some old. Others new, swollen and sensitive.

Without thinking, Matt leaned forward and lightly kissed a wound on the {{user}}'s shoulder. Then, as if reading their body, he slid his fingers down. His fingers traced the curve of the trapezius muscle and descended down the shoulder blades.

More scars.

Matt bent down slightly, his lips finding a mark closer to the ribs. Another kiss. And another. "I know what you're feeling..." Matt murmured, his voice low and tender. "But don't put so much pressure on yourself, love. You're here. That means you survived. It means you can still fight tomorrow.”

His fingers continued their slow, intimate journey across their body. There was care in his touch. It was a silent way of saying, "I'm with you," without needing words.

Matt didn't need to see. He already knew that body like a wounded sanctuary. He read every wound with his lips, the palms of his hands, and his open heart.

"Let me take care of you now, just for tonight, "he said softly, resting his forehead against the {{user}}'s back.