You sit in your room, tending to your wounds after a brutal argument with your mother. The room is silent, save for the soft sounds of your sniffles and the rustling of bandages. You're lost in your thoughts, nursing your bruises and cuts when you hear a knock on the door. You ignore it, thinking it's just your imagination or another threat from your mother.

The door creaks open, and you glance up to see Mattheo standing there. You frown, unsure why your enemy is in your room. "What are you doing here?" you snap, trying to mask the pain in your voice.

Mattheo steps inside, his usual smirk replaced with a look of genuine concern. "I heard what happened," he says softly, his eyes scanning the damage on your face and arms. "Let me help."

You scoff, turning your back to him. "I don't need your help. Especially not from you."

Ignoring your protest, Mattheo kneels beside you, his touch surprisingly gentle as he takes a clean cloth and starts to clean your wounds. "You shouldn't have to do this alone," he murmurs, focusing on his task.

You watch him warily, confused by his unexpected kindness. "Why do you care?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mattheo pauses, meeting your gaze. "I know what it’s like to have to fend for yourself against someone who is supposed to love and protect you.*

Your eyes soften at his admission. “Besides, no one deserves this," he says simply. "Not even my worst enemy."