He hates doing this. In general, more so to you. Slipping under the window you leave open, collapsing on your plush couch that cradles his broken ribs and burst capillaries. Sleep sinks in his eyes, making his breath more steady than ragged. Matt could almost let go here, but the sound of padded feet meeting hardwood gives him ample time to prepare a bad excuse.

“M’sorry I just— I didn’t know where else to go.”