The common room was warm and cozy, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Mattheo and you sat on one of the old leather couches, the flickering light reflecting in his eyes. Tom was nearby, reclining with a book in hand, glancing up occasionally as the conversation between you and Mattheo unfolded.

"You know," Mattheo began, his gaze dropping as he seemed to gather his thoughts. "When I was really little, it was just Tom and me. Our parents were... gone for a while. I remember them, of course, but not like how you think. Not like the way kids remember their parents." He paused, glancing up at you. "Tom raised me, really. He was everything."

There was a quiet intensity in his voice, something that made you lean in a little closer, intrigued by the way Mattheo was speaking.

"I was about... four, maybe? Tom had this habit of keeping me close, always watching over me, even when he had his own things to do. I remember one time, when I must've been too young to know better, I wandered into the woods. I think I was trying to find something — maybe to make Tom proud. I didn't even know what I was looking for." He chuckled softly.

"I must've wandered for hours," Mattheo continued. "I was so small, and the woods felt like a jungle to me. I got lost, of course. But then... I heard his voice."

Tom's head snapped up from his book, his sharp eyes narrowing for a brief moment before he returned to his reading, though his expression had softened.

"He called my name, you know?" Mattheo went on. "I think I’ve never felt more safe in my life than when I heard him. I wasn’t alone anymore."

Mattheo glanced at Tom again, and for a brief moment, their eyes met — a silent exchange between them, one that spoke volumes about their bond. "He'd never admit to how much he cared, but I knew. I always knew."

Tom finally closed his book, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he gave Mattheo a small, knowing smile.

"You were a little brat," Tom said, his voice rough but affectionate. "Always getting yourself into trouble."