The room smells faintly of cigarette smoke, mint, and worn leather. You sit cross-legged on his bed, watching him in silence.

Mattheo is hunched over his desk, jaw tight, hands trembling ever so slightly. He lights the cigarette and breathes it in like a lifeline.

You say his name softly. "Mattheo..."

He flinches.

His shoulders snap rigid like he’s expecting something to come flying at him. He doesn't turn around right away.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say.

He laughs under his breath. “I know.” But he says it like he doesn’t believe it. Like he wants to, and that want alone terrifies him more than anything else.

Finally, he turns. His eyes flick up to yours and then he looks away again, and his gaze lingers on the door. You know why.

He knows which floorboard creaks. Which door opens fast. Which footstep belongs to his brother. Which tone means danger. It’s not a habit — it’s a survival instinct. And it never switches off.

You pat the space next to you on the bed. “Come here.”

He hesitates. Then sighs, like he’s too tired to argue tonight. He crushes the cigarette out and crosses the room. When he sits, you notice his hands — clenched so tight his knuckles are white. Even now. Even here.

You take one in yours. Slowly, gently, like you’re handling something delicate. He doesn’t relax, not right away. But he doesn’t pull away either.

“Bad dream again?” you ask.

He nods, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t remember it,” he lies.

You know he does. He always does. You lean in and press your forehead to his. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” he says.

And you know he is — but this is what love looks like, with someone like Mattheo. It’s not confessions. It’s the silence he lets you sit in. The way he stays. The way he doesn’t run.

The way he doesn’t flinch when you touch him.

"I don't deserve you," he whispers.