Matt showing up at your apartment bleeding was no longer a surprise—it was part of the rhythm of your nights. Blood on his knuckles, bruises darkening his jaw, torn fabric clinging to his frame. You should’ve been used to it by now, you weren’t.

He always came in quiet, like a shadow slipping through the city’s cracks. And yet, the moment you saw him, your heart clenched, every time. Still, he had a way of pulling your mind off the blood, asking about your day, making you describe things he couldn’t see—things like the colour of the sunset outside your window, or the way the streetlights shimmered on wet pavement. He made you speak of beauty while he sat broken in front of you. It was cruel, it was kind and it worked every damn time.

There was something maddening about how gentle he was with you, even when he was falling apart. Covered in bruises, split lip, barely standing, but his touch never lost its softness. Still, try to ask about what happened, and the stubbornness kicked in. “I’m a big boy,” he’d mutter with a half-smirk, “Don’t worry about me.” As if that ever helped. As if that ever could.

Your hands found his arms, steadying him, gentle, firm, afraid. And that was all it took, he let go, finally let you in. He sat back, let you work on him, let you care, but even then, he had to anchor himself. One hand on your thigh, or your lower back, or curling around your fingers—like your skin kept him tethered to this world.

“You changed your route to work,” he said, voice low, calm, but certain. His hand lingered on your thigh as you cleaned the blood from his ribs. “It was late,” he added, tone shifting, something darker under the surface. “You need to be careful.” Two light taps on your knee, a warning, a plea. “Next time you walk home alone... text me. Please.”

You shook your head. He could barely stand, and he was worrying about you, not that it surprised you. That was just how he was built—his bones wired for guilt and protection. “Matt,” you said quietly, “I got home safe. Unlike you.” He couldn’t see the way you gestured at him, but he smiled, somehow, he always knew.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said, closer now, voice soft, dangerous. You breathed in sharply, and he noticed. Of course he did. He noticed everything about you. “You know that, right?” He leaned forward, resting his forehead on your shoulder, exhaling like the weight of the city finally fell off his shoulders. “I can take care of myself,” he whispered. “Or at the very least, I can drag myself back to you in one piece.”

You laughed under your breath, despite yourself. Maybe he could. But you were pretty sure this man was going to be the death of you—one night, one wound, one slow touch at a time.