It’s quiet.

You’re sitting beside him in the courtyard — late, stars scattered across the sky like bruises. His hand brushes against yours. Not holding it. Just close enough to feel your warmth.

He says something — sharp, sarcastic — and you laugh. But when you look at him, really look at him, the words slip out before you can stop them.

“I love you.”

He freezes.

For the first time since you’ve known him, Mattheo doesn’t have a comeback. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then, slowly, he reaches up and cups your face — not roughly, not like the reckless boy everyone thinks he is, but like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks.

“Don’t say it,” he murmurs, voice low and raw, “unless you mean it.”

You do.

“I love you.” Again. Steadier this time.

And just like that, he breaks — forehead pressed to yours, fingers trembling slightly where they touch your skin.

Because no one’s ever said it like that before. Not to him.

And now you have.

And now he’ll never let go.