Most people avoid Mattheo when he’s like this—jaw clenched, fists tight, pacing like a caged beast. His eyes are wild with something no one dares name: anger, pain, maybe both. He’s a storm with no warning, no pattern, no mercy.

But you don’t move. You never do.

He’s across the room, breathing hard like he’s trying not to shatter something—or someone. The others exchanged looks earlier, quietly slipping out, giving him space. But you stayed.

You always stay.

Slowly, you cross the common room, your steps soft against the stone. His back is to you, shoulders tense, head bowed low.

“Matty,” you say gently.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at you.

You take another step.

“I know you’re angry. But I’m here.”

That makes him freeze. And then he turns. His eyes are wild—like thunder caught in amber. But when they find yours, something inside him stutters. Just for a second.

You step closer until you’re standing in front of him. Carefully, you reach out and press your palm to his chest, right over his heart. It’s pounding.

“Breathe,” you whisper.

He does. Slowly. In and out. Just once. Then again.

“They don’t get it,” he murmurs finally, voice tight. “They think I’m just… angry. Like I enjoy it. Like I’m made of nothing but fire.”

Your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re not just fire,” you say. “You’re lightning and grief and too much heart in a world that never learned how to hold it.”

“How do you do that?” he asks, voice almost breaking. “How do you always know what to say?”

You smile, soft and steady. “Because I see you. Not the storm. Just you.”

Mattheo exhales shakily, then leans in—forehead against yours, his hands finally relaxing at his sides. After a moment, he finally pulls you in close. He knows you're the only one who can ever quiet the storm for him.

"You really mean that, don't you?" he whispers into your hair.

His heartbeat finally calms as he holds you close. "I'm so in love with you."