You are sitting curled up on the sofa with a book in your lap. Across the room, Mattheo is sitting at a desk near the window with his book held open but unread. His eyes aren’t on the page, though — they’re on you. Again.

When you slowly look up, he quickly averted his gaze.

“No use pretending,” you murmur. “You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes.”

Mattheo exhales through his nose, looking guilty. He gives you the look he always uses when he wants to seem innocent... The puppy-dog face.

“Wasn’t staring,” he says, his voice soft. “Just… thinking.”

You close your book, setting it aside. “About what?”

He hesitates. “All the things I could be doing better,” he mutters.

You get up and cross the room slowly. He doesn't move as you slide onto the windowsill beside him and reach for his hand. “You’re too hard on yourself,” you whisper.

“I’m not,” he says. “You don’t see what I do when you’re not around.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Try me.”

“I see the way you look when I shut down. Like you’re trying to fix me without breaking yourself in the process,” he scoffs. “And when you cry… when I know it’s because of me…”

“I hate that I make you feel that way,” he continues. “Like I’m slowly ruining you.”

You reach up and rest your hand on the side of his neck, grounding him. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, as if he’s afraid to look at you now that he’s revealed too much.

“No,” you whisper. “You’re not ruining anything.”

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” he breathes.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. “Let me in when it’s hard. Let me stay.”

His eyes finally meet yours. “You always defend me,” he says. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s because I know who you are underneath the silence,” you murmur. “You’re worth fighting for.”

He leans in slowly, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re too good for me,” he whispers.