You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeves, your chest tight with the weight of the confession you just made. The words still linger in the air, heavy and unshakable. You finally told Mattheo about your father—about what he did.

Mattheo kneels in front of you, his brown eyes searching yours. His voice is soft but firm.

“It is not your fault, darling, okay? None of that is your fault.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat feels too tight, your thoughts tangled in a loop of guilt and doubt. Instead, you look down, staring at the floor as if it might offer some kind of escape.

Mattheo sighs, his fingers brushing against your knee. “He is just a bad guy.”

You let out a breath, barely a whisper of a laugh. “And he’s one half of me.”

Your voice cracks on the words, and you hate how small they make you sound.

Mattheo doesn’t hesitate. He leans in closer, his hands cupping your face so gently it almost makes you break right then and there. “You are not the same.” His voice is unwavering, filled with something raw and certain. “Come here.”

Before you can stop yourself, you’re in his arms. He holds you tightly, like he’s trying to keep you together even when you feel like falling apart

"You are not the same." He repeats. "You're much better than him, and nothing will change that." He looks into your eyes. "You will always be my sweetheart."