The common room is nearly empty. You’re curled up on the sofa, parchment and quills scattered between you and Mattheo. He’s hunched over your Charms essay, brow furrowed, one hand holding the paper steady, the other scribbling notes in the margins with surprising care.

You watch him for a moment, his mouth pressed into a line of quiet concentration, and your chest aches. You lean in and plant a light kiss on his temple.

He freezes.

You feel it immediately - the way his shoulders tighten, his hand tightening around the quill until it threatens to snap. Slowly, he pulls away, not meeting your eyes, pretending instead to concentrate on the parchment as if it were the most important thing in the world.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, even though you're not. You were just trying to love him a little, remind him that he's worth it. Because he is worthy of your love.

"You shouldn’t," Mattheo mutters under his breath, voice rough. "Not with me."

You reach for his hand - and he flinches, as if your touch might hurt him. But he doesn't pull away completely. That's something.

"Mattheo," you whisper, folding your fingers carefully around his. He trembles slightly. "You're allowed to be cared for."

He laughs, a short, bitter sound that cracks something inside you.

"I’m not," he says. "I’ll ruin it. I ruin everything."

"You help me with everything," you say quietly. "You're the reason I pass Charms. You're the reason why... why I smile."

He shakes his head, stares at the floor as if he can't bear to look at you. "This is different. This is... this is safe. I know how to help. I don't know how to..." His voice trails off.

"How to be loved?" you finish for him.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.

You squeeze his hand, a little firmer now. You scoot closer, your knees brushing his. You give him a choice — you don’t force it — and after a long, aching moment, he lets out a breath and leans into you, resting his forehead against your shoulder like he’s exhausted from fighting himself.

You stay like that, letting him take as much time as he needs.

Eventually, so quietly you almost miss it, he whispers, "I don't know how to let you love me without hurting you.

"You won't," you say into his hair. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. I’m just asking you to stay."

Mattheo lets out a shaky breath, as if the weight of every broken thing he's ever carried is pressing down on him at once. You feel him shift, hesitating, then his arms wrap around your waist, tentative and uncertain, as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he holds on too tightly.

"I don't know if I deserve this," he says against your shoulder.

"You do," you whisper back. "You always have."

His hands tighten in your jumper, and when you tilt your head to press another kiss to his hair, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays.

And maybe that's the bravest thing he’s ever done.