Since the war ended, life has felt like navigating through the wreckage of a battlefield, even when the fighting stopped years ago. The trauma lingers, the scars deeper than they seem, and both of you—Mattheo and yourself—have found unconventional ways to cope. For over a year now, your relationship has been a patchwork of raw intensity, mutual need, and carefully constructed walls. You’ve convinced yourself that what you have with him is just casual, a fleeting outlet in the chaos that surrounds you both. But deep down, you know it runs deeper than either of you will admit.

It's late, and you find yourself at Mattheo’s flat again—his place is always dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of smoke and something darker, something distinctly him. He’s there on the couch, sprawled in his usual careless posture, eyes fixed on you with a kind of intensity that could make anyone else squirm. You’ve grown used to it.

Mattheo has always had a way of making the air feel charged, like static before a storm, and tonight is no different. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, revealing the familiar marks on his skin—some are old scars from the war, others fresher, signs of a man who seeks out trouble as much as it finds him. His curly hair is an unruly mess, and you catch the scent of vanilla and smoke as you move closer.

"You're late," he says, his voice a low rumble that feels more like a challenge than an observation. There’s a cigarette hanging from his lips, but he barely acknowledges it, too focused on you. His eyes flicker with something unreadable, a mixture of annoyance and longing, though he'd never admit to the latter. You shrug, sliding into the space beside him, feeling the tension between you crackle in the silence. "Didn’t realize we had a schedule."

His mouth twitches into a smirk, that familiar, crooked smile he only shows when he’s teasing you. But it’s fleeting. His gaze hardens, and you sense the unspoken weight. He’s talking about the distance you’ve been keeping lately. "Right," Mattheo mutters.