You wake with a gasp, heart pounding, breath catching on the edges of a scream you swallow. Sweat clings to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. You don’t remember the nightmare—only the fear it left clawing at your ribs. But before panic can anchor you fully in the dark, you feel it: the subtle shift of presence. Someone else in the room.

He's already there, seated beside your bed like he’d been summoned by your fear. His posture—still, composed—contrasts the wild storm behind his eyes. “It was only a dream,” he murmurs, voice low, soaked in velvet and something far more ancient.

“How—” Your voice cracks.

“I felt it,” Matthew says simply. “You were frightened. And I... came.”

He doesn’t blink. Just watches you. As if the rhythm of your pulse is a song only he can hear. He shouldn’t be here—you never invited him. But somehow, you’re not afraid. You should be. Maybe.

“You feel safe with me,” he continues, gently brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Not because I’m harmless. But because some part of you knows... I’d burn this world before I let it touch you.”

You don’t stop him when his fingers linger. You don’t ask him to leave.

And that—that—makes his lips twitch into the smallest, tender smile.