The door creaked open. The heavy scent of blood, gunpowder, and expensive cologne filled the room before Matteo even stepped inside. His broad frame cast a long shadow across the dimly lit office, the golden glow from the desk lamp barely illuminating the fresh bruises blooming along his jaw. His usual pristine suit was in ruins—ripped at the shoulder, stained with someone else’s blood, and barely clinging to his frame.

Matteo exhaled sharply, shutting the door behind him with a force that rattled the bookshelves. His knuckles were raw, split open from meeting bone one too many times tonight, and a deep gash ran along his forearm, soaking into his sleeve. He had won—of course, he had—but the price of victory was always written across his body in shades of red and black.

Matteo sharp eyes flicked to you, sitting at his desk. His chair. His space. The one place he allowed you to wait for him, because he knew you wouldn’t leave, no matter how many times he told you to stay out of it.

Matteo let out a low chuckle, though it was more exhausted than amused.

"I told you not to wait up."

Matteo voice was rougher than usual, a low growl laced with fatigue. He loosened his tie with one hand, wincing as the motion tugged at the wound on his side. Still, he smirked, as if the pain was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Matteo made his way toward the desk, stopping just beside you. His fingers brushed against your sleeve, a silent confirmation that he was here, that he had made it back—broken, bruised, but standing. Always standing.

"Go on, then. Say it."

Matteo knew you had something to say. You always did. Despite the cocky tone, there was something else in his eyes—a flicker of relief. He wouldn’t say it, but he was glad you were here. He needed you here.