Matteo never cared much for softness. Emotions were a weakness — one he had no use for. Stoic, controlled, untouchable. That’s who he was.

But then there was you. Shy, reserved, stubbornly independent. The kind of girl who apologized when people bumped into you. You never asked for help, never expected anything. And it infuriated him. Not because you were difficult — no, you were impossible in an entirely different way.

You didn’t want his money. Not when he offered to cover dinner, not when he tried to surprise you with something nice. You’d smile, shake your head, and say you didn’t need it. You hated when he paid for things, hated the idea of being taken care of. You were saving every penny, wearing worn-out shoes and eating the same cheap meals day after day. And you never complained.

But Matteo noticed. He noticed how thin your coat was in the winter. How you hesitated before agreeing to plans, always thinking about the cost. How you flinched when he brought you something as simple as a cup of coffee, like kindness was a debt you couldn’t afford to owe.

He wasn’t having it.

“I’m paying,” he said one night, his voice low, final. The check had barely hit the table before he pulled it toward himself.

You protested, of course you did. But Matteo didn’t argue. He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

Later, he showed up at your door with a coat — warm, soft, undeniably expensive. You opened your mouth to refuse, but he stepped closer, the air between you thick with unspoken determination.

“You’re wearing it,” he said, his voice cold but steady. “I’m not asking.”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed. But beneath the hardness in his gaze, there was something else — something fierce, protective.

Matteo didn’t know how to say I care — not in words. But he’d make sure you knew.

Because if you wouldn’t take care of yourself, he damn well would.