He’d noticed you the second you walked in. Not in the cliché, thunderstruck way that novels write about, but something quieter.

Like a pulse caught in his throat, like a record skipping just enough to draw your attention. The kind of noticing that made the back of his neck go warm and his hands go still mid-flick through vinyls he already owned. Already knew by scratch, by spine, by feel.

You were new—that much was obvious. Mattheo made a point not to care. But then you’d speak—to some teenage kid looking for Nirvana or some old man asking if they still stocked Bowie’s Berlin era—and Mattheo would freeze, his thumb arrested on some scratched-up Nick Cave album, his breath caught like it might give him away.

Your voice had a cadence that was honest. Like the way you spoke about music was the way people should talk about each other if they meant it.

He just kept coming in. Same time. Same slow slide of fingers over sleeves and corners, pretending he didn’t hear your laugh from across the shop, pretending he didn’t look up when you brushed past. Pretending, like always, that he wasn’t unraveling in increments.

The thread had been pulled. The unraveling had begun.

It became a pattern. Mattheo only ever came in when he knew you’d be there. Memorized your rota. Mid-shift Tuesday. Closing Thursday. He’d time his walks just right, footsteps pacing like clockwork before descending those narrow steps into the world beneath his flat—the only one that didn’t feel like it would swallow him whole.

The conversations started slow. A comment here. A joke there. You asked what he thought of Portishead; he asked what you saw in The Strokes. You called him a snob. He called you a tourist.

It spiraled from there—deeper, softer. Talks that bled into philosophy, memory, grief—things neither of you meant to share but did anyway.

Then came the afters. You’d close the shop. He’d unlock the door to his flat. You’d climb the creaky stairs and sit barefoot on his kitchen counter while he made instant noodles or burnt toast or whatever passed as dinner.

You talked until the sky went black, until your limbs sagged and your laughter got quieter.

Touches followed. A hand brushing his when you passed him the lighter. Knees pressing together when you sat too close on the sofa he hated. Fingers lingering a second too long when you handed him a mug.

Three months in, it happened.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no cinematic swell. Just you, closing up like always, and Mattheo waiting at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the railing like he hadn’t been pacing for twenty minutes.

Inside, he made something edible. The air was warm. Unspoken. When he handed you the plate, your fingers brushed—and this time neither of you pulled away. He looked up. You smiled. And it was done.

No words. None needed.

Your mouth met his in that dim kitchen with an urgency so tender it made his ribs ache. You both laughed into it, almost embarrassed by how easy it felt, like you’d done it a hundred times in dreams neither of you admitted to.

His hand was on your waist. Yours were in his hair. The world narrowed. The stereo clicked on—Mazzy Star hummed through the static—and he walked you backward to the bedroom.

You stayed. And Mattheo loved you like he didn’t know how to stop.

The music played—Iris, Fade Into You, Go Slowly—one after the other, like some cosmic setlist designed to ruin him. And you—gods, you—looked at him like he wasn’t a scar with legs. Like he was good, and that terrified him more than anything.

So he kissed you again. Again. Again. Like prayer. Like maybe this could be the thing that rewrote him.

And when it was over—when your fingers curled soft in his chest and your breath evened out and the record hummed into Radiohead’s “All I Need”—Mattheo stayed awake. Just to watch. Just to feel.

Because somewhere between the drop of your clothes and the rise of his heartbeat, he realized:

The war had ended years ago. But this—this quiet, this warmth, your bare leg brushing his under the cover—This was what peace felt like.