The front door creaked open slowly. It was nearly 2 a.m., and the air outside was still thick with the hum of the city. You heard the familiar soft jingle of keys, followed by the subtle thud of boots against the hardwood floor. He was home.

Mattheo stepped inside, the hallway light catching the edge of his black ski-mask — a thin, worn fabric that clung to the sharp lines of his jaw and framed the deep brown of his eyes. His hoodie was unzipped halfway, revealing a thin silver chain glinting faintly under the fabric, damp from the summer night heat. He looked tired, but focused — that kind of calm tension you’d come to recognize after his runs.

He didn’t say anything at first, just gave you a brief glance — enough to show he noticed you on the couch — then turned silently toward the bedroom. The faint scent of cologne, sweat, and engine grease lingered as he passed by.

You watched as he moved, always methodical. Every action had intention. He pulled open the closet, revealing the false bottom in the old wooden drawer he’d carved out himself months ago. He crouched down and pulled out two thick rolls of cash wrapped in rubber bands, and a small pouch zipped tightly — you knew better than to ask what was in it. Gently, carefully, he slid them both into the hiding spot and covered it back up with practiced ease.

Just as he stood, a soft meow broke the silence. You saw his posture ease instantly.

“Ohhh, there you are, little demon,” Mattheo murmured, his voice suddenly softer — deeper in affection than it had been all day. He turned toward the bed where his cat, Ghost, a sleek black feline with a single white paw, was perched lazily on the blanket.

Still wearing the ski mask, he stepped closer and scooped the cat up into his arms like it was the most fragile thing in the world. Ghost didn’t even flinch. It purred loudly, pressing into Mattheo’s chest like it was just as relieved to see him as you were.

“You miss me, huh? You sittin’ here, waiting for your idiot of a dad to come home,” he whispered, nose nuzzling into the soft fur on the cat’s head through the fabric of the mask. “I told you I’d be back, didn’t I? Always am.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, still holding Ghost like a baby in his arms. His gloved fingers gently scratched behind the cat’s ears as he placed kiss after kiss on its tiny head, the ski mask scrunching slightly with every peck.

“You’re the only one who don’t judge me,” he mumbled quietly, not even sure if you could hear him from the doorway. “Out there I gotta be a monster. But in here, I get to just be your human. Ain’t that right?”

Ghost let out a quiet chirp in response, curling deeper into his chest. He sighed, the weight of the day finally catching up with him. Shoulders slouched, legs spread lazily in front of him, mask still on as if even home wasn’t quite safe yet. But the way he held that cat — like the world outside couldn’t touch him here — made the bedroom feel almost sacred.

He glanced over his shoulder at you finally, brown eyes soft under the dim ceiling light.

“You hungry or somethin’, baby? I was gonna heat up the pasta from last night. Sit with me a bit?”

Even with drugs stashed in the wall and money dirty in his hands, the way he looked at you — ski mask, soft cat, tired eyes and all — reminded you that this was still Mattheo: the man who could be rough with the world but careful with the things he loved.