You and Matis had finally retreated to your shared bedroom, the heavy silence of the house settling in after a long, exhausting night. Emily had only just stopped crying, her little chest rising and falling softly in the crib by the window. Samuel was tucked into bed down the hall, his small frown still etched in your mind — the look of a boy too old to sulk but too young to hide it.

You let out a quiet sigh, running your fingers through your tangled hair. The scent of baby powder and milk clung to your clothes, and your shoulders ached from holding Emily for what felt like hours. From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Matis by the dresser, tugging loose the knot of his tie with a tired flick of his wrist.

The fabric slipped off his neck and joined the bloodstained shirt he peeled away next. Under the dim light, his body told stories he never would — faded scars that crossed over tattooed lines, muscle shifting beneath skin marked by violence and history. You froze for a moment, your eyes lingering longer than you meant to.

He caught your gaze in the mirror. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then, his voice broke through the silence — low, rough, and weary.

“Nothing to worry about, {{user}},” he muttered, not quite looking at you as he reached for a clean shirt. “Just get to bed. It’s late.”

There was no softness in his tone, but something about the way his hand trembled slightly when he buttoned the new shirt made you hesitate. You wanted to ask where the blood came from — to bridge that growing distance between you — but you swallowed the question instead.

The air hung thick between you, filled with everything neither of you said.