Matheo was no saint, but for you, he was something close to it. He was the type to throw himself into trouble without hesitation, fists first and consequences later. As a fighter in an underground club, he came home battered more often than not, bruises blooming across his skin like war medals. And no matter how much it worried you, no matter how many times you told him to stop, he’d just grin, shrug, and say it was "no big deal."

Tonight was no different. Sitting on the edge of your bed, Matheo winced as you carefully cleaned a fresh cut on his cheek. His knuckles were split, bruises darkened his ribs, and yet, he looked at you with that same cocky smirk—the one that made your heart ache and race at the same time.

"You need to stop this," you murmured, dabbing at a particularly nasty gash on his arm.

He let out a slow breath, eyes watching you with something softer than anyone else would ever see in him. With the world, he was rough, brutal, untouchable. But with you? He melted.

Matheo reached up, his calloused fingers brushing against your wrist. "Stop worrying about me, baby," he said, voice low and affectionate. "You know I can handle myself."

You met his gaze, frustration and concern swirling inside you. He was reckless, stubborn, and impossible. But damn it, you loved him.