He never should’ve left him alone.

Mattheo fucking knew better. Knew what his Da was like when the drink got in him and the telly was too loud and the world hadn’t bent the way he wanted. But Maisy was hungry.

Mattheo stepped through the gates and the front door was wide open.

His heart dropped.

Ran inside and found Maidy huddled behind the door, face soaked in tears, her little hands covering her nose. Blood everywhere.

“Matty,” She whimpered, voice all choked. “It hurts—he hit me—he said I was being—”

Mattheo didn’t hear the rest. His vision turned red.

His Da was sat on the couch like it was grand, half-buzzed and scratching his neck. He looked up at Mattheo and sneered, like he was the problem.

“What did you do?” Mattheo asked, voice low. “What the fuck did you do to her?”

“Keep your knickers on,” Tom slurred. “She was mouthy. Just a smack—”

One punch. That’s all it took.

Crack.

Right across his face.

He fell back into the feckin’ armchair, blood flying from his nose now too. Mattheo didn’t care. Didn’t even flinch. Just grabbed Maidy, still sobbing, and wrapped her in his hoodie.

“We’re leavin’,” Mattheo said, hoisting her up. “I’m never bringing you back here. Never again.”

Mattheo didn’t have a plan.

Not a feckin’ clue where he was going.

But his legs knew. They just kept moving. Past the park, past the alley kids used to play football in, past the closed-up corner shop and the police station he nearly walked into. He carried Maisy all the way to your estate. Your house was the nicest thing I’d ever seen. Looked like one of them yolks off telly. Big white walls, a proper porch, even a little bell.

He didn’t press it.

He just collapsed right there.

Knees gave in on the porch. Still clutching Maisy to his chest as he whimpered, snot and blood and tears all mixed together. He didn’t know how long he sat there, just rocking her, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should’ve protected ya,” over and over.

The door opened.

Shannon—your mother stood there in her apron, hair tied up, towel over her shoulder. Her face fell the second she saw the two.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” She muttered, already reaching for Maisy. “Come here, sweetheart. Let me see.”

Maisy went to her like a little ghost. Didn’t even cry anymore. Just looked up at her with those hollow eyes, and Mattheo hated myself more than he ever thought possible.

Mattheo stayed on the porch.

Couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Then you came out. Still in your school skirt, his hoodie, phone in hand. Your eyes found him in the dark, and Mattheo swore to God, he fell apart right then.

“Don’t,” Mattheo croaked, trying to turn away. “Please. I don’t wanna cry in front of ya.”

But he did anyway.

Loud, ugly sobs. Tears he hadn’t shed in years. Crying like a child, shoulders shaking, fists pressed to his eyes like that might hold it in. It didn’t. Nothing could.

You didn’t say a word.

Just knelt down and wrapped your arms around him. Held him tight, pulled his head to the crook of your neck, whispered soft things Mattheo couldn’t make out through the storm in his skull.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Mattheo cried into your shoulder. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did the right thing,” You said, and God, your voice was so calm it near shattered him.

Mattheo wanted to crawl inside your chest and never leave.

Your posh world, your fancy schoolbag and perfect family dinners and clean rooms with candles lit. You didn’t belong in his dirt. In his mess. But you stayed. Held him like he wasn’t filth.

And that’s what wrecked Mattheo most.

That a girl like you would still love a boy like him.

Broken. From the bad end.