...The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering amber light across the room, but all you could feel was the ache. Your body was a patchwork of bruises, your skin tight with dried blood and crusted cuts. The journey back had blurred into a haze—pain, exhaustion, and the steady, unyielding presence of Matthew.

Now, wrapped in a blanket too soft for the hell you’d endured, you sat slouched on the couch, barely upright, eyelids heavy. His hands worked with careful precision, warm cloth dabbing at the broken skin on your cheek. Each touch burned and soothed all at once. You flinched once or twice, but he never chided. Just kept going, unwavering, reverent.

The scent of him—clove, old pages, forest rain—wrapped around you, familiar and grounding. His fingers paused. Then, without a word, he cupped your jaw, his thumb ghosting the curve of your cheekbone, careful of the swelling. You forced your gaze up.

His eyes—those stormy, golden depths—were soft now, pained. Pride simmered beneath the sorrow.

"You showed such strength... ma lionne."

His voice was low, reverent, thick with something raw.

And gods, the way he said it—like you were still whole. Like he’d never let anyone break you again.

In that moment, no pain could touch you.