The garden was bathed in moonlight, the chill of the night air brushing against your skin. The smell of Mattheo's cigarette lingered between you like the aftermath of an unspoken apology. His black cat snuggled lazily between your legs, purring despite the tense silence.

“You always have to get the last word, don’t you?” Mattheo muttered, the ember at the tip of his cigarette glowing in the dark.

“You’re impossible,” you shot back, folding your arms across your chest, though the heat of anger was already fading. It always did with him — as quickly as it came.

“Yeah, well, you love impossible things.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes flickering to yours, daring you to deny it.

The stars scattered across the sky, indifferent to your turmoil. The garden was silent except for the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional crackle of Mattheo’s cigarette. His messy curls caught the silver glow of starlight, and for a moment, you forgot why you’d argued in the first place.

“I hate that you smoke,” you murmured, your voice softer now.

“And I hate that you drive me crazy,” he countered, stepping closer.

Your breath hitched as he flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. The sharp edge of his frustration softened as his hand found yours, rough fingers brushing against your palm.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low but sincere.

“So am I,” you whispered back, the words barely audible.

He tugged you closer, his forehead resting against yours. The world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you, tangled in the mess of love and stubbornness.

“We’re a disaster, you know that?” he said with a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” you smiled despite yourself. “But we’re our disaster.”

The black cat purred louder, circling around your legs as Mattheo pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. The garden, the stars, and the echoes of your argument faded into nothing.

Because despite everything — the fights, the chaos, the wild mess of it all — love always won.