You are sitting cross-legged on the stone floor of the tower, next to the lopsided cake that you smuggled up.

He always disappears.

You knew he would tonight, but you waited anyway.

Footsteps.

You don’t turn around. You know it’s him.

Mattheo pauses in the doorway.

"I knew you’d come up here," you whisper, still not looking at him. "You always do."

There is a silence. Then, the quiet scrape of his boots as he walks over. He sits down beside you without saying anything.

"I brought cake," you say, smiling. He stares at it as though it were something sacred, as though it were painful to look at. “You didn’t have to run.”

"I didn’t run," he mutters.

"You disappear," you whisper. "When things feel too big. You’ve always done it."

His eyes flick up to yours. "I don’t know how to let people stay."

"I’m not people." You reach out and take his hand. He doesn’t pull away, but you can feel the tremor in them.

"I remember everything you say to me," he murmurs, almost to himself. "The first time you laughed with me. The first time you got mad at me. What you wore when we met. Every word."

He finally looks at you. "I’m terrified you’ll leave," he admits.

You squeeze his hand. "I’m still here."

"I used to think birthdays didn’t matter," he says. "Not when you grow up expecting nothing. But… tonight I wanted to want it. With you."

"You can cry," you whisper.

He shakes his head, a sharp movement. "Not in front of you."

"Then just sit here. With me. Let it be enough for tonight."

He leans into you and rests his forehead against your shoulder. His breathing is shallow and ragged.

In the quiet, you feel his tears, which he won't let you see.

After a long time, he speaks again, his voice hoarse. "When we get married… I want your name."

You blink, startled. "What?"

"I want your surname. I want something that means you chose me. That I’m yours. That I finally belong somewhere," he whispers.