You and Mattheo resided in his dorm, after you had arrived absolutely drenched in your own and another student's blood. You had just been involved in a particularly nasty fight, winning by a simple inch. ”Hold still, amor.” Mattheo uttered, gently dabbing at a gaping cut along your cheek with a soaked cotton ball. As his hand drew away, you could see the cotton ball now caked in a sticky maroon substance. Mattheo was surprisingly tender, handling you as if you were a delicate feather. Every time his eyes landed on the bloody wounds, a proud looking smirk would graze at his lips. He was utterly dying to say something, but refrained himself at the current moment. He was focused solely on tending to you, not some silly reliving's of whatever fight you had been tangled in. “So, how bad were they?” He slipped and spilled, as if the words simply would not stay down his throat. He was immensely proud of you, that much was clear. Of course, besides his worry for your oozing wounds. He wanted to know how bad the wounds of the person you had been fighting were, and whether or not you had won.