He reaches for me then, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch is tender, reverent. But there’s a weight behind it, a goodbye he’s not ready to say, a truth he’s not ready to voice. Because, despite the conviction in his voice, we both know that we’re on borrowed time, unless he wants Salvatore or Jonathan showing up at my door.
I close my eyes, leaning into his hand even though I shouldn’t. Because we both know this isn’t just about last night.It’s about everything that came before, and everything waiting to break us apart again.
For a while, neither of us says anything. The world outside comes to life, soft morning light spilling across tangled sheets, over the mess we made of the night before. It feels fragile, this bubble we’ve built between dawn and reality, too perfect to last, but damn it, I want it to. I want to stay here, in this moment where no one and nothing can touch us.
Matt’s stomach growls, breaking the silence, and I can’t help but laugh. The sound startles us both, easy and unguarded in a way that feels dangerous.
“Guess that’s our cue,” I joke, slipping out of bed and snatching up his shirt from the floor. I leave it unbuttoned. It hangs off one shoulder, brushing my thighs as I move, barely covering my chest, letting the red-inked vines wrapping under my breasts stand out in full, prominent display.
He props himself up on an elbow, watching me move. “That’s not fair,” he says, voice rough and amused. “You’re stealing my shirt and my sanity.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t leave them lying around, then,” I shoot back, heading for the kitchen.
He follows a few minutes later, hair still a mess, dark jeans hanging low on his hips, the button undone, the zipper half-lowered. He looks wildly out of place in my tiny flat, yet impossibly, infuriatingly at home in it as he leans against the counter, watching as I put some bread into the toaster.
“Do you even remember how to make my coffee?” I tease, watching him reach for the mugs like he owns the place. The fact that he knows exactly where everything is—despite never having set foot in here before last night—should probably unnerve me. But who am I kidding? I’d be lying if I said the idea of him caringenough to memorise this little world of mine didn’t send a thrill straight through me.
After all… this is Matt. Distance was never going to mean space. And God help me, a part of me never wanted it to.
He arches a brow, voice low and amused. “Please. I’ve had that memorised since your phase of trying a new combination every day until you found the one that actually worked.”
“What can I say? There’s a million versions of a latte out there. I had to make sure I wasn’t missing out.”
I hand him a plate, brushing my fingers over his as I pass it. Electricity snaps between us, small but impossible to ignore. He smirks, but there’s softness in his eyes, the kind that makes my chest ache.
We fall into an easy rhythm—coffee, toast, a few bites of fruit neither of us really eats. He teases me about my overcomplicated espresso order and I mock his inability to spread butter evenly. The laughter feels almost normal, like we’re just a couple having breakfast on a slow Saturday morning instead of two people pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.
When he catches a crumb at the corner of my mouth with his thumb, my breath snags. He doesn’t move his hand right away. Just looks at me, eyes dark and searching as the silence stretches between us.
I look away first, clearing my throat and stepping back. “I, um… I have a stream scheduled for tonight,” I say, keeping my tone casual, though my pulse spikes anyway. The echo of his promise to fuck me on camera last night rings loud in my head.
His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”
I nod, busying myself with the mugs even though they’re still half-full. “I’ve pushed the schedule enough already. People start to notice when I disappear for too long.”
“Can’t have that,” he says, leaning back against the counter. There’s a faint smirk on his lips, the kind that says he’s thinking something I probably shouldn’t ask about.
I glance up warily. “What?”
He shrugs, too casually. “Just wondering what kind of stream we’re talking about tonight. Because if it involves lace and that look you gave me last night…” He trails off, his grin wolfish. “I might need to postpone leaving, in favour of making a guest appearance.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth. “You’re impossible.”
“Confident,” he corrects, stepping closer. “Supportive, even.”
“Supportive?” I echo, half laughing as he crowds into my space.
“Sure,” he murmurs, fingers brushing my hip. “I mean, shouldn’t a good boyfriend support his girl's job? Pay attention and know what could help her? Strictly for research purposes, of course.”
“Research,” I repeat dryly, but my voice softens at the end. He’s teasing, but beneath it there’s genuine ease, no bitterness, no edge. Just warmth and mischief and a trace of awe that he’s even allowed in this part of my life.
“Exactly,” he says, grin turning softer as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Besides, I like seeing you in your element. You’re different there. Comfortable. Untouchable. Free, like nothing from the real world could possibly touch you when the camera’s on you.”
I swallow, suddenly unable to find words. For all his teasing, there’s a sincerity in his tone that makes my chest ache. He’s always been so steadfastly supportive of my choice to cam, in a way I can’t quite wrap my head around. You hear stories aboutmen claiming to support you until they realise what that actually entails. But that’s never been Matt.
He leans in, whispering against my ear, “Still, if you ever need a co-star…”
“Matt,” I warn, but my laugh gives me away.
