Page 74 of The Golden Scoop

Matt’s childhood bedroom is something extremely personal, and he’s just letting me in there. Trusting me with one of the most intimate parts of his life.

I should be honored, but instead my stomach is twisting, reminding me I’m not who he thinks either. And although I’d never use anything I learn here for the article, I still don’t think I deserve it.

The outside noise fades, and my gaze focuses on Matt. The way he slowly pulls the handle down as if the contents of the room are going to be as much of a surprise for him as they are for me.

My steps are small, timid. He moves to the side, giving me full, uncensored access to his past. The space feels untouched. Time stopped when he moved out and nothing’s changed ever since.

A double bed with red checkered bedsheets sits centered against the back wall. He has a small nightstand to the left and a cabinet full of trophies and medals on the opposite side. Posters cover the walls. Movies, playbills, football players. On the other end, a wooden desk with two shelves above it full of books. Not the study kind. A small closet door at the back holds his letterman jacket.

“I feel like I’ve stepped into a time capsule,” I mumble. “You kept it like this?”

“More or less,” Matt says with a shrug. “My mom says she doesn’t want to go through my things, but I think she likes remembering this version of me.”

“Smart woman,” I whisper, scanning all the tiny details that feel so… him. Not the L.A. version. Not even the one I’m writing.

“Jock turned actor,” I comment. “They took one look at those muscles and decided you were the perfect guy to throw yourself out of buildings.”

“Actually,” Matt says, hovering over me. “Theater kid, turned jock, turned action star.”

“Huh, interesting,” I whisper, very aware of how close he is. I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “I didn’t expect this.”

I turn, and we’re suddenly inches apart. His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes. Traitorously, mine does the same. Neither of us move. The air is getting heavier, charged. Something’s about to tip.

“What didn’t you expect?” he asks, voice low, daring. “Devastating normalcy?”

“Yeah… Something like that.”

Or feeling this way about him—even when every cell in me is reminding me I can’t fully trust him yet.

The moment stretches. Neither of us move so much as an inch.

“I’ll take the couch,” he says, taking a step back. “I can get you some fresh bedding, although knowing my mom, I’m sure she washes these with hers every time just in case I come back.”

“Uhh, no. You’re not sleeping out there,” I argue. His eyebrows shoot up. “This is your bed. I’ll leave.”

“It’s fine⁠—”

“It’s not,” I cut in. “I’m not kicking you out of your own room.”

“It’s basic decency,” he counters.

“I’m smaller.”

He stares at me like I’m growing horns. “That’s your logic?”

“It’s solid logic.”

“It’s not.”

“It is if I say it is.”

“For fuc⁠—”

“Fine. We share.”

“Fine,” he says almost instinctively. Then, quieter this time. “Are you sure?”

“It’s just a bed.”