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Your mother brought him into your life at an age when you still struggled to understand anything at all. Even then, you were far more observant than a child your age should be, and the first thing you noticed about him was the imposing weight of his presence, that maturity that seemed to radiate from his attractiveness.
Perhaps because you noticed too much, that day remained carved into your memory with unnatural clarity, one that still manages to make you shake your head in disbelief at the memory of how strange you felt when you heard the quiet footsteps of his shoes on your living room floor, the fleeting glimpse of a pale hand gripping and leaning on a cane that surprised you slightly, which, along with his expression, indicated that he had already lived through more pain than your family would dare to speak of, suggesting a greater experience within him.
Your mother greeted him with a tenderness she rarely showed to men, a tone of voice that made you feel for a second like you were interrupting something you should never have witnessed. The smile he gave to her was the closest thing to perfection you had ever seen, and being the fool you were, so fascinated by beautiful things, you felt your heart flutter at the sight of dimples beneath the attractive mark of a beard.
And then he, that stranger named Matt Murdock, a respectable lawyer according to your mother, turned toward you, following the beat of your heart as if he could hear it thumping inside your ribcage, showing it through the slight tilt of his head. That stranger spoke your name with an even more radiant smile than before, acting as if he had known you all your life, possibly even before you were born.
That was it, just his voice pronouncing your name, and something inside you had already changed, subtle as a sigh, yet so significant.
At that time, you had no words for it; teenagers rarely do.
All you had was the curiosity of someone who had never seen a person so pleasing to the eye, so clean and strangely pure, making you wonder where the impurities lay. Those thoughts lingered for days, which turned into weeks, then months, until you realized they stayed, thanks to that the first thing your mind told you was that it was harmless, just common, possibly admiration that would dissolve as quickly as it had formed.
You only felt the need to know about him because he was attractive, older, charming, and funny, considering his position as a lawyer. Everyone your age had a crush on someone older at some point, it could be a teacher or actor, a fictional character who embodied a stability that people your age didn't yet fully understand, and therefore clung to.
Your vision was that it would follow the other pattern you had managed to distinguish when you were attracted to someone, that means it was going to be meaningless and forgotten by next season.
Unfortunately, everything went off the rails, intensifying with a dangerous flame that made you uneasy.
Perhaps it was because stability was something you learned to crave the way starving people crave food they don't remember ever having tasted. Perhaps it was because he was so intense you couldn't imagine going a whole week without seeing him. Perhaps it was simply because he was older, or perhaps the Austrian neurologist whose name is too triggering to say out loud has a theory that could explain your behavior.
The last one might be true, or perhaps all of them are valid.
Getting back to the point: stability. From stability, we jump to the fact that your father was a perpetual absence, a silhouette that floated, a man who could have mattered if he had tried harder, if he had stayed longer, if he had ever bothered to spend time with you instead of those brief obligatory conversations.
From your father we jump to your mother, who is totally the opposite—so passionate, volatile, and intense that she makes you feel both adored and threatened.
In her good moods, she adores you intensely, almost fiercely; in her bad moods, you suddenly became just like your father, and she forgets that you are the product of both of them, not just him. Then you were left oscillating between these extremes, trying to cling to anything that wouldn't move, driven by the need for balance and to avoid falling into the abyss of an absent father and a mother whose mood swings no one could predict.
Then there was Matt, a calm and constant presence who listened with an attention that seemed impossible, even supernatural, and for someone used to being half-heard, it was good.
He didn't treat you like a child incapable of having thoughts worth hearing.
Matt was gentle because he didn't try to soothe you, he didn't offer you your mother's erratic affection or the cold, distant acknowledgment your father was an expert at. Instead of all those weak unstructured things in danger of breaking, he existed in the middle of the chaos, and you didn't know how to process it because he was so warm and attentive, an expert at whatever it was he was doing whenever there was interaction between you.
That consistency was dangerous.
Because that appreciation you felt slowly turned into fascination as you grew older, you always admired him for his work, for fighting for the innocent and for listening. But in the back of your mind, the fact that he was a handsome and charming sweetheart willing to listen to you was always present. That little thought in your mind gradually became corrupted, and suddenly that corruption invaded every space in your mind adorned with his name.
When you reached the age where everything became inappropriate thoughts, you found yourself paying attention to things you shouldn't have.
The warmth of his voice, how it sounded almost like a purr when he joked quietly, how his throat moved when he swallowed, how his fingers moved over Braille when he visited your home to spend time with you and your mother and took the opportunity to work on his current cases, how his arms flexed and his muscles tensed when he taught you boxing for an hour and then never did it again.
You tried to ignore the fact that you didn't see him as a father figure the way your mother believed, or the way you told yourself to avoid being devastated by the truth about you wanting to do something more with that “father figure.”
It could be that you saw him as someone who could be a good father, just not a father to you, because a daughter would never want to sleep with her father the way you wanted to sleep with Matt.
And as you grew older, you tried to rationalize it telling yourself he was your mother's friend, someone with a past intertwined with hers in ways you could never fully decipher.
Their story felt like an old, fragile photograph, faded at the edges, but still marked with something intimate enough to unsettle you.
Sometimes, you heard them talking in hushed tones, as if they were sharing something, exchanging memories like secret vows, and you wanted to know more. You wondered, with a pang of pain if they had ever been anything more, if he had ever smiled at her with the tenderness you thought you saw in his smile when you first met him, if she had ever touched his arm with the same nonchalance, the same familiarity with which she touched others when she wanted to feel adored.
You wondered if they had ever kissed, perhaps when they were younger, mistaking friendship for romantic attraction. And of course, you wondered if your mother ever left your father to be with Matt.
You hated the jealousy that consumed you, sharp as an old, rusty blade against your ribs, that rust infecting your heart.
It was absurd jealousy, baseless and so illogical that it made you feel disgusted with yourself, a daughter feeling this way about her mother and the friend she met before bringing you into the world. Every time that feeling surfaced, it left an enormous void, something you knew you could fill if he would simply realize how much you wanted him.
But how could he know if, to him, you were just a little girl he cared for? Every moment he spent with you was seen as something paternal and innocent. You felt stupid for believing that anything more would ever happen between you two.
And you saw Matt interacting with various women, that lowers any possibility, also the fact he was just a manwhore, with all lack of respect.
You weren't stupid, you knew he was a womanizer who flitted from one woman to another. Sometimes, out of curiosity, you asked your mother about his dating habits and approximately how many women he'd been with.
There were a few mentions of a woman named Elektra, and your mother seemed to relish the name, making you believe that she might even have been involved.
The amount of jealousy you felt toward each of them was repulsive, but despite everything, you couldn't deny that he had good taste and you couldn't hate them because they were sweet people who—unfortunately— were attracted to the same things that attracted you to Matt.
First, there was Karen, a delightful person.
She had that exceptional balance of strong character, empathy, dedication, and affection, and when Matt introduced her at that time they weren't a couple, but you knew there was something going on because the tension was palpable along with the strong chemistry and the rather interesting comments his best friend Foggy made whenever the possibility of a relationship was mentioned.
After Karen, you met the fun-loving Miss Walters, gorgeous lawyer who happens to be She-Hulk. She sometimes spent “quality time” with him; you never knew if they were together, but the way he acted when she smiled said it all.
Also the fact that your mother mentioned that Matt had already met her family.
Then came the moment when all of Matt's romantic bubbles burst for unknown reasons, and his constant flings vanished.
You'd overheard your mother talking about it with him when you hid during their supposed private conversations, and you were grateful that, whatever the reason, he was now single and thanks to that unfortunate situation back then, Matt started spending more time with your mother and therefore, with you.
She invited him over for dinner more often, and sometimes he'd show up unannounced, settling into the living room as if he lived with the two of you. Sometimes he'd come home at ungodly hours covered in bruises while you pretended to be asleep, and your mother would quietly scold him while tending to his wounds, the origin of which you wanted to know. You wanted to know what was going on, but you didn't dare ask any more questions for fear your mother would find out what was happening to you when Matt was around.
Sometimes he'd sit in your father's chair at the dining room table when your mother wasn't around, and you'd sit across from him doing your homework. Matt would always turn his face towards the sound of your pencil scratching the paper, and you'd pretend not to feel the warmth of his attention enveloping you like a heavy blanket.
Other times, he would help you find objects you had lost—a bracelet, a book, your phone—moving around with soft steps, trusting his senses that you swore were not of this world.
“You dropped it behind the couch earlier,” he'd say matter-of-factly, even though he hadn't been in the room when it happened, but you were so focused on him being so close to you that you forgot to mention he wasn't even there when it happened.
You remember one afternoon when Matt was talking about a terrible case at work, and then your mother got a call and went to answer it, so you found yourself alone with him in the living room, both of you sitting in pleasant silence.
His legs were slightly apart, his tie loose, his suit jacket discarded on the sofa, looking deliciously tired and frustrated by the irresponsibility of the justice system that often caused him headaches.
You were younger than you wished you were at that moment. All you could think about was getting up from your seat, going over to him then sitting on his lap, and showing him that there were other ways to release frustration besides just complaining.
“You're quiet today,” Matt had remarked, pulling you from your impure thoughts, disconcerting you but not enough to sound like an accusation. Something that seemed said with the sole purpose of getting you to talk, or even annoying you judging by his tone of voice.
“I'm fine,” you murmured automatically, not noticing that it had almost nothing to do with what he'd said, still distracted by the images that had appeared in your mind.
He tilted his head; that unsettling, insightful stillness he fell into when he was truly focused.
“Fine,” he repeated softly, “the most overused lie in the world.” You had no idea why he said it.
You felt your cheeks burn and you drew your legs together until your thighs pressed together.
Matt sounded different, and you guessed it was because of his anger and the need to say something inappropriate or irritating to make himself feel better.
“Well, I guess that means I don't wanna talk,” a neutral response, not hiding how defensive you'd become. “Did you notice?”
His mouth curved into a smile, lesseling that dimple.
“Oh, yeah, I noticed.” Matt leaned back on the sofa, stretching even further. “You rather lie than have a conversation.”
You frowned, incredulous. “What?”
He shrugged. “You lie a lot.”
You raised an eyebrow, realizing immediately that he just wanted to start an immature argument and that you wouldn't fall for it so easily. “I don't, dude, and even if I did, it's none of your business.”
“Mhm, yes you do,” nodding. “You're right that it's none of my business, but you still get defensive right away when someone points it out… Maybe instead of lying you should talk more, but I won't deny it's interesting.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
Interesting.
He told you that you were interesting, and you started praying to God that your mother wouldn't come back and that he would continue acting like an idiot, confusing you with whatever it was he was trying to say.
“What's all this about?” you asked, squinting at him, trying to figure it out, but getting absolutely nowhere.
He shrugged dismissively, his lips curling into that little pout of fake cluelessness he gave to everyone especially when he was spouting sarcastic nonsense to piss people off.
“Nothing, I only wanted to talk, but you lied to me and got defensive.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh.
“Because you’re being annoying,” you retorted, a simple experiment. “Just because you had a bad day in court doesn’t mean you should try to pick dumb arguments to replace the one you failed at, idiot.” You didn’t raise your voice, remaining calm with your measured aggression.
That made him laugh, making you think about how much of a conceited little shit he can be.
“There she is,” he mumbled softly, as low as a purr, getting into your ears so fast.
You don't really know what happened that afternoon. He just wanted to mess with you it seems, confusing you until you were annoyed and bewildered, the only certainty being that you got wet so easily, then after he left and you were finally back in the comfort of your bed, your hand ended up between your legs, fantasizing about him talking to you like that again while your fingers worked on your clit, bringing you to a quick and silent orgasm. That familiar version of his voice tickled you until you finished on your fingers.
The next time you saw him, you acted as if you hadn't come because of him.
Growing up to your early twenties only solidified those feelings, because now you thought you had a chance of him seeing you as more than just his friend's daughter. The only difference was that now you hid your feelings for him beneath thicker layers of composure and academic obligations, along with more measured conversations.
That didn't change the fact that the flame was still burning, waiting for more oxygen.
When you saw him on rare occasions now, the interactions were always polite until something inside you tightened with longing and shame, but you felt better after repeating to yourself over and over that adults don't have childish fixations; adults let go and move on. Sadly that stopped working since your case was entirely different, because you never did what your mind told you to do when it came to Matt.
And once you tried to pray for it to calm down, kneeling in a church where the owner of your fantasies frequented when he sought salvation, looking at the rows of flickering candles as warnings instead of invitations. Your whispered plea seemed ridiculous even when you said it; you couldn't understand how Matt could be so sensitive and devoted to the subject of God.
Perhaps it was because Matt is a good man, therefore he can receive answers, and somehow with you, God could sense that there was something impure and impossible to fix inside you, so you don't get even a hint of an answer, of course, that makes sense.
As you gazed at the shimmering stained-glass window that painted the floor with fragmented colors, you realized that a part of you resented Matt's devotion.
You resented the ease with which he sought salvation when you had never been granted a language to express it, so besides attraction, you felt envy towards him because he appeared so stable and there were moments in which you concluded it was a mask to conceal a deep inner conflict; whatever it was, he knew how to hide it from your eyes.
In the end, it was all about fixation, envy, adoration, all approaching a strangely unhealthy obsession, the feelings for him adding to your internal problems that are best kept quiet.
But tonight all those repressed feelings transformed into something dangerous, driving you to act before you think—a mixture of your mother, your father, Matt, your teachers, and the people who demanded you give as if you only knew how to give.
An argument with your mother gets out of control so easily, starting with her commenting that you seem distant. You explain that it's due to final projects and exams that are causing you sleep problems and splitting migraines, your professors pushing your brain to its limits.
She tells you it's better to talk about it, that it's no excuse to keep your distance. You reply that it's not necessary to discuss everything and that it will all be alright when you learn to manage your time more healthily, and it doesn't matter because she doesn't understand.
Family wounds are reopened with practiced precision, each word a reminder of everything you unwittingly inherited from her and your father.
She accuses you of detachment and emotional selfishness, and the fact that it seems your soul has left your body these past few months. You find it ridiculous and accuse her of the same things she's done for years, things that only now you finally have the words to describe them, sharpened by age and inner turmoil.
It ends with her angry at your presence and you leaving the house simply because you can't stand breathing the same air as someone who can't accept that you're tired and need space, and time, which is what you keep wasting as if it were so easy to get.
As you leave the house, your pulse is irregular and your breathing unsteady while there are thoughts screaming for you to open your mouth and let them out.
And you have no intention of walking towards Matt's building while you argue with yourself on the street, complaining to the air, your legs just keep moving.
You certainly have no intention of going up the stairs to his apartment, but your body moves with the certainty of someone following a ritual practiced in dreams long before reality caught up with you.
The hallway outside his door is dark and silent; the air somehow feels heavier here, thick with the faint echo of a life lived in the shadows. You stand before that familiar door you're aware you shouldn't even touch, and you feel the weight of the years pressing against your ribs. All the unspoken thoughts, the silent obsessions, the guilt, the longing, and the confusion you've carried without permission... they all gather now, tightening in your throat.
This is just so irrational; you know that this man has no obligation to you, no reason to fix the chaos you refuse to face, and you can't even consider him a close friend, much less a fucking therapist.
However, that thing that is deeply wrong inside you is already leaning towards him, drawn by the gravity you never knew how to resist and your hand rises before you even tell it to, your knuckles brushing the material, hesitating, only for you to end up knocking five times.
And everything you've been holding back crumbles in the ensuing silence.
The door opened after a few seconds before regret forced you to leave; oh, there he was.
Matt seemed like the embodiment of both relief and temptation, sculpted into a single man sent to torture you in a deliciously way.
A white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing strong and pale forearms, his throat visible through the unbuttoned buttons, that small hint of dark chest hair, the thin chain from which he wore a pendant you couldn't quite place but imagined hidden beneath the fabric, his hair slightly disheveled from a rough day and the responsibility he chose to carry on his shoulders. The faint scent of the city streets clung to him along with his cologne; he had just arrived home from work.
He froze for a moment when he realized it was you, making you mentally slap yourself for not saying anything.
“Hey,” he began, “good evening.”
“Good evening, Matt,” you blurted out, the lump in your throat barely getting in the way.
He tilted his head, listening to the tremor beneath your words.
“What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
You swallowed, crossing your arms and hugging yourself against the sudden chill that enveloped you. “No, I mean, yeah. I don’t know, I needed to go out, I'm sorry.” You said, and he nodded, stepping away from the door and gesturing for you to come in.
“Thanks,” you replied immediately, glancing at him as you stepped inside. “You just got home from work, right?” You raised an eyebrow, taking in the place. The lights were off and his disheveled appearance was only illuminated by the moonlight and the city lights filtering through the numerous windows.
“Yeah,” he followed you, then went into the kitchen. You stayed in the living room, unsure of where to go until you followed him, and you decided to sit on the kitchen counter stool.
You could count on one hand the number of times you'd been to his apartment, but the trust between you was already strengthened.
“Long day?” you asked to fill the silence.
Matt smiles wearily, nodding. “I guess we both had a long day.” He crosses his arms, turning his back to the sink, facing you.
You lower your gaze, taking a deep breath.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” you laugh weakly, searching for a way to make this worthwhile and feel better in his company.
There’s a pause that drags on, and he’s the one who makes the first sound after it. “Hmm.” Your gaze still doesn’t rise.
“Does your mom know you’re here?”
There's a scoff from you while you're playing with your fingers. “Actually, she’s the reason I’m here.”
Matt frowns, already realizing the situation but allowing you to continue. “How so?”
You bite your lower lip, hesitant. It's probably not right to tell him about personal problems; after all, it's between mother and daughter, and this could put you in a bad position. However, it's not like you're thinking clearly, so you quickly ignore your conflict.
“We had a fight, again, this time a bigger one, and I didn't want to be with her.” Your finger tap the surface where your hands rest several times, and you hear him sigh. Your mind flashes a stupid movie because of his reaction and you already imagine that you're bothering him with your unwanted presence because, let's be honest, nobody wants to deal with a headache that includes mommy issues after work.
When you finish speaking, you hear Matt's footsteps. He starts walking towards a cabinet, his fingers expertly fiddling until he takes two glasses.
“You're giving me wine now?”
He paused, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, and you noticed his silhouette from behind; the dim lighting had divine benefits. “I’m offering you wine,” he replied, opening his refrigerator and taking out a bottle of wine that was already open but full enough to satisfy both of you. Then he walked over to you with both glasses in his hand and sat on the stool next to you.
“Do you even know if I drink?”
He tilted his head in that annoyingly perceptive way. “Can you?” that makes you smile, and he does too right after.
“Ha, ha, so funny,” your sarcasm was sweet in your voice, and he started pouring yours first.
“I’m serious,” he teased lightly. “I wouldn’t want to corrupt you.”
That made you think things more than you should, and you shook your head. “It’s just wine, Matt.”
“A strong one.” He finished pouring both glasses, and your hand reached for the fuller one, but he pulled it away. “Back off, that’s not yours,” he said, placing his hand on the bottom of your glass and sliding it towards you, making you frown.
“Why do I have the one with less?” you said, grinning as you took your glass.
“Too young. I’m not going to give you the one with more.”
“Whatever,” dismissing so you can bring the glass to your lips. Before taking a sip, you mimic Matt’s movements, swirling the glass in circles before drinking. You’re perfectly in sync, except for the fact that you take a long gulp of the deep red liquid, a perfect balance of acidity, bitterness, and lingering sweetness until it irritates your throat and Matt raises an eyebrow.
“Slow down,” he gestures with his hand. “You’re not supposed to drink it like that.”
“Mmm, it tastes good. Can’t resist.”
“Fair enough,” he agrees with a smile.
When the atmosphere finally feels somewhat better, he settles back in his seat, facing you. “So, what happened with your mother? If you want to tell me, I’m assuming that’s why you’re here.”
“It was stupid,” you say, even if the sudden pain in your chest disagrees. “She said I’m… emotionally shut down again, and to make things worse, she said I’m acting like my dad.” You mumble the last part because you can imagine how much worse it would feel to say it out loud.
Matt hums, taking a sip from his glass. “Hit a nerve.”
“Yeah…” a sigh, putting your elbows on the counter.
“I obviously told her that wasn’t true, I’m just like this because of finals, overthinking about my future, and fucking insomnia—you know, the problems of someone having a quarter-life crisis, but in her early twenties.” You laugh at your own misery. “She kept going on and on, insisting that I’m shutting everyone out because I want to.” You take another smaller sip, and Matt is already refilling your glass.
“...Which is funny because that's exactly what she's been doing for years, only she prefers to say I do it because of my father, but it's really for both of them.” You're surprised by how much you're opening up right now; maybe the wine is already kicking in, which would be ridiculous. “And I told her that, but she didn't take it well, and yeah, that went well.”
There's a long silence that isn't awkward but rather comforting, just for reflection.
“You have every right to be upset, comparing you to someone who was constantly leaving in every sense… It’s wrong,” Matt replies, with compassion for you. “But I also understand the reason for her distress; you’re her daughter and she’s worried about you. Especially since she knows you’re going through a tough time.”
You stop looking at your glass and turn your gaze to him. “I understand that, but the way she compared me to him and pressured me wasn't right. You can care about someone without being cruel.”
He takes a slow breath while choosing his words carefully. “People say cruel things when they’re afraid. Keep in mind that this person is your mother; you know she can be very attached.”
He has that quiet concern for you, the kind that feels like a hand on your back even though he hasn't moved an inch.
You think for a few seconds, considering that you don't entirely agree with his words. “Even so, it wasn't necessary. I'm not even a bit closer to being like a man who never cared about his daughter, Matt, and that's what she said.”
“I know, and I'm not saying you're like him, definitely not.”
You quickly add, “Hmm, you somehow made it sound like that.” You shrug, taking another sigh, and hear Matt sigh.
“Alright.” No more words, but you want to continue.
“How would you feel if someone close to you compared you to your dad?” You can see the corner of his lip curl into a wry smile.
You've touched a nerve.
“I'm afraid this isn't about me,” he then says, chuckling, and you raise your hands, feigning innocence.
“Just setting an example so you realize it’s not rational at all,” you joke, though there’s a lot of seriousness beneath it all.
More wine is served until Matt has to get another bottle and open it, so engrossed in conversation, changing the subject from time to time to the point that you both lost track of how many glasses you’d had. There are no complaints from either of you, just laughter, jokes, long glances from you towards him, silences that don’t feel forced, and silly anecdotes shared.
You finally realized how much you needed to escape your misery to enjoy the simple pleasure of conversation with someone important to you.
Matt is choking on his drink when you start talking again.
“You know what? I think the most stable person around me right now is you,” you casually remark, and you can see him almost fall off his stool, completely taken aback by your words.
His eyebrows rise. “Stable? How can you accuse me of something like that?” His mock indignation makes you roll your eyes.
“Oh, here we go,” there’s a small giggle coming from him, “I’m serious, like I know you have your own struggles, but you always seem to handle them well, or at least you know how to hide when you’re about to kill yourself or something. How do you do it?”
He lets his shoulders drop, releasing a tension you hadn't even noticed was there, his face lifting as if some strange, divine light were entering him. Which leads you to deduce that the shameless egomaniac was waiting for you to ask him something like that so he could get all philosophical or something.
“Lord… The things you make me do for people like her,” he murmurs playfully, and you reach out to punch him in the arm, only for him to start chuckling at your reactions, grinning like a sly cat.
“Stop, I’m being serious, dumbass, I need to know,” you almost sound whiny, and he takes pity on you.
“Okay, okay, first of all, I’m not as stable as you say,” he says, “however, I discovered from a young age that I can use my religion as an anchor. It wasn’t easy, of course, but I managed to make it work. I try to live in a way that allows me to find stability in my religious beliefs; that’s what has helped me.”
Listening attentively doesn't really help your case, thanks to memories of your experiences with religion and its lovely people who act worse than the very people they criticize. You swirl the wine, watching the light reflect in the glass.
“Sort of faith structure, huh,” you savor the words dancing on your tongue.
Matt nods and continues. “In a sense,” he reflects, “it gives me a point of reference that I can relate to my ethical principles, and from there, since everything I do is oriented to morality, it gives me a sense of continuity. It’s important to clarify that I don’t see religion as the same as morality; I’ve had people confuse them before,” he chuckles, “but they can be related; I can create a structure, and I also know I can rely on it to guide me towards something bigger,” he explains enthusiastically.
You lick your lips before answering, squinting to pick out what stuck from his words. “That’s what I’m having trouble understanding.”
“What is it that you’re having trouble understanding?”
“The fact that some people entrust their future to something they can’t see,” you say. “I need something tangible. I can’t trust things I can’t see or measure.” You make a vague gesture with your wine glass.
Matt nods with interest, understanding what you're trying to say but still wanting to make his words worth to comprehend. “But faith isn’t about proof; it’s about relinquishing the need for it in some cases.”
“And that’s exactly what I can’t do,” you sigh. “I’ve tried. I know that proof isn’t always necessary, and unfortunately, I once ended up trusting that the absence of it can bring, let’s say, the confirmation I was hoping for, but I can’t force faith. Isn’t that worse?”
“For sure,” Matt says calmly. “Forced faith is hollow because true faith takes longer.”
“So it would be like pretending you have faith until you actually feel you do?” you argue. “That still sounds like pretending.”
“It’s not pretending,” he replies serenely. “It’s a commitment to look beyond the visible.”
You snort. “That’s poetic— it doesn’t make it practical though.”
Matt’s expression shifts to a thoughtful one, analyzing. “You’re looking for certainty, which is something religion doesn’t offer. It offers meaning.”
“What if I don’t feel the meaning?” you ask. “What if it’s just… silence?”
He takes a deep breath. “Silence doesn’t mean absence, dear. Sometimes it’s an invitation to listen in a different way.”
His gentleness makes you feel serene, and something about the nickname dear makes your cheeks feel warm, though considering the amount of wine coursing through your veins, it might be mistaken for the wine’s effect rather than the nickname.
“That sounds like something a really patient person would say.”
“Or someone who’s learned to live with doubt,” he replies quietly. “After all, faith and doubt aren’t opposites, they coexist.”
The wine warms your blood, loosening the pieces inside you that you usually keep locked tight. “I admire that. I just—I can’t get myself there.”
Matt tilts his head, understanding as always. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t trust myself,” you admit. “I don’t trust how my mind jumps between beliefs, fears, even obsessions. I feel like I would misuse faith.”
“That’s not how it works,” Matt says, leaning slightly forward. “Faith can also count as a relationship.”
“With God?”
“With yourself,” he gently corrects.
You feel a knot in your chest.
Then you chuckle softly, not out of mockery, just exhaustion. “You say it so sensibly, as if faith weren't huge and unattainable.”
“It's a matter of difficulty, not unattainable.”
“Mhm… You really believe in all that?”
Matt nods, running his finger along the rim of his glass which he's holding in his other hand before taking a sip, and then you laugh for no reason, pointing at him.
“See—”
He raises an eyebrow to quickly add something before you finish speaking. “Well, now that's something I can't do.”
You frown in concern. “Don't do that!” He starts laughing at you, apologizing under his breath.
Despite the dark humor in that joke, he now allows himself to continue.
“What do you wanted to say?”
You glance at him before opening your mouth, “stable, you see, you’re stable.” He giggles again at how excited you sound saying that.
“You shouldn’t put me on a pedestal.” He mutters while shaking his head while it remains down, a small smile playing on his lips.
The funny thing is, you already did, many years ago.
“It’s not that... I notice things about you.”
“Right, right. And what else do you notice about me? If I may ask.”
There’s no question more dangerous than that. Your mind races with all the qualities you wish you could whisper to him while you’re sitting on his lap, begging him to listen to all the compliments you have to give him.
You hesitate, not wanting to blurt it out in a way that might scare him off, your tongue brushing the inside of your cheek as you search for the safer answer. The wine pushes a different one to the forefront, but just because you feel the inevitability of drunkenness doesn’t mean you’re an idiot incapable of choosing your words wisely in such a vulnerable state.
“You try so hard to be good, even when everything is fucking you up, you always try to get up, carrying the weight that struggles to keep you on the ground,” you murmur. “You’re compassionate, strong… and magnetic, yeah magnetic.”
The word leaves your mouth before you register it. Matt remains still, then tilts his head in confusion, interested in knowing more.
“Magnetic?” he repeats, feeling the weight on his tongue.
The burning in your cheeks travels down to your neck, your whole body telling you to stop and laugh and act like what you’re saying is due to the effects of fermented fruit. “Yeah.”
That “yeah” shouldn’t have come from your default responses.
He mulls over the word, trying to figure out if he misheard or if he wished he had.
“I'm not sure I understand.”
You swallow hard. “I mean... people are attracted to you, not just to what you project.” Your gaze travels over him, unable to stop, his jawline, his throat, the unbuttoned buttons that reveal just enough pale skin to take your breath away. “You have that pull.”
That awful silence you thought was gone returns, and you desperately want to know what's going through his mind after you basically called him a magnet. You want to know if what you said was strange enough to kick you out of the apartment.
But that would be an exaggeration, and he just sighs. You can see when he realizes something.
“...And, I’m going to take a chance and say you feel that pull.” He finishes for you, much to your surprise. Saying it as if it pains him, leaving you no choice but to nod.
Then there’s another silence that stretches so long it becomes a well that drowns you. You take the last sip from your glass until it’s empty.
Matt doesn’t know what to say, so he chooses to avoid the issue.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” he says, clearing his throat. “Wine can make you say odd things.” a tiny chuckle, maybe he's nervous, maybe he just fucking hates you now.
You shake your head, smiling half-heartedly. “I know what I’m saying. You don't have to act like I lost my mind.”
He reaches out to take your empty glass away. “Maybe not, but your judgment is a little fuzzy.” You feel the warning; it’s gentle and subtle because he doesn’t want to get into arguments or venture into uncharted territory about how you act when you’re drunk, but it’s still as clear a warning as any other.
“That doesn’t make it any less true,” you lean in just a fraction. “I didn’t choose the word ‘magnetic’ by accident.”
He licks his lower lip, thinking. “But it’s not the word you’d use if you weren’t a few drinks in.” A pause. “Plus, you’re upset, you had a big argument, and you’ve been—”
“Don’t do that,” you cut in, your voice rising. “Don’t write it off as wine effects.”
He goes still.
“I’m not attributing anything to mere wine effects,” he replies reluctantly. “I want to make sure you’re not confusing comfort with attraction.”
“I’m not. ” Nothing but biting back. “I know how I feel, and apparently, maybe I’m crazy, but you know it too.”
He has to push you away before your mouth opens without your permission, once again.
“You have no idea what you’re saying. Starting with this whole thing about feeling a pull towards me tonight, doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not just tonight,” you whisper, and the truth of it makes the cracks widen, finally releasing what’s been gnawing at you for so much longer, simmering until it’s raging, fighting to be free. “For years,”
Something in him freezes, then softens with guilt. He murmurs your name, making you want to scream. “What are you saying? you’re barely an adult and you had a terrible night, you drank, and you’re vulnerable, and I am—”
“You,” your voice trembles more than you’d like, because of everything you’re not saying.
Matt exhales through his nose, conflicted, studying the moment that’s about to unfold. “You know I’m not someone you should be attracted to. God, your heart is racing, you’re dizzy, you’re not thinking straight. Let me take you home, please,” his words only mixing with your litany of no, no and no.
You don’t even question why he knows your heart is beating so fast.
“I didn’t choose to be attracted to you. I never asked to feel things for you.” your tone of voice is weak and Matt brings his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he sighs, defeated. “I’ve known you since you were a teenager. I know exactly what you’re like and I know the kinds of things you struggle with, that puts you in an even more delicate position. Let’s not forget that I’m your mother’s friend, Christ. You shouldn’t be saying these things.”
His words sting, making you want to walk away, overwhelmed by the mortification of rejection.
But all of this is so tempting, so liberating.
Letting go of what’s been suffocating you is simply the best thing. There are tingles all over your body, urging you to keep going and push through whatever it takes to get what you want.
“You’re telling me you’re not into this?” you whisper, looking at him, watching the moonlight illuminate the rim of his glasses, a deep red obscuring what you long to see.
Matt shakes his head, “I’m into you not regretting something tomorrow,” he says more quickly. “And I’m into taking care of you when you’re not thinking clearly.”
Your breath shatters on the way out.
And to your rotten favor, he reaches out then, placing a gentle hand over yours, and it burns so good. “Come on, drink some water, let’s… slow things down, don’t make this more difficult.” He perceives the touch as something tender, covered in cloying sympathy that you don’t need, while you perceive it as an invitation.
With your free hand, you take his and feel him shake it away, but you squeeze tighter, bringing that hand to your chest, right where your heart pounds too hard inside your ribcage, his warm palm against fabric, the fabric a barrier between skin and skin.
“Stop it,” he murmurs, facing down in defeat, leaving you the path so easy, and this is your chance.
You rise from the stool to move closer to him, his hand still feeling your heart pounding for him. “This is what you do to me, and I think you’ve known it for a long time. You’re a good liar, Matt, but I know you too.” You lick your lips at how close you are to him, feeling his fingers tighten, his hand pressing deeper against your chest, and you gasp. You can see him now more clearly… His lips, the beard that beckons, his tense jaw. You want to feel the slight sting of his beard when you steal his breath with a bold kiss.
Perhaps if you move a little closer, perhaps if you bring your lips closer you can confirm that his lips are even softer than they look, perhaps you're certain that his beard will graze your skin in the most satisfying way, and suddenly you realize you've already tried it and now there's a strong hand squeezing your jaw, making your lips to bulge.
He's touching you, which means you leaned in closer than you thought.
“I told you to stop,” he practically spits, and your chest starts to rise and fall, your burning cheeks are being squeezed hardly by a strong hand, that same hand you've fantasized about countless times.
It's now or never.
You lean in quickly until your lips are pressed against his. He gasps, but doesn't pull away. You take advantage of his shock and begin kissing his still lips repeatedly, again taking his hand to place it on your heart that is beating so loudly it echoes in your ears. Matt doesn't respond to your small kisses scattered across his mouth, but he has already started panting while his hand is trembling where it rests.
And you were waiting for anything negative; a shout, a shove, a jolt, a fucking slap, but you never expected his lips to start moving against yours. There are no words exchanged while this happens, only loud sounds of mouths colliding as hunger and sudden need take over.
He gets up from the stool so you press yourself impossibly against him when he's standing, clinging to him, squeezing his shirt as you taste his saliva to quench your thirst.
So sloppy and it's what you've wanted most. Matt nibbles your lower lip, and it's as if he remembers his hand is on your heart and lowers it, gently cupping your breast, causing you to open your mouth to gasp into the kiss, only to be surprised by the vulgar insertion of his tongue trying to make contact with yours. The passion and pure lust with which Matt devours you plunges you into a frenzy. He massages your breast as he pleases and savors your wet mouth in the same way.
It's too much for you then you wrap your arms around his shoulders to pull him closer and he hums against your swollen lips thanks to his treatments.
The taste of the wine, the texture of your saliva, and that hint of sin drive him wild, and even though he's in a state of bliss, deep down he knows he's lost.
Thinking with his dick instead of his head, giving you exactly what you want when he knows best.
Your hand slides down to his clothed cock pulsing and pressing against you. You stroke it up and down through the fabric, and he pulls his hips apart from the sudden stimulation that affects his entire body, more susceptible than you expected, but you blame it on the alcohol. Matt moans needily and feverishly against your lips, playing with your tit now firmly. You feel your nipples harden with excitement.
“Turn around,” the hoarse command uttered between the painful kisses compels you to obey without question.
You feel the full heat of his body against your back, the way he pushes against your ass while his hands travel up your sides, tickling you with his fingers as he revels in your neck. You place your hands over his, squeezing them, guiding each other.
He ends up slipping his hands under your shirt, and you arch your back, panting. Curious and warm fingers trace your torso to your chest. You save him the trouble, reaching in from behind to unhook your bra. When it's loose, Matt gasps against the skin of your neck, finally feeling your hardened nipples in his palms. He gently squeezes your tits, captivated by how you push yourself closer to his boner when he squeezes harder, after he pinches the soft and perky flesh between his fingers.
He touches you until you're sore, finally lifting your shirt to expose your warm skin to the cold air of the room, and you whine at the exposure, the cold air hitting your sensitive tits making you hiss. You hear him whispering so many things that you're not sure if you're imagining them and you want to whisper so many things in his ear, but that seems to be his job for the moment.
After long seconds of pure, pleasurable torture to your chest, he pulls you closer to the counter and roughly bends you over it, causing your exposed breast to press against the cold surface, adding just a little more pleasure to your flesh. Matt's hand presses against your lower back, commanding you to lift your ass, and you do, even going up on your tiptoes so as not to disappoint him.
You've been waiting so long for this that you're so soaked and squeezing your thighs together in this position, waiting for him to pull down your pants and move your panties to the side so he can finally fuck you.
When both of his hands maneuver your pants out of his way, all you can do is tremble. Matt tries to remove them completely until they're in a pit at your feet. That's enough for him and you're pressing your forehead to the surface, closing your eyes, then there's your useless hands trying to grip whatever is within reach, consumed by euphoria and forbidden ecstasy.
You bite your lower lip until it bleeds, not understanding why you're still holding back from begging when he's already doing what you want, so who cares anyway.
“You can be rough,” you mutter, hoping he heard you, but he only responds with silence.
Matt pulls your underwear down until it's stretched taut and clinging to the flesh of your thighs, then your breath catches when you hear a zipper and the throbbing urge to turn around surges, and when you try to look over your shoulder, his rough hand on your head keeps you from turning your gaze to what you want to see.
The painful part of this restraint is that you can feel it, poking against your inner thigh, warm and hard, just for you.
And God help you, you want to see the blush on that flesh, you need to know if it looks as heavy as you imagine it on the head, you want to know if there's more skin on top, you're desperate to know if its head has the beautiful color of his lips, you need to know if the light gray hairs are also down there... How filthy can be your desire on seeing what you thought you could never witness.
“Stop squirming,” he bites firmly, his free hand squeezing your hip to make you stop.
“Not fair—this is not fair, Matt. I wanna see it, please, please, I wanna see you,” you whine, shaking your hips.
And he has the decency to laugh at you, mocking your frustration.
“Oh sweetheart, I want to see you too, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?” The sarcasm seem to control him, and you furrow your brow in annoyance when he gives a tiny tap to your butt, a reminder that there will be consequences if you continue squirming. “Now I’d like you to stop moving. You have no right to demand anything here.”
You try to obey him and keep your body calm, ignoring the way your blood boils, your nerves fray, and the unbearable sensation between your legs.
After what feels like hours, his tip is finally at your drenched slit, barely there, tasting a bit of your flesh. You immediately push back, but he keeps you still. Then he withdraws his cockhead and thin lines of your slick stick to his glistening tip.
Matt licks his currently dry lips, still moving it up and down, he repeats this a few times until it's unbearable for both of you. Then he runs the leaking tip along each side of your pussy, soaking you, parting your puffy cunt, sliding between your labia until it impacts your clit several times, eliciting embarrassing sounds from your lips, just teasing you for the sake of it.
Those gentle movements gradually intensify and you continue panting, waiting for the full-sized intrusion. You're so sure he can fill you up so completely that you'll squeeze him too tightly he won't be able to get off because you just want to milk him.
However there comes a moment when you realize he won't fuck you; his goal is to make you soaking wet and throbbing, sticky with your own desire and his until there's a mess between your thighs. You close your eyes tightly because you can hear him moaning, sensitive only from the overwhelming friction between his wet cock and your cunt.
You hear him swear, feeling his hands tighten on your overheated skin, and all of this isn't fair. You spread your legs, causing a clumsy slide, not working like it should.
“You're insufferable, do you know what orders are?” he barks as he positions you, squeezing your thighs together until there's a tiny gap between your flesh, right below your pussy. Before you can argue, he slides his length into that space, groaning at the tight sensation he'll soon become addicted to.
“It's not fair!”, the last word comes out in a squeaky voice as he hits your sensitive clit every now and then when his hips press against your ass, tip hooking below the little thing, fucking you like he's inside you. “I can't—mm—I can't feel anything like this, so at least let me fucking see!” That part is somewhat true.
On the other hand, Matt knows you're lying since the alcohol made your body feverish and tingly like an effective aphrodisiac. Your womanhood is wet enough to be vulgar. There are sweet tingles between your legs that travel to every corner of your body, leaving you throbbing and needy and he knows the restraints are arousing you more and more, so when his thrusts manage to make part of his cock slide right over that little knot of nerves, he moves slower, right there, obviously making you feel good too.
“Such a liar,” he huffs, drooling like some needy dog, his own sensory overload making him feel the familiar sensation of being close to the limit, his thrusts becoming uncontrolled because of how tight and soft the flesh of your inner thighs is, your pussy clenching around nothing when his cock accidentally presses against your entrance. “You’re enjoying yourself,” he purrs, parting your legs just a little, lowering his hand to grab himself and firmly tap his leaking tip against your clit, making you tremble and raise your hips.
Then he goes back to fucking your thighs, faster and more frantically, both of you moaning hungrily, his body pushing yours harder against the counter until you have no choice but to press your tits there.
One wrong move causes his cockhead to slam into your hole, just a little, barely enough to make Matt pull his hips away, sobbing loudly, his eyes fluttering behind his glasses. Your reaction is almost the same, except you push yourself further in out of sheer inertia, begging and whimpering when you finally feel him there, your pussy throbbing against fucking nothingness and it hurts.
“Just the tip,” you blurt, so fuzzy. “Matt, just the tip, that’s nothing, it’s nothing, come on, I want to cum and I can’t cum like this, we can—we can do that, please? ” you sob in pain, reaching behind you to see what the hell you can do with that, but luckily for you, he grabs them, squeezing your wrists behind your lower back.
“Oh God, oh God,” you mutter, and he squeezes your wrists tighter for the blasphemy.
“Watch it,” he says, breathless, with a hatred that wishes it were real, his words only adding to your sick arousal, feeling another wave of slick escape from you to wet his length.
If this is all you'll get, then you'll force yourself to come. You close your thighs tightly around him, making him mewl at the pressure on his flesh. His hips pushing into the heat and his body ends up lying on top of yours, the contact from behind drawing a pitiful, pathetic whine from you. His weight feels perfect enough to make you arch your back.
He continues rutting between your thighs, panting and crying against your back, and you didn't expect him to be this sensitive, this loud.
Matt babbles things you can't understand, drunk with guilt, your scent, your body, and the weight of sensations he shouldn't even imagine in his darkest fantasies. He's so aroused and wet it's indecent and humiliating because he could swear he's wetter than you, making a creamy disaster between your legs, even staining your mound, sweating all over until his damp clothes feel like knives against his skin.
He could fuck you, he could slide inside you, maybe just the tip like you begged him to. It doesn't have to be that much and he's so close to finishing that he probably won't last twenty seconds inside you. And oh, another sloppy slide makes his cockhead hit your entrance, and he mentally beats himself up at how despicable he can be.
A fucking degenerate, that's what he is.
He thinks the darkness inside him must be a living thing, writhing within his chest as his body presses closer to yours in an attempt to merge with you, whispering blasphemy dressed as desire.
Thoughts rush in and out of him as overwhelming as the way your thighs suffocate him, disgusting thoughts of what he could do to you, what he wants to do to you. The part that makes him sick and makes him hate himself is that some thoughts have never felt so right in the damaged part of his mind, as if the corruption were the divine aspect of the fact that he couldn't control his impulse when you crossed the line.
Somewhere beneath the heat, the pulse, and that trembling restraint, he wonders if you were ever untouched by this kind of darkness, or if he is the one who, from the beginning, was drawing you to this side that would steal any hint of purity. He can't stop thinking about it as you cry, whine, and leak on his thick cock, as his tip catches below your clit until you're aching, trying to reach your sweet release.
You are the temptation created to curse him, so beautiful and perfect that the thrill of taking you to a place from which you can never return seems more euphoric to him than trying to be the responsible and rational adult he is.
Two opposing parts within him are fighting to see which should remain in control, and right now the twisted part is winning.
All of this makes him want to cry; the tears make his eyes shine and sting, but perhaps the desperation is because his senses are screaming for a break and at the same time for him to come. He doesn't realize how viciously he's squeezing your body; he has the urge to stop to give you a breather, but you continue making those sweet sounds, babbling about how much you need to touch yourself, how you need him to fuck you... How can he let you breathe when you keep pushing him beyond his limits?
Skin against skin has never been more obscene. The fact that there isn't even penetration makes it somehow dirtier, more extreme because of the hypocrisy of not wanting to cross a line that barely exists anymore. Matt keeps fucking your pussy from the outside until it's swollen and sensitive, until the sloppy sound of it can be heard until your ears burn. The bruising grip on your hips makes everything so much worse for you, and you feel yourself getting closer to an orgasm that won't feel good because of the lack of right stimulation.
Weeping cock leaking fat drops of precum bobbing uselessly all over your groin until it's sticky. Your swollen clit begging for anything at the same time. Matt's so close to a pitiful release where all he wants is to come inside you, fill you up so good so you can learn a lesson.
The rhythm of his hips is desperate, but at least he freed your wrists a while ago, but they're still trapped beneath your body, still useless. Your sweaty cheek is pressed against the surface, drooling and whining with a horrible hunger, and your stomach clenches.
“Crossing boundaries like you did—fuck—you would make anyone so proud,” and even though he's running out of breath, he dares to speak. Obviously, arrogance has to be involved. “Did mommy and daddy never teach you what it means to respect someone's limits?” So cruel and delicious.
Tears threaten to escape your eyes at his cruelty, but nothing will stop you from responding. “Ah, I know you don't want to—to start a mommy and daddy conversation..."
You feel him sob softly against your back, and oh, poor Matthew, he reaches his limit just from your voice, his hips trembling and long lines of his milky release spurt out of him, staining your skin. His flushed cock rubs between your lips just a little longer, leaving you trembling and displaced, thirsty and burning for an impossible orgasm, and this is possibly the moment tonight when you want to burst into tears.
After a few seconds, you get so overwhelmed, “get off,” you muffle, squirming beneath him, trying to get him to stand up. But your whole body tenses when a hand cups your slick heat and you push against it.
“Be quiet,” he whispers right in your ear with the firmness of someone who doesn't like you very much. He hasn't moved his hand yet, making sure you're completely silent, and when you are, he starts moving it, touching your raw and soft flesh just to feel how ruined he left you. Then there are two fingers on either side of your clit, trapping the swollen little nub and pressing vigorously and your hips keep bucking against his hand, humping with so much hunger.
The position is so fucking uncomfortable, but those expert fingers playing with your cunt make you take everything.
Matt has a precise technique, so clean it's as if what he's doing to you isn't this dirty. You feel the sweet effect of his treatment all over while your thighs are tense, squeezing his hand so he doesn't dare pull away.
He starts moving his hand in circular motions without releasing your clit that is still trapped between his middle and ring fingers, pressing like he's trying to milk you, rubbing and manipulating what he can until you can no longer bear how close you are.
He brings you to an intense orgasm, quivering and gasping, feeling your entrance pulsing around nothing, more slick gushing out of you into his hand, breathless sounds escaping your lips as you try to cope with the pleasure he's giving you.
It's a silent climax, but that doesn't diminish its satisfactory intensity, the only thing that disappoints you somehow is the fact this happened without sweet words of encouragement, or cloying caresses to show that all this was enjoyed in a positive way. This only tastes like a mistake driven by carnal desire and feelings repressed during years of silent agony.
You can't bring yourself to care too much.
Eventually Matt pulls away from you—it takes him a while—fleetingly tucking his spent length back into his pants, giving you your space to recover.
There's sperm and other fluids now dried and cold on your skin, your limbs cramped from being in the same position for God knows how long, and you let out a huff as you pull away from the counter to adjust your bra and pull down your shirt, you don't want to pull up your pants for obvious reasons, but you do manage to put your panties back on, kicking your pants aside and bending down to pick them up.
Not a word is spoken, just the sound of each action.
Your gaze shifts to Matt, who's moved far enough away to get some water; once again, all you see is his back.
Now all that's left is to break the silence. You clutch your pants in your hands as you look at him, unsure of exactly how you should feel about his behavior. “I have to use your bathroom,” you say, glancing around, then back at him again, waiting for a response.
He doesn't speak as he points the way with the glass of water, his back still to you. You wish it hurt, but you can't dwell on it when you've just experienced something you'll replay in your mind for months, maybe years.
You murmur a tiny thank you and leave him to deal with what's covering you.
In his bathroom, you clean up the mess, caressing your skin as you go, obsessively paying attention to every spot he touched and marked with his impulses. It's probably necessary to convince yourself that you don't care in the slightest if he stops talking to you or distances himself from you and your mother with some lame excuse to hide the real reasons, because you've proven that you can get what you want sometimes.
When you come out of the bathroom, you find him with his head down and arms crossed, leaning against a counter behind him. A bottle of whiskey sits beside him, freshly taken from one of the cabinets.
You can't help but roll your eyes, thinking how ridiculous and predictable this is, and you approach him, hoping for some reaction. However, you get nothing, and you can't even read his expression.
“Just so you know,” you pause for a moment. “I'm not going to say a word about this.” You observe the subtle movement of his mouth, indicating a rather common emotion for him now that you've realized it.
“And I expect you to do the same,” you add. If he takes those words as some kind of threat, then that's his problem.
“Have a good night, Matt.”
He doesn't speak to you, there's no goodnight, no apologies, no remorse spoken aloud.
Only the sound of his apartment door closing and you heading home feeling fulfilled.
You leave, and as soon as the door closes, Matt's body shrinks in on itself because your presence has ripped something vital from him, at least he thinks that way while tears well up in his eyes, his damaged self-control unable to stop them. Thick tears slide down his flushed cheeks, sliding across his face without permission, born of a guilt so raw it burns his chest.
He tries to control his breathing, but aside from the mortification, the anger he struggled so hard to channel throbs violently in his temples as a vile punishment. To make matters worse, his apartment, which still carries your scent, feels smaller with each passing second as the walls close in managing to steal the air from his lungs while the lump in his throat swells until it hurts.
The man has to push himself forward to avoid collapsing from dizziness, and his hands land on the counter where the two wine glasses lie abandoned, that smell still lingering in the air, the nearly empty bottle he longs to blame.
He almost manages to stay still, but the ridiculous need to blame something other than himself makes his arm moves out sharply, sweeping away the delicate objects on the counter, and the glass shatters against the floor, scattering everywhere.
The crash does nothing to quell the chaos twisting in his chest. His knees finally buckle and he ends up sitting on the floor beneath all the sharp glass that bites at his skin when the weight of guilt makes it impossible for him to get up.
He tries to breathe despite the suffocating feeling, tries to convince himself that he should have stopped everything the moment you entered his apartment, should have paid attention to the implications and understood the dangerous path opening up beneath his feet. He should have recognized the change in your heart rate when you first spoke to him that night months ago, the softness you didn't even notice in your own voice, but he did... He should have left, should have built a wall, should have been better than this.
Your mother's presence creeps into his mind, the gravity of her trust on him, the warmth of her welcome into her home, and the pride mixed with worry she felt when speaking of you.
Matt imagines her discovering what just happened, and because of that, the betrayal fills the room like thick, suffocating smoke, settling on his skin and bones until it becomes a layer of dirt he can't wash away.
Your mother trusted him, let him eat at her table, allowed him to stay under her roof when he felt he couldn't bear his demons anymore, let him breathe the same air as you because she trusted him completely.
All he had to do was protect you from the evil that came from outside.
And the rot didn't come from outside; it came from him, crossing a line that exists for a reason, violating it until it broke, and taking another step forward.
She trusted him to protect you and to replace what went wrong years ago, a second opportunity to make things right this time.
The problem is that dear Matt corrupts everything he touches, he let every forbidden impulse breathe, he allowed himself to desire what he should never have touched when you admitted that your feelings were tainted by a longing that is natural for anyone your age.
But what is his excuse in this situation? What can he possibly use to cover up the fact that he defiled his own flesh and blood?
He feels like laughing maniacally at his hypocrisy, his mind drifting back to the times he complained about having a horrible father, a man whose ego seemed to have been more important in the end.
That's nothing compared to what Matt is now, because he swore he'd be better than the man who failed him.
Only for him to end up being an even worse father than his ever was.