20. Matty
Matty
It was official . . . I was never eating another potato again.
Or at least, not until Christmas Eve dinner.
Here I was, scrubbing the last casserole dish that just a couple of hours ago had contained enough cheesy potatoes to feed a small army, about three seconds away from stripping off my jeans to make room for the food baby I was definitely sporting.
“Never again,” I muttered to the suds.
Mo lifted her head from where she was sprawled across the back of the couch cushion like a furry sausage roll, giving me some side-eye. She had zero room to judge. She’d had three helpings of turkey and at least two sneaky pieces of cornbread from Diaz’s plate.
“Stare all you want, baby. Your new diet and exercise regimen starts tomorrow morning.”
Just as I reached for an empty wine glass, a hand slid around my waist. “Are you body shaming the dog again?”
I snorted. “No, I’m shaming her dealer.”
Diaz gasped behind me.
“Excuse me? I prefer treat distributor.”
I smiled despite myself. “Well, Mr. Treat Distributor, you’re welcome to join us on our morning run tomorrow.”
“Works for me.” Warm lips pressed against the back of my neck. “Want any help?”
“Sure. Unbutton my pants.”
He froze. “I meant with the dishes, but okay.”
I laughed softly and leaned back against him. He was warm from the fire and smelled faintly of red wine and whatever cologne he’d worn tonight. At some point, he had changed into one of my hoodies—the navy one with the faded university logo across the front.
I couldn’t even scold him for rolling the sleeves up to his elbows and stretching them out. Not when he looked that cute.
“Not for that,” I clarified. “The damn buttons are digging into my belly and my hands are sudsy.”
“Tesoro, I will always help you unbutton your pants.” I groaned when he did just that, and then lowered my zipper. “All you have to do is ask.”
Another kiss. Just below my ear this time.
“Thank you.”
“Happy to be of service. I live here now.”
I nearly dropped the glass back into the sink.
“You do?”
He grinned against my neck. “Not yet. But I thought I’d try it out and see what happened.”
I barked out a laugh. “Bold of you to announce your squatter status while your hands are literally in my pants.”
Diaz hummed, clearly pleased with himself, and gave the waistband of my jeans a little tug so they sat more comfortably on my hips. “Consider it a trial run. You haven’t kicked me out yet, so I must be doing something right.”
He pressed one last kiss to the side of my neck, then stepped back. I immediately missed the warmth of him.
“I’m gonna head upstairs for a few minutes,” he said, already backing toward the hallway. “Holler if you need me to come unbutton anything else.”
“Tease.”
His grin flashed in the low light. “Only for you, tesoro.”
I watched him disappear up the stairs, savoring the sway in his hips he didn’t even realize he had, and felt something warm settle in my chest. When I turned back to the sink, my hands moved on autopilot while my eyes wandered around the kitchen and beyond.
Diaz might as well live here. There were already signs of him everywhere.
His favorite mug—the one that said “I’m not arguing. I’m just explaining why I’m right” in bright rainbow letters—sat on the counter next to the ridiculously expensive espresso machine he had insisted on bringing over from his place.
His jackets took up more than half of the coatrack, along with a couple of the knit scarves that he matched to his socks.
The book he had been reading aloud to me the other night—a romantic thriller that had caught his eye during our last visit to Nessa’s bookstore, Smutty Buddies—was still splayed open on the side table by the couch, a Post-it note sticking out of it because he always forgot to use an actual bookmark.
Even the fridge had been Diaz-ified.
The inside was packed full of his favorite protein drinks, string cheese, and guava jam. The outside has been decked out with the magnetic poetry set he had bought on a whim, which he used to spell out increasingly filthy haikus that never failed to make me blush.
Including today’s poem, which he had crafted sometime between setting the table and pulling the rolls out of the oven:
Hot meat in the mouth.
Sloppy mess upon the chin.
Wait, I want some more.
Mm, just like the first Thanksgiving. You know, minus the colonialism and displacement of Indigenous peoples.
Most nights, Diaz ended up in my bed. Most mornings, I woke up to him humming off-key in the kitchen while he made us both coffee and prepped Mo’s breakfast. His toothbrush lived in the holder next to mine, and half his clothes had migrated into my closet.
It should have felt fast. Overwhelming, even.
Instead, it felt . . . right.
Like my house had been waiting for him to fill it up with noise and socks and unfiltered opinions about how the serum that transformed Steve Rogers into Captain America had actually been derived from the heart-shaped herb that grew in Wakanda.
I finished the last of the dishes and turned on the dishwasher. A small laugh bubbled out of me when my eyes caught on my open pants.
Right.
I was standing alone in my kitchen, fly undone, because my boyfriend had lovingly unbuttoned me after our first Thanksgiving together. The boyfriend that, much to my surprise, my family couldn’t wait to meet.
I smiled to myself and reached for the dish towel.
My phone buzzed on the counter. I picked it up, expecting a text from one of the guys saying they’d left something behind.
Instead, it was an email notification.
Subject: PeteRoseCity9 has sent you a private message.
That username.
I hadn’t seen it in months. Hadn’t even thought about it in forever, yet here it was, staring back at me from my phone screen.
I audibly gasped, and it must have been loud enough to wake the dog because she went from dead asleep on the back of the couch cushions to “must protect my daddy at all costs” in the blink of an eye.
“You’re fine,” I crooned. “Go back to sleep.”
I leaned back against the counter, my thumb hovering over the notification. Upstairs, I could hear muffled footsteps and the sound of Diaz opening and closing drawers.
The little flip in my chest turned into a full-on gymnastics routine.
There was absolutely no reason for me to be this nervous, and yet my pulse had picked up. I swallowed and clicked the link.
It was a new story, only this time it hadn’t been published on his main page. No, this one, titled Sweet Home Alabama, was just for me. I read:
The living room was dark except for the soft glow of the television. A 90s rom-com played quietly in the background, but neither of them were really watching anymore.
Matty was stretched out on the couch, his long, bare legs draped across Diaz’s lap. Mo was curled into a perfect little cinnamon roll beside them, snoring softly against Matty’s thigh.
Diaz reached for the bowl of popcorn resting on Matty’s stomach just as Matty snatched it out of his grasp.
“You’re hoarding the popcorn,” Diaz accused, narrowing his eyes. “Pass the bowl, please.”
Matty grinned and popped another kernel into his mouth.
“My house, my corn.”
Diaz’s fingers walked up Matty’s thigh. “Don’t play with me, tesoro.”
“You love it when I play with you.”
“You want to play? Okay. I’ll trade you a fact about myself for every piece of popcorn you feed me.”
Matty raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Deal.”
He plucked a single kernel from the bowl and held it to Diaz’s lips. Diaz took it gently, eyes locked on Matty’s when the tip of his tongue slicked over Matty’s fingers.
“I like watching you bake.”
Matty rolled his eyes. “I already know that.”
“But you don’t know why I like watching you bake. You get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating. It’s fucking adorable.”
Matty’s cheeks flushed, but he smiled. “I appreciate the flattery, but I was hoping for something more personal.”
“More personal than wanting to lick the crease between your eyebrows?” He bit back a smile when a blush crept up Matty’s neck. “Popcorn me.”
Matty fed him another piece.
“I’m terrified of thunderstorms,” Diaz said softly.
“Since when?”
“Since I can remember. Even as a kid, I hated them.”
Matty’s expression softened. This time, he tossed a kernel into the air, and Diaz caught it on his tongue.
“I cried during the finale of The Good Place,” Diaz continued, crunching down on his salty prize. “And I’m talking full-on ugly cried. I had to pause it twice.”
Another kernel. Another smile.
“I keep a box of every ticket stub from every movie I’ve ever seen. Even the bad ones.”
Matty’s heart flipped over in his chest. When he fed him the next piece, he let his fingers linger against Diaz’s lips.
Diaz caught his wrist gently.
“Oh, there’s one more thing,” he said, every ounce of playfulness slipping out of his tone.
“I am so out of my mind, ass over heels in love with you, Matty Miller. Not the version I wrote about in all those stories, but the real Matty Miller. The man who alphabetizes his spice rack and can quote The Princess Bride on command. The man who makes this house feel like home.”
Matty stared at him, popcorn forgotten.
The movie continued playing in the background, but the only thing he could hear was the steady beat of his own heart.
“Yeah?” he whispered.
“Yeah.”
Without missing a beat, Diaz leaned over and kissed him.
There was no teasing, no playful challenge to his kiss.
Just the quiet, certain press of lips that felt like a promise.
A promise of lazy mornings tangled in sheets and a lifetime of nights like this on the couch with Mo snoring between them.
Of every ordinary, beautiful day they would get to build together from here on out.
When they finally pulled apart, Diaz rested their foreheads together. “Come to bed with me, tesoro. Let me show you how much I love you.”