Chapter 5
MATTY
Morning comes with a shroud of confusion. My neck is stiff, and my legs are sore where they’re curled beside me. Blinking the sleep from my eyes doesn’t help, because it’s blatantly obvious that this isn’t my apartment.
I blink slowly a few more times, and then curse under my breath as a heavy weight bounces on my back.
“Pan-cake. Pan-cake.”
Dark eyes peer into my face, and the night before comes back in a rush.
Right. I was babysitting.
“Morning, Calum.”
His entire body is laid out across my back, head dangling from my shoulder, and I realize half a second too late that he’s going to fist my hair and tug it with all the urgency and inpatients of a toddler.
“Pan-cake!”
If I’m going to be spending any more time with this kid, then I’m going to have to develop a thick skull.
“Hold on, bud. Let me get up.”
I have to physically unfurl his fingers and let him slide down my back as I sit up. The muscles in my neck are tight, so I squeeze the sore spots and roll my shoulders until they loosen enough for me to stretch my arms above my head without much pain.
Cal is on the floor now playing with a wooden vehicle set, rolling them across the coffee table and laughing when they fly off the end. Other than that, the rest of the house is quiet.
I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and honestly I assumed if I did, Elias would wake me up and send me on my way.
Elias’ room is the only one in the house I haven’t been in. He locks it when he isn’t home so Calum doesn’t go in and trash the place.
“Cal gets free reign of the entire house. Everything that he isn’t allowed to touch has to go here.”
The door is cracked open, but I still knock. There’s no answer, so I try again. When that still doesn’t work, I toe it open a few more inches.
The room is dark aside from the light peering in through the curtains, and the walls are a deep indigo. It’s fitting that the comforter tossed across the bed is a dark blue and black checkered pattern.
I tell myself that this isn’t a problem; I’m not crossing some imaginary boundary. Cal is hungry, and I know fuck all about what he eats, where the cooking supplies are, or even if I’m allowed to touch any of it. It makes perfect sense for me to check with Elias first.
But when I round the side of the bed and see his drooling, sleeping face half buried under a pillow, I don’t have the heart to wake him up.
His night was long; who knows how long after coming home, and I haven’t looked at a clock yet this morning, but I get the feeling by the softness of the light outside that it’s still pretty early.
Instead of bothering him, I turn right back around and close the door exactly how I found it.
It was a flimsy excuse to want to see him. I know how to make pancakes, and I might be short, but I’m no stranger to hopping onto counters to search through cabinets.
Ten minutes later, I’ve got a bowl of pancake mix, a warm pan, and a very worn out spatula at the ready.
My breakfast at home is usually some variation of toast, but Riley and I used to make pancakes and waffles and the whole spread on the mornings we got to spend together when neither of us had practice.
My chest burns, and I scrub at it as if that’ll rub the sensation away.
One day. Someone will look at me the way Riley did. Someone will accept me in my entirety, no qualms or stipulations.
I get the first pancake flipped over before I realize I need something to put it on, so I go searching through the cabinets until I find a stack of ceramic plates.
Three full sized pancakes down and a set of small ones finishing on the pan later, I switch off the heat and go to seek out some syrup, turning straight into Cal standing directly behind me.
“Pan-cake!” He reaches around me toward the stack of pancakes, and when I throw a hand out to keep the entire plate from falling, my arm grazes the side of the pan.
A sharp pain blazes across my skin, and I jerk back, accidentally knocking Cal and in turn causing him to yank the plate of pancakes to the ground anyway.
It shatters, a few stray pieces scattering over Calum’s bare feet. He jumps back, arms flapping, and hopping from foot to foot.
“Oh no. Oh no.” It’s like the room turns into a cave, the sentiment being echoed on repeat, becoming increasingly more alarmed.
I crouch down to make sure he doesn't have any scrapes or pieces of plate stuck in his feet, but each time I try to touch him, he shouts and bangs his hands on my head.
Still, I forcibly grab each foot and look him over, and it's both of his hands coming down on my head and yanking the hair like he's genuinely trying to rip it out that does me in.
“Ow, shit. Please, stop it, Cal.”
I don't want to snap at or hurt the kid, so I'm half paralyzed trying to figure out a way to calm him down when a warm, comforting palm lands on the back of my neck, fingers wrapping around and squeezing gently.
The hands in my hair fall away, followed by the one on my neck, and for a few minutes I’m alone.
A headache is already throbbing at the base of my skull, and I spot a couple of cuts and scrapes on my ankles and hands from grappling on the ground with Cal.
I’m not in nearly as much pain as my pride is. Making breakfast should have been an easy task, but I got flustered and clumsy, and now I’m crouched on the ground picking pieces of ceramic off the floor and fitting them into my hand.
Tears prickle at the corner of my eyes, and I rapidly blink them away.
I have all of the big pieces cleaned up and tossed into the trash by the time I hear footsteps, and I glance over to see Elias stop in the entryway, hair tousled and in nothing but a pair of pajama pants.
Normally I’d at least acknowledge the attractive look to myself if not make a joking comment about it, but the slimy guilt coating my lungs doesn’t let me get it out.
To his credit, Elias doesn’t look angry. Or upset. Just contemplative. As his eyes roam over my body, growing wider by the second, his expression morphs into concern.
“Matty.” He takes three long steps toward me, arms forming a cage around my shoulders and locking me against his chest. I’m at eye level with his collarbone, and as soon as I breathe in the mix of some generic ocean scented body wash and Elias’ natural nighttime sweat, those tears rise up with a vengeance and pour over.
“It’s okay,” he says softly into my hair. “I should have warned you about the meltdowns.”
I try to shake my head, but he’s holding me too tight to move. All I can do is use his skin to soak up the waterfall of tears and wrap my arms around his back to minimize the trembles rippling through my limbs.
“He’s alright. He’s not hurt. Just a little miffed. He’s calming down in his room. You, on the other hand.” Elias anchors a hand on the back of my neck again. “I’m sorry. Normally Cal wakes me up when he wants something.”
I laugh, but it comes out as more of a hiccup. “‘S fine,” I mumble once my throat stops feeling like it’s going to summon an ocean of sobs. “None of it hurts that bad.”
“Still.” He gently peels me away, and while I’ve got the tears under control now, I can tell by the bleeding heart in his eyes that my emotions are quite the opposite.
“Don't worry,” I tell him, rubbing the heel of my hand into my drying eyes. “This is all just me being a klutz because I wasn't wearing my hearing aids so I couldn't hear Cal trying to get my attention.”
His brows furrow, and his lips pinch shut. “Where are they? Need me to get them for you?”
I start to say no, but the genuine care etched into his face stops me.
“Yeah, actually. They're in a box on top of the bookshelf. I was trying to keep them out of the kiddo’s reach.”
I've never noticed how large Elias' hands are before. Not in a beefy kind of way, but long and thick with rough skin coated in callouses. He squeezes my neck one last time, and then wanders off to the living room.
“Here.” He hands the box to me, and my ribs tighten around my heart.
“Thanks.” It takes a couple of seconds for me to put them in and adjust the volume where I want it. The static that plays at the lack of input slowly tapers out, and I give Elias a wobbly smile. “Sorry again. I’m not usually a crier.”
Elias’ hands twitch at his side, and when I think he might reach for me, he folds his arms over his chest. Which—honestly—is just as good, because the muscles on this man are pleasant as hell to look at.
I guess I’m starting to feel better.
“I don’t mind letting you cry on me.” His face darkens a shade, but his eyes are still patient and kind. “Cal didn’t mean to hurt you. Not for the purpose of hurting you, anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.”
“I’m sorry I handled it so poorly.”
This time he does reach for me, grabs both of my hands in his and stares earnestly into my eyes.
“You did nothing wrong.”
Why does he have to look at me like that? Talk to me like that? I want to kiss his stinking face for making my heart pitter patter like a kid in the schoolyard.
I’m going to do something very wrong if he keeps touching me like this.
Just when I think I can’t take his soul searching stare anymore, he breaks away. His hands go back to his sides, and his head tips toward the ceiling.
“Cal has therapy at noon for a couple of hours. Why don’t we patch you up until then, and I’ll take you home?”
That … sounds like a good idea. In all honesty, I should grab my stuff and walk back now, give this attraction a chance to simmer down, but I don’t want to give it up just yet.
Things will cool off once I’m alone in my apartment and my usual routine falls back into place. I want just a little bit more time to bask in the glow of this flirting/not quite precipice.
My tongue feels numb as I nod, and the rest of my body turns to pins and needles wherever Elias’ touch lands. His hand pulls mine. Pressing on my shoulders until I sit on the lidded toilet. Fingers on my knees, trailing down my calf and swiping with alcohol swabs, covering scrapes with band-aids.