Chapter 19 Matthieu #2
Yet buried under all that bitterness was a quiet truth Matthieu could hardly admit to himself.
He was tired. So fucking tired of pretending.
Tired of being the strong one. Tired of carrying his isolation like it was a badge of honor.
He wanted—God, he wanted—just one person in the world he didn’t have to pretend with.
Someone he could break in front of and know they wouldn’t leave.
Someone who would see the worst of him and still choose to stay.
That kind of love wasn’t meant for people like him. He was too damaged, too complicated, too full of sharp edges for anyone to hold. Still, the thought clung to him like a bruise, faint and aching.
Kieran shifted slightly—the smallest movement, like he’d planned to come to Matthieu’s side before thinking better of it. Matthieu exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the weight of it all—the truth he didn’t want to admit but always circled back to.
“I can handle it,” he muttered.
“I know you can.” Kieran’s voice stayed maddeningly calm. “But you don’t have to.”
Matthieu’s gaze snapped to him, searching his face for the catch, the condition, the lie beneath all that softness. “Why?”
Kieran met his eyes without hesitation. “Because you’ve got too much on your shoulders already. Because I want to. Because…” He paused, swallowed. “Because I care about you, Matty. I always have.”
Forty-five minutes later, Matthieu sat in Kieran’s Jeep, heading north along Route 21. Some god-awful Top 40 hit played on the radio, Kieran tapping his fingertips against the steering wheel to the beat.
Matthieu could tell Kieran was doing his best to limit the nervous glances in his direction.
He was also failing miserably, as if he needed to check every minute or so in case Matthieu leapt from the vehicle halfway there.
The image of opening the door and rolling into traffic shouldn’t have been so appealing.
Matthieu tugged Kieran’s hoodie tighter around him.
It hung loose on his smaller frame, but the lining was soft, the sort of fleece that made you want to burrow into it like a cat.
Then there was the fact it belonged to Kieran—that he’d given it to Matthieu to wear.
Matthieu reveled in the caveman-like act of Kieran giving him something so obviously his. It felt claiming.
God, did Matthieu want to be claimed by this man?
He shut that thought down before it gained traction.
Kieran pulled off the highway into the hospital parking lot. Matthieu had assumed Kieran would drop him at the front doors and leave. Instead, he parked in visitor parking and climbed out after him.
“What are you doing?”
Kieran glanced around him like Matthieu might be talking to someone else, then raised a questioning brow. “I’m coming in with you to see your mom.”
“Is that a good idea?” Matthieu asked. When Kieran still looked confused, he added, “What if someone sees us together and tells the media?”
“So what? Aren’t we old friends? If anyone asks, I’ll tell the truth.”
“Which is?”
“We were close in college. I heard about your mother’s heart attack and wanted to show my support.” Kieran’s tone was matter-of-fact, like he hadn’t inserted himself into the center of Matthieu’s fragile mess of a life, like his presence didn’t make everything both easier and infinitely harder.
Matthieu didn’t have the energy to argue. He nodded once, turned, and strode across the parking lot without checking if Kieran was following. He didn’t need to. Kieran’s presence clung to him like a second skin.
Inside, the familiar antiseptic chill of places like this wrapped around him. Matthieu stuffed his hands into the pockets of Kieran’s hoodie, as if the leftover warmth might insulate him from everything ahead.
At the check-in desk, Matthieu gave his mother’s name to a woman who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. The fact he was making her do her job was an inconvenience.
“I’m her son,” Matthieu added when she kept staring, nonplused. It sounded like a guilty confession.
She nodded once, clicked her long nails against the keyboard, and frowned before looking back at him. “She’s in the ICU. Only immediate family is allowed visitation right now.”
She directed that last part to Kieran. Matthieu opened his mouth, a protest already forming—He’s with me. It’s fine. I can’t do this without him.—but Kieran’s hand landed gently on his back, grounding him.
“No worries,” Kieran said easily, like he hadn’t disrupted his whole day to be here. “I’ll keep busy. Go. Take your time.”
Matthieu turned to look at him—no inconvenience in Kieran’s eyes. No pressure. Just calm steadiness, like this wasn’t a big deal, like sitting in a hospital lobby alone while Matthieu faced his demons was exactly how Kieran wanted to spend his Friday after a eight-day road trip.
“Are you sure?” Matthieu asked quietly.
“I’ll be around. Text me when you’re ready.”
Matthieu wanted to say thank you, but the words felt too small for everything Kieran was giving him by being here. He just nodded, fingers tightening around the hoodie cuffs as Kieran settled into a seat and pulled out his phone, his large frame too long for the seats crammed awkwardly together.
“This way,” said a woman to Matthieu’s right. He turned to find a new nurse beside him, kind-faced, a stark contrast to the grumpy gatekeeper from earlier. “We need to get you a visitor’s badge, then I’ll take you up.”
He handed over his ID to the security guard, which, considering the mess he’d left his apartment in last night, he was lucky to still have.
A moment later, he was following the nurse through a maze of bleach-scented corridors.
The low hum of machines filled the air, broken only by the occasional intercom message or distant monitor beep.
The nurse made casual chatter, likely trying to fill the heavy silence that clung to Matthieu these days, but soon gave up when she realized her efforts were wasted.
Matthieu wasn’t trying to be rude. She seemed sweet enough. But he needed to save his social battery for whatever waited behind the ICU door.
“She’s been conscious since admission, but only in short bursts,” the nurse said. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re here. He’ll stop by with a full update soon.”
Matthieu managed a half smile, then pushed his way inside.
His mother looked small in the hospital bed.
Smaller than she had just a few weeks ago.
Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her graying hair clung to her temples, fine as spider silk.
Tubes snaked from her arms and her nose, trailing off the bed into machines that blinked quietly at her side.
The sight of her lying there—so tiny, so alone—knocked the breath from Matthieu’s lungs. Guilt hit him like a freight train. He should’ve come yesterday, the moment Julie called. Hell, he never should've let it get to the point where he couldn’t take the hospital’s call himself.
What if she hadn’t made it? What if she’d died before he got here to say goodbye? To think he’d stood on the phone with Julie and said he hoped that would be the case.
“Baby?” His mother rasped.
“I’m here, Mom.” She tried to shift, but he placed a hand on her thigh to steady her. “Rest for now. The doctor will be here soon.” It said everything about how weak she was that she didn’t even try to fight him.
The prognosis wasn’t great. The emergency surgery they’d performed when she was first admitted had been a temporary fix—a band-aid just to stabilize her. Doctors recommended at least two more procedures if she had any real hope of walking out of the hospital and not being wheeled out on a gurney.
She’d slept through the doctor’s visit and two rounds of vitals checks, her body too exhausted to stay awake. She stirred briefly at lunch, managed a few spoonfuls of soup, then slipped back into a restless, murmuring sleep.
Watching her like this was becoming unbearable. Matthieu was nearing the edge of what he could handle. It wasn’t like he could do much for her right now. He couldn’t sit there feeling helpless anymore.
Then there was Kieran, who’d been waiting for—Jesus—almost five hours. Matthieu doubted he was still there, but on the off chance he was, it felt rude to keep him any longer. He leaned forward and brushed a hand along his mother’s forearm, skin cool and slack beneath his fingertips.
“I’ll be back tomorrow evening,” he whispered—more because that’s what you were supposed to say than because he thought she’d notice his absence or care when she woke up alone again. “Just…”
What had he even meant to say? Just don’t die? Just get better? Just do us all a favor and put us out of our misery?
She didn’t move.
Matthieu slipped quietly out of the room. The same nurse from earlier gave him a small smile and a wave from where she leaned against the station. At least she seemed to have forgiven his earlier rudeness.
“I won’t be back until tomorrow night,” he murmured as he passed. “Will someone call me if there’s any change?”
“Of course,” she said softly, pointing him toward the elevators.