1. Mira #2
I grab a handful of toilet paper and press it against my chest, gritting my teeth against the ache.
This is hell. Being here is hell. Having no one—not Mom, not my friends who are probably at a party right now, not even myself anymore—is hell.
The paper soaks through almost instantly. I grab more, pressing harder, willing my body to stop betraying me.
Two months. I just have to survive two months of this, and then I can leave. I can go back to my friends, where I can drown my sorrows at parties and never look back.
I close my eyes and focus on breathing, on the pressure of my hands, on anything except the hot tears sliding down my cheeks.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and reach for my bag, fingers fumbling through the contents. Wallet, phone, charger, makeup pouch?—
No pump.
My stomach drops. I tear through the bag again, checking every pocket, every corner, even though I know it's pointless. The stupid thing is sitting on my dorm dresser, exactly where I left it this morning.
"Shit." The word comes out strangled as fresh pressure builds in my chest. The ache spreads from my nipples through the tissue itself, a deep, throbbing discomfort that makes me want to curl into a ball.
I press both palms against my breasts, trying to ease the tension, but it only makes it worse. My body doesn't care that I'm stuck in a bathroom in the middle of nowhere with no relief in sight. It just keeps producing, keeps building, keeps?—
The door swings open with a soft creak that cuts through the silence like a blade.
I freeze completely, every muscle in my body locking up as if I've been hit with a jolt of electricity. My heart stops mid-beat, suspended in that awful moment between one breath and the next.
Matt fills the entire doorway, his massive frame blocking out the hallway light behind him.
One large, tattooed hand still grips the brass knob, his knuckles tense and pronounced.
For a split second, he's just standing there, probably expecting to find an empty bathroom, maybe coming to grab something or check on a leaky faucet.
Then his dark eyes land on me.
They go impossibly wide, pupils dilating as they lock onto my bare chest—onto my exposed breasts with their flushed, sensitive skin and the telltale dampness that I can't hide.
His gaze takes in everything: the crumpled tissues scattered around me, the desperate way I'm hunched over myself, the mortified expression that must be painted across my face in vivid detail.
Time stops. Again. Just like it did on the porch, except this time I'm half-naked and leaking and completely exposed.
His jaw goes slack. His gaze drops to the drops beading at my nipples, the wet tissue paper clutched in my hands, the red flush spreading across my skin—and just... stays there.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Doesn't even blink. Like he's frozen.
Heat floods my body, a rush of pure adrenaline mixed with something darker, something that coils low in my belly and makes my breath catch.
Matt swallows hard, his throat working. His chest rises and falls, slow and deep, like he's trying to remember how to breathe.
"Sorry." The word comes out rough, almost strangled. He blinks once, twice, his eyes finally snapping back to my face. "I didn't—the door wasn't?—"
Pink spreads across his cheekbones. His hand tightens on the knob, knuckles going white, and he takes a step back.
"Sorry," he says again, already turning away.
The door starts to close.
And something wild and reckless sparks in my chest.
Mom wants me to behave? Wants me to smile and be grateful and pretend like everything's fine?
Screw that.
"Wait." My voice comes out breathy, almost a whisper.
Matt stops. The door hangs half-open, his massive frame silhouetted in the light from the hall.
My heart slams against my ribs. My skin burns. Every nerve ending lights up as I meet his eyes through the gap.
"You can come in." I bite my lower lip, watching his pupils blow wide. "If you want. I could use... help."
His jaw clenches. His gaze drops to my chest again, lingering on the curve of my breasts, the fresh drops sliding down my skin.
"Mira." His voice is low, warning. "You don't know what you're asking."
"I know exactly what I'm asking." I take a step toward him, emboldened by the hunger written all over his face. By the way his massive chest heaves. By the bulge already straining against his jeans. "My pump's back at school. Everything hurts. And you're here."
His nostrils flare. His free hand curls into a fist at his side.
"We shouldn't."
"Probably not." My lips curve into a smile—the first real one since I got here. "But I really need someone right now. And you look like you want to."
Matt's eyes burn into mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat.
His massive chest rises and falls in a rhythm that's grown noticeably faster, each exhale deeper than the last, and I can see the internal war playing out across his ruggedly handsome face—desire battling against whatever moral boundaries he's trying to maintain.
The muscle in his jaw ticks repeatedly as he grinds his teeth, his dark brown eyes flickering between my face and the evidence of my need still glistening on my skin.
The silence stretches between us, thick with tension and unspoken want.
I can practically feel the heat radiating off his sun-bronzed body even from here, can see the way his heavily inked arms remain rigidly at his sides as if he's fighting the urge to reach for me.
His knuckles are white where his hands have curled into fists, and there's a wildness in his expression that I've never seen before—raw and hungry and barely leashed.
Then something shifts. Some invisible line gets crossed. The careful control he's been clinging to finally snaps.
He steps inside my room with deliberate purpose, his massive frame filling the doorway completely before he moves past the threshold.
The floorboards creak softly under his weight as he turns to face the door, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the hallway.
His movements are measured but charged with barely contained energy as he reaches for the handle.
The door closes with a soft thud that seems to echo in the sudden quiet of my room.
The lock clicks into place with a finality that makes my pulse race even faster.