Chapter 40
The morning light pulls me out of sleep.
With a yawn and a stretch, I fight through the thick grogginess blanketing me.
The softness surrounding me tempts me to sink back into the warmth, to surrender to the sleep still calling my name, but the feeling of something hot and hard pressed against my back jolts me fully awake.
Awareness hums through me, sweeping away the last traces of drowsiness.
When I open my eyes, I see the tattooed forearm draped over my waist, the silver watch glinting faintly in the light, and the ring I gave him for his twenty-second birthday. My heart stutters. Matt. I’m in Matt’s arms.
I shift, twisting in his hold, and find him already watching me—lazy smirk, half-lidded eyes, that familiar spark of mischief. The movement causes his hand to slide down to the small of my back, and heat ripples up my spine at the contact.
I don’t hesitate in reaching for him. My fingers trace the line of his chest, feeling the taut muscle under my palm, the steady heat radiating from his skin.
“Morning,” I sigh, but the tremor that slips through it betrays me.
His thumb draws idle circles against my skin, the kind of touch that I used to dream about wondering if we’d ever cross the clearly drawn line between us. But beneath it, there’s a hesitation, a stillness that doesn’t belong to him.
“Hey,” he says softly, his smirk faltering for just a heartbeat. The word lands somewhere between affection and apology.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels fragile, stretched thin with everything we said last night, and everything we didn’t.
I should say something. Ask what this means, what happens now.
But the weight of it all presses down on my tongue.
Instead, I trace the edge of his tattoo—the skull encased in a four-leaf clover that marks him as a member of the Four Points—pretending my heart isn’t racing for a reason that has nothing to do with desire.
His fingers still against my skin, like he’s gathering courage.
“We should probably talk,” he murmurs. His voice is rough with sleep, but there’s a caution in it too, a gentleness that makes my chest tighten.
I let out a small, breathless laugh that sounds nothing like amusement. “That sounds dangerous.”
He smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It usually is, with us.”
The truth of that hangs between us, heavy and familiar. I feel it in the way his arm tightens just slightly around me, as if he’s afraid that letting go means admitting this can’t last.
I shift onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, needing the space even though part of me aches at the loss of his warmth. “Last night was…” My throat closes around the words. I don’t even know what to call it. Too much? Not enough? Everything I wanted and everything I shouldn’t have?
He exhales slowly, eyes tracing my profile. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It was.”
Silence fills the room again, thick and fragile. I can hear the city outside—the buzz of traffic, a distant siren—but here, in this room, it feels like the world’s holding its breath.
“I don’t regret it,” I say finally, turning to face him. My voice is steadier than I expected. “But I don’t know what happens now. Nothing’s changed, not really. Sure, you’re no longer engaged, but I’m still public enemy number one. Ciaran would have a fit if he knew.”
Matt’s jaw tightens, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his eyes. “Neither do I. But what I do know is that none of that shit matters to me, Lil’. The only thing I care about is making this work, showing you I mean it when I say I’m not letting you go.”
He reaches for me then, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
The touch is tender, reverent. But there’s a weight behind it, a goodbye he’s not ready to say, a truth he’s not ready to voice.
Because, despite the conviction in his voice, we both know that we’re on borrowed time, unless he wants Salvatore or Jonathan showing up at my door.
I close my eyes, leaning into his hand even though I shouldn’t. Because we both know this isn’t just about last night. It’s about everything that came before, and everything waiting to break us apart again.
For a while, neither of us says anything.
The world outside comes to life, soft morning light spilling across tangled sheets, over the mess we made of the night before.
It feels fragile, this bubble we’ve built between dawn and reality, too perfect to last, but damn it, I want it to.
I want to stay here, in this moment where no one and nothing can touch us.
Matt’s stomach growls, breaking the silence, and I can’t help but laugh. The sound startles us both, easy and unguarded in a way that feels dangerous.
“Guess that’s our cue,” I joke, slipping out of bed and snatching up his shirt from the floor. I leave it unbuttoned. It hangs off one shoulder, brushing my thighs as I move, barely covering my chest, letting the red-inked vines wrapping under my breasts stand out in full, prominent display.
He props himself up on an elbow, watching me move. “That’s not fair,” he says, voice rough and amused. “You’re stealing my shirt and my sanity.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t leave them lying around, then,” I shoot back, heading for the kitchen.
He follows a few minutes later, hair still a mess, dark jeans hanging low on his hips, the button undone, the zipper half-lowered.
He looks wildly out of place in my tiny flat, yet impossibly, infuriatingly at home in it as he leans against the counter, watching as I put some bread into the toaster.
“Do you even remember how to make my coffee?” I tease, watching him reach for the mugs like he owns the place.
The fact that he knows exactly where everything is—despite never having set foot in here before last night—should probably unnerve me.
But who am I kidding? I’d be lying if I said the idea of him caring enough to memorise this little world of mine didn’t send a thrill straight through me.
After all… this is Matt. Distance was never going to mean space. And God help me, a part of me never wanted it to.
He arches a brow, voice low and amused. “Please. I’ve had that memorised since your phase of trying a new combination every day until you found the one that actually worked.”
“What can I say? There’s a million versions of a latte out there. I had to make sure I wasn’t missing out.”
I hand him a plate, brushing my fingers over his as I pass it. Electricity snaps between us, small but impossible to ignore. He smirks, but there’s softness in his eyes, the kind that makes my chest ache.
We fall into an easy rhythm—coffee, toast, a few bites of fruit neither of us really eats.
He teases me about my overcomplicated espresso order and I mock his inability to spread butter evenly.
The laughter feels almost normal, like we’re just a couple having breakfast on a slow Saturday morning instead of two people pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.
When he catches a crumb at the corner of my mouth with his thumb, my breath snags. He doesn’t move his hand right away. Just looks at me, eyes dark and searching as the silence stretches between us.
I look away first, clearing my throat and stepping back. “I, um… I have a stream scheduled for tonight,” I say, keeping my tone casual, though my pulse spikes anyway. The echo of his promise to fuck me on camera last night rings loud in my head.
His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”
I nod, busying myself with the mugs even though they’re still half-full. “I’ve pushed the schedule enough already. People start to notice when I disappear for too long.”
“Can’t have that,” he says, leaning back against the counter. There’s a faint smirk on his lips, the kind that says he’s thinking something I probably shouldn’t ask about.
I glance up warily. “What?”
He shrugs, too casually. “Just wondering what kind of stream we’re talking about tonight. Because if it involves lace and that look you gave me last night…” He trails off, his grin wolfish. “I might need to postpone leaving, in favour of making a guest appearance.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth. “You’re impossible.”
“Confident,” he corrects, stepping closer. “Supportive, even.”
“Supportive?” I echo, half laughing as he crowds into my space.
“Sure,” he murmurs, fingers brushing my hip. “I mean, shouldn’t a good boyfriend support his girl's job? Pay attention and know what could help her? Strictly for research purposes, of course.”
“Research,” I repeat dryly, but my voice softens at the end. He’s teasing, but beneath it there’s genuine ease, no bitterness, no edge. Just warmth and mischief and a trace of awe that he’s even allowed in this part of my life.
“Exactly,” he says, grin turning softer as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Besides, I like seeing you in your element. You’re different there. Comfortable. Untouchable. Free, like nothing from the real world could possibly touch you when the camera’s on you.”
I swallow, suddenly unable to find words.
For all his teasing, there’s a sincerity in his tone that makes my chest ache.
He’s always been so steadfastly supportive of my choice to cam, in a way I can’t quite wrap my head around.
You hear stories about men claiming to support you until they realise what that actually entails. But that’s never been Matt.
He leans in, whispering against my ear, “Still, if you ever need a co-star…”
“Matt,” I warn, but my laugh gives me away.
He grins, pressing a quick kiss to my shoulder before stepping back. “What? Just throwing it out there.”
I shake my head, laughing under my breath as I turn to rinse the mugs. “You are not joining my stream, Matt.”
“Oh, come on,” he says, voice dipping lower, teasing but threaded with that old familiar heat. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”