Chapter 39 #2
Matthew takes in the scene at a glance: my startled expression, the spreading pool of coffee. His own expression shifts instantly, concern replacing the guarded distance.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, approaching me. “Are you alright? Show me—” He reaches for my hand.
“I’m fine,” I say curtly, turning away from him and grabbing the roll of paper towels. “Where did you put my clothes? I really need to change.” I tear off a sheet, but it rips unevenly, leaving a jagged edge. “Shit…” I mumble.
“They’re in the dryer,” he says, his voice neutral. “I was coming to take them out for you.”
“Here—” he starts to say, but I cut him off.
I crouch down and start wiping at the coffee on the floor, my movements quick and jerky. I can feel his gaze on me, but I refuse to meet his eyes.
“Amy…” he begins, his voice a low murmur.
I scrub at the floor with unnecessary force, the paper towel shredding in my hand.
“Hey, hey…” He crouches down beside me. His hand reaches out to cover mine, stopping my frantic movements.
I resist, trying to pull my hand away, but he holds on. His grip firm.
“It’s okay. Leave it.” He tugs gently, and I reluctantly let go of the soggy paper towel.
Before I can react, he reaches for me. His hands firm on my arms as he pulls me to my feet. He guides me gently, insistently, to the round wood table. He pulls out a chair and presses lightly on my shoulders.
“Sit, please.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
I sink into the chair, cradling my stinging hand in my lap, shame heating my cheeks.
Without another word, Matthew walks to the stainless steel sink, sidestepping the mess on the floor. He turns on the tap, wets a clean, dark grey dish towel, and wrings out the excess water with a sharp, decisive twist of his wrists.
He walks back to the table, the damp cloth held loosely in one hand. His professional mask is mostly back in place, smoothed over the exhaustion I can still see shadowing his eyes.
But as he looks down at my hand, I see it.
Just for a second.
A flicker of genuine concern softening the stern line of his mouth before it vanishes.
“Let me see,” he whispers.
He gives me no chance to protest, crouching down beside my chair. His fingers close carefully around my wrist, avoiding the reddened skin. He lifts my hand from my lap, bringing his intense green eyes level with mine as he examines the burn.
It throbs and stings, looking an angry pink.
He lays the damp, cool towel across my knuckles and fingers. The relief is instant, a blessed cold balm against the fire. He holds the cloth there lightly with one hand, his thumb resting just above my wrist like it’s tracking my pulse.
He’s so close.
Close enough that I can see the intricate knot of his silk tie… the individual strands of his styled hair…
Close enough to smell the crisp scent of his cologne and laundered shirt…
I stare down at the dark crown of his bent head, my breathing shallow, caught in the suspended quiet.
When he finally looks up, the full force of his gaze hits me, stealing the breath from my lungs.
“Are you alright?” he asks in a gravelly whisper.
All I can manage is a quick nod, biting my lower lip against the swirl of potent emotions.
His expression falters, softening for the barest moment before the mask of neutrality resettles. He returns his attention to my hand, assessing the burn with a focused detachment that feels worlds away from the man I was just with last night.
The stinging has definitely eased, leaving only a dull throb.
Refolding the damp towel into a neat pad, he lays it lightly over the burn. He releases my wrist, but his fingers trail over mine for a fraction of a second too long.
A faint echo of that wildfire sparks through me.
Then he rises smoothly to his full height and takes a small, deliberate step back from the table.
A boundary.
He’s putting it back in place between us.
“Keep that on for a bit,” he says with a brief nod at my hand.
Returning to the counter, he gets two fresh mugs and fills them with coffee. The rich aroma, which I’ve always found comforting, now makes my stomach churn.
Matthew carries the steaming mugs back to the table. He places one in front of me and sets his own on the opposite side before sitting down.
“That should be cleaned up,” I mutter to my lap, unable to meet his gaze. “It’ll stain.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he dismisses. He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the styled perfection, before settling around his mug.
His eyes find mine again, the guardedness locking back into place. “Amy,” he begins. The single word, spoken in that controlled tone, holds all the weight of the conversation he insisted upon. “Last night…” He pauses, seeming to choose his next words with deliberate care.
“I-I should get to the café.” I fill the silence quickly, my words sounding weak. “Helen will lose it if I’m not there for the morning rush.”
He doesn’t reply right away. He just sits there, pinning me with his gaze, his expression blank.
The silence stretches thin and taut until it feels like it might snap.
“Sorry about last night. I completely lost it,” he says finally, flatly. His eyes fix on some point across the room. “I shouldn’t have…” He trails off.
Panic rises, blocking my throat.
He regrets it.
He regrets us.
It was too much. Tangled up with violence and grief and things I don’t understand about his past.
My stomach plummets, leaving a hollow, aching void.
I drop my gaze instantly, afraid he’ll see the sudden sting behind my eyes. Afraid he’ll see my fragile composure crumbling. I stare fixedly at the dark coffee, wrapping my trembling hand around the ceramic warmth, needing something to hold on to.
“It’s okay.” I try swallowing the lump in my throat, striving for a neutral tone to mirror his. “I understand.”
Liar.
I understand nothing except this crushing disappointment.
The silence stretches again. I hear him shift in his chair. Risking a quick glance through my lashes, I see he is looking at me. His brow is furrowed slightly, his expression a blend of confusion and concern.
“Amy…” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table.
His gaze searches mine, demanding I look up properly.
“It wasn’t right,” he clarifies. “You shouldn’t have seen any of it.” He shakes his head, looking down at his hands clasped tightly around his mug. “The things I said… I did…” He looks up again. I can see the deep shame swimming in his green eyes, unshielded and painful to witness.
The knot of confusion doesn’t dissolve; it settles deeper. Heavy and suffocating.
Did it mean nothing?
Was it all just… a reaction?
A mistake?
I stare down into my mug, tracing the rim with my fingertip.
The questions claw their way up my throat.
What was last night, Matthew?
Do you regret touching me?
Why did you leave me alone in your bed this morning?
But they die there. Unspoken. Choked back by the fortress walls he’s so rapidly rebuilt around himself. By the crippling fear of hearing an answer that would shatter me completely.
The silence stretches again, thick and brittle with avoidance.
Across the table, Matthew’s controlled posture seems uncomfortable now, restlessness radiating from him.
He picks up his mug but sets it down without drinking, running a hand distractedly over his jaw.
For the longest moment, he seems unwilling to meet my gaze, staring instead at the counter beyond me.
When he finally looks back at me, his expression is shuttered. It’s as if he’s made a conscious decision to step back from the emotional precipice.
He clears his throat, the sound loud in the stillness.
When he speaks again, his voice is carefully modulated, all business. “So, this Friday night…” He leans back slightly in his chair, eyes meeting mine, but the look is searching in a different way now. “Hydra. Have you…” He pauses, as if bracing himself. “Have you figured out your plan with James?”
That’s it?
He’s just moving on?
The shift in topic sends my mind into a tailspin, like hitting a patch of black ice.
“I’m crashing and burning gloriously as it is.” I force a smile to match the breezy tone I’m aiming for. “Why stop now, right?”
My disbelief is all-consuming.
How are we talking about this instead of the enormous, emotionally charged elephant in the room?
His eyes darken in frustration. “But I’m still waiting to talk to Bancroft again. I don’t understand the need for this self-sabotaging—”
“That’s because you’re not thinking about Helen when she becomes unemployed.
Or Lou losing the one place that brings him joy every morning.
Anyway…” I clench my teeth, trying desperately to keep the threatening tears of frustration at bay.
“I let you go all the way. Do with me as you pleased.” I lean forward slightly, my voice trembling with a dangerous mix of defiance and pain.
“I’m pretty sure I can handle a little make-out session with some random guy for James to let me keep my café. ”
My words hang in the air, poisonous. Deliberately diminishing what we shared to hurt him back.
The frustration in his eyes vanishes, eclipsed by a flash of disbelief. Then, wounded agony rips through his composure. His face pales, jaw working silently before clenching hard enough to bulge out sharply.
An explosive sound of pure fury rips from his throat. His hand lashes out sideways. It connects hard with his coffee mug, sending it flying. It smashes against the floor several feet away, shattering instantly in a spray of dark liquid and ceramic shards.
I flinch back, a sharp cry escaping my lips.
Matthew lurches forward in his chair, planting an elbow heavily on the table, his trembling hand clamping hard over his mouth. His eyes squeeze tightly shut. His broad shoulders shake with the force of the breath he struggles to control.
“Matt—”
He brings his fist down on the table like a hammer. The explosive bang cuts the air from my lungs, shaking the table and splashing the coffee around in my mug.
“I’ll grab your fucking clothes.”
He pushes his chair back abruptly, its legs scraping harshly against the floor, and storms out.
I press myself back into my seat, unable to breathe. I stare at the spot where his fist hit the table, seeing only the tremor running through my own hands.
Frozen.
A solitary tear tracks a hot path down my cheek. I swipe at it with the back of my hand. My breathing sounds harsh in the dead quiet.
The fury.
The fist.
The way he looked at me…
No, the way he looked through me before he stormed out.
My gaze drifts to the shards of ceramic and coffee on the floor, near the island.
How?
How did we get here from there?
The unbearable tenderness in his eyes as he knelt before me in the shower. The reverence in his touch as he dried my skin.
And now this.
This mess seeping into the grout, echoing the emotional shrapnel littering the space between us.
The intimacy feels like a fragile dream abruptly shattered against the hard edges of reality. It leaves only this ugly ache deep in my chest, knotting tighter until it physically hurts.
How much time passes, I don’t know.
The sound of measured, steady footsteps cuts through the silence.
My head snaps up.
Matthew appears in the archway, holding my clothes in a neatly folded pile. His face is a blank mask. His eyes when they briefly meet mine, are distant. Utterly unreadable. There’s no flicker of regret. No hint of the storm that raged minutes ago.
He walks up to the table and places my jeans and sweater on the polished wood surface in front of me. His actions precise and detached.
He retrieves kitchen towels from a drawer and casually tosses them over the worst of the spill, hiding it from view.
“Don’t worry about this. Cleaning company comes on Wednesdays.
” He pulls back the cuff of his crisp white shirt, glancing pointedly at the watch on his wrist. “I have a deposition I can’t be late for. ”
He picks up his briefcase off the island. “Take your time. Maria won’t be here for another hour.”
And then he’s gone.
His footsteps echo briefly on the foyer tiles. Then, the heavy thud of the front door closing, leaving me alone in the crushing silence with my clothes. A mug of coffee I barely touched, a towel-covered mess on the floor, and a chilling emptiness where the intimate warmth of last night used to be.
I lean forward, dropping my head onto my folded sweater.
“Fuck.”