Chapter 12 – Mateo
Chapter Twelve
MATEO
Iawake gasping for air, sweat dripping down the back of my neck. Nightmares.
I haven’t had them in a while. I’ve been carefully evading them, hiding away from the pain. Avoiding triggers. Keeping my head down. Pretending that maybe, just fucking maybe, I had my shit figured out.
But I know better. Grief doesn’t work like that.
Grief doesn’t just go away for good. It creeps in when you least expect it.
It’s tricky that way. One minute you’re fine, sleeping in a bed you made yourself, in a life you’ve rebuilt piece by piece.
And then within a blink of an eye, you’re right back in the middle of it.
Grief.
It claws its way up your throat. Burns like smoke. Sticks to your ribs. Makes you forget how to breathe, even though you’ve done it since the day you were born.
Grief.
It doesn’t ask permission to visit. It doesn’t knock at your door.
Doesn’t send a carrier bird to notify you of its arrival.
It just barges in unannounced, drags you under, holds you hostage, and dares you to act like it’s not winning.
As if it isn’t killing you. As if you’re not bleeding out in ways no one else can see.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, heart still pounding.
My fingers press into my temples, like I can squeeze the images out of my head.
But I can’t. I never will be able to. They’re burned in too deep.
Etched into every corner of who I am. They’ve become part of my very being. They are my mirror image.
The worst parts of me don’t hide in the shadows anymore. They stare back at me in bathroom mirrors. In the silence between calls. In the faces of the people who were never supposed to become my family. And the worst part is that they will never know. Because I hide it.
I’m a master of hidden secrets. I lock it all away so deep, buried under the false pretense of normalcy and happiness. Hidden away by jokes and laughter.
I pretend the weight of the past, the weight of what happened, doesn’t still sit on my chest every goddamn day. But it does. And the longer I pretend, the more I try to hide it, the more it tightens. Like a rope around my neck. I can’t breathe. Not really.
Every move I make, every word I speak, feels like it’s happening through a filter.
No one really sees me. Not the real me, anyway.
It’s as if I’m underwater, and everyone else is on land.
They’re all waving, laughing, living, but not me.
I’m just here. Drowning with a smile plastered across my face. I can’t breathe. But they can’t tell.
Because I’ve gotten really fucking good at pretending.
I’m bone-tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of drowning in silence. Tired of carrying ghosts I never invited but can’t seem to let go of.
Still, I get up. Because that’s what I do.
I go through the motions. Get ready like I’m not unraveling at the seams. I put on my uniform—layer by layer, piece by piece—until I’m back in character.
Until I’m the guy everyone knows. The one who shows up. The one who always seems okay. And by the time I slide into the driver’s seat and pull out onto the road, I almost believe it. I almost believe I’m that guy.
Almost.
The station’s already buzzing when I pull in.
The bay doors are open, and the cold morning air creeps through the garage, brushing against the concrete floor and making the smell of smoke and engine oil just a little sharper than usual.
Seb’s leaning against the engine with a protein bar in his hand. “You’re late,” he says around a mouthful.
“You’re dramatic,” I toss back.
He shrugs, biting off another chunk. “Both can be true.”
Andres is squatting beside a pile of gear, tightening the straps on his bunker pants. “He’s grumpy, because Cap made him redo his paperwork after he logged a ladder drill as ‘spiritual growth.’”
I smirk. “Creative. I’ll give him that.”
“Creative my ass,” Seb mutters. “It was a symbolic ladder. For the record.”
Nathan steps out of his office just in time to hear that and lets out a sigh. “Drill starts in ten,” he says. “Try not to be idiots until then.”
With these guys, I don’t think we can make that promise.
We suit up, the mood light on the surface—jokes flying, boots thudding, gear shifting—but underneath it, I feel that familiar tension crawling its way back up my spine.
The drill is standard. Hose pull, interior sweep, extraction with a child dummy. Nothing we haven’t done a hundred times before. But I can’t shake the feeling of the morning. No matter how hard I try. I feel off. I feel different.
Like I’m wearing my skin wrong. Like my gear weighs more today. Like the air’s too thick, and I’m already halfway to drowning.
I force the images of my nightmares out of my mind. Focus, Mateo. This is your time to be the version of you everyone expects. Cool, calm, and collected.
I need to be the Mateo they all know they can trust to be there. The one they can count on. The one Maya calls strong.
This is time to put on my best show.
So I square my shoulders. I check my gloves. And I walk into the smoke like it’s nothing. I’m not unraveling from the inside out. Definitely not.
I step inside the drill structure, and the second the smoke hits my face, my lungs tighten. It’s not really smoke—we use nontoxic training fog—but it doesn’t matter. My body reacts anyway. It’s as if my brain knowing the difference doesn’t matter.
I move forward, eyes scanning the dim hallway, dragging the hose behind me, steps practiced and sure. But nothing about me feels sure. Nothing about me feels right today. The hallway bends, and for a second, I can’t see the training dummy at the end of the room.
My breath stutters. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. And that’s when I see it. The shape. Slumped. Small. I force myself forward. I grab the dummy. My gloves shake.
It’s just a dummy. It’s just a dummy. I mumble to myself. I tell myself I’m here. In Lake City. I’m here with the rest of my crew. That this is now. That this is just a drill. So why doesn’t it feel like a drill? Why do I feel frozen in the moment of my past?
My grip on the dummy tightens. Too tight. My hands ache, gloves creaking against plastic limbs that don’t weigh nearly enough to feel real. But my body doesn’t care one bit. My body doesn’t care that this is fake. It reacts like it’s real.
Fuck. My chest burns from the memory of a moment that changed my life forever. A moment that I shove down deep and won’t let anyone in on. Not Cap. Not Seb. Definitely not Analyse.
My world is a broken hourglass, unable to move forward because of the shame I refuse to let go of. The failure that follows me like a second skin.
I stagger back a step, the hose still trailing behind me, and suck in a breath that doesn’t quite reach the bottom of my lungs. My helmet feels too tight. My gear feels too heavy.
It’s not real.
It’s not real.
It’s not—
“Rodriguez! You good?” Cap’s voice crackles in my earpiece.
I force a breath in. Nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah. Moving.”
I haul the dummy over my shoulder, every muscle screaming. Push forward. Each step is harder than the last. Just finish. Just get through this.
The door opens ahead, daylight streaming in like a slap to the face. I break through it and lower the dummy to the pavement, my breaths ragged.
I did it. I passed. But deep down, I know I didn’t really make it out. Not really. Not in the way I need to.
The sunlight doesn’t feel warm. The air doesn’t feel fresh.
Everything feels too damn loud. Too damn sharp.
Too damn bright. Seb claps a hand on my back as I step out of the way, cracking some joke I don’t catch.
I nod like I heard it, like I’m fine, and move toward the benches at the far end of the bay.
Helmet off. Gloves off. But I still feel a weight heavy upon me. I sit. Elbows on my knees. Palms over my face. I reach for my phone without thinking.
My thumbs hover over the screen. I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to explain the knot in my chest or the way today cracked something open that I’ve been duct-taping shut for years. I type out a quick message and place my phone down beside me.
I may not know what to say, but I know what I need. Who I need.
Analyse.
By the time she knocks on my door, the sun’s dipped low enough to stain the sky a bruised gold. I’ve changed into sweats and a clean T-shirt, but I still feel like I’m wearing the day. It’s in my bones. My lungs. My silence.
I open the door, and there she is—Analyse, in a faded hoodie and leggings, her curly hair framing her face, holding two bags: one from the grocery store, one from Mariana’s bakery, The Rolling Pin.
God, she’s beautiful. I look at her and feel like I should be on my knees.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.” It’s the only word I can manage right now, and it comes out a little rough.
She holds up the bags in her hands. “I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for, so I brought a few things. Comfort food. And snacks. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo, stepping aside so she can come in.
She brushes past me, and suddenly, I feel like I can breathe. A gust of air creeping into my lungs.
She heads straight to the kitchen, and I quickly follow. She starts unpacking the bags—containers from The Rolling Pin, a small tray of arroz con gandules, pastelitos wrapped in foil, chocolate-covered almonds, sour gummies, and a bag of plantain chips.
“This is all very nutritionally sound,” I say, leaning against the counter.
She glances over her shoulder with a small smile. “I’m told emotional damage can be reversed with carbs and salt. I’m just testing the science.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Thanks for this. For coming.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says, softer now. “You needed someone. You called. I came.”
She says it so simply. As if her being here for me at this moment, no questions asked, is completely normal. As if she’d show up for me whenever I need her. I watch her for a moment as she sets the last container down. And I think…I think maybe she would.
I grab two plates from the cabinet, and she begins piling them with food. We eat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, plates balanced on our laps, and the TV on low. Law & Order: SVU, obviously. The moment I handed her the remote, she put it on like muscle memory.
“You’re predictable,” I murmur, nudging her lightly with my elbow.
She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen as she replies, “It’s called comfort TV. Some people meditate. Some people do yoga. I watch Stabler beat up bad guys.”
I huff a quiet laugh and take another bite. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” I murmur.
“Well, I’m glad I’m here to remind you that you’re human. Eat up,” she says, nudging at my knee playfully.
I clear my throat. “This was really good. All of it.”
“Next time you’re spiraling,” she says casually, “I’ll bring flan and wine.”
“You’re already planning the next time?”
She gives me a look. “Uh yeah, Mateo. You’re a man who bottles his emotions and thinks working out before the sun even rises will fix all your problems. There’s going to be a next time.”
I let out a soft snort. “Brutal.”
“Honest,” she says, eating another spoonful of rice.
The silence stretches between us. It’s nice. Comfortable. After a while, she grabs the bag of plantain chips and holds it open toward me. I take a few, and she rests her hand between us, bag crinkling slightly.
“Look, I’m not going to ask what’s wrong,” she says softly. “I don’t need to know. But I’m here. I’ll always be here for you. And when you need me again—yes, I said when—I’ll be here again. No questions asked.”
My throat tightens. Analyse. She’s exactly what I needed today. She doesn’t even realize what she’s done for me. I stare down at the chips in my hand, and then I let my eyes meet hers. There’s no pity in them. There’s just understanding.
I nod once. That’s all I can manage. But I think she gets it. I think she knows. Because she smiles softly, turns her attention back to the TV, and pops another chip into her mouth.
We’ve been watching episodes of Law & Order for the last few hours.
My eyes are growing heavy. I turn my head, and there she is—Analyse, curled up beside me, fast asleep.
Her legs are tucked beneath her, one arm draped loosely over her stomach, the throw blanket rising and falling with each steady breath.
A curl has slipped across her cheek, soft and untamed.
I shift slowly, careful not to wake her, and just sit there, watching her in the dim light of the TV flickering across her skin.
I stare at her for a beat too long. She’s devastatingly beautiful.
Easy, Mateo. Remember that this is all a lie.
This is all fake. A performance. We aren’t really dating.
She’s here for me as a friend. Just that. Nothing more.
I tear my gaze away and sink back into the cushions, scrubbing a hand down my face. But the warmth of her beside me, the way her hand brushed mine earlier, the echo of her voice saying I’ll always be here—it clings to me.
I sigh heavily, lean my head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling, trying to will myself to sleep. It doesn’t work.
My body’s still, but my mind won’t quiet. It’s too loud up there—too many thoughts jostling for space.
What am I doing? Why did I ask her to come? Why did she say yes?
The answer is obvious. It’s because she’s Analyse.
This is who she is. She shows up for the people she cares about.
I just didn’t realize I was one of those people.
Sure, I’ve been in her orbit for years. I spend as much time as I can with Maya.
That kid holds my heart, probably more than either of them know.
But somehow along the way, I missed it—how Analyse is also there. She’s in my heart. In my world. Taking up space.
I quickly rid my head of those thoughts. We said we were pretending. That this was just a game. A way to keep Nico away from her. A harmless lie.
I glance at her again. She’s curled in closer now, her arm brushing mine. A hundred different thoughts push up at once. I shoot each of them down.
I stay quiet. I lie here. Wide awake. And I let her sleep beside me like nothing in the world could possibly go wrong.