Skating on the Edge
Matthew Schaefer x reader
Warnings: Angst, financial burden, angry Schaef
Word count: 7,500
Summary: [yn] is just trying to survive college and two jobs when she meets Matthew Schaefer—but keeping her struggles a secret might cost her more than she thinks.
Notes: This is one of my first works ever let alone long asf work so please bare with me. i 100% want constructive criticism so leave advise in the comments. I have my requests here so please request!!! and when you do be as detailed as you want! i just dont do smut. also heres my masterlist so check it out!!
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Rookie Camp
The first time you see him, Matthew Schaefer is already drawing attention without trying. You’re balancing your backpack and a coffee that’s already sweating through the cardboard sleeve when he bumps into you in the hallway, tall enough that your shoulder collides with his chest before your brain can catch up.
“Oh—shit, sorry!” you gasp, clutching your iced coffee like it’s a lifeline.
He leans back just enough to look at you, a lopsided grin playing across his face. “No, it’s my bad. Didn’t see you there.” His voice is calm, casual, like he’s talking to an old friend instead of someone he’s never met.
You nod, muttering something that probably doesn’t make sense. You’re used to these moments. It’s easier to be invisible—especially when you’re here working the camp, helping with equipment, passing out water, and taking notes for the coaches, just to scrape together enough money for school. Matthew has no idea. He just assumes you’re a normal teen, a volunteer, or a team helper. He doesn’t need to know how every penny matters, how skipping the bus or extra food is part of your reality.
He tilts his head, scanning you like he’s trying to place where he’s seen you before. “Are you with the team? Rookie camp?”
“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “Well… kind of. I’m helping out.”
“Helping out?” he asks, intrigued. “Like… volunteer?”
You nod, trying to sound casual. “Something like that. Keeps me busy.”
“Cool. I’m Matt.” He sticks out his hand. The gesture is casual, but the heat from his palm when you shake it lingers.
“[Y/n],” you say, careful to keep your tone neutral. Neutral works best. Neutral keeps people from looking too closely.
The rookie camp is chaotic. You’ve been here for what feels like ten minutes and already witnessed more puck slaps, stick twirls, and sideways glances than you thought a team of eighteen-year-olds and twenty-somethings could produce. And then there’s Matthew—effortless in the chaos, balancing humor and focus with a confidence you can’t help but notice.
Later that day, he finds you again. This time by the lockers, juggling a bag of gear and the clipboard you’ve borrowed for recording drills.
“Hey, [y/n], right?” he asks, leaning against the locker beside yours. “I saw you in the drill earlier. You’ve got good instincts.”
You blink. Compliments feel weird. Flattering, yes, but suspiciously easy. You nod, saying, “Thanks. You’re… pretty good too.” Because he is, obviously. You’ve watched him move with the kind of grace that makes it look like the ice bends to his will.
He grins. “Thanks. Guess that’s rookie camp luck, huh?”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Or maybe I just got lucky spotting you in a hallway.”
Matthew laughs, a sound that makes something in your chest tense and flutter. “You’re bold.”
“I survive,” you say. It’s vague, dismissive, and somehow completely honest without giving anything away.
Over the next few days, he finds reasons to talk to you. Nothing overt—he’s not the type to storm up and demand attention—but little moments: shared water bottles after practice, inside jokes about drills, quick text messages about schedules or tips for surviving long days on ice. He’s earnest, awkwardly confident, and somehow he makes your half-smiles and careful words feel… easy.
You keep your guard up. Always. Because life hasn’t been kind, and no one’s ever seen the real version of you. You’ve learned to survive quietly: walk when you can’t afford the bus, order water instead of coffee because you’re counting every dollar, dodge expensive social outings like they’re landmines. Matthew doesn’t know. And you’re not ready for him to.
Still, when he smiles at you across the rink, that grin tilting just a little crookedly, you feel a flicker of something dangerous—hope, maybe.
One afternoon, during a break in drills, you’re sitting on the bench scrolling through your phone while tallying hours worked for the camp when Matthew plops down beside you.
“Hey,” he says casually, but the way he looks at you makes your stomach knot. “Wanna grab dinner later? Not team stuff, just… food. My treat.”
You blink. “Uh… I don’t know. I’ve got—”
“Nothing. You’ve got nothing,” he interrupts with a grin, more confident than he should be for someone who’s still a rookie. “You need a break from studying or… whatever the hell you’re doing.”
You glance away, heart thumping. You’re not supposed to let yourself feel this. Not supposed to like someone who probably has a life so far removed from yours it might as well be another planet. And yet… you say yes.
Because maybe, just maybe, you deserve a night that isn’t about surviving.
~
The start of the season hits fast, the locker room buzzing with energy and low-level chaos that only professional hockey can generate. Matthew glides through it like he belongs, confident but not cocky, greeting teammates with half-smiles and nods while you hover in the background, clipboard in hand.
You’re here officially now—not just helping out at rookie camp—but working permanently as a stats assistant for the Islanders. You got the job a week after camp, walking nervously into Coach Davis’ office to hear the offer.
“[Y/n], hey, got a minute?” he called you over after everyone left the rink.
“Yeah, of course,” you said, trying to hide how fast your heart was beating.
“We were talking after camp,” he began, leaning on the edge of the rink, “and the staff really liked how you handled the stats and drill tracking. Very organized, good instincts, detail-oriented… basically everything we need for the upcoming season.”
You bit your lip. “I… wow. That’s… really great, Coach. I didn’t expect…”
Coach Davis chuckled. “I know you’ve been working hard, and we figured you’d be a good fit. Now, about pay: it’s $15 an hour, 20 hours a week. Not much, I know, but steady, and it’ll be official experience on your resume. Plus, it keeps you in the building, which I know you like.”
$15 an hour. Modest. Not enough to cover everything, but it’s a start. You nod quickly. “Yes. I’ll take it. Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“You won’t,” Coach Davis said with a grin. “We’re excited to have you on board. Start Monday, same time as camp hours, but officially now. Any questions?”
You shake your head. “No, I… I’ll be ready.”
The problem, of course, isn’t getting the job—it’s that one job isn’t enough. Between this stats assistant role and your night shifts at the 24-hour diner, every day is a balancing act. Rent, tuition, groceries, and… your car.
The old sedan you rely on has been coughing and rattling for months, and last week the mechanic told you it desperately needs a new starter and brakes. A repair like that is hundreds of dollars—more than you can spare right now. So you keep driving it anyway, crossing your fingers with every turn of the key, budgeting every dollar from your diner tips and stats assistant paycheck, hoping something won’t break and leave you stranded.
Matthew has no idea. He doesn’t need to know. Not yet.
Yet somehow, he keeps finding excuses to talk to you.
“Hey,” he says one morning, leaning against the rink wall as you tally warm-up times. “Did you catch last night’s game?”
“I… watched highlights,” you mumble, trying to sound casual. Between late-night shifts, early practices, and worrying about your car making it to both jobs, staying awake long enough to watch a full game isn’t always possible.
“Highlights, huh? Come on, you’re supposed to be a superfan now,” he teases, smiling like he knows you’re lying.
“I’m more of a… practical fan,” you quip, shrugging.
“Practical, huh? I like that. Fits you,” he says, tilting his head. His gaze lingers just long enough for your heart to speed up, and you look down at your clipboard, pretending to focus on stats for the drill.
By the second week of the season, the players are already whispering about “Matt’s new thing.” No one ever says anything to you directly, but you hear names floating in the locker room: Anders, Bo, Ryan, Kyle. You pretend not to care.
And then the WAGs start mentioning you. Mostly innocuous stuff at first. “Oh, have you met the new girl Matthew’s seeing? Sweet girl.” Or, “You’ll have to come to our next brunch. Wives’ thing. It’s going to be fun.”
Fun. Something that’s supposed to be enjoyable but feels impossible when you’re juggling two jobs, worrying about your old car, walking home at night, and carefully counting every cent. You deflect with smiles, nods, and excuses that sound reasonable without giving the truth away. Matthew notices you deflect, but he doesn’t probe too hard, trusting your quiet confidence and brushing off his curiosity with “she’s just busy, she’ll join when she can.”
It’s a delicate balance. You enjoy being with him—actual dates, conversations, small moments—but every interaction is tempered by guilt. You want to tell him the truth about the scholarships, the night shifts, the barely-there apartment, and the car that might die on any given day—but you don’t. Not yet.
One night, after a practice, Matthew pulls you aside as the team heads to dinner.
“Hey,” he says, shifting on the balls of his feet, nervous energy betraying his usual confidence. “I was thinking… maybe next weekend we could grab something to eat, just us. No camp, no schedule, nothing. You in?”
You glance at him, heart doing that stupid flutter again. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.”
He smiles, relieved. “Good. We’ll make it happen.”
Later, walking home after practice, you can’t help but think about how easily he fits into your world. Too easily. And yet, that ease is dangerous. Because if he ever figured out how precarious your life really is—how you juggle the stats assistant job, wait tables at night, and the constant fear that your car might leave you stranded—he might not understand. You can’t let that happen.
Meanwhile, the whispers keep coming. Players joking in the locker room, asking about you. Matthew is protective, subtle but firm. He laughs off comments from the guys, deflects teasing with a casual, “She’s fine, don’t worry about it,” the way someone who’s already smitten would. He doesn’t know how close he is to being right. You’re fine—well, on the surface. Inside, you’re a storm of deadlines, bank balances, and quiet fear of being exposed.
A few weeks later, you meet Matthew at a coffee shop before practice. He waves you over, grinning like he just discovered something incredible.
“Hey, [y/n],” he says. “You ever think about just… taking a day off? Doing something fun?”
You blink at him. “Fun?”
“Yeah. Fun. Not work, not school, not stress. Just… me, you, maybe a walk or something.”
You hesitate, heart thudding, because a day off costs money. Money you don’t have. But his expression—hopeful, earnest, awkwardly charming—makes it impossible to say no.
“I… yeah. I think I could do that,” you say softly, and he grins like you’ve just accepted the greatest offer in the world.
It’s small, but it feels revolutionary. To someone like you, who’s lived every day with a ledger of costs in your head and a car that might break down at any second, just saying yes to a moment of normalcy is terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
Matthew doesn’t know the full story. He doesn’t know that the next day, when you leave practice, you’ll walk three miles home because you can’t afford a ride. He doesn’t know that your coffee order will always be water because even a latte is a luxury. And for now, you like it that way. For now, he only sees [y/n], the girl who laughs at his jokes, takes an interest in his rookie season, and somehow, makes him feel lighter.
~
The city lights stretch across the glass walls of the hotel lobby, casting long reflections on the marble floor. You and Matthew step inside, the warmth of the building contrasting the sharp bite of winter outside. He reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, nervous but trying to hide it.
“So…” he begins, voice low and almost hesitant, “I really want you to come to the New Year’s Eve party tonight. All the team, the WAGs, the celebration… I want you there. With me.”
You blink, hesitation flooding you. “I… I don’t know, Matt. That’s… not something I can really afford.”
He frowns, confused. “Wait, what? You wouldn’t have to pay for anything. Just… come with me. For me. Please?”
Your chest tightens. Parties, fancy dresses, Uber rides, champagne—all luxuries you can’t justify. But he’s looking at you like this is important, like you are important, and something inside softens.
“Okay,” you whisper finally, “I… I’ll try. For you.”
His grin is immediate, warm, almost giddy. “Yes! That’s all I ask. You won’t regret it.”
Inside the ballroom, the soft hum of laughter and conversation fills the air. He threads you through the crowd, and when he stops at a group of teammates, he clears his throat.
“Hey, guys,” he says, a little awkwardly but proudly, “this is [y/n]. My… girlfriend. I’m really glad she’s here tonight.”
Boqvist raises an eyebrow, smiling. “Girlfriend? Finally! Nice to meet you.”
You nod, smiling politely. Kyle Palmieri grins. “Good to meet you, [y/n]. Matthew’s been… distracted all season.”
He shoots them a playful glare, but then glances at you, eyes soft. You notice the way he beams when he talks about you, and for a moment, all the nerves in the room fade.
Then, Jessica Lee sweeps in, bright and sparkling, eyes immediately on you. “Oh! You’re just the person we wanted to see. Can we steal [y/n] for a minute? Come hang with us!”
You stiffen. “Uh… I—”
Matthew’s hand tightens over yours. “Go on. They just want to include you.”
You glance at him, unsure. “I… I don’t know if—”
“Go,” he insists, soft but firm. “I’ll be right here when you’re done. You should just… try it. Please?”
Reluctantly, you let Jessica pull you into the WAGs’ circle.
They chatter immediately, joking about spa weekends, holiday shopping, brunches—all luxuries that make your chest tighten. You sip water, nod politely, laughing quietly at stories you’ve never experienced.
“Actually, we should all go out tomorrow,” Jessica says after a beat. “Hair, nails, shopping, lunch… it’ll be fun.”
Your stomach twists. “I… I don’t think I can. That’s… really not something I can do.”
Before you can protest again, Matthew appears beside you, hand brushing yours, earnest and insistent. “You should go,” he says softly. “It’ll be good for you. Trust me. You’ll like it.”
You hesitate, anxiety twisting in your chest, the reality of money and schedules screaming at you. But you can’t say no to him—not now. “Okay,” you murmur reluctantly. “I… I’ll go.”
Matthew’s relief is immediate, a small, satisfied grin tugging at his lips. “Good. You won’t regret it. I promise.”
The rest of the night, you stick close to him, hovering near the WAGs, laughing softly at his jokes, sipping water, keeping your distance from champagne and desserts. The girls’ day idea lingers in the back of your mind like a shadowed promise—but for now, you’re safe. You’re with him, and that’s enough.
~
The morning sun is sharp as you step into Jessica Lee’s sleek black SUV. She’s waving from the driver’s seat, phone in hand, energy practically radiating off the leather seats.
“Good morning, [y/n]! Ready for girls’ day?” she chirps.
“Yeah… sure,” you murmur, keeping your voice low.
Erin Boqvist leans forward from the backseat, grinning. “First time? Don’t worry. We’ll show you how it works. Fun guaranteed.”
You nod faintly, gripping your water bottle like a lifeline. Every laugh, every joke, every bubble of energy feels like a reminder of a world you don’t belong in.
Hair Salon
The stylist greets you warmly, clipboard in hand. Jessica flops into her chair.
“So, [y/n], what are we doing today?” she asks brightly.
“Just… watching,” you murmur, twisting your hands in your lap.
Erin leans over, whispering, “Watching? Really? She’s not doing anything?”
Jessica frowns. “I mean… most people get at least a trim or blowout. This is… strange.”
You force a small smile. “Yeah… just… watching today.”
Jessica whispers to Erin, frowning. “She’s barely interacting. Weird, right?”
You sip water quietly as the salon hums with dryers and chatter. Every product, every style, every joke about colors and treatments feels foreign.
Jessica leans over. “Do you want highlights or anything?”
“I… I’m fine,” you say softly.
Erin murmurs, frowning. “Okay… well… fine, I guess.”
Jessica pulls out her phone and types quickly. Texting Anders: “Something’s off with [y/n]. She’s barely participating and not saying much.”
Anders POV — Mid-Morning
Anders sits in his office, phone buzzing. He reads Jessica’s text and frowns.
“Something’s off with [y/n]. She’s barely participating. Not talking. Barely eating. What do we do?”
He types back quickly: “Keep observing. Make sure she’s comfortable. If anything escalates, Matthew should know.”
He leans back, scrolling through the Isles’ team news, but his mind keeps wandering to the text chain. He knows Matthew loves [y/n], and if something is wrong, Matthew would want to know.
Another text from Jessica arrives: “Okay. I’ll keep an eye. She seems… fine physically, but I don’t know. She’s… quiet.”
Anders sighs, frowning. “If he doesn’t notice soon, maybe I should just tell him. I don’t want her struggling without him knowing.”
He sets the phone down, running a hand through his hair. For now, all he can do is wait, hope she’s okay, and make sure Jessica doesn’t misread the situation.
Nail Salon
You trail behind slightly, curling your hands in your lap. The WAGs chatter excitedly around you, choosing colors, showing off past manicures.
“Pink ombré? Glitter tips? You have to try something!” Jessica says.
“I… I’m fine,” you reply softly.
Erin leans forward. “No color? Nothing at all?”
“I just… want to watch,” you murmur.
Jessica types quickly. “Sent Anders another message. He says to keep an eye, make sure she’s okay. Probably wants Matthew to know too.”
Erin whispers, “She’s sitting there quietly, not talking, not choosing anything. We’re including her, and she’s just… sitting there. Weird.”
You sip water again, forcing a polite smile, wishing you could disappear.
Lunch
The restaurant is luxurious: polished silverware, sparkling glasses, and fragrant aromas. Menus are opened and scrutinized by the WAGs.
Jessica leans forward. “So… what are you having, [y/n]?”
“Water… that’s fine,” you say quietly, hands folded in your lap.
Erin raises an eyebrow. “No appetizer? No entrée?”
“I… I’m okay,” you murmur.
Jessica glances at her phone again, whispering, “Texting Anders. She’s barely eating anything, barely speaking. Something’s definitely off.”
Anders’ phone buzzes. He reads Jessica’s text mid-meeting with a teammate. “She’s barely participating. Not talking. Matthew might want to know.”
He types back quickly: “Got it. I’ll keep an eye. I’ll talk to Matthew if it escalates.”
Erin whispers, “She’s barely interacting. This is… strange. She’s not rude, but she’s not participating at all.”
You tuck your hands into your lap, nodding faintly, trying to keep your breathing even. Every moment feels like walking on ice.
Shopping
Boutiques filled with designer handbags and shoes. You trail quietly behind, fingertips brushing racks without touching anything.
“Oh come on, [y/n], just pick something up,” Jessica says, holding up a sparkling purse.
“I… I’m fine,” you murmur softly.
Erin tilts her head. “Not even looking?”
“Just… looking,” you reply.
Jessica glances at her phone again. Texting Anders: “She’s walking around quietly, barely engaging. Keep observing. Let Matthew know if needed.”
Anders reads it and sighs, frowning. “If Matthew doesn’t notice soon, I’ll have to say something. She shouldn’t struggle alone.”
You sip water again, forcing a faint smile, keeping pace. Every sparkle, every comment about bags and shoes, every whispered glance is a spotlight on you, and you shrink further into yourself.
Finally, the day ends. You slip outside, breathing in the crisp evening air. Matthew is waiting.
“Hey,” he murmurs, draping an arm around your shoulders. “How’s it going?”
“Great… really great,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile.
“I know it was… a lot,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But you handled it. Proud of you.”
You nod, leaning against him. “Thanks… for making me go.”
“Always. I just… want you to be part of this world too,” he says softly.
Anders POV — Evening
Anders sits in the Isles’ lounge, scrolling through messages from Jessica.
“She’s barely participating, barely talking, barely eating. Something’s off.”
He leans back, frowning. He knows Matthew is protective of [y/n]. He types quickly: “If he doesn’t notice soon, I should probably say something. She shouldn’t struggle alone.”
Jessica replies quickly: “Yes, but let’s watch for now. Don’t stress him yet.”
Anders sets the phone down. His mind lingers on [y/n]’s quiet behavior from the texts, the worry building in him. Matthew hasn’t noticed everything yet—but Anders knows cracks are forming.
~
You fidget with your hands when Matthew comes into your apartment, a small bag swinging from his hand.
“Hey…” he says, holding it out. “I thought… maybe these could help. You’ve been walking so much lately.”
You freeze, chest tightening. “Matthew… I can’t… I don’t want you spending money on me. I’m… I just don’t want to be a burden.”
He steps closer, soft but firm. “You’re not a burden, [y/n]. I just want you to be comfortable. That’s all. I’m not trying to fix everything or spend a fortune. Just… shoes. That’s it.”
You bite your lip, swallowing hard. His earnest eyes make your resolve falter. You nod, letting him hand over the bag.
“Okay… thanks,” you whisper, quietly accepting them, hoping to avoid an argument that could lead to him noticing too much.
He sets the bag down and immediately notices your tension. “Hey… come here,” he murmurs. You let him pull you into a gentle hug. You can feel him relax against you, and the warmth is almost grounding.
“I just…” you start, then sigh. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”
Matthew presses a kiss to your temple. “I’m not worried about burden or money or any of that. I just… want you safe and happy. That’s it.”
You lean against him, letting yourself relax a little. After a moment, he scoops you up in his arms. “C’mon… let’s go to my place. I’ll make us dinner.”
“Matthew… you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he interrupts softly, grinning. “You just… go with it.”
You laugh faintly, tension easing, as he carries you out.
At Matthew’s Place
In his kitchen, you help him chop vegetables, laugh at his attempts to follow a recipe, and tease him when he drops a piece of garlic on the floor.
“See? This is why you don’t trust me with knives,” you murmur, smiling despite yourself.
“Ha! And yet you didn’t notice me doing everything wrong,” he teases back, pressing a playful kiss to your cheek.
You feel… normal here. Safe. Warm. For a few hours, the outside world fades.
“You really didn’t have to buy the shoes,” you murmur later, sipping water.
“I know,” he says gently. “I just wanted to. And now you’ve got them, so no arguments.”
You glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Matthew.”
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. “Always, [y/n]. Always.”
Later
After dinner, you sit together on the couch, him brushing your hair back as you lean against him. You don’t tell him about the late-night shifts, the car, the bills. But the shoes, the hugs, the quiet evening give you a little space to breathe.
Matthew, still sensing something is off, tucks you closer. He doesn’t know the full story yet, but he can feel the tension lingering around you.
Later, once you’re both comfortable, he pulls out his phone to Anders.
Matthew: Hey… she was really stressed about the shoes today. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. I don’t think she’s lying… but something’s going on.
Anders types back quickly: Yeah… the girls noticed too. Something’s off. She’s not participating. Be gentle… you’ll figure it out.
Matthew sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah… I’ll figure it out. I just… don’t want her to feel alone.”
~
Two weeks.
Matthew has tried every way to reach you. Texts. Calls. Messages at the rink. Even showing up hoping to see you in person. Each time, he’s met only silence. No replies, no explanations, nothing.
He’s tried to reason it out. Maybe you’re busy, maybe stressed with school, maybe avoiding the girls’ gossip fallout. But deep down, he feels something is wrong.
Matthew (thinking, pacing his apartment): Two weeks, [y/n]? Two weeks… what the hell is going on?
~
After practice one night, frustrated and anxious, he drives past your apartment. He notices the small, humble unit is dark — completely quiet.
Something catches his eye: a crumpled envelope pushed beneath the doorframe. Matthew gets out and picks it up. His stomach drops: it’s an eviction notice, dated a few days ago.
Matthew (breathing hard): Oh… God. She… she didn’t…
He frantically calls your number. Voicemail. Multiple times. He texts. No response.
For the first time, panic gnaws at him. The small clues he noticed before — water-only drinks, walking everywhere, patched jacket, light backpack — all click into place. Something serious has been going on this whole time.
~
Matthew slams his phone onto the passenger seat, breathing hard, and calls Anders.
“Dude,” he says as soon as Anders answers, voice tight. “I… I found the eviction notice. She’s gone. I can’t reach her. I don’t know where she is. Two weeks of… nothing. I feel like I’ve failed her.”
Anders is silent for a beat, then speaks calmly. “Alright… breathe. First, slow down. You didn’t fail her. You just… didn’t know. Now you know, and you’re going to help her. That’s what matters.”
Matthew runs a hand through his hair, frustration and worry churning. “I… I don’t even know where she is. Her apartment’s empty, her phone’s off, she’s ignoring me. I don’t know what to do.”
“Okay,” Anders says gently. “Step one: calm down. Step two: think. Where would she go? What does she have access to? And then… go find her. Be patient, but persistent. You’ve got this, Matthew. She trusts you. You’ll get to her.”
Matthew exhales slowly, trying to steady his heartbeat. Anders’ voice is grounding, his advice direct but supportive. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right. I just… I hate this. I hate not knowing if she’s okay.”
“I know,” Anders says. “But you’ll get your chance to fix it. Don’t rush the confrontation. Let her know you care first. Everything else follows.”
~
That night, Matthew drives around the small neighborhoods he knows you frequent: the diner, the little coffee shop, parks near campus. His worry doesn’t abate, but his resolve grows.
Matthew (thinking): I’ll find her. She’s not dealing with this alone. I don’t care what it takes.
He sits in his car, eyes on the empty streets, thinking about the water-only drinks, the worn shoes, the patchwork backpack. The subtle signs he didn’t fully process before now scream at him.
And for the first time, he fully realizes: she’s been struggling on her own, hiding everything from him, and he’s going to make sure she knows she doesn’t have to anymore.
~
Matthew drives through the quiet streets near campus, gripping the steering wheel tighter than he realizes. Anders’ words replay in his head: “She trusts you. You’ll get to her.”
But all he feels is worry. Every corner he turns, every small diner, every coffee shop she might have stopped at — empty. He’s been checking everywhere she could be, every place she’s ever mentioned she likes, hoping for even a glimpse of her.
He finally pulls into a small, dimly lit parking lot. And there it is — her old, beat-up car. The windows are fogged, and he can see a thin blanket in the back seat. A small backpack sits on the passenger seat, patched and worn.
Matthew’s stomach twists. His heart races. He jumps out of the car, running toward it.
“[y/n]?” His voice cracks with relief and worry. “Hey… it’s me.”
A small movement inside the car. You peek up, startled, eyes wide. “Matthew… I—”
He opens the door gently and crouches beside her. “Hey… it’s okay. I found you. I’m here.”
You shrink slightly, hugging your knees. “I… I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want—”
“You’re not a burden, [y/n]. Not ever. Do you hear me?” Matthew’s voice is firm but gentle. “I just… I was worried sick. I tried calling, texting… showing up at your apartment… nothing. And then I saw the notice, and… God, I had no idea.”
You bite your lip, looking away. “I… I can handle it. I have to. I can’t… I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.”
Matthew sighs, softening, leaning closer. “This isn’t about feeling sorry. It’s about helping you. You don’t have to do this alone. I want to be here. I’ve got you, [y/n]. Always.”
A small tear slips down your cheek. “I… I’m scared.”
“I know,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back. “I know. And it’s okay to be scared. But you’re not alone. Not anymore.”
Anders’ Perspective (Foreshadowing / Support)
Earlier that evening, Anders had texted Matthew again after noticing his increasing frustration:
Anders: Hey man… breathe. You’ve been noticing the signs for weeks. You care, and you’re going to do right by her. Go find her. You’ve got this.
Matthew’s thumbs hover over the screen. Yeah… I hope I do.
~
Matthew opens the back door of the car and gently pulls you into a hug. “C’mon… let’s get somewhere safe. My place. We’ll figure out dinner, blankets… whatever you need.”
You cling to him, still trembling. “I don’t… I don’t want to… bother you.”
“You’re not a bother,” he insists, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
He helps you into his car, blankets and bag tucked safely. The ride to his place is quiet but comfortable, the soft hum of the engine grounding both of you.
Once inside his apartment, Matthew sets down a small bag of groceries he brought along. He drapes a blanket around your shoulders. “You’re okay now,” he murmurs. “We’ll fix this, together. No running, no hiding.”
You lean into him, finally letting a small, shaky laugh escape. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“Don’t apologize,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m just glad you’re safe. We’ll figure everything else out.”
The tension in your chest eases just a little. You realize… maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to carry it all alone.
~
The apartment is quiet, warm from the heater, the hum of the fridge and the soft glow of the lamp filling the room. Matthew sits on the couch, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. You perch across from him, knees tucked to your chest, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.
“I…” he begins, hesitating, trying to find the right words. “I can’t let you keep doing this. Sleeping in your car, trying to handle everything alone… it’s not fair to you.”
You shake your head vehemently. “Matthew… I can’t just move in. I can’t… I can’t rely on you. I’m not… that kind of person.”
“You wouldn’t be relying on me,” he says softly, leaning forward. “You’d be living with me, as my girlfriend. That’s normal. That’s… us. You’d have a safe place to sleep, food in the fridge, a bed. That’s not charity, [y/n]. That’s me being here for you.”
Your hands curl into fists in your lap. “But… what about bills? Electric, water… groceries? I can’t just—”
Matthew cuts you off gently, voice firm but calm. “Then we figure it out together. You don’t have to pay for everything right away. You don’t have to pay for anything if you can’t. I just want you safe. That’s all.”
You glance down, tugging at your hair, your pride warring with the relief and exhaustion in your chest. “I… I just can’t accept that. I don’t want to feel like I owe you everything.”
“You won’t,” he says, voice steady. “You’ll contribute in ways that matter — your company, your humor, your love. That’s it. That’s what matters to me. Money, bills… that’s not the issue. You being safe and with me is the only issue.”
You look up at him, eyes wide, trying to read his face. “And… you won’t be mad if I still work? Or if I… keep my routines?”
Matthew grins softly. “Of course not. I want you to keep being you. You work because you want to, not because you have to. I just want you safe and inside my walls where you belong.”
A silence falls between you, but it’s not heavy. It’s charged, but safe. Slowly, you nod. “Okay… I’ll… I’ll move in. But I’m… still me. I’ll still work, I’ll still help where I can.”
Matthew’s face lights up. “That’s all I need. You being you. Nothing else.”
That evening, after small unpacking of your essentials into a corner of the apartment, Matthew drags a blanket onto the floor and sits cross-legged, patting the space beside him.
“Come on,” he says with a small smile. “Couch is taken.”
You hesitate for a second, then crawl onto the blanket beside him. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, and you lean into his chest, feeling the warmth and the steady beat of his heart.
“Can we… just stay like this for a while?” you whisper.
“Always,” he murmurs. “You need a break. Let yourself breathe. Let me hold you for a bit.”
For the next hour, you do just that. No work, no worries, no expectations. You talk about small things: movies you want to watch, the new recipes you want to try, how funny some of the Islanders’ locker room moments were. He listens to you, laughs with you, teases you gently.
At one point, he picks you up, cradling you in his arms like a blanket of warmth. “I could get used to this,” he jokes softly, setting you down again gently.
You rest your head on his shoulder. “I could too,” you admit, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
They sit there for a long time, quietly, just holding each other. No words are necessary. The tension of the last weeks — the girls’ day, your silence, the hiding — seems to melt just a little, replaced with comfort and safety.
~
The smell of roast chicken and garlic fills the cozy dining room at the Lee house. Matthew sits close to you, his hand resting gently over yours under the table. Anders and Jessica watch carefully, giving you space, but their presence is reassuring.
After a few minutes of small talk, Jessica leans forward, her voice gentle. “You’ve had a lot going on lately, [y/n]. We could tell during girls’ day… and since then, you’ve been quieter. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
You glance at Matthew, and he gives your hand a small squeeze. That tiny gesture is enough to give you courage. Taking a deep breath, you nod.
“Okay… I’ll… I’ll tell you everything,” you say softly. “It’s… it’s a lot, so I hope you’ll bear with me.”
Matthew’s thumb brushes over your hand. “Take your time,” he says gently.
You begin, voice trembling slightly. “My parents… they’re… deadbeats. I’ve lived with them before, but I… I couldn’t go back. I just… I can’t rely on them. Ever. Not again. So after graduating early, I… I’ve had to do everything myself.”
Anders leans back, expression soft, listening without interruption. Jessica nods encouragingly.
“I… I’ve been working two jobs. One at the diner—night shifts, 24 hours… just trying to make rent and gas money. And then I got the stats assistant job here with the Islanders. That… that one pays less than I expected, but it’s permanent, so I keep it. I thought… I thought I could manage, and I didn’t want anyone to know because I didn’t want to burden anyone. Especially not Matthew.”
Matthew squeezes your hand, tightening slightly, but lets you continue.
“The girls’ day… I wasn’t ignoring them because I didn’t like them. I couldn’t afford any of it. Hair, nails, shopping, lunch… I just… I couldn’t. I tried to be polite, but I couldn’t participate. I didn’t want anyone to know, so I pretended. And that’s… why I’ve been avoiding everyone, even Matthew, for the past two weeks. I… I lost my apartment. I got an eviction notice. I… I’ve been living in my car. Just… surviving. And I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to be a burden.”
Tears slip down your cheeks, but you keep going. “I’ve been scared… scared of losing Matthew, scared of people thinking I’m weak or… incapable. I just… I didn’t know how to tell anyone. And I thought I could handle it alone. But… I couldn’t. Not really.”
You pause, voice breaking. “That’s everything. I… I’m so sorry for hiding it.”
Matthew leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours gently. “Shh… look at me,” he whispers. “You are not a burden, ever. Not to me, not to anyone. You did what you had to do to survive, and I… I understand. And I’m here now. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”
He wipes a tear from your cheek. “I know it’s scary, letting someone in. But you don’t have to hide from me anymore. I want to help. You don’t have to be afraid.”
You take a shaky breath, letting his words sink in. “I… I don’t know how to… I don’t know if I can accept help without feeling… ashamed.”
“You won’t feel ashamed,” Matthew assures you. “Not with me. I don’t care about the money, the bills, the apartment. I care about you. That’s it. And I want to take care of you, not because I have to, but because I want to.”
Anders leans forward, his voice calm and gentle. “[y/n], thank you for telling us. That… that’s brave. Really brave. You don’t have to shoulder everything alone. You’ve been strong, yes… but it’s okay to let people help.”
Jessica smiles warmly. “Exactly. You’ve been carrying so much by yourself. And now you don’t have to. Matthew isn’t going to let you fall. Neither am I. Neither is Anders. You’re allowed to accept support without feeling like you owe anyone.”
You sniffle, a small laugh escaping through your tears. “I… I just wanted to be… independent.”
Matthew wraps his arms around you under the table. “You are independent, but independence doesn’t mean isolation. We can do this together. That’s what I want.”
~
By the end of the meal, you feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted. Matthew leans over and whispers in your ear, “See? Not so bad. You’re allowed to let people in. Especially me.”
You rest your head against his shoulder, letting yourself finally relax. “I… I think I’m starting to believe that,” you admit softly, a small smile tugging at your lips.
Anders raises his glass gently. “To [y/n]. For being brave, and for letting people in.”
Jessica smiles and raises hers as well. “And to Matthew, for never giving up on her.”
Matthew squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back, warmth radiating through your chest. Finally, you feel… safe.
~
The apartment feels warmer somehow tonight, the small string lights Matthew hung across the kitchen and living room casting a soft, golden glow. You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in one of his old hoodies — the one he always teases you about stealing — while he’s in the kitchen, juggling a frying pan and a spatula, pretending to be a professional chef.
“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “I think you’d be a terrible chef if the Islanders weren’t paying you.”
Matthew spins dramatically, brandishing the spatula like a sword. “Excuse me? I am a culinary genius. This omelette will change your life.”
You laugh, snorting. “Your life? Maybe mine. You’re just hoping I don’t burn it so I don’t embarrass you.”
He winks over his shoulder. “That’s exactly right. I demand admiration, not critique.”
The omelette is slightly lopsided but perfectly edible, and when he sits next to you with it on a small plate, you can’t help but smile. He nudges your shoulder playfully. “See? Genius.”
You mock-gasp. “I’m surrounded by brilliance and I didn’t even study for it.”
~
Dinner finished, you both collapse on the couch with blankets and a bowl of popcorn. Matthew insists on picking the first movie — an old comedy you both know by heart — but every five minutes he pauses it to make a comment or quote a line with his ridiculous, earnest expressions.
“‘I’m serious, this is serious!’” he repeats in an exaggerated voice, making you snort into your hoodie.
“Matthew, you’re ridiculous,” you giggle.
“I’m ridiculous for you,” he says, leaning closer. “And only for you.”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Smooth talker. Does that line work on every girl?”
He grins, nudging your knee with his own. “Not everyone’s worth it. You are.”
As the night drifts on, the movies forgotten, you curl into him on the couch, resting your head on his chest. He wraps an arm around you, hand brushing your hair from your face.
“You know,” you murmur softly, “I never thought I’d feel this… safe.”
Matthew kisses the top of your head. “I know. And you should. You’ve carried so much on your own. But you don’t have to anymore. Not with me. Not ever.”
You glance up at him, eyes shining. “Promise you won’t get tired of me?”
“Never,” he whispers. “Even if you steal all my hoodies, hog the blanket, quote movies incorrectly, or eat my snacks without asking.”
You laugh, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Good. I plan to do all those things.”
The next morning, you wake to the smell of coffee and toast. Matthew’s already in the kitchen, humming, flipping pancakes with exaggerated care.
“You awake?” he asks, peeking around the corner.
“I was awake,” you lie, grinning. “Watching you work your magic.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Impressive, huh?”
You nod solemnly, sitting up. “Very. Pulitzer-worthy.”
He rolls his eyes but brings you a plate anyway, sitting down beside you and nudging your shoulder with his. “You deserve it. You’ve done enough adulting for both of us this week.”
Playful Games and Goofy Moments
Later that day, he convinces you to play a silly video game together. You’re hopeless at it, screaming and laughing as he beats you mercilessly.
“Cheater!” you yell, throwing a pillow at him.
“Fair play?” he says, ducking. “You can’t even aim!”
You throw another pillow, and suddenly, pillows are flying everywhere. You both collapse into laughter on the floor, breathless, the worries of the last months nowhere to be found.
After the chaos, you find yourselves lying on the floor, blankets pulled over you both. Matthew traces patterns on your arm, and you press your cheek into his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“I think…” you whisper, “I’ve been holding my breath for months.”
He smiles softly, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Then let it out. You’re safe now. You can breathe. Always.”
You sigh, finally relaxing, closing your eyes. “I… I never want to go back to feeling alone like that.”
“You won’t,” he promises. “I’ll make sure of it. We’ll take it one day at a time, together.”
As the day fades, the two of you end up in a pile of blankets on the couch, watching the city lights flicker outside the window. Matthew’s arm is draped over you, your hand curled in his.
“I could stay like this forever,” you murmur.
“Then stay,” he whispers back. “Because I plan to.”
You laugh softly, pressing your lips to his chest in a quiet kiss. “You’re kind of ridiculous, you know that?”
“And you love me anyway,” he replies, nuzzling into your hair.
“Yes. Always,” you murmur.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel truly, completely at home — not just in the apartment, not just in a bed, but in Matthew’s arms, in his heart, in this life you’re starting together.
