Letters to Matt (Part 9)
HBD Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader Mature | Smut | MDNI Trying to force himself to just be your best friend as you requested, Matt cracks under a wave of intense jealousy. Part 8 Part 9
The phone buzzes at 7:14 AM.
You’re still barely awake from a dreamless sleep, the kind that comes after days of emotional exhaustion finally catch up with your body. The vibration rattles against the nightstand, sharp and insistent, and your hand fumbles blindly across the wood surface until your fingers close around cold phone.
One new message.
Your thumb swipes across the screen before your brain fully registers what you're doing. The brightness sears your eyes. You blink. Refocus.
Matt: OK.
Two letters. No punctuation beyond the period. No follow-up. No explanation.
The phone slips from your fingers and lands face-down on the mattress. Your heart, which had lurched into your throat at the sight of his name, now sinks somewhere deep into your stomach. OK. Just OK. The letter you poured yourself into, the desperate plea to salvage your friendship, the raw admission of your cowardice, all of it met with two letters and a period.
Your fingers are already typing before you can stop yourself.
You: OK?
The response comes immediately. So fast you know he must have been staring at his phone, waiting.
Matt: The letter from Nick, i read it. OK.
No capitalization on the I. No warmth. No indication of what's going on behind those dark eyes. Just a confirmation of receipt. A digital nod. Message delivered. Contents noted. Have a nice life.
You stare at the screen until the words blur. Then you lock the phone and roll over, pulling the blankets up to your chin. The ceiling is the same ceiling you've stared at for the past week. The same cracks in the plaster. The same dust motes floating in the morning light. Everything is exactly the same, except now you have two letters and a period to add to your collection of things Matt has given you that you don't know how to interpret.
You don't reply.
The conversation dies right there, buried under the weight of mutual confusion, two people who have spent years talking around the thing that matters most, now reduced to single syllables and lowercase letters.
The next three days pass in a haze of forced nothing.
You don't leave the house. You don't answer texts beyond the bare minimum required to keep people from showing up at your door. The group chat buzzes constantly. Chris, doing what Chris does best, filling the silence with nonsense.
Chris: yo did anyone else see that pigeon outside the studio today
Chris: it was HUGE
Chris: like genuinely concerningly large
Chris: nick said it was normal sized but nick is a liar
Chris: anyway we're filming tomorrow if anyone cares
Chris: which you should because the concept is actually sick
Nick sends a thumbs-up emoji. Matt sends nothing.
You send nothing.
The chat goes quiet for a few hours, then Chris starts again.
Chris: update: the pigeon is back
Chris: i think it's watching me
Nick: It's a pigeon, Chris.
Chris: a MENACING pigeon
You read every message. You don't respond. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard more than once, but what would you even say? Hey guys, just so you know, your brother and I had sex and then he found years of obsessive love letters I wrote to him and now we're not speaking and I'm pretty sure our friendship is irreparably damaged. Anyway, what time is filming?
The phone stays locked. The silence stays heavy.
Your birthday arrives on a Saturday.
You wake up to the smell of something baking downstairs. Your mother, already in full event mode, has been planning this for weeks. "It's not every day my baby turns another year older," she'd said, ignoring your protests that you didn't want a party, that you didn't want a fuss, that you just wanted to survive the week without completely falling apart.
The house transforms by noon. Folding chairs appear from the garage. A tablecloth you've never seen before gets draped over the dining table. Your mom enlists two of your cousins to hang a banner that reads Happy Birthday! in gold script, and someone produces a truly alarming number of balloons.
You move through the preparations like a ghost. You smile when people talk to you. You accept hugs from aunts who comment on how thin you look, how tired, are you sleeping okay? You lie and say you're fine. Just busy. Just stressed. Just anything other than what you actually are, which is a woman whose entire emotional existence has been reduced to two letters and a period.
The doorbell rings at 2 PM.
Chris bursts through the door before you can even reach the handle. "BIRTHDAY GIRL!" His voice echoes through the entryway. In his hands is a massive foil balloon, it's a giant green pickle wearing a striped party hat. The text on the body of the pickle reads, in bold letters: Another Birthday? NO BIG DILL!
A laugh tears out of you. Genuine. Surprising. The first real laugh in days.
"Chris," you manage, "where did you even find this?"
"The internet is a beautiful place." He grins, shoving the balloon weight into your hands. "Also, you're welcome. I spent actual money on this."
Nick slips past his brother, shaking his head with the long-suffering patience of someone who has spent his entire life dealing with Chris's antics. He's holding a neatly wrapped present, rainbow paper with a silver bow. "Ignore him. Happy birthday." He pulls you into a hug, one arm wrapping around your shoulders while the other keeps the gift carefully balanced.
His voice drops to a whisper against your ear. "Are you okay?"
The question, so simple, so direct, almost undoes you. You swallow hard. Nod against his shoulder. "I'm okay," you whisper back. And for a moment, pressed into Nick's steady, grounding presence, you almost believe it.
Then you look up.
Matt is standing in the doorway.
He's wearing dark jeans and a simple white box crop tshirt. His hair is the same. His face is the same. Everything about him is exactly the same, except for the careful, deliberate distance in his eyes. The way he's holding himself back. The way he's watching you watch him.
And then, like someone flipped a switch, he smiles.
It's his classic smile. The easy one. The best-friend smile. "Hey," he says, stepping forward. "Happy birthday." He hands you a wrapped present with a card tucked under the ribbon, and his fingers don't brush yours. He pulls back before they can.
The card features Sandy Cheeks winking inside her scuba dome on the front, arched beneath the words howdy partner happy birthday. Inside, his handwriting, familiar, the same handwriting you've read on set lists and grocery notes and the back of receipts for years fills the page. Homegirl,
Happiest Birthday. All the best! Thanks for always being there.
— BBF Matty
P.S. I'm sorry.
Your eyes catch on the postscript. The rest of the message is so casual, so flippant, so perfectly constructed to sound like nothing has changed. But those three words at the bottom, tucked under his signature like an afterthought, undo the entire performance. I'm sorry. Not sorry for the card being late or sorry I forgot to wrap it better. Just I'm sorry. Vast and vague and devastating. Also you couldn't help but notice the subliminal messaging, Sandy, Spongebob's iconic girl best friend.
You look up. Matt is watching you read, his expression carefully neutral. But his jaw is tight. The muscle at the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Thank you," you hear yourself say. "This is really sweet."
"Of course." His voice is steady. Performed. "You know I've got you."
You know I've got you. The words land somewhere deep in your chest and ache. He's being normal. He's being exactly what you asked for in the letter, the best friend, the safe one, the one who doesn't talk about what happened or what he read or what he said when he pinned you against the door and called you his. He's giving you what you asked for.
So why does it feel like a knife between your ribs?
The party swells around you.
Your mom has outdone herself. The dining table groans under the weight of food. Sandwiches cut into triangles, a cheese board, a vegetable platter, something involving puff pastry that your aunt brought and everyone is politely not eating. Your cousins have taken over the living room. High school friends you haven't seen in months circulate with paper plates and cups of punch.
You move through it all on autopilot. Smile. Hug. Thank you. Yes, another year older. No, I don't feel different. Yes, the pickle balloon is ridiculous, Chris picked it out.
Matt stays in your orbit but never enters it. Every time you glance across the room, he's there, talking to someone, laughing at something, sipping his drink. But his eyes keep finding you. Brief glances. Quick cuts. Like he's checking to make sure you're still there. Still real. Still his, even if he's pretending you're not.
The doorbell rings again past 4 PM.
August is standing on your porch with a bouquet of flowers. Simple. White daisies and yellow roses, wrapped in brown paper. His smile is warm and easy and completely unaware of the emotional minefield he's walking into.
"Happy birthday," he says, handing you the flowers. "Sorry I'm late."
You hug him. It's natural. It's what friends do. But over his shoulder, across the crowded living room, you see Matt's expression flicker. The mask slips for half a second. Something dark and sharp flashes in his eyes.
Dinner is a loud, chaotic affair.
Every seat at the table is filled. Your mom has dragged in the extra chairs from the garage, the mismatched ones with the wobbly legs that no one ever uses. You're wedged between one of your cousins and Nick. Across the table, Matt sits next to Chris. August at the far end.
You're halfway through your second plate of food when August stands up.
He taps his fork against his glass. The clinking sound cuts through the chatter. Conversations trail off. Heads turn. Your cousin elbows you and grins.
"Alright, alright," August says, his voice carrying that easy confidence he always has. "I'm not big on speeches, but I couldn't let today pass without saying something."
Your stomach tightens. You glance at Matt. He's perfectly still, his fork paused halfway to his mouth.
"I've known this one for a long time," August continues, gesturing toward you with his glass. "And I've watched her be the most selfless, most loyal, most quietly incredible person in every room she walks into. She's the kind of friend who shows up. Every time. No questions asked. No thanks needed."
Your cousins are swooning. One of your high school friends makes a teasing "aww" sound. "She deserves the world," August says, his eyes finding yours. "And I'm so lucky to have her in my life. Happy birthday. To the best."
Glasses raise around the table. Voices chorus, "To the best!" Someone claps. Your mom dabs at her eyes with a napkin.
You force a smile. Force a thank you. Force yourself not to look at Matt.
But you feel him. You feel the exact moment he pushes his chair back from the table, the scrape of wood against wood. You feel the silence that follows as he stands, as he walks out of the room, as the door swings shut behind him.
The empty chair gapes at you. Accusing. Awful.
Nick catches your eye from across the table. His expression is carefully blank, but something flickers there. Something that looks a lot like confirmation. Like he's been waiting for this particular shoe to drop all afternoon.
You stare at Matt's half-eaten plate. At the fork resting on the edge of the porcelain. At the napkin crumpled beside it.
The green-eyed monster has finally reared its head.
You excuse yourself five minutes later.
"Just need to grab more napkins," you say, to no one in particular. To everyone. To the void where Matt used to be sitting. No one stops you. Your mom is already deep in conversation with your aunt about some neighborhood drama. Your cousins are arguing about something on their phones. The party has swallowed the moment whole, moved on without noticing the absence of one person.
The kitchen door swings shut behind you.
The hum of the refrigerator. The distant laughter from the dining room, muffled now by the wall. The bright overhead light reflecting off the countertops. And Matt.
He's standing by the sink, his back to you, his hands braced against the edge of the counter. His shoulders are tight. His head is bowed. He doesn't turn around when you enter.
"Hey." The word comes out smaller than you intended.
"Hey." His voice is rough. Worn at the edges.
The silence stretches. The refrigerator hums. Somewhere in the dining room, Chris laughs loudly at something. The sound feels like it's coming from another planet.
Matt turns around.
His face is unreadable. That careful blankness he's worn all afternoon, all week, all the long days since he walked out of your bedroom and left the spare key on your nightstand. But his eyes are different. His eyes are burning.
"This is what you wanted, right?" He asks it quietly. Not accusing. Just tired. Just hollow. "To just forget about everything. For you to have your best friend back."
You stare at him. Your brain snags on the words. What you wanted. He's talking about the letter. The letter Nick delivered. The letter where you begged him to pretend the box had never been found, the sex had never happened, the confession had never left his lips. You asked him to forget. You asked him to shove everything back into a box and lock it away.
And he's been trying. All afternoon, with the easy smile and the casual card and the deliberate distance, he's been trying to give you exactly what you asked for.
Tears prick at your eyes. Hot. Immediate. You can't let him see. You can't let him watch you break again. You turn around, facing the counter, pressing both palms flat against the cold surface. The chill grounds you. The smoothness of the granite. The faint smell of dish soap.
"Maybe this will be better for both of us." Your voice trembles. You can't stop it. "I don't know, Matt. Maybe better for the friendship—"
The words die in your throat.
Heat. Sudden, solid heat pressing against your back. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into his chest. His face buries into the side of your neck, his breath warm and ragged against your skin.
"I tried."
His voice cracks on the word. Shatters. The pieces of it scatter across the kitchen tiles.
"I tried, but I can't anymore. I can't fake it."
Your hands are still pressed flat against the counter. Your knuckles have gone white. His arms tighten around your waist, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go.
"You have no idea how selfish you were." His lips move against your neck, barely a whisper. "Keeping all those letters to yourself. All those years. All those things you never said."
"I'm sorry." The apology chokes out of you, wet and broken.
"Don't be." His grip tightens. "Don't be sorry. I'm the one who's sorry. I'm sorry for not looking at you. For not seeing what was right in front of me."
A shaky breath shudders through his chest. You feel it against your spine, the rise and fall of it, the way his body is trembling almost imperceptibly.
"Finding that box, those letters" he continues, his voice low and rough, "completely flipped my world. I didn't—I had no idea. All this time, I thought I was the only one struggling. The only one with these messy, confused feelings that I didn't know what to do with. And then I found those letters and realized you were doing the exact same thing. In the dark. By yourself. For years."
His face presses deeper into your neck. You feel the scratch of his beard. The wetness that might be tears or might be your own or might be both.
"You were right there," he whispers. "The whole time. Right in front of me. And I was too stupid to see it."
He turns you around.
His hands slide up from your waist, over your ribs, until they cup your face. His thumbs brush the tear tracks on your cheeks, wiping them away even as new ones fall. His eyes are dark and wet and unbearably open.
Then he kisses you.
It's different from the rainstorm. Different from the frantic, desperate collision in your bedroom. This kiss is slower. Deeper. A confession pressed into your lips, your tears mixing together, salt and heat and the faint taste of the punch he drank at dinner.
He pulls back, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours. His thumbs are still stroking your cheekbones.
"Seeing you with him," he breathes, "I can't take it."
You blink through the tears. "Who? See me with who?"
The kitchen door swings open.
August steps inside. His expression shifts instantly, the easy smile evaporating as he takes in the scene. You, crying. Matt's hands on your face. The tension in the air thick enough to choke on.
"Is everything okay in here?" August steps forward, his posture straightening, his shoulders squaring.
Matt drops his hands from your face. The warmth disappears. The cold rushes back in.
He turns around.
Walks right up to August.
Almost chest to chest. Eye to eye. The height difference is negligible. The tension is not.
"Yeah, dude." Matt's voice drips with defensive venom. "Everything's okay."
The air crackles. Neither of them moves. Neither of them blinks. You're frozen against the counter, your back still pressed to the cold granite, your hands still shaking.
The door swings open again.
Chelsea walks in. "What's up?" She glances between the two men. Her brow furrows. Then, as if deciding the testosterone standoff isn't worth her attention, she walks right past both of them.
"Happy birthday, babe. I'm sorry got caught up with work." She wraps you in a hug, her sundress rustling, her perfume light and floral and completely at odds with the chaos of the moment. She pulls back, studying your face. "You okay?"
You nod. Numb. Automatic.
Chelsea turns around. Walks right up to August. Throws her arms around his neck. Rises onto her toes.
And kisses him, a peck on the lips.
Soft. Brief. The kind of casual peck that comes from years of intimacy. "Babe," she says, her hand resting on his chest, "is everything okay?"
August's posture softens immediately. His hand comes up to cover hers. "Yeah," he says, his eyes still on Matt. "Everything's fine."
The kitchen goes silent.
Matt stands frozen. His eyes are wide. His mouth has fallen slightly open. He's staring at Chelsea's hand on August's chest. At August's hand covering hers. At the easy, obvious intimacy between them that he has somehow, impossibly, completely misread.
You watch the realization crash over him in waves. The furrow of his brow. The slight shake of his head. The way his eyes cut to you, confusion and disbelief and something that looks terrifyingly like hope all tangled together.
"Wait." His voice is barely a whisper. "You two are—she's your—"
"Girlfriend," August says. Flat. Direct. "Chelsea. My girlfriend." He pauses, and understanding dawns across his face. Understanding of exactly what Matt has been assuming this whole time. "Did you think—"
He doesn't finish the question. He doesn't need to.
Matt's face crumples.
All the jealousy. All the rage. All the sleepless nights and the desperate confrontations and the who the fuck is he and the are you sleeping with him and the way he's been tearing himself apart watching you with August. All of it, built on a foundation of absolutely nothing.
"Chelsea," you manage, your voice still shaky, "this is Matt. Matt, this is Chelsea. August's girlfriend."
Chelsea extends her hand. "Nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you."
Matt doesn't take it. He's still staring at August. Still processing. His jaw works, like he's trying to form words and failing.
Then he looks at you.
And the expression on his face is so raw, so utterly exposed, that it steals the breath from your lungs. He looks like a man who has just been handed a pardon at the gallows. Like someone who spent weeks drowning only to realize the water was three feet deep.
The kitchen door swings open again. Nick pokes his head in, his eyes scanning the scene—Matt frozen, August and Chelsea united, you pressed against the counter with tear-streaked cheeks—and sighs.
"Of course," he mutters. "I leave you people alone for five minutes."
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taglist: @2muchofaslvt@raekelly13 @idkwhatthisis2009
PS: Part 10 will be the last and closing chapter of this story. :)
