Summary: you go to brunch at Madison’s and meet a bunch of people, including the triplets. You talk a little more with Matt than anyone else.
Read the rest, HERE.
Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains of the Airbnb, warming the room long before your alarm had the chance to go off. You were already awake. Excited was an understatement.
You reached over to your nightstand, unlocking your phone to see the text Madison had sent the night before with her address and the brunch time. A smile spread across your face.
Yesterday you knew absolutely nobody in Los Angeles. Today you were heading to brunch at Madison Beer’s house. Life was weird.
You climbed out of bed, making yourself a quick breakfast before wandering over to your suitcase. After staring at your clothes for far too long, you finally settled on a red gingham top and your favourite pair of relaxed blue jeans. Casual. Cute. Not trying too hard. Exactly what you were going for.
You curled a few loose pieces of hair around your face, kept your makeup soft and glowy, slipped on a pair of white sneakers, grabbed your purse and headed downstairs just as your Uber pulled up.
The drive over felt different than last night. Instead of nerves about walking into a room full of strangers, it was excitement.
Maybe today would be the day you actually started building a life here. The Uber pulled into a quiet neighbourhood lined with modern homes and perfectly trimmed hedges. Your stomach fluttered. “You’ve arrived,” the driver smiled. You thanked him before stepping out onto the sidewalk. Taking one deep breath, you walked up the driveway and knocked. Only a few seconds passed before the door swung open. “There she is!” Madison smiled.
“I’m so glad you came.”
“Thanks for inviting me.”
“Come in.”
The smell of fresh pancakes, coffee and bacon immediately filled the air. Laughter echoed from somewhere further inside the house. You followed Madison into the kitchen before your eyes widened slightly. There had to be fifteen people there. Some were gathered around the island. Others sat around the large dining table. Music played quietly from a speaker in the corner while conversations overlapped one another. You instantly recognized a few faces from social media. Tara. Gabi. Josh. You tried your best not to stare. Madison gently touched your arm. “Come on.”
She began introducing you one by one. “This is Tara.”
“So nice to meet you!”
“This is Gabi.”
“It’s nice meeting you!”
“And Josh.”
“Welcome to LA,” Josh smiled.
One by one everyone greeted you so warmly that the nerves you’d carried all morning slowly melted away. Eventually, Madison led you over to three familiar faces standing together. “And these three..” she laughed.
“are Chris, Nick and Matt.”
She pointed to each of them individually as she spoke. You smiled. “Hi.”
“Hey,” all three answered almost in sync.
You looked between them for a second before laughing. “Wait.. You guys are the Sturniolo triplets, right?”
Nick grinned immediately. “Of course.”
Chris laughed while Matt simply smiled to himself. “I’ve definitely seen you guys online before,” you admitted.
“We’re honoured,” Nick joked dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.
Madison laughed. “I’ll let you guys introduce yourselves properly.”
She wandered off to continue greeting another guest. You chatted for another minute before everyone slowly began making their way toward the dining table. You grabbed a plate, helping yourself to fruit, pancakes and eggs before scanning the table for somewhere to sit. Only one chair remained. Beside Matt. He noticed you looking around. “I think that’s your spot.”
You laughed. “Looks like it.”
Sliding into the chair, you placed your plate down. Conversation filled the room almost instantly. People talked over one another. Someone was telling an embarrassing story from the week before. Someone else was trying to defend themselves. It felt loud but comfortable.
“So..” Matt spoke beside you.
You turned toward him. “So..”
“You knew who we were?”
You smiled. “I mean, yeah..”
“How many videos have you watched?”
You pretended to think. “Enough.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not really an answer.”
“I don’t know,” you laughed. “They’d pop up on my TikTok.”
Nick looked over immediately. “Hear that?” He pointed between you and his brothers. “She said they.” He gasped dramatically. “She doesn’t even know which one is which.”
You laughed. “I do.”
“Oh?” Nick folded his arms. “Prove it.”
You pointed across the table. “You’re Chris.”
Chris nodded. “Correct.”
You pointed to the person beside him. “You’re Nick.”
Nick grinned. “So far, so good.”
Finally, you looked beside yourself. “And you’re Matt.”
Nick threw both hands into the air. “She passes.”
Matt laughed quietly beside you. You looked at him. “I was hoping you’d tell us you had absolutely no idea who we were.”
You smiled. “Sorry to ruin your ego.”
He smirked. “You just made my ego bigger.”
You rolled your eyes. “I can tell.”
Chris laughed from across the table. “She’s funny.”
“She is,” Nick agreed.
The conversation naturally drifted elsewhere, but every now and then you and Matt somehow found yourselves talking again. About Canada. About LA. About music. About how different the weather was. The conversations weren’t deep. Just easy. At one point you absentmindedly took the last sip of your orange juice before setting the empty glass beside your plate. Matt noticed almost immediately. “You want another one?”
You looked over. “Oh sure, if you’re already getting up.”
“No problem.”
He grabbed your glass without hesitation before walking toward the kitchen. You watched him disappear for a second.
“He does that.” Nick’s voice interrupted your thoughts.
“Hm?”
“He notices stuff.”
You smiled slightly.
A few moments later Matt returned, setting the fresh glass down beside your plate. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The brunch carried on for another couple of hours. Stories became funnier. People became louder. Every burst of laughter somehow ended with your eyes meeting Matt’s. Each time one of you looked away first. Neither of you seemed to acknowledge it.
Eventually people began collecting bags, saying their goodbyes and thanking Madison for hosting. You hugged Madison before promising you’d see her again soon. “It was so nice meeting everyone.”
“You’ll definitely be seeing us again,” she smiled.
As everyone slowly filtered toward the front door, you stepped outside into the warm afternoon sunshine. “Bye, guys!”
A chorus of goodbyes followed you as you walked toward your waiting Uber.
Back inside the house, Nick casually bumped Matt’s shoulder. “You talked to her longer than you’ve talked to me all week.”
Matt frowned. “Did I?”
Nick couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah.”
Matt looked toward the front window just in time to see your Uber pulling away from the curb. Nick just laughed to himself. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time they’d be seeing the Canadian singer.
Warnings: suggestive (just a bit tho), poly relationship (implied), spoilers for the last few episodes
Hope this is good I got so exited to write this that I probably made SO MANY MISTAKES I’m really bad at fluff 😭. Anyway, hope this is good
-S
———————————————————————————————————
You remember when Mello first told you he was leaving. He confided in you for everything: Near’s wins, his losses; everything. He came to you the day news of L’s death was revealed. He was second in line to be L’s successor, just behind Near. He hated it. He truly believed that you were his only constant, always ready for him.
”I can’t anymore, I need to leave.” He was crying when he told you, allowing himself to break down only for you. He wanted to stay the night in your room, but Roger would never allow it.
”Come with me. None of this matters. L is gone. Roger wants Near and I to work together, but I can’t. I just can’t. Near can do it just fine without me!” he said into your shirt. You held him close, hoping he wouldn’t try anything stupid. You knew he would get emotional like this often, but never like this. He looked up at you, hope in his eyes. You moved some of his hair out of his face, letting your hand linger for nothing longer than a mere few second.
”Please come with me. We could leave, far away from here. We could have our own life. No Near, no Roger. It would just be us. Please,” he begged. You didn’t know if leaving was a good idea, but a promised future with Mello wasn’t an awful thought.
”If you want to come along, pack your things and wait at your window for me. We’ll leave tonight.”
That was five years ago. Now, he’s on his own in America. He joined the Mafia to catch Kira. Of course, you went with him. Nobody dared hitting on you if it meant getting in the way of Mello. Everyone knew he had feelings for you. You used to think he might have back at Wammy’s, but now? Now you just assume he doesn’t want you gone since you're all he has.
Everything came together once Matt joined. Mello had asked him for help on a mission to kidnap Kiyomi Takada. He came a few months early, DS in hand and goggles over his eyes. You hugged him, excited to see your other childhood friend for the first time in what felt like forever.
”I missed you Matt,” still holding him. He pulled back, kissing you on both cheeks.
”I missed you too. Where’s Mello?” Mello happened to be a few meters away, glaring at Matt for blatantly kissing you in front of him. He had told him his feelings for you back at Wammy’s, so he sure was brave to pull this stunt right in front of him.
The next month followed with the three of you living together. Mello never made a move on you, nervous to be rejected or make it awkward. Matt however, was not afraid to get physical with you. You knew he was simply joking around, but Mello didn’t. For example, one morning you made coffee for yourself. Matt came out, shirtless with a cigarette in his mouth, and grabbed you from behind.
“Good morning,” he said, kissing your hair.
”Shut up, Matt,” you said, giggling at his antics. He led you to the couch, the sound of his DS turning on filled the room as he sat you on his lap.
“Wanna watch me play, doll?” You adjusted yourself before watching his quick hands maneuver the game. That’s when Mello came in.
”You guys gonna actually come help plan this or am I gonna have to listen to you two making out while I’m working?” He took a bit of his chocolate, jealousy written on his face. Matt let you up from where you sat.
”Easy, Mel. We were just having a bit of fun. If you want her back, you can have her.” You walked over to Mello, Matt following behind you.
”Can I have some?” You asked Mello, pointing to his chocolate. He took another bite before kissing you, giving you the piece of chocolate he just bit off. He thought about doing that for a while now, but he was always too nervous. That was, until he realized he had to be better than Matt, who was practically undressing you with his eyes.
”Heyyy, can I have some of that too, Mel?” Matt asked. Mello glared at him. Matt shot his hands up.
”Woah. Don’t make that face at me. Do you wanna share? We can share if you want.” Mello didn’t hate the idea, but he still had to prove himself better. And if you liked him too? Then he wouldn’t mind sharing you with Matt.
That night while you weren’t around, Mello stood alone with Matt outside as Matt lit his cigarette.
”Have you decided yet?” Matt asked, trying to get the lighter to hold its flame long enough to light one.
”Yeah. I don’t mind the idea of sharing. I just don’t want her getting hurt. It’s already risky having her with us. What if something happens to us on this mission, and she doesn’t know.” Matt nodded.
”Well then we won’t let that happen. Even if one of us is caught by the cops they’ll only want information. They won’t shoot unless it’s necessary. And you’ll have Takada, therefore ransom. So we’ll be fine.” That’s when they saw you inside, wearing Matt’s shirt and eating a piece of Mello’s chocolate, looking for them. Mello nodded towards you. Matt, getting the idea, followed him and they both silently walked you to Mello’s room, which was the largest out of the three of you and had the largest bed.
The next morning you woke up, still in Matt’s shirt. To your left was Matt, who was still asleep, shirtless, and grabbing onto your waist. Mello was awake, dressed, and standing before you. Today would be the last day you would see Mello for a while, since this would be the start of the mission. If successful, Kira’s identity would be revealed, and you would be safe.
”Guess we have a few hours left,” you said, wishing you had more time.
”Yeah…” He paused. “Come here for a second.” You got up, every step feeling like walking through snow. You took his hands, looking him in the eyes.
”I have something I want to tell you, but I don’t know how,” he said.
”Tell me, Mello. I think I already know.” He wrapped his arms around your shoulders as he kissed you; better than Matt, better than anyone. This wasn’t just a goodbye, this was an I love you. You pulled away a few minutes later, flustered and wide eyed as Mello still held you close.
”In the rare chance I come back from this, I want to marry you.” That’s when you heard Matt behind you, clapping and whistling.
”Finally got it out of your system, huh Mello.”
———
Hope this was good I’ve never written a full length fic for Death Note before so I hope I can write more. If you want a pt 2 with more angst over their deaths LEMME KNOW BC THAT SOUNDS SO FUN TO WRITE.
SOS
Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader
Mature | Smut | MDNI
After Matt discovers your hidden love letters and panics, you send him a final note through Nick, begging to forget everything and save the friendship.
Part 7
The first thing you register is the cold.
Not the temperature of the room—the lamp is still glowing, the air still heavy with the scent of vanilla and sex and him—but the cold of the space beside you. The mattress where his body had been. The sheets that had tangled around both of you hours ago, damp with sweat and tears and other things, now stretched flat and empty where he once lay.
You shift.
The rustle of fabric against skin. Your body protests, muscles sore in places you'd forgotten could ache. The lamp on your nightstand is still on, its amber glow carving the room into soft shadows and darker corners. The curtains are still half-drawn. The window is still a black mirror reflecting the bed, the rumpled blankets, the shape of you propped on one elbow.
And the shape of Matt on the floor.
He's exactly where he was when you first opened your eyes. Back against the closet door. Knees pulled up. The box. The one you've kept hidden under the old blanket for years. It sits open beside him, its worn cardboard corners catching the lamplight. Letters are scattered around his bare feet. The pages curl at the edges, some yellowed with age, some still crisp and new. His name stares up from every envelope.
He doesn't look at you.
He doesn't move.
The silence in the room is suffocating. Heavy enough to press against your eardrums. The only sound is your own breathing, shallow and uneven, and the far-off hum of the AC. And then—
Matt's voice.
Rough. Hollow. A sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, scraped raw by hours of reading and years of revelation.
"The way she looked at you tonight made me want to scream."
You freeze.
He's reading. His eyes move across the page of the letter in his hands, crumpled notebook paper, the ink slightly smeared where your hand dragged through it years ago, and his voice carries the words into the dark like a confession.
"You didn't even notice me across the room. You were too busy watching her. And I was too busy watching you watch her, memorizing the way your smile crinkled your eyes, the way your thumb rubbed the edge of your glass, the way you leaned into her space like gravity had shifted and she was the new center of your universe."
The letter. You know which one it is. The night of Chris's birthday party, two years ago, when Matt spent the whole evening with a girl with jet black hair and a laugh like wind chimes. You'd worn a blue dress, the only nice thing you owned at the time, and he'd said "You look nice" without ever really looking. You went home and wrote seven pages. Seven. Front and back. The ink had bled through to the other side.
Matt reads the last line aloud, his voice cracking on the final syllable.
"I keep telling myself that someday you'll see the girl in front of you. But I've been saying that for years, and I'm starting to think I'm invisible."
The letter drops.
His fingers release the page like it's burned him. It flutters to the floor, landing among the others, and his hands come up to cover his face. His shoulders hitch. The amber light catches the tear tracks glittering on his cheeks, the wetness in his beard, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches like he's trying to chew through something too big for his mouth.
He doesn't look angry.
That's the worst part. Anger you could handle. You could deflect anger, match it, throw it back at him like a weapon. But this, the devastation carved into every line of his face, the guilt that seems to be physically crushing him into the floorboards, this you don't know what to do with.
"I was just looking for a blanket."
His voice is barely a whisper. His hands drop from his face, and his eyes finally lift to meet yours. The contact is a physical blow. Your stomach knots.
"You were shivering." He says it like an apology. Like an explanation. Like a defense he's already given up on. "In your sleep. You were shivering, and I didn't want to wake you, so I got up to find another blanket. In the closet. The top shelf. I wasn't—" His voice breaks. He swallows. "I wasn't snooping. I wasn't trying to find anything. My hand just caught on the corner of the box when I reached for the shelf and it all came down and I saw my name and I—"
He stops. Breathes. His hands are trembling again.
"I'm sorry."
The words hang in the air. Small. Inadequate. A pebble thrown into an ocean.
You can't speak. Your throat is locked. Your tongue is a dead weight in your mouth. You're frozen in the bed, the sheets pulled up to your chest, your bare shoulders exposed to the cool air, and all you can do is stare at him—at the wreckage of him—and try to remember how to form words.
He doesn't wait for your response.
His hands move. Slow at first, then faster. He gathers the scattered letters, stacking them with a care that seems almost reverent. The one he dropped—the one with seven pages and smeared ink—gets folded along its original creases. Another, the angry scrawl from the night he left your room after the flu, gets tucked into its own creased folds. One by one, he places them back into the box.
You watch.
You can't do anything else.
"This." His voice comes out strangled. "All of this. All these years. You were—" He can't finish. His hands pause over the box, trembling. "You helped me. Every time. Every girl. You proofread my messages. You told me what to say. You smiled and hyped me up while I was—" A sound tears from his throat. Not quite a sob. Something sharper. "While I was destroying you."
Your lips part. Nothing comes out.
"I don't—" He shakes his head. His hands resume their work, placing the last of the letters into the box, closing the lid with careful, deliberate pressure. "I don't know how to fix this. I don't know if I can."
He stands.
The movement is shaky, unsteady, his legs clearly stiff from being sat on the floor. He's still wearing only his boxers, his chest bare, the skin you'd clawed hours ago now marked with faint red lines. The lamplight catches the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his waist, the vulnerability he never shows anyone.
He crosses to the nightstand.
The heavy metal spare key. The one your mom gave the triplets years ago. It's been sitting there since he let himself in, a silent accusation. He picks it up. The metal clinks against the wood.
And then he sets it down. Deliberately. Carefully. Right beside the lamp, so you'll see it the moment you wake.
So you'll know.
"I'm sorry," he says again, his voice scraping through the quiet room as he bends down to scoop his shirt from the floor. He jerks it over his head, the movement tight and stiff. "For everything. For tonight. For what we—for what I—"
Another swallow. Another crack. He reaches for his pants, shoving his legs into it with a rough, defensive finality.
"You were vulnerable. You were upset," he continues, his voice steadier now. Emptier. He doesn’t look at you as he picks up his jacket, his fingers trembling against the sleeves. "And I just—I came in here and I—"
He can't say it. Can't put words to what happened hours ago—the confrontation, the confession, the frantic sex that followed. He hooks the heavy metal spare key from the nightstand and sets it down flat with a soft, definitive click, relinquishing his access to your space.
"I shouldn't have," he whispers, grabbing his sneakers and backing toward the door. "Not after reading those. Not after knowing. I should've just left."
He stops. His hand drops from the key. He doesn't look at you.
"Take the key. It's yours. I don't deserve it."
And then he leaves.
The door doesn't slam. It clicks shut, soft and final, and then there's just the sound of his footsteps in the hallway. The front door opening. Closing. The distant rumble of an engine turning over.
Then silence.
Pure, absolute silence.
You don't sleep.
You don't move. For hours, you don't move. You lie in the tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling, your body a foreign thing that someone else inhabited hours ago. The letters. The box. The key on the nightstand, gleaming in the lamplight like a dare.
He knows. He knows everything. Every thought, every fantasy, every pathetic, desperate admission you've ever scribbled onto paper. The anger, the want, the jealousy, the hope. The letter from the night after the rainstorm, the one that ended with I'm done, the tear that smeared the ink. The letter from the night of the villa, I hope my face is the only thing you see in the dark. All of it.
He knows.
And he left.
The sun rises pale and gray through the half-drawn curtains. You watch the light change, watch the shadows shift across the floor, watch the empty space beside you remain stubbornly, impossibly empty. Your phone lies on the nightstand, face-down. You don't check it. You can't.
When you finally drag yourself out of bed, it's nearly noon.
The box is still there. On the floor by the closet. Closed now, the lid pressed down, everything neatly tucked away. Matt did that. Even in his devastation, he was careful with your secrets. He put them back exactly where they belonged.
Your body moves on autopilot. Shower. Clothes—an old hoodie, the softest one you own, the one that smells like nothing but laundry detergent and loneliness. You don't brush your hair. You don't look in the mirror. You shuffle to the kitchen, pour a glass of water you don't drink, and stand at the counter staring at nothing.
Your phone stays face-down.
The first text comes at 1:07 PM.
Chelsea: You alive? Gus said you were radio silent. Brunch was epic tho. Call me when you're conscious.
You stare at the screen. The words blur. You type back something brief, something meaningless—I'm fine, just tired, talk later—and then you turn the phone over again.
The second text comes at 2:43 PM.
August: Hey. Just checking in. Chelsea's worried. I'm worried. You good?
You don't answer.
The third text comes at 3:15 PM. It's not from Chelsea or August.
Chris: yo you alive?? matt's been a nightmare all morning. locked himself in his room. won't talk to anyone. we were supposed to film today. did something happen at the party??
The phone slips from your fingers. Lands on the couch cushion. You stare at the screen until it goes dark.
He's locked himself in his room. Refusing to talk. Being a nightmare.
The words circle your brain like vultures. He's not ignoring you out of anger. He's not pretending nothing happened. He's hiding. Just like you. Just like you've both always hidden, from each other, from yourselves, from whatever this thing is that's been burning between you for years.
You think about calling him. You think about texting. Your thumb hovers over his name—Matt—and you can see the last messages from before all of this, before the rainstorm and the villa and the letters, when you were still his safe, comfortable friend who gave him advice about other girls.
You can't do it.
The day stretches on. Gray afternoon light bleeds into gray evening light. Your mom comes home from her weekly grocery run, calls out a greeting, and you respond with something automatic. She doesn't notice the cracks. She never does.
You eat dinner. Or you sit at the table while food is in front of you. Same thing.
The phone stays silent. No texts from Matt. No calls. Nothing.
You go to bed. The sheets are cold. The pillow still smells faintly of him.
You don't sleep.
Monday morning. Sunlight. The ceiling. Dust motes floating in the golden beam cutting through the curtains. Your body feels like it's been hollowed out and filled with lead. Every movement takes deliberate effort. Every thought is a weight you have to drag behind you.
The key is still on the nightstand.
Your phone is still empty of him.
Another text from Chris. Seriously what is going ON. Matt's like a zombie. Nick won't tell me anything. Are you guys fighting???
You type back: I don't know.
It's the most honest thing you've said in days.
Tuesday passes in the same gray haze. You don't leave the house. You don't answer calls. Chelsea leaves a voicemail—"Okay, seriously, you're scaring me. Call me back or I'm sending August over there with snacks and questions"—and you text her some excuse about a migraine. August sends a string of emojis that you assume are meant to be supportive.
Nothing from Matt.
Nothing from Nick, either, which is almost worse. Nick always knows. Nick notices everything. The fact that he's been silent means he's either respecting your privacy or completely in the dark about what happened, and you're not sure which option is more terrifying.
Wednesday morning.
You wake up and something has shifted. The numbness has curdled into something sharper. Not anger, not yet, but a desperate, clawing need to fix this. To bridge the gap before it becomes a canyon. To salvage whatever scraps of your friendship might still be intact.
You reach for your phone. For a long moment, you stare at his name. Matt.
Your thumb presses the call button before you can stop yourself. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
Voicemail.
You hang up.
The terror that floods your system is immediate and paralyzing. He's avoiding you. He saw your name on the screen and let it ring. He doesn't want to talk to you. He's done. He's completely done. You've lost him. You've lost everything.
Your fingers are shaking as you scroll through your contacts. You need to talk to someone. You need to tell someone. You can't carry this alone anymore, can't keep it locked in your chest like another unsent letter, another secret burning a hole through your ribs.
Nick.
He picks up on the first ring.
"Hey." His voice is cautious. Curious. Not surprised, exactly, but guarded. "Everything okay?"
"No." The word cracks down the middle. "No, Nick. Everything is not okay. I need—can you—are you busy? Can you come over? Please? I need to—I have to tell someone—"
"Whoa. Hey. Slow down." The caution in his voice shifts to something firmer. Something protective. "I'm not busy. I'll be there in ten minutes. Just breathe."
He hangs up before you can thank him.
Nine minutes later—you count—the doorbell rings.
Nick is standing on your porch in his usual effortless uniform: dark jeans, a crisp t-shirt, his hair perfectly tousled like he just rolled out of bed looking like a magazine spread. But his eyes are serious. Focused. The way they get when something actually matters.
"Hey," he says again. Softer this time.
"Hey." You step aside to let him in.
The room is a mess. Blankets draped over the floor. Empty water glasses on the bedside table. The remnants of three days of barely functioning. Nick doesn't comment on it. He just sits on the bed, rests his elbows on his knees, and waits.
You sit opposite him. For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
"He found the letters."
The words fall out of you. Simple. Direct. No preamble.
Nick's eyebrows lift. "Letters?"
"The box." Your voice is steadier than you expected. "The box on my closet. The one with—" A breath. "With years of letters. To him. Unsent. Every thought, every feeling, every pathetic fantasy I've ever had about him. All of it. He found it."
Nick doesn't say anything. His expression doesn't change. But his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—are working overtime.
"When?" he asks.
"After the party. After I came home with August. He was here." You swallow. "He'd let himself in with the spare key. He saw me with August and he—he lost it. We fought. We yelled. He said—" You can't repeat it. You're mine. It feels too raw, too private, too precious. "And then we—"
"Okay." Nick holds up a hand. "I don't need the details of that part."
"Nothing happened." The lie is automatic. "I mean—nothing that—we just—" You stop. Take a breath. "He found the box while I was asleep. He read them. All of them maybe, I'm not really sure. And then he left. He hasn't spoken to me since. He won't answer my calls. Chris says he's locked himself in his room and won't talk to anyone."
The silence stretches.
Nick leans back against the headboard of your bed. His gaze drifts toward the window, toward the gray morning light filtering through the curtains. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
"God, that explains why he's been so incredibly cranky the past few days. He's been locked in his room since the party. Refusing to talk. Refusing to eat. Chris tried to drag him out for a video shoot and he just—" Nick shakes his head. "Nothing. Wouldn't even open the door."
"He hates me."
"He doesn't hate you." Nick's response is immediate. Certain. "He's terrified. There's a difference."
"Terrified of what?"
"Of losing you. Of what he did. Of what you wrote in those letters, probably." Nick's eyes find yours again. "How long?"
You blink. "How long what?"
"How long have you been in love with him?"
The question lands somewhere in your chest. It's the first time anyone has said it out loud. The first time the word love has been spoken in relation to you and Matt by anyone other than yourself, scribbled frantically onto paper in the dark.
"Years," you whisper. "Since the beginning. I liked him since I can remember. I don't even know when it started. It just—was. It's always been there."
Nick nods. Slow. Thoughtful. "And you never told him."
"Every time I tried, he'd show me someone new. Some girl he was into. Some dream girl he was too scared to DM. And I'd look at them—polished, confident, everything I'm not—and I'd think, what's the point? He doesn't see me like that. I'm just—" Your voice catches. "I'm just the safe one. The comfortable one. The best friend who helps him write messages to other girls."
"Until the villa."
"Until the villa."
Nick is quiet for a moment. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and fixes you with a look that's softer than his usual sharp assessment.
"For what it's worth," he says, "I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Not ever. Not even close."
Your throat tightens. "Then why did he leave?"
"Because he's an idiot. Because he feels guilty. Because he just found out that the person he cares about most in the world has been silently breaking her own heart for years because of him." Nick's voice is gentle but firm. "That's a lot to process."
"Or maybe he's just done. Maybe he realized this isn't worth it. The drama. The letters. Whatever this is." You gesture vaguely between yourself and the empty air where Matt should be. "Maybe he decided the friendship isn't worth saving."
Nick doesn't answer right away. He looks at you. Studies you. Then he says, quietly, "Do you want to save it?"
"Yes." The word is immediate. Raw. "More than anything. That's all I want. I don't care if he never—if we never—I just want my best friend back. I can't do this. I can't live in this silence. It's killing me."
"Then tell him that."
"I tried. He won't answer."
"Then try differently."
The words hang in the air. Try differently. You think about the box. The years of letters. The secrets you've been keeping. Every confession you've ever made has been on paper. Every truth you've ever told him has been with ink instead of your voice.
Maybe that's the problem.
You stand up.
"Where are you going?" Nick asks.
"I need to write something."
The desk in your room is exactly as you left it. The notebook. The pen. The vanilla candle burned down to nothing. You sit. You pull out a fresh sheet of paper. For a long moment, you just stare at the blank white space.
This isn't like the other letters. The other letters were secrets. Confessions meant for no one but yourself. This one—this one has to be different. This one has to bridge the gap.
The pen touches paper.
Matt,
I'm sorry. I'm so incredibly sorry for being a coward.
The words come slowly at first, then faster. The pen scratches across the page, and you don't stop to think, don't stop to edit, don't stop to second-guess.
I should have spoken the words aloud years ago instead of hiding behind ink and paper, leaving you to piece together a puzzle you didn't even know you were playing. I locked those letters away because I knew the truth: I am so very far away from your type. I watched the girls you chose, the girls you fell for, and I knew I could never compete with that. So I stayed in the dark, choosing to be your safe, comfortable backup rather than risking losing you entirely.
But please, if you can find it in yourself, just forget about the letters. Pretend you never found the box. Pretend you never read a single line. And please... let's just forget about everything else that happened in my room. The things we did, the lines we crossed—the things best friends should never have done. Let's push it all away.
I don't want to destroy what we have. More than anything, I just want to save our friendship. Please don't let my cowardice cost me my best friend.
You don't sign it. You don't need to. He'll know.
The pen clatters to the desk. Your hands are shaking. But this time, the shaking isn't from fear. It's from something else. Something that feels almost like hope.
You fold the paper. Once. Twice. Your fingers are steady now. Deliberate.
When you turn back toward the bed, Nick is still leaning against the headboard. He looks up as you step closer, his eyes dropping immediately to the folded paper in your hand.
"This one you're sending," he says. Not a question.
"This one I'm sending." You hold it out to him. "Can you—will you give it to him? Please? I can't—he won't—"
Nick takes the letter. His fingers brush yours. "Of course."
"Don't read it."
"I wouldn't." He tucks it carefully into his jacket pocket. "I'll make sure he gets it. Today."
"Thank you."
He stands. Crosses to where you're standing. For a moment, he just looks at you, those sharp eyes softening into something gentler than you've ever seen from him. Then he pulls you into a hug. Quick. Firm. Brotherly.
"Whatever happens," he murmurs, "you're family. You know that, right? No matter what."
The tears you've been holding back for three days finally spill over. You bury your face in his shoulder, just for a moment, just long enough to let yourself break. Then you pull back, wipe your eyes, and nod.
"Go," you say. "Before I lose my nerve."
Nick squeezes your shoulder once. Then he's gone, the front door clicking shut behind him, the letter tucked safely against his chest.
You stand in the living room. In the silence. In the gray morning light.
Hello!! I love your eddsworld writing because not a lot of people do it these days, also the fact that you make male reader content too? I feel seen :'). Anyways, may i request Taller!male!reader x matt? Thank you and have a nice day/night!
Matt x taller!male!reader
Masterlist
That’s the aim of my game to help people be seen :]
Also. I’m reworking the eddsworld banners rn and adding the neighbours! I’m just kinda struggling on how I want them to look sigh
• when he first saw you he didn’t really care much about your height. But if Edd or Tom made a comment about it he would get huffy and try make it seem like he isn’t bothered!
• but when things happen? It doesn’t matter if you’ve got no strength in them arms of yours he’s jumping in them like a distressed little rat
• he’s so dramatic with it too
• when he brings you to his place , Edd and Tom are now just wonderful if he was single before because nobodu wanted to date him or his type was just tall guys and when you’re already tall that’s hard to come across-
• honestly he does have some reservations about dating a man but he’s so in love with you it all melts away
• also, he’s so giddy too because you being taller means he gets to do cute couple things like steal your clothes
• he probably won’t do it much because he loves his wardrobe but if you’re gone whatever reason in the night he just loves to wear whatever you wear to go to sleep because it’s just so you and he loved everything about you
• also, if you’re out with the lads and you ever need to look for something??? He’s just looking at you like 👀 because he can’t wait to sit on your bicep or shoulders
• also. You get to be the one cuddling him! Though he isn’t opposed to big spooning still, he’s a cuddler after all!
Summary: you and Matt bring Charlotte and Millie to a festival with face paint, cotton candy, and fireworks for the Fourth of July.
Read more, HERE.
The warm July sunshine poured through the windshield as Matt backed the SUV out of the driveway, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other reached across the centre console to give your knee a gentle squeeze.
You smiled over at him before looking into the backseat where Charlotte was already chatting away to herself, proudly wearing the little red, white, and blue bow she’d insisted on putting in her hair that morning. Every so often she’d lean toward the window just enough to catch her reflection, making sure it was still perfectly in place. Beside her, Millie kicked her tiny legs happily in her car seat, dressed in a little red romper that made her chubby cheeks somehow look even cuter.
“You got everything baby?” Matt asked.
You laughed, patting the diaper bag sitting at your feet. “Diapers, wipes, bottles, snacks, sunscreen, extra clothes, honestly, if we forgot something at this point, we’ll survive.”
He smirked. “Famous last words.”
“I’m gonna get a rainbow!” Charlotte announced from the backseat, her excitement making the words come out twice as loud. Matt glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “A rainbow?”
“A sparkly rainbow.”
“Oh.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Well that’s cool.”
Charlotte giggled. “It’s very cool, Daddy.”
By the time you arrived at the festival, the entire park was alive with families. Music drifted through the air from a stage somewhere nearby while children ran around with balloons and little American flags. Food trucks lined the paths, filling the air with the smell of barbecue, kettle corn, and fresh lemonade. Every booth was decorated in red, white, and blue, and Charlotte’s eyes seemed to get wider with every step you took.
Before you could even unzip the diaper bag, you lifted Millie into the soft baby carrier against your chest. She settled immediately, her little head tucked comfortably beneath your chin as you adjusted the straps. She let out the sweetest little sigh, perfectly content to be carried while she looked around at everything happening.
Charlotte grabbed Matt’s hand the second she spotted the face painting booth.
“Daddy! Face painting!”
He laughed as she immediately started pulling him through the crowd. “Alright, alright. Slow down or I’m gonna lose a shoulder.”
You followed behind them with a smile, watching Charlotte practically skip beside him. Every few steps she’d look back to make sure you and Millie were still following before turning back around and continuing to pull Matt toward the booth.
The line wasn’t too long, and Charlotte spent the entire wait explaining exactly what she wanted.
“A rainbow,” she said confidently. “A really pretty one. With glitter and pink and blue and purple.”
“I think you forgot green,” Matt teased.
Charlotte gasped dramatically. “Daddy! Rainbows have green!”
“Good thing you remembered.”
When it was finally her turn, Matt helped lift her onto the chair before crouching beside her while the artist worked. You stood just beside them, gently bouncing Millie as she looked around with wide curious eyes. Every now and then she reached one tiny hand toward the colourful paints sitting on the table, making you quietly laugh. Matt watched the artist carefully. “So we’re talking lots of glitter?” he asked.
Charlotte nodded enthusiastically. “Lots of glitter.”
The artist laughed. “Lots of glitter it is.”
Charlotte sat surprisingly still while the rainbow slowly came to life across the side of her face. Soft white clouds were added at each end before the artist dusted everything with sparkling glitter that caught the sunlight. When she finally handed Charlotte the mirror, her little mouth fell open. “I’M SO PRETTY!”
“You are baby girl,” you smiled.
Charlotte immediately hopped down and ran straight into Matt. “Daddy! Look!”
He crouched until they were eye level before gently turning her face from side to side with both hands. “Wow.”
She beamed. “It has glitter.”
“I noticed.”
“And clouds.”
“I noticed those too.”
Charlotte burst into giggles before wrapping her arms around his neck. Matt hugged her tightly, kissing the top of her head. “My beautiful girl.”
The afternoon carried on exactly the way summer festivals always seemed to. Charlotte wanted to stop at every single booth, and Matt happily let her drag him from one attraction to the next while you followed behind with Millie sleeping peacefully against your chest.
Every now and then Charlotte would stop running long enough to make sure you saw something. “Mommy! Look!”
You’d smile and wave. “I see, sweetheart!” Then she’d immediately grab Matt’s hand again and pull him toward something else.
One of the carnival games caught her attention next. “Daddy! Can we?”
Matt looked over at you. “What do you think?”
You smiled. “Go for it.”
Charlotte bounced excitedly while Matt paid for a turn. He rolled the baseball once, knocking every bottle over in one shot. Charlotte’s jaw dropped. “My daddy’s so strong!”
Matt puffed out his chest dramatically. “I know.”
You laughed. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m basically a superhero now.”
Charlotte nodded very seriously. “You are.”
When the worker handed Charlotte the little teddy bear she’d won, she hugged it tightly before taking Matt’s hand again. “This is Teddy.”
“Teddy?” Matt smiled.
“Yep.”
The smell of freshly spun cotton candy drifted across the midway not long after. Charlotte stopped walking immediately. “Daddy?”
Matt looked down. “Yes?”
“I think I need cotton candy.”
“You need it?”
She nodded very seriously. “I really do.”
Matt laughed before looking back at you. “Can I say no to that face?”
“You’d better not.”
A few minutes later, Charlotte was holding the biggest pink and blue cotton candy either of you had ever seen. She carefully pulled off the tiniest piece and placed it on her tongue. Her eyes grew huge. “It disappeared!”
Matt blinked dramatically. “No way.”
“It melted!”
He tried a piece himself before pretending to gasp. “It melted for me too!”
Charlotte immediately looked at you. “Mama! Try!”
You leaned down carefully, making sure not to bump Millie sleeping against your chest, before taking a tiny piece. “It happened!”
Charlotte jumped up and down, “Millie can try?” And you replied laughing, “no baby, in a few years she can. She’s too little.”
Charlotte laughed so hard she nearly dropped the cotton candy. Millie had woken up by then and quietly watched all three of you, her bright little eyes following every movement. Matt reached over and gently tickled her tiny foot. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’ll have to wait a little while before you get to experience disappearing cotton candy.”
As the afternoon slowly melted into evening, you found a grassy hill overlooking the lake where everyone had started gathering for the fireworks. Matt spread the blanket out while you carefully sat down with Millie still nestled against your chest. Charlotte immediately kicked off her sandals before flopping onto the blanket beside her dad, Teddy tucked securely under one arm.
The four of you shared sandwiches, strawberries, watermelon, popcorn, and juice boxes while watching the sky slowly turn shades of pink and orange. Charlotte leaned against Matt’s shoulder. “This is my favourite day.”
He smiled down at her. “Better than Christmas?”
She thought about it for several long seconds. “Almost.”
“I’ll take almost.”
A little while later, children started running around with glow sticks. Matt reached into the diaper bag with a grin. “I came prepared.”
Charlotte’s eyes lit up. “You remembered!”
“I always remember.”
He cracked two glowstick bracelets until they glowed bright pink and green before carefully sliding them onto Charlotte’s wrists. She immediately waved her arms around. “I’m glowing!”
“You sure are.”
Then he pulled out a glowing necklace. “Millie gets one too.”
He carefully slipped it over her little head while she sat comfortably against your chest. She stared down at the glowing colours.“Oh, you like that?” you laughed.
Matt smiled. “There we go. Now both my girls match.”
The first firework suddenly exploded across the night sky with a loud boom that echoed over the lake. Charlotte jumped before instinctively climbing into Matt’s lap. “They’re loud.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
He wrapped one arm securely around her while gently rubbing slow circles across her back. “It’s okay. They can’t hurt us.”
Another firework burst overhead, followed by another, and then another. Red melted into blue, blue into purple, purple into silver and gold until the entire sky sparkled with colour. The glitter in Charlotte’s rainbow face paint caught every flash of light, making it shimmer even brighter. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered.
“They really are.”
You rested your head lightly against Matt’s shoulder while Millie quietly watched from the carrier, completely mesmerized by every bright explosion. Every single time another firework lit up the sky, her tiny little eyes lit up, making both you and Matt smile.
“I think somebody likes them,” Matt whispered.
You looked down at Millie. “I think this might be her first favourite holiday.”
The grand finale began with one spectacular burst after another until the entire sky looked like it had been covered in glitter. Charlotte clapped as hard as she could, laughing louder with every firework.“This is AMAZING!”
Matt kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad we came.”
You smiled as you looked over at your little family.“So am I.”
As the crowd slowly began making their way toward the parking lot, Matt stood first before reaching down for Charlotte. “Come here, bug.”
She lifted her arms without a word, and he scooped her up onto his hip. At first she rested her head on his shoulder while clutching Teddy against her chest, but only a few steps into the walk, her little body relaxed completely. Her arms lazily wrapped around his neck as she tucked her face into the nape of his neck, already drifting off. You looked over at them, your heart immediately melting. “Aww someone’s tired.”
Matt smiled softly without looking away from the path ahead. “I think she gave every last bit of energy she had today.”
You laughed quietly as he instinctively rubbed slow circles over her back, careful not to wake her. Charlotte didn’t stir once, only letting out the tiniest sleepy sigh as she snuggled even closer into him.
By the time you reached the SUV, she was completely asleep in his arms. Matt opened the back door as gently as he could before carefully lowering her into her car seat. Supporting her head with one hand and holding Teddy with the other, he buckled her in without rushing, making sure she stayed comfortable the entire time. She barely moved, only nestling deeper into the seat as he pulled the straps into place.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Sweet dreams sweetheart.”
You gently lifted Millie from the carrier and settled her back into her car seat. She reached for your finger for just a second before letting out the tiniest sleepy sigh and closing her eyes.
The drive home was quiet, save for the soft hum of the road beneath the tires. You reached over and laced your fingers with Matt’s across the centre console. Without taking his eyes off the road, he lifted your hand and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles. “Good day?” he asked quietly.
You looked back at your two sleeping girls before smiling at him. “The best.”
He squeezed your hand. “We’ve got two pretty amazing daughters.”
Your heart felt so full it almost hurt. “We really do.”
It wasn’t a picture perfect holiday. Charlotte had somehow managed to get cotton candy in her hair, Millie had spit up on your shirt halfway through dinner, and both of you were completely exhausted. But as you watched your daughters sleeping peacefully in the backseat while Matt’s thumb lazily traced circles across your hand, you couldn’t help thinking that these were the moments you’d remember forever, the messy, ordinary, beautiful days that somehow ended up feeling like magic anyway.
TMI
Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader
Mature | Smut | MDNI
You return home to find him waiting in your bedroom, forcing a confrontation where years of unspoken desire finally collide. Only for you to wake to a discovery that changes everything.
Part 6 Part 8
The Sunday afternoon sun slants through the windshield, warm and golden, as August’s car rolls to a stop in front of your house. Your cheeks ache from laughing. Actual, genuine laughter, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep and unexpected. The kind you haven’t felt in weeks. Brunch with Chelsea had been exactly what you needed. She’d ordered extra mimosas and told you, with absolute seriousness, that if Matt didn’t get his act together she’d personally drive to his house and “explain things slowly, with visual aids.” August had nearly choked on his eggs benedict.
Before leaving the restaurant, you had stolen a pen from August's pocket, Chelsea’s words still ringing like a warning bell in your ears. Frantically, you poured a piece of your own mind onto a linen napkin while they were distracted laughing—a strict reminder to yourself, a shield against your own weakness.
You pull it from your purse now, unfolding the crumpled paper to look at your own rushed handwriting one last time:
Do not even try to use the friend card to back me into a corner again. If you want a place in my life, you have to knock on the front door like everyone else.
“You good?” August asks now, killing the engine and turning to face you. His sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, and there’s a smear of sunscreen on his collar that Chelsea must have left when she hugged him goodbye.
“Yeah.” You unbuckle your seatbelt. “I’m good. Tired, but good.”
“That’s the brunch coma talking. You’ll be asleep by seven.” He’s already opening his door, circling the front of the car before you can protest. Your door swings open. He offers his hand. You take it.
The front path is dappled with late-afternoon shadows, the tree in your yard dropping purple blossoms onto the grass. August’s hand settles at the small of your back, firm and grounding, the same way it had all night at the villa. Protective. Present. The gesture is second nature to him now.
At the door, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. His lips are warm, his cologne faint and clean. Then he wraps you in a bear hug, the kind that lifts you slightly onto your toes, and murmurs against your hair, “Everything’s gonna be alright. You know that, right?”
You nod against his chest. “I know.”
“Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything. Middle of the night, crack of dawn, I don’t care.”
“I will.”
He waits. That’s the thing about August, he always waits. He stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets until you’ve unlocked the door and stepped inside. Only then does he give a final wave, a crooked grin, and head back to his car. The engine turns over. The tires crunch against the driveway. Then silence.
You lean your back against the heavy wood of the front door and exhale. A long, slow release of breath that seems to drain the tension from your shoulders. The house is dark. Cool. Completely still. Your mom’s out on Sundays, she visits her friends, plays bridge, comes home late with stories about Carol’s terrible casserole. You have the place to yourself.
Your heels click against the hardwood as you pad down the hallway, already reaching for the zipper of your brunch dress. The fabric is light and floral, something Chelsea had complimented three times before the appetizers even arrived. You can’t wait to peel it off and collapse into something soft. Maybe the band t-shirt. The one that still smells faintly of him.
You push your bedroom door open.
The breath rips from your lungs.
The room is cast in deep afternoon shadows, the curtains only half-drawn. The vanilla candle on your nightstand has burned down to nothing. And there, on the floor, sits Matt.
He’s not pacing. He’s not on his phone. He’s sitting flat against the side of your bed, his back pressed to the mattress frame, his knees pulled up toward his chest. His dark eyes are fixed on the window. The window with a perfect, unobstructed view of the driveway. Of the front porch. Of August’s hand on your back and his lips on your cheek and his arms wrapped around you in a hug that probably looked a lot more intimate than it actually was.
He’s wearing the exact same clothes from the night before. Dark shirt. Dark jeans. Rumpled and creased and smelling faintly of firepit smoke, that sharp, woodsy scent that clings to fabric after hours beside an open flame. But underneath it, there’s something else. Something familiar. The vanilla. The detergent. The particular smell of your room that he’s been breathing in for however long he’s been sitting here.
On the floor beside his thigh is your band t-shirt. The faded one you wore to sleep. The one you’d left discarded on the unmade bed before leaving for brunch. He’s been sitting in the dark, staring at your clothes, watching you come home with another man.
On your nightstand sits the heavy metal spare key.
Your spare key. The one your mom gave the triplets years ago, back when they first moved to the neighborhood. “In case of emergencies,” she’d said. “In case you lock yourself out or need someone to feed the cat.” Except you don’t have a cat. And this isn’t an emergency. This is Matt, in your bedroom, uninvited, having let himself in while you were gone.
Your eyes dart to the closet. The door is closed. The old blanket is still draped exactly where you left it, the corners undisturbed. He hasn’t found the box. He hasn’t found the letters. The relief is immediate and sickening, a cold wave that makes your knees weak.
The silence stretches. Thickens. Becomes something solid and suffocating.
Matt doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay locked on the floorboard between his sneakers. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough and quiet and dangerously level, scraped raw from hours of stewing in his own misery.
“He touched you exactly four times between the car and the porch.”
Adrenaline spikes in your chest. Hot and sharp and immediate. Your hands curl into fists at your sides.
“You’ve been watching me?” Your voice comes out high, incredulous. “You let yourself into my house and watched me through the window like some kind of—”
“Four times.” His jaw tightens. “Hand on your back. Lips on your cheek. The hug. Then his hand on your waist again before he walked away. Four.”
“You’re insane.” The words snap out of you before you can stop them. “You’re actually insane, Matt. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to sneak into my house and count touches like you’re keeping score.”
His head lifts. Slowly. His eyes meet yours, and the look in them makes your stomach drop. They’re red-rimmed. Bloodshot. Like he hasn’t slept. Like he’s been sitting on your floor for hours, maybe all night, maybe since the moment you drove away from the villa and left him standing in the gravel with the Instagram girl’s hand on his elbow.
“You were with him all night,” he says. Still quiet. Still dangerously level. “You danced with him. You laughed with him. You left with him.”
“And you were with her!” Your voice cracks. “You were draped over her all weekend. You brought her to the villa. You posted her on your story. You sat next to her at dinner like she was your—”
“I didn’t touch her.” He’s on his feet now. The movement is sudden, fluid, and suddenly he’s towering over you in the small space of your bedroom. “Not once. Not the whole night. She tried—she kept trying—and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. Because every time I looked at her, all I saw was you.”
He steps forward. You step back. Your spine hits the closed bedroom door with a sharp thud.
“You think I wanted to be there?” His chest is heaving now, his voice climbing. “You think I looked at her once after you walked in looking like that? With him?”
His palms slam flat against the door on either side of your head. The wood vibrates. The lock rattles. He’s caging you in, his body inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged against your forehead.
“Who the fuck is he?” The question tears out of him, raw and desperate. “I thought he was just a childhood friend. I thought he was nobody. Are you sleeping with him? Is that what this is? Are you—”
“You know who the fuck August is.” You shove at his chest, hard, but he doesn’t move. “And it’s none of your business who I sleep with. I’m just one of the bros, right? That’s what you said. That’s what you’ve always said. So why do you care?”
“Because you’re mine.”
The words land like a physical blow. The room goes completely silent. Matt’s chest is still heaving, his dark eyes wild and desperate and terrified all at once. He tilts his head down, his mouth inches from yours, and when he speaks again his voice is barely a whisper.
“Tell me you don’t belong to me. Look me in the eye and tell me you want him to touch you the way I did, and I’ll walk out that door right now.”
Your hands are still pressed against his chest. You can feel his heart pounding under your palms, fast and erratic, matching the frantic rhythm of your own. Your vision blurs. Hot, angry tears well up and spill over, tracking down your cheeks.
You don’t look away.
“I don’t get you, Matt.” Your voice comes out fierce and broken, barely above a whisper. “I don’t get you at all.”
His jaw trembles. His grip on the door tightens.
“For years,” you say, and the words start pouring out of you like water through a cracked dam. “Years. You showed me girl after girl. You pointed out their smile, their eyes, their outfits. You told me she was your type. You told me you liked her. You asked me for advice on what to say to her while I sat there smiling and dying in confusion.”
A sob catches in your throat. You swallow it down.
“Do you remember the girl from the coffee shop? The one with the red hair? You made me proofread your DM to her. You made me help you. And I did it. I helped you every single time because I thought that’s what best friends do. I thought if I was good enough, supportive enough, selfless enough, you’d eventually see me. But you never did. You just kept finding new girls. New crushes. New dream girls. And I stayed right here, in the wings, being your safe, comfortable backup.”
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. You’re gripping him now, holding on like he might disappear if you let go.
“And now you’re acting like this? Like I’m destroying you? Why, Matt? Why now? What the actual fuck?”
The fury drains out of him.
You watch it happen. The rigid posture, the clenched jaw, the wild desperation—it all crumbles. His shoulders slump. His hands slide from the door to the sides of your neck, his thumbs brushing the wet streaks on your cheeks. He looks at you with a hollow, devastating vulnerability, and then his forehead drops forward until it lands softly against yours.
A tear escapes his dark lashes. It tracks down into his beard, and you watch it fall.
“I don’t know,” he whispers. His eyes are closed. His breath mixes with yours in the inches between your lips. “I don’t fucking know, okay? I’m confused too. I’ve been terrified for so long.”
His voice breaks. Cracks right down the middle.
“Every time I looked at someone else, I was trying to force it. Trying to find an escape. Because the thought of loving you—the thought of losing you if I fucked it up—scared me to death. You’re not just some girl. You’re my best friend. You’re the person I tell everything to. And if I lost that, if I lost you, I don’t know what I’d—”
He can’t finish. His voice gives out entirely.
Your tears are falling faster now, mingling with his on your cheeks. You’re both crying. Not loud, racking sobs. Just a quiet, heavy stream of tears born from years of unspoken exhaustion and confusion and terrifyingly deep feelings.
His thumbs keep moving, wiping at your cheeks, his forehead still pressed hard against yours.
“Watching him touch you,” he breathes. “Seeing you leave with him. I couldn’t breathe. I can’t breathe without you. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know if it makes sense. But I’ve been sitting there all night trying to figure out what to say to you and all I could think was—I can’t lose you. I can’t. Not to him. Not to anyone.”
His grip on your neck tightens. His thumbs press into your jawline. His eyes snap open, and they’re not wild anymore. They’re focused. Certain. Locked onto your mouth with a heavy, desperate heat.
You pull him closer by the fabric of his rumpled shirt.
The final millimeter of distance disappears.
The kiss is nothing like the rainstorm. Nothing like the tentative, questioning press of lips that happened under the downpour, when everything was new and terrifying and blurry. This is a collision. Messy and frantic, fueled by the tears still drying on your faces, tasting faintly of salt and absolute desperation.
Matt’s mouth opens against yours and his tongue slides inside and you make a sound—something between a gasp and a sob—that he swallows whole. His hands are everywhere. Tangled in your hair, gripping your hips, pressing you so firmly against the bedroom door that you can feel the lock digging into your spine. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to consume the last few years of silence. Like he’s trying to breathe you in and never exhale.
Your fingers find the hem of his shirt. You yank. He breaks the kiss just long enough for you to pull it over his head, and then his mouth is back on yours, his bare chest pressing against the thin fabric of your brunch dress.
Clothes come off in a frantic, graceless scramble. His heavy jacket hits the floor. Your dress gets peeled away, the zipper catching for half a second before he works it free. His jeans. Your bra. Shoes kicked into corners. And through all of it, his hands never stop touching you—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your hip, the bare skin of your thighs.
A low growl tears from his throat when his fingers find the damp heat between your legs. His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You’re—” He can’t even finish. His fingers press deeper, sliding through your slickness, and you arch against the door with a broken moan.
“Matt.”
“I know.” His voice is wrecked. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
He moves you from the door to the bed. Doesn’t let a single inch of space come between you. He hovers over you, his weight grounding you into the mattress, his hips settling between your thighs. The length of him presses against your stomach, hot and hard and insistent.
His mouth drops to your shoulder. His lips part, his teeth scrape, and then he’s sucking a mark into your skin that will definitely bruise. You gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulder blades, and he makes a sound against your flesh that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl.
His mouth moves lower. Collarbone. He bites down, just hard enough to make you whimper. Lower still. The curve of your breast. His tongue flicks across your nipple and your back bows off the mattress.
Hips. His mouth traces the jut of your hipbone, his beard scratching a burning trail across your sensitive skin. He presses a kiss there. Then a bite. Then he soothes it with his tongue, and you’re trembling, your hands fisted in the sheets, your entire body wound tight.
“Look at me.”
His voice cuts through the haze. You force your eyes open. He’s hovering above you, braced on his forearms, his face inches from yours. His eyes are dark and intense and completely focused. On you. Only you.
“I need you to see me. I need you to know it’s me. I’m here. I’m not hiding anymore.”
A fresh wave of tears spills down your cheeks. You reach up and cup his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the scratch of his beard.
“I see you,” you whisper. “I’ve always seen you.”
He kisses you. Slow this time. Deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hips rocking forward until the tip of him presses against your entrance. You gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound.
Then he pushes inside.
The stretch is intense. Familiar and foreign all at once, your body remembering him even as it adjusts to the fullness. He moves slowly at first, measured thrusts that have you clutching at his back, your nails raking down his spine. His forehead drops to yours again. His breath shudders out of him.
“You feel—” He can’t finish. His hips snap forward, harder, and a moan tears from your throat. “I can’t. I can’t go slow. I need—”
“Then don’t.”
The word is barely out of your mouth before he’s surging into you, faster, deeper, his rhythm building into something punishing and desperate. The bed frame creaks. The headboard taps against the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist and he groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hips driving into you with a rhythm that speaks of years of pent-up wanting.
His hand slides between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit, pressing in tight circles that match the pace of his thrusts, and the dual sensation makes your vision white out at the edges. You’re babbling now—his name, pleas, things that don’t quite form words—and he’s answering you in broken fragments, “I know, I know, let go, I’ve got you, let go.”
Your orgasm hits like a wave pulling you under. You cry out, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders, and the tightening clench of your body around him instantly pulls him right over the edge with you.
With a low, frantic curse, Matt grips your hips, his knuckles turning white as he yanks himself out of you at the very last second. He collapses beside you, a guttural groan ripping from deep in his chest as he spills against your stomach, the heat of him burning against your skin.
He rolls over, heavy and exhausted, pulling you flush against his side. His face buries into the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as he anchors you to his chest. You can feel his heart hammering violently against your ribs. Or maybe that’s yours. Maybe they’re beating in sync now, two frantic rhythms finally settling into something quieter in the dark.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
The room is dark. The afternoon shadows have deepened into evening, the last traces of golden light fading from the window. The vanilla candle is still burned out. The house is still silent. But everything is different now. Everything has shifted.
Matt rolls onto his side, pulling you with him. One heavy arm drapes over your waist, anchoring you to his chest. His face stays buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady against your skin. His beard scratches against your collarbone, but you don’t mind. You never mind.
“Stay,” he murmurs. It’s barely a word. More of a vibration against your throat.
You’re already half-asleep. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His arm tightens. His lips press a kiss to your pulse point. And then the exhaustion of the weekend, the emotional whiplash, the crying, the sex—it all catches up to you at once, dragging you down into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
When you wake, the room is dark.
Not evening-dark. Night-dark. The kind of deep, velvet blackness that means hours have passed. The curtains are still half-drawn, and a sliver of moonlight cuts across the floor, competing with the soft, warm glow of your bedside lamp. You must have reached out and flicked it on at some point in the blur of the evening, its low, amber light casting long, amber shadows across the room and painting the edges of the furniture in gold.
For a moment, you’re disoriented. Your body is sore in places you haven’t been sore in a while. The sheets are tangled around your legs, heavy and warm. The pillow smells like him.
You reach for him.
Your hand finds empty sheets.
The other side of the bed is cold. The mattress still holds the indent of his body, but he’s not there. Your heart lurches. You push yourself up onto your elbows, blinking into the darkness, and that’s when you see him.
Matt is sitting on the floor.
His back is against the closet door. His knees are pulled up, his arms resting on them, his head bowed. The light catches the curve of his bare shoulders, the dip of his spine, the way his hands are trembling slightly.
Beside him sits the box.
The cardboard box, worn at the corners, the one you’ve kept hidden under the old blanket for years. The lid is off. A few letters are scattered on the floor around his feet. His name on the front of each envelope, your handwriting inside.
He’s reading one. His eyes move across the page, slow and deliberate, and you watch his shoulders hitch. Watch his jaw clench. Watch his thumb trace the edge of the paper like it’s something precious and fragile and about to shatter.
Summary: you and Matt take a weekend trip away to a cottage.
Read more, HERE.
The fire crackled softly in front of you, sending little sparks into the night sky as the two of you sat bundled beneath a thick blanket. The cabin was tucked away in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by towering pine trees and the peaceful sound of the lake gently brushing against the shoreline. There wasn’t another soul around for miles, and for the first time in what felt like forever, neither of you had anywhere to be. No alarms. No plans. No interruptions. Just the two of you, the warmth of the fire, and the quiet that somehow never felt awkward when you were with Matt.
You rested your head against his shoulder, absentmindedly tracing circles over the back of his hand with your thumb. Matt’s arm stayed wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you a little closer every so often without even realizing he was doing it. The silence lingered comfortably between you until you let out a quiet sigh, smiling to yourself as you watched the flames dance.
“This is exactly what I needed,” you admitted softly. “I didn’t realize how badly I needed to get away until we got here.”
Matt smiled, kissing the top of your head before resting his cheek against your hair. “Me too. I don’t think I’ve checked my phone in hours.”
“You haven’t.”
“I don’t even miss it.”
You laughed quietly. “That’s how I know you’re serious.”
He chuckled, squeezing your hand. “I think I’d choose this over just about anything.”
You turned your head to look up at him. “Even football?”
Matt pretended to think about it for a second. “Let’s not get carried away.”
You rolled your eyes with a laugh, giving his arm a playful shove before settling back against him. The teasing only lasted a moment before the comfortable silence returned, and your eyes drifted back toward the fire.
After a while, you spoke again. “You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?”
“Hm?”
“I really want to meet your parents.”
Matt looked down at you, surprised by the comment, though the smile spreading across his face made it obvious he wasn’t caught off guard in a bad way. “You do?”
You nodded. “I’d love to travel with you and go visit them. I know you’ve told me so much about them already, and every time you do, I just picture them being the sweetest people. I feel like I already know them a little, but I want to meet them properly. I want to see where you grew up, hear all the embarrassing stories they have about you” You grinned. “I’m sure there are a lot.”
“Oh, there are.”
“I figured.”
He laughed before his expression softened again. “They’d absolutely love you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because” He looked at you like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re you.”
You smiled, feeling your cheeks warm.
“They’d love how kind you are. My mom would probably spend the entire weekend talking to you in the kitchen, and my dad would have you laughing within five minutes. Chris and Nick already think you’re family.” He paused for a second before adding quietly, “Honestly, I think my parents would too.”
Your heart melted at the thought. “I’d really like that.”
“I’d really like that too.”
The fire popped softly between you, filling the silence while you both watched another shower of sparks disappear into the night.
“You know,” Matt said after a minute, “when I booked this trip, I thought it was just going to be a nice weekend away.”
You tilted your head. “Yeah?”
“But sitting here with you,” He smiled to himself before continuing. “It kind of makes me excited for all the weekends we haven’t had yet.”
You looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this won’t be the last trip.” His fingers laced through yours, absentmindedly rubbing the back of your hand. “I want to take you everywhere. I want to show you all my favourite places. I want to make traditions with you, find little coffee shops we’ll keep going back to, rent cabins like this every fall if you’ll let me. I just..” He let out a quiet laugh. “I want more moments like this.”
Your eyes immediately softened. “I want that too.”
Matt looked over at you, and for a moment neither of you said anything. There was something so genuine in the way he looked at you that it almost made your chest ache.
“You know what my favourite part of every day is?” he asked.
“What?”
“Coming home to you.”
The words were so simple, but they hit you harder than you expected.
“It doesn’t matter if we’ve been apart for ten minutes or ten hours. The second I open the apartment door and hear your voice, everything just settles. You make home feel like home.”
You reached for his hand with both of yours, gently rubbing your thumb across his knuckles. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
“I mean every word.”
You smiled, blinking back the tears beginning to sting your eyes.
“I never thought I’d find someone who makes everything feel so easy,” you admitted. “Being with you has never felt complicated. I never feel like I have to wonder where I stand or second guess myself. I just get to be me, and somehow you’ve always made that feel like enough.”
Matt’s expression softened even more. “It is enough, It’ll always be enough.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I think you’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.”
He smiled. “I was just about to say the exact same thing.”
You laughed through the tears threatening to fall, and Matt leaned over to gently brush one away with his thumb before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
“I hope you know how much you mean to me,” he whispered.
“I do.”
“No” He smiled softly. “I don’t think you do.”
He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before continuing. “You make ordinary days feel exciting. Grocery shopping is fun because you’re there. Folding laundry is fun because you’re there. Sitting in complete silence somehow isn’t boring because you’re there. You have this way of making every part of my life better without even trying.”
Your heart felt so full it almost hurt. “You do the exact same thing for me.”
Matt rested his forehead against yours, smiling when your noses brushed together. “I think we’re pretty lucky.”
“I think we are too.”
The two of you stayed there long after the fire had begun to burn low, wrapped beneath the same blanket as the stars stretched endlessly above you. Neither of you felt the need to rush inside. There was nowhere else either of you wanted to be, and somehow, sitting beside the fire with Matt’s hand intertwined with yours, the whole world felt perfectly still.
