American Money | Matthew Knies
So take me to the paradise It's in your eyes Green like american money
wc; 11821 summary; after meeting matthew knies at a house party in scottsdale, over the years, your relationship blooms into something you never thought would happen to you. pairing; matthew knies x fem!reader warnings; 18+ NSFW alcohol, protected p-v, oral (f receiving) notes;
dropping a chill full lengther on y'all
felt right to finish it tonight considering
reader is a baddie in stem
i love men who yearn :)
also, a lot of the things i just made up/for vibes/i didn't bother researching: like his car, "things you dont know about him" etc.
there is SO MUCH BANTER. it is my favourite thing on earth so fair warning about it! it persists during sexy time!
You once told Matthew that he burned too bright for anyone to hold. It was July, the kind of summer evening where humidity pressed against your skin like a confession, and the two of you were sprawled across the hood of his faded blue Camaro, watching heat lightning flicker on the horizon. You didn't mean it as a compliment.
His laugh caught in the night air when you said it. "Is that why you keep your distance?" he asked, fingers inching toward yours across the warm metal, not quite touching. "Afraid of getting burned?"
You didn't answer. Instead, you studied the way shadows played across his face, how his green eyes reflected pinpricks of distant stars. The truth was messier than fear. You'd spent a lifetime perfecting the art of leaving before being left, of packing light and keeping your keys within reach. Matthew Knies was the opposite of everything you'd trained yourself to be—rooted where you were restless, loud where you were quiet, wearing every emotion like a billboard while you tucked yours away like emergency cash.
Later that night, when he drove you home along back roads with the windows down, you watched him tap his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the radio. He sang off-key to songs you both knew by heart. You caught yourself memorizing the moment—the wind tangling your hair, the smell of summer grass and his cologne, the way moonlight traced the curve of his smile—knowing someday you'd need to remember what it felt like to be this close to burning.
"You're doing it again," he said, catching you watching him.
"Doing what?" you asked, though you knew.
"Taking pictures with your eyes. Documenting instead of living." He reached across the console, his hand finding yours with the casual certainty that always surprised you. "Stay here with me. Just for now."
And for once, you did.
Three Years Ago
You remember the first time you saw him—really saw him—across a crowded house party in Scottsdale. It was early June, the desert night holding onto summer's heat like a grudge. You hadn't planned on going out that night, but your roommate insisted, dragging you along to "meet people who aren't books." Three hours in, you were contemplating an Irish exit when he walked through the door.
Matthew Knies moved through space like he owned it, not with arrogance but with a kind of physical certainty that made furniture seem temporary by comparison. He was laughing at something his friend said, head thrown back, throat exposed, vulnerability on display without hesitation. You found yourself cataloging details: the way his t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, how his hands punctuated every sentence, the slight rasp in his voice that carried across the room.
"That's Matthew," your roommate whispered, following your gaze. "He's headed to Toronto in the fall. NHL draft pick."
"Good for him," you said, aiming for disinterest but missing by miles.
You nursed your drink in the kitchen, pretending to be fascinated by the label on the bottle while stealing glances at him through the doorway. He was magnetic—people orbited him, drawn into conversation by that easy smile, the attentive way he leaned in when someone spoke. You told yourself you were simply observing an interesting social phenomenon, the same way you might study any ecological system. It wasn't until he caught you looking that the hypothesis fell apart.
Instead of the awkward glance away that most people would offer, he held your gaze. Then—devastatingly—he smiled.
"That's my cue to leave," you muttered, setting down your barely-touched beer.
But as you made your way toward the front door, weaving through clusters of people whose names you'd already forgotten, a hand caught your elbow.
"Leaving already?" His voice was lower up close, warm. "The night's just getting interesting."
You turned, prepared with a dismissive line that evaporated the moment you met those green eyes. They weren't just green—they were desert sage after rain, complex and alive with gold flecks caught in the dim light.
"I have an early morning," you lied.
"So do I." He grinned, unrepentant. "Training never stops. I'm Matthew, by the way."
"I know." The admission slipped out before you could catch it.
His smile widened. "And you are?"
You told him your name, expecting him to forget it immediately in the parade of introductions a guy like him must receive. Instead, he repeated it carefully, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth.
"Nice to meet you," he said, and somehow made the platitude sound sincere. "Want to get some air? It's suffocating in here."
That was how you ended up sitting on the curb outside a stranger's house at midnight, trading stories with Matthew Knies while the party continued without you. He told you about growing up in Phoenix, about his brother Phil who played hockey too, about how he'd deferred his start with the Maple Leafs to play one more year with Minnesota.
"College is important," he said, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. "My mom would kill me if I didn't give it a real shot."
"So you're staying for the education?" you asked, skeptical.
He laughed, the sound honest and unfiltered. "No. I'm staying because I'm not ready yet. For Toronto, for the NHL, for all of it." He glanced at you, vulnerability flickering across his face. "Does that sound stupid? Everyone says I should just go, take the money, start the dream."
"It sounds human," you said. "Rare, but human."
When he drove you home that night, he didn't ask to come up to your apartment, didn't try to kiss you. He just programmed his number into your phone and said, "Text me when you're free. I know all the best places where no one will bother us."
You waited three days before texting, not wanting to seem eager. His response came within minutes: Been waiting to hear from you. Tomorrow? I'll pick you up at 7.
That was the beginning—not of a relationship, you told yourself firmly, but of whatever this was. Late-night drives through desert landscapes, hikes to secluded spots where the city lights couldn't touch the stars, breakfast at dive diners where no one recognized him. He called them "non-dates," respecting your insistence that you weren't looking for complications.
"I'm leaving in 2 months," he reminded you once, as you sat on the hood of his car watching the sunset paint the mountains pink and gold. "And you've made it very clear you don't do relationships."
"Exactly," you agreed, ignoring the twist in your stomach. "We're just two people enjoying each other's company while circumstances allow."
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. "Circumstances," he repeated, the word weighted with something you pretended not to hear.
But circumstances have a way of shifting when you least expect it. What began as casual friendship evolved into something neither of you had names for. You found yourself texting him random thoughts throughout the day, saving funny stories to tell him, making mental notes of places you wanted to show him. He started leaving things at your apartment—a sweatshirt draped over your chair, his preferred brand of coffee in your cabinet, a toothbrush that appeared one morning without discussion.
One night in August, you were working late on a research paper when your doorbell rang. You opened it to find Matthew standing there, hair damp from the shower, holding a bag of takeout.
"I know you forget to eat when you're working," he said, stepping past you into the apartment. "So I brought sustenance."
You watched him move through your kitchen with familiar ease, finding plates and utensils without having to ask where they were kept. There was something terrifying about how seamlessly he'd integrated himself into your space, your routines, your life.
"I didn't ask you to come over," you said, the words sharper than intended.
He paused, container of pad thai in hand. "Do you want me to leave?"
You didn't. That was the problem. "No," you admitted. "I just—I don't understand what we're doing here, Matthew."
"Eating dinner?" he offered, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.
"You know what I mean."
He set down the food and leaned against your counter, arms crossed. "I like spending time with you. I thought you liked spending time with me too. Is there something wrong with that?"
"There's nothing wrong with it," you said carefully. "But you're leaving in 3 weeks. You're moving to another country to start your career. And I'm staying here to finish my degree."
"That’s three weeks away, and I’m still in Minnesota for one more year," he said, as if time was a minor inconvenience rather than an immovable deadline. "And Toronto has universities too, you know."
The casual way he suggested reshaping your entire future around his sent a chill through you. "I'm not uprooting my life for someone I've known for two months."
"That's not—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "I'm not asking you to follow me. I'm just saying there are options. Ways to make things work if we want to."
"If," you repeated. "That's a big if, Matthew."
He crossed the room to where you stood, his hands finding your shoulders. "Look at me," he said softly. When you did, the intensity in his gaze nearly buckled your knees. "I know you're scared. I am too. But I think we could be something great if we gave ourselves a chance."
"I don't do great," you whispered. "I do practical. Realistic. Safe."
His thumb traced your jawline, gentle as a promise. "Maybe it's time to try something new."
That night, when he kissed you for the first time, you told yourself it was just physical attraction, nothing more. But when he pulled back, looking at you like you'd hung the moon specifically for him to admire, you knew you were in trouble.
Two Years Ago
Minnesota winter hit different than anything you'd experienced in Arizona. Standing outside Matthew's apartment building in Minneapolis, you watched your breath crystallize in the January air while stamping your feet against the cold that seeped through your supposedly waterproof boots. Three months into a long-distance relationship you'd sworn you'd never have, and here you were, surprising him after his Friday night home game against Wisconsin.
When the door finally opened, Matthew's face cycled through confusion, shock, and a joy so pure it made your chest ache. He stood frozen for a beat, still in his post-game sweats with damp hair curling against his forehead.
"You're not real," he said, voice rough with disbelief.
"Very real. Very cold," you managed through chattering teeth.
He pulled you inside with an urgency that sent your weekend bag tumbling to the floor, gathering you against his chest like he was afraid you might evaporate. He smelled of shower soap and that underlying scent that was purely him—something like sun-warmed cotton and clean sweat.
"How?" he asked into your hair. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Surprise," you said weakly, still adjusting to the sudden warmth of his apartment and the solidity of him against you. "I thought about texting from the airport, but then—"
His mouth found yours, cutting off whatever explanation you'd planned. There was nothing tentative in the way he kissed you—all hunger and gratitude and something deeper that neither of you had named yet.
"You're here," he breathed against your lips. "You're actually here."
Later, curled against him on his secondhand couch, you listened to him break down the game—the goal he'd scored in the second period, the penalty kill that nearly went sideways, the teammate who'd taken a nasty hit but insisted on finishing the third.
"I wish you could have been there," he said, tracing patterns on your arm. "The Gophers fans are something else—the whole arena shakes when they get going."
"Next time," you promised. "I'll plan better, get actual tickets."
His fingers stilled. "Next time?"
You looked up at him, caught the careful hope in his expression. "I have vacation days. And you have home games."
The smile that broke across his face could have melted the snow piled outside his windows. "You're making plans," he said, a hint of teasing in his voice. "For us. In the future."
"Don't make it weird," you warned, but there was no heat behind it.
"No, no, this is huge. Mark the calendar. Screenshot this moment." He pulled out his phone in mock solemnity. "The day you admitted you see a future with me."
You snatched the phone from his hands, laughing despite yourself. "I admitted no such thing. I said I'd come to a hockey game. That's it."
"Mmhmm." He reclaimed his phone and pulled you closer. "Keep telling yourself that."
The next morning, you woke to find Matthew already up, the smell of coffee filling his small apartment. You padded into the kitchen to find him at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing nothing but sweatpants riding low on his hips.
"Are you actually cooking?" you asked, voice still rough with sleep.
He glanced over his shoulder, a slow smile spreading across his face as he took in your disheveled appearance. "Protein pancakes. Coach has us on this nutrition plan." He flipped a pancake with surprising dexterity. "There's coffee in the pot. Milk's in the fridge."
You poured yourself a cup, watching him move around the kitchen with the same easy confidence he showed on the ice. "I didn't know you could cook."
"There's a lot you don't know about me," he said, but his tone was light. "I'm full of surprises."
"Like what?"
He plated the pancakes and turned to face you, leaning against the counter. "I speak Slovak. Not fluently, but enough to get by. My mom made sure of that." He set the plates on his small table. "I'm terrified of heights, but I love rollercoasters, which makes no sense. And I've read every Harry Potter book at least three times."
You took a bite of pancake, surprised by how good it was. "These are actually decent."
"Don't sound so shocked," he laughed.
"What else?"
"What else what?"
"What else don't I know about Matthew Knies?"
His expression softened into something more vulnerable. "I think about you all the time. During practice, during games. Even when Coach is yelling and I should be focused on nothing else." He reached across the table for your hand. "I've never felt this way about anyone."
The intensity in his eyes made you look away first. "These are really good pancakes," you said instead of addressing his confession.
He squeezed your hand once before letting go, accepting the deflection with a grace that made you feel both grateful and guilty.
That afternoon, he took you to an outdoor skating rink near campus. The sky stretched clear blue above you as children and students glided across the ice. Matthew rented skates for you both, helping you lace yours with practiced hands.
"I haven't skated since I was a kid," you admitted as he led you onto the ice.
"Don't worry." He steadied you with hands on your waist. "I've got you."
You clung to him at first, wobbling like a newborn deer, but his patience was endless. He skated backward, holding both your hands, talking you through the motion. "Push from the inside edge. That's it. Small steps."
Gradually, your movements became more confident. You still kept a death grip on his forearm, but you were moving, actually skating instead of just being dragged along.
"Look at you go," he said proudly when you completed a full circuit without stumbling.
The cold had painted his cheeks and the tip of his nose pink, his green eyes bright against the winter landscape. Snowflakes began to fall, catching in his dark lashes and hair. Something shifted in your chest—a tectonic movement so subtle you almost missed it.
"What?" he asked, catching your stare.
"Nothing," you said quickly. "Just... thank you. For being patient with me."
His smile turned knowing, as if he'd heard what you hadn't said. "Always."
That night, you bundled up to watch him play again, this time with a ticket he'd somehow procured last-minute. From your seat near the Gophers' bench, you had a perfect view of the way he transformed on the ice—still recognizably Matthew, but sharper, more focused, a controlled power in every stride and turn.
When he scored in the first period, the roar of the crowd hit you like a physical force. Matthew's teammates swarmed him, a pile of maroon and gold jerseys, but his eyes sought the stands until he found you. The grin he flashed was just for you—a private moment in the midst of public celebration.
After the game (a 4-2 win), you waited outside the locker room with a cluster of girlfriends, siblings, and parents. Matthew emerged with damp hair and the relaxed confidence of victory, his face lighting up when he spotted you.
"What did you think?" he asked, slinging an arm around your shoulders.
"You were okay, I guess," you teased. "That goal was pretty impressive."
"Just okay?" He clutched his chest in mock offense. "After I skated my heart out for you?"
"For me, huh? Not for your team or your scholarship or your future NHL career?"
"Tonight?" His voice dropped lower, just for your ears. "Yeah, for you."
Later that weekend, sprawled across his bed with takeout containers scattered on the nightstand, you built the kind of memories that would sustain you through the weeks of distance ahead. You memorized the pattern of freckles across his shoulders, the way his laugh started deep in his chest before erupting, how his fingers always found yours under blankets, between couch cushions, across restaurant tables.
On Monday morning, with your flight home looming, Matthew traced the curve of your spine as you lay tangled in his sheets. "Stay," he murmured against your shoulder.
"I have class tomorrow," you reminded him, though the temptation to call in sick, to extend this bubble for even one more day, was almost overwhelming.
"I know." His sigh was warm against your skin. "But I had to ask."
At the airport, he walked you as far as security would allow, your hand clasped tightly in his. Neither of you were good at goodbyes—you'd both grown accustomed to people being either permanent fixtures or temporary appearances in your lives. This in-between state, where someone mattered deeply but couldn't be present daily, was uncharted territory.
"Text me when you land," he said, pulling you into one last embrace. "Even if it's late."
"I will." You pressed your face against his chest, inhaling the scent of his cologne like you could store it away for the lonely weeks ahead.
"And FaceTime tomorrow? After your class and my practice?"
"Yes," you promised, though you were already calculating the assignments you'd need to complete, the research hours you'd have to squeeze in elsewhere.
He tilted your chin up, studying your face as if committing it to memory. "I'm going to miss you," he said simply.
The raw honesty in those five words nearly undid you. This wasn't supposed to happen—this attachment, this ache at the thought of separation. You'd built your life around independence, around not needing anyone so completely that their absence felt like losing a limb.
Yet here you were, throat tight with emotions you weren't ready to name, clinging to a hockey player in Minnesota who'd somehow bulldozed through every careful barrier you'd constructed.
"I'll miss you too," you admitted, the words feeling inadequate for the storm brewing in your chest.
His kiss was gentle, a contrast to the desperate edge that had characterized your last night together. When he pulled away, the look in his eyes made you want to scrap your ticket, call your boss with some emergency excuse, and follow him back to his apartment.
Instead, you forced yourself to step back, to pick up your carry-on, to turn toward the security checkpoint.
"Hey," he called when you were a few steps away.
You looked back, memorizing him one last time—tall and solid in the airport's fluorescent lighting, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, hair slightly mussed from where you'd run your fingers through it.
"This is worth it," he said. "You and me. Even with the distance. It's worth it."
As your plane took off three hours later, you pressed your forehead against the cold window, watching Minneapolis shrink beneath you. You thought about Matthew driving back to his apartment alone, returning to spaces that would still hold echoes of your shared weekend.
For the first time in your life, leaving felt wrong—like you were moving in the opposite direction of where you belonged. The realization should have terrified you. Instead, as clouds swallowed the city below, you found yourself smiling faintly at your reflection in the window.
Maybe, just maybe, he was right. Maybe this was worth it after all.
One year ago
You never meant to fall in love with Matthew Knies. That wasn't part of your plan. You had your life mapped out in careful, measured steps: finish your degree, land the research position in California, build your career without distractions. Love—especially the kind that burned like wildfire through carefully constructed defenses—was never on your agenda.
But there you were, standing in the arrivals terminal at Toronto Pearson International Airport, scanning the crowd for his face. Your hands trembled slightly as you adjusted your scarf, a nervous habit you'd developed over the past year of long-distance uncertainty. When you spotted him—taller than most of the crowd, craning his neck to find you—your heart performed the same ridiculous somersault it had since that first night in Scottsdale.
"You came," he said when he reached you, his voice a mix of disbelief and joy. He wrapped his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground in his enthusiasm. The solid warmth of him felt like coming home to a place you'd never been before.
"I said I would," you answered, breathing in the familiar scent of him—mint and clean laundry and something uniquely Matthew that you'd tried and failed to describe in your journal.
"Yeah, but you also said you'd visit three other times, and something always came up." There was no accusation in his tone, just a statement of fact. He set you down but kept his hands on your waist, as if afraid you might disappear if he let go completely.
You winced at the reminder. "Research deadlines and family emergencies are real things, you know."
"I know." His smile softened any potential edge. "I'm just happy you're here now. Five whole days."
Five days. It hardly seemed enough time to bridge the growing gap between your lives. His first full season with the Maple Leafs had transformed him from promising prospect to rising star. Meanwhile, you'd buried yourself in your graduate work, using academic pressure as a shield against the uncomfortable reality that Matthew was building a life in a city where you did not—could not—exist.
The ride to his apartment was filled with his animated stories about teammates and games, the neighborhoods he'd discovered, the restaurant he wanted to take you to that night. You watched his hands gesture as he drove, noticed the new confidence in the way he carried himself, cataloged the subtle changes in his face. Fame suited him, you realized with a pang. He was flourishing in this new world, growing into spaces you couldn't follow.
"You're quiet," he observed as he unlocked the door to his apartment. It was larger than you expected—a corner unit with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. "Jet lag?"
"Just taking it all in," you said, which wasn't entirely a lie.
You wandered to the windows while he took your bag to the bedroom. The city sprawled below, vast and unfamiliar, lights beginning to flicker on as dusk descended. This was his reality now—the sleek high-rise, the bustling metropolis, the life of a professional athlete with its regimented schedule and public scrutiny. Your reality was a cramped apartment near campus, late nights in the lab, the comfortable anonymity of academic life.
"What do you think?" Matthew asked, coming up behind you. His arms encircled your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. "Not as beautiful as the desert sunset, but it has its charms."
You leaned back against his chest, allowing yourself this moment of connection. "It's impressive," you admitted. "Very you."
"What does that mean?" His breath tickled your ear.
"Big. Bold. Center of attention."
He laughed, the sound vibrating through you. "I have a reputation to maintain now. Can't have the guys over to a dump."
"Heaven forbid."
He turned you in his arms, his hands finding their way to your hips. "You think I'm showing off?" he asked, one eyebrow raised in challenge. There was something playful dancing in his eyes now, replacing the vulnerability from moments before.
"Maybe a little," you teased, poking his chest lightly. "Big hockey star with his fancy apartment."
"Says the brilliant scientist who casually mentioned publishing a paper last month." He captured your finger before you could poke him again. "I read it, by the way. Didn't understand half the words, but I was proud anyway."
The admission caught you off guard. "You read my paper on environmental DNA sampling techniques?"
"Twice." His grin widened at your obvious surprise. "Made Woller explain the parts I couldn't figure out. He's the brains between us, remember?"
Something warm unfurled in your chest. Matthew had always supported your work, but the image of him struggling through academic jargon just to understand your research made your defenses wobble dangerously.
"That's... actually really sweet," you admitted.
"Don't sound so shocked." He released your finger but kept hold of your hand, tugging you away from the window. "I contain multitudes. I'm not just a pretty face and amazing hockey skills."
You snorted. "And so humble too."
"Humility is overrated," he said, walking backward and leading you deeper into the apartment. "Especially when you're this good-looking."
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't suppress your smile. This was the Matthew you'd missed during the long months apart—the one who could make you laugh even when you were determined to keep your emotional distance. The one who somehow made arrogance seem charming rather than off-putting.
"You know," he continued, "I've been thinking about your theory."
"Which one? I have many."
"The one about me burning too bright." His thumb traced circles on your palm, a small point of contact that somehow felt more intimate than it should. "I think you got it backward."
"How's that?"
"You're the one who burns," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I'm just trying to keep up."
The intensity in his gaze made heat crawl up your neck. You pulled your hand away, needing to regain some equilibrium. "Now who's taking pictures with their eyes?"
"Can't help it," he said with a shrug that was too casual to be genuine. "Been waiting three months to see you in person again. Forgive me for wanting to memorize every detail."
You moved past him into the living room, needing some space to breathe. The apartment was surprisingly tidy, with minimal furniture but thoughtful touches—books stacked on the coffee table, a throw blanket that looked suspiciously like the one from your apartment back home, framed photos on the wall. You moved closer to examine them.
"You keep family photos?" you asked, studying a picture of Matthew with his arms around an older couple and a young man who had to be his brother.
"Christmas last year," he confirmed, coming to stand beside you. "Mom insisted on the matching sweaters. Said if I was going to be famous, at least we'd look coordinated in the holiday photos."
You laughed, imagining Matthew's mother strong-arming her hockey-player sons into festive knitwear. "She sounds formidable."
"She'd like you," he said quietly. "Always asks about you when we talk."
The comment hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. In the year you'd been doing whatever this was, you'd carefully avoided any discussion of meeting families or future holidays or any of the milestones that would solidify whatever existed between you into something that could be named.
"Matthew—" you began, a warning in your tone.
"Relax," he cut you off, bumping your shoulder with his. "No pressure. Just an observation." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but he quickly changed the subject. "You hungry? We could order in, or I could show off my vastly improved cooking skills."
"You cook more than pancakes now?" The skepticism in your voice made him laugh.
"Don't sound so surprised! I'm a grown man living on my own in a foreign country. I had to learn or starve."
"I distinctly recall you burning microwave popcorn. Twice. In the same night."
He clutched his chest in mock offense. "That was a fluke! A momentary lapse in judgment."
"And the time you tried to make me breakfast and set off the smoke alarm?"
"Character assassination," he declared, advancing on you with narrowed eyes. "Take it back."
You backed away, laughing. "Never. I was there. I saw the charred remains of what was supposedly an omelet."
"That's it." He lunged forward suddenly, grabbing for you, but you darted away, putting the couch between you. "You're in trouble now."
"What are you going to do? Force-feed me your cooking? That would be cruel and unusual punishment."
His eyes gleamed with mischief. "Oh, I'll think of something appropriate."
The tension from earlier dissolved as you circled the couch, Matthew stalking you like a predator toying with its prey. There was something exhilarating about this playful side of him—the professional athlete momentarily forgotten, replaced by the boy you'd met in Arizona who laughed without restraint and found joy in simple things.
"You won't catch me," you taunted, feinting left before darting right.
"Wanna bet?" His confidence was infuriating and attractive in equal measure. "I chase guys on skates for a living."
"Yes, but I'm smarter than you."
That made him pause. "Low blow."
You took advantage of his momentary distraction to make a break for the hallway, but he anticipated your move, cutting you off with surprising speed. His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, lifting you off your feet.
"Caught you," he murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your skin.
"Cheater," you accused, squirming in his grip. "Using your unfair physical advantages."
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your back. "All's fair in love and war, sweetheart."
The casual endearment made your heart stutter, but you pushed the reaction away. "Which is this?" you asked, still struggling halfheartedly in his arms.
Matthew set you down but didn't release you, keeping you pressed against him. "That depends on you," he said, suddenly serious. "Always has."
The shift in mood was disorienting. You turned in his arms to face him, intending to deflect with another joke, but the vulnerability in his expression stopped you. This close, you could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the faint scar above his eyebrow from a childhood accident, the day's stubble darkening his jaw. He was so solid, so present, while you felt like you might float away if he let go.
"I missed you," you admitted, the words escaping before you could catch them. "More than I wanted to."
His smile was soft, private. "I know the feeling."
You should have pulled away then, reinforced the boundaries you'd so carefully constructed. Instead, you reached up to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight roughness against your fingertips. "This is new," you observed.
"Like it?" He leaned into your touch. "The guys give me shit about it, say I'm trying too hard to look older."
"It works for you," you conceded, which was an understatement. The stubble gave him an edge that contrasted nicely with the boyish enthusiasm that still animated his features when excited.
"High praise." His hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, drawing you fractionally closer. "Anything else you approve of?"
The teasing lilt was back in his voice, and you found yourself responding to it despite your better judgment. "Well, the apartment's not terrible," you said, pretending to consider. "Though your decorating skills remain questionable."
"Hey!" He glanced around defensively. "What's wrong with my decorating?"
"Nothing says 'bachelor pad' quite like a TV that takes up half the wall and exactly one house plant that's clearly on its last legs."
"Herbert is doing his best," Matthew protested, nodding toward the drooping fern in the corner. "And the TV is essential for game review."
"Herbert?" You couldn't help but laugh. "You named your plant?"
"Of course I named my plant. He's part of the family."
The casual domesticity of the moment struck you with unexpected force. This was what you'd been avoiding—not just the physical presence of Matthew, but the easy intimacy that developed in his orbit, the sense that you could build something real with him if you were brave enough to try.
"You're ridiculous," you said, but there was no heat in the words.
"Part of my charm." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Admit it, you find it endearing."
"I find it... something," you hedged, trying to regain some emotional distance.
"Irresistible? Captivating? Devastatingly attractive?" With each suggestion, he walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall, caging you in with his arms on either side of your head. "Stop me when I get close."
The playfulness in his eyes had darkened to something more dangerous, and you felt your pulse quicken in response. This was another thing you'd missed—the physical chemistry that had been there from the first moment, the way your body responded to his proximity like a tuning fork struck at the perfect frequency.
"You're awfully confident for someone whose plant is literally dying of neglect," you said, aiming for casual despite the heat building under your skin.
"Herbert is a drama queen. And you're deflecting." His face was inches from yours now, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. "Tell me you didn't think about this while we were apart."
"Think about what?" The innocent act was transparent even to your own ears.
"This." He dipped his head, lips brushing against your neck in the lightest of touches. "And this." Another kiss, this time at the sensitive spot just below your ear. "And definitely this."
When his mouth finally found yours, it was with a restraint that surprised you. The kiss was questioning rather than demanding, giving you the space to pull away if you wanted. But pulling away was the last thing on your mind as you curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer.
The gentle exploration didn't last long. Months of separation and the tension that had been building since you arrived collapsed into something more urgent. Your hands slid into his hair as the kiss deepened, and he made a sound low in his throat that vibrated through you. His body pressed yours against the wall, solid and warm and achingly familiar despite the time apart.
"Still think I'm showing off?" he murmured against your lips, hands slipping beneath the hem of your sweater to find skin.
"Definitely." Your breath hitched as his fingers traced patterns along your sides. "And it's still working."
He laughed, the sound swallowed by another kiss. There was something both comforting and exciting about being with him like this—the physical memory of each other's bodies returning like muscle memory, but with the edge of newness that came from months apart.
"For the record," he said between kisses that trailed along your jaw, "I thought about this every day. Every single day."
The confession should have scared you. Instead, it unleashed something reckless inside you. You pushed against his chest, spinning to reverse your positions so his back was now against the wall. His eyes widened in surprise, then darkened with appreciation as you pressed your advantage.
"Every single day?" you echoed, sliding your hands beneath his shirt to feel the warm skin underneath. "Seems excessive."
"Not from where I'm standing," he countered, his breath catching as your fingers traced the defined muscles of his abdomen. "Though technically, I'm not standing anymore. You've got me pinned."
"Do I?" You raised an eyebrow, deliberately pressing your hips against his. "What are you going to do about it?"
The challenge hung between you for a heartbeat before Matthew moved with the athletic grace that still caught you off guard sometimes. In one fluid motion, he spun you both again, lifting you effortlessly so your legs wrapped around his waist.
"This," he answered simply, carrying you away from the wall. "Any objections?"
"Showing off your hockey strength doesn't prove anything," you said, though your arms tightened around his neck.
"No?" He navigated through the apartment with confident strides. "What about my hockey stamina?"
You couldn't help the laugh that escaped. "That remains to be seen. It has been three months."
His eyes narrowed at the provocation. "Oh, it's like that?"
"It's exactly like that," you confirmed, enjoying the competitive spark you'd ignited. You'd forgotten how much fun this could be—the verbal sparring, the physical push and pull, the way Matthew always met your challenges head-on instead of backing down.
He deposited you on the couch rather than the bedroom, which wasn't what you expected. Before you could question it, he was hovering over you, one knee between yours, hands braced on either side of your head.
"Let's get something straight," he said, voice low and serious despite the playfulness still dancing in his eyes. "I haven't forgotten a single thing about you. Not how you like to be touched—" his hand skimmed up your side to emphasize the point, "—or how to make you laugh—" he tickled the spot just below your ribs where he knew you were sensitive, making you squirm, "—or especially how competitive you get when you think you're winning."
You batted his hand away from your ticklish spot. "I am winning."
"Are you sure about that?" His smile was dangerous now, full of promise. "Because from where I'm sitting, I've got you right where I want you."
You hooked your leg around his, using the leverage to flip your positions again. The maneuver caught him by surprise, and suddenly you were straddling his hips, looking down at his startled face.
"You were saying?" you asked sweetly.
His laugh rumbled up through his chest. "Where did you learn that move?"
"Self-defense class. Never know when you might need to take down an overly confident hockey player."
Matthew's hands settled on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles that sent heat spiraling through you despite the layers of clothing between his skin and yours. "I'm impressed," he admitted. "And a little turned on."
"Only a little?" you teased, rolling your hips deliberately against his. "I must be losing my touch."
His grip tightened, halting your movement. "Trust me," he said, voice strained, "that is definitely not the case."
The evidence of how affected he was pressed against you, and power surged through your veins. For all his physical advantages—the strength, the training, the sheer mass of him—there was something intoxicating about knowing you could reduce Matthew Knies to this state with just a roll of your hips.
"Good to know," you murmured, leaning down to brush your lips against his. "I'd hate to think Toronto had made you forget about us."
The playfulness in his expression shifted to something more serious. "Never," he said, one hand coming up to cup your face. "That's not possible."
The sincerity in his voice threatened the careful balance you'd been maintaining. You didn't want to talk about what this was or wasn't, about the growing distance between your lives or the inevitable end date that loomed whenever you were together. You wanted to stay in this moment—physical, present, uncomplicated by the future.
So you kissed him again, deeper this time, using your body to communicate what you weren't ready to say with words. His response was immediate and gratifying, hands sliding under your sweater to splay across your back, drawing you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.
"Matthew," you gasped when he broke the kiss to trail his lips down your neck.
"Hmm?" He didn't stop his exploration, finding the sensitive spot at the junction of your neck and shoulder that always made you shiver.
"Bedroom," you managed, the word more request than statement.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, searching for confirmation. "You sure? We could order food first, talk more about—"
You cut him off with another kiss. "Bedroom," you repeated more firmly. "Now."
The smile that spread across his face was equal parts triumph and relief. "Yes ma'am."
This time when he lifted you, there was nothing playful about it. His movements were purposeful as he carried you down the hallway, your legs wrapped securely around his waist. The teasing from earlier had transformed into something more urgent, need building between you like static electricity before a storm.
"For the record," you said as he shouldered open the bedroom door, "I thought about this too. Not every day, but... often."
The admission cost you something—a small piece of the armor you'd carefully maintained—but the way his expression softened made it worth the vulnerability.
"I know," he said, lowering you gently onto his bed. "You're here, aren't you?"
As he followed you down, his body covering yours with familiar weight, you allowed yourself to acknowledge the truth in his words. Despite all your careful planning, all your rational arguments about why this couldn't work, you'd still gotten on that plane. You'd still come to him.
He kisses you slowly at first, like he's relearning the topography of your mouth, the way your body responds to his touch. His fingers slide up under your sweater, tracing patterns on your skin that feel like conversations—remember this? and I've missed this curve—while his weight settles against you, solid and grounding.
"Can I?" he asks, tugging at the hem of your sweater, always asking even when the answer is obvious.
You lift your arms in response, and he pulls the fabric over your head with a reverence that makes your chest ache. His eyes sweep over you, taking in the simple black bra you'd chosen this morning with a mixture of appreciation and nostalgia.
"Still wearing the same one," he observes with a soft laugh, fingers tracing the edge where lace meets skin. "The one from our second non-date."
"You remember my underwear?" You raise an eyebrow, trying for sarcastic but landing somewhere closer to touched.
"I remember everything." His voice drops lower, serious despite his smile. "The way you looked at me when I picked you up. How the stars reflected in your eyes at the lookout point. This bra, which I spent approximately three hours imagining before I finally got to see it."
"Creep," you tease, but there's no heat behind it, just warmth spreading through your chest at the knowledge that he catalogs these details the same way you do.
"Your creep," he corrects, leaning down to press his lips to the swell of your breast above the fabric. "At least for the next five days."
The reminder of your limited time together should dampen the mood, but instead, it creates a sense of urgency. Your fingers find the buttons of his shirt, working them open with less patience than he showed with your sweater.
"Eager?" he murmurs against your skin, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine.
"Just evening the playing field," you reply, pushing the shirt from his shoulders to reveal the body underneath.
He's changed in the months since you last saw him. His shoulders seem broader, muscles more defined—the result of professional training regimens and nutritionists who monitor every calorie. You trace the new contours with curious fingers, mapping the evolution of him.
"Like what you see?" There's vulnerability beneath the cocky question, a need for reassurance that you find endearing.
"You'll do," you deadpan, but your hands betray you, continuing their exploration with obvious appreciation.
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. "Such high praise."
"You want more?" Your fingers drift lower, tracing the defined line of muscle that disappears beneath his jeans. "You'll have to earn it."
His eyes darken at the challenge. "Always making me work for it."
"Would you respect me if I didn't?"
"I'd respect you if you wore a chicken suit and spoke only in knock-knock jokes," he says with such immediate sincerity that you can't help but laugh.
"That's oddly specific, Matthew."
"I've had time to think about these things." He grins, hands sliding around to unhook your bra with practiced ease. "All the different versions of you I'd still want."
The bra joins your sweater on the floor, and Matthew's expression shifts from playful to reverent. His palms cup your breasts with gentle pressure, thumbs brushing over nipples that harden instantly at his touch.
"Gorgeous," he murmurs, lowering his head to replace fingers with lips, tongue, teeth.
You arch into the sensation, one hand threading through his hair to hold him closer. The familiar pleasure builds quickly—your body remembering his touch even after months apart, responding like a musical instrument to its composer.
"Still sensitive here," he observes, teeth grazing lightly over a particularly responsive spot. It's not a question but a statement of remembered knowledge.
"Mmm," is all you can manage in response, coherent thoughts dissolving under his ministrations.
His mouth travels lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your sternum, across your stomach, lingering at the edge of your jeans. He looks up, seeking permission with his eyes while his fingers work at the button.
"Yes," you answer the unspoken question, lifting your hips to help as he slides the denim down your legs.
He takes his time, pressing kisses to newly exposed skin—the inside of your knee, the sensitive spot behind your ankle, the arch of your foot. It's a kind of worship, this careful attention to parts of you that aren't conventionally erotic but that Matthew treats as worthy of adoration.
"You're still wearing too much," you protest when he starts making his way back up, jeans still intact while you're down to just your underwear.
"Patience," he chides, but he's smiling as he stands to shed the remaining barriers between you. The jeans hit the floor, followed by boxers, and then he's back beside you, gloriously naked and unapologetically aroused.
You reach for him, wrapping your fingers around his length, enjoying the sharp intake of breath your touch elicits.
"Fuck, I missed your hands," he groans, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before snapping open again. "But if you keep that up, this reunion will be embarrassingly brief."
"Can't have that," you agree, releasing him with one final, teasing stroke. "Your reputation is at stake."
"My reputation?" He laughs, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your underwear. "I think you mean our mutual satisfaction."
"Same thing." You lift your hips, letting him slide the last piece of fabric down your legs. "I'd hate to have traveled all this way for mediocrity."
The challenge sparks in his eyes again—that competitive edge that makes him so successful on the ice now channeled entirely toward your pleasure. "Mediocrity," he repeats, shaking his head. "Now you're just asking for trouble."
Before you can retort, he's moving down your body, settling between your thighs with clear intent. The first broad stroke of his tongue draws a gasp from your lips, hips lifting involuntarily toward the sensation.
"Remember this?" he murmurs against you, the vibration adding another layer to the pleasure building at your core.
"Vaguely," you manage, though your body betrays the lie, responding instantly to his touch like you'd never been apart.
He huffs a laugh against your sensitive flesh, the warm breath making you shiver. "Let me refresh your memory."
And then he's using his tongue with devastating precision, drawing patterns that alternate between broad strokes and focused attention, building a rhythm that has your fingers clutching at the sheets. He knows your body so well—when to press harder, when to ease back, exactly how to bring you to the edge without pushing you over.
"Matthew," you gasp when he slides a finger inside, curling it just so while his tongue continues its relentless attention. "God—I—"
He hums in acknowledgment, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. Another finger joins the first, and the dual sensation—the fullness inside while his tongue works magic outside—has tension coiling tighter in your core.
"Look at me," he says, pausing just long enough for the command before resuming his efforts.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, meeting his gaze over the landscape of your body. The sight of him between your thighs, green eyes dark with desire, lips glistening—it's almost too much.
"I wanna see you," he explains, voice rough with need. "Love it when you come for me..."
The words combined with the renewed pressure of his tongue send you careening over the edge, pleasure radiating outward from your core in waves that have you calling his name, hips bucking against his mouth as he works you through it.
When you finally collapse back onto the mattress, boneless and breathing hard, Matthew makes his way back up your body with a self-satisfied grin.
"Mediocre enough for you?" he asks, pressing a kiss to your hip bone, your ribs, the underside of your breast.
You reach for him, tugging him up until his face is level with yours. "Fishing for compliments is beneath you, Matthew."
He laughs, bright and unrestrained. "Nothing wrong with wanting a performance review."
"Five stars," you concede, still catching your breath. "Would recommend."
"Just five?" He presses his hips against yours, the hard evidence of his arousal reminding you that he's still very much in need. "I was hoping for at least seven."
"Stars only go up to five."
"Not in my rating system." He kisses you then, letting you taste yourself on his lips, and the intimacy of it reignites the embers of your own desire.
Your hand finds him again, stroking with more purpose now. "Let me help you with those extra stars."
His breath hitches, hips rolling into your touch. "Not that I'm complaining, but—" he breaks off as your thumb circles the sensitive head, "—I was hoping for the full experience."
"The full experience?" you echo, enjoying the way his composure fractures under your ministrations.
"You. Me. Together." He gestures vaguely between your bodies, eloquence deserting him as you continue your rhythmic strokes. "You know what I mean."
You do know, and the thought of him inside you again after so long sends fresh heat pooling between your thighs. But you can't resist teasing him a little more.
"Use your words, Matthew," you say, mimicking his earlier command. "Tell me what you want."
His eyes narrow at the challenge, but there's no real frustration there, just playful competition. "Sex," he says, bluntly. "Can we have sex?"
Your laughter bubbles up between you, warm and intimate. "God, you're such a himbo sometimes."
"A what?" He blinks at you, genuinely confused, and it only makes you laugh harder.
"A himbo," you repeat, stroking him once more to soften the teasing. "Hot, sweet, occasionally clueless."
"I'm asking for consent!" he protests, but his indignation melts as your fingers tighten around him. "That's—that's the opposite of clueless."
"Yes," you say, pulling him down for a kiss. "We can have sex. Please and thank you."
His smile against your mouth is sunshine breaking through clouds. "Since you asked so nicely."
He reaches toward the nightstand, fumbling in the drawer for a condom. You watch the concentration on his face—the slight furrow between his brows, the way he bites his lower lip—and feel something dangerously close to adoration bloom in your chest.
"Let me," you say, taking the foil packet from him. You tear it open and roll it onto him with practiced ease, enjoying his sharp intake of breath as your fingers graze sensitive skin.
Matthew positions himself between your thighs, but instead of pushing forward, he takes a moment just to look at you. His gaze is so earnest, so full of something you're not ready to name, that you have to break the tension.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," you say, an echo from your first non-date when you caught him staring.
He laughs, remembering too. "Still documenting instead of living," he says, leaning down to nuzzle your neck. "Some things never change."
"Some things do," you counter, arching up to press your bodies together. "I'm here, aren't I?"
The significance of those words hangs between you for a heartbeat before Matthew captures your lips in a kiss that's both tender and hungry. As your tongues slide together, he finally pushes forward, entering you with a slow, deliberate movement that has you both gasping.
"Oh," you breathe against his mouth, the sensation of fullness overwhelming after so long. Your body stretches to accommodate him, the slight burn giving way to pleasure as he stills, allowing you to adjust.
"You feel—" he starts, then shakes his head, words failing him. "I don't have the vocabulary for this."
"Show me instead," you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist to draw him deeper.
He does. With slow, measured thrusts that build a rhythm like a heartbeat between you, Matthew shows you exactly what he can't articulate. His forearms bracket your head, creating an intimate space where there's nothing but the two of you, breathing each other's air, exchanging kisses that grow messier as the pace quickens.
"Is this—" he pants, angling his hips slightly, "—good?"
The adjustment hits something inside you that sends sparks shooting up your spine. "Yes," you gasp, fingernails digging into the muscles of his back. "Right there, don't stop."
His smile is triumphant as he maintains the angle, driving into you with increasing urgency. Sweat beads on his forehead, his chest, making your bodies slide together with delicious friction.
"You're so—" he tries again, struggling for words even as his body communicates perfectly. "The way you feel around me, like silk and heat and—fuck—"
The profanity falls from his lips rarely enough that it sends a thrill through you. Matthew Knies, losing his composure because of you, because of how your bodies fit together.
"Very eloquent," you tease, though your own voice is breathless, fractured by pleasure.
"You try forming sentences," he retorts, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that makes your back arch. "When you're—when I can feel your pulse—"
His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The dual sensation—him inside you, thumb circling with just the right pressure—has tension coiling tight in your core again.
"Matthew," you warn, feeling the edge approaching faster than expected.
"I know," he says, and you can tell he's close too by the way his rhythm falters, hips jerking less steadily. "I can feel you—squeezing me, fuck—come on, baby, let go—"
It's the endearment that does it, that casual term of affection that he uses so naturally. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking against shore, your inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that draw a groan from deep in his chest.
"That's it," he encourages, working you through it even as his own control frays visibly. "God, you're beautiful like this—I can't—"
His hips stutter once, twice, and then he's following you over the edge, face buried in your neck as he comes with your name on his lips like a prayer.
For several moments, there's nothing but the sound of your mingled breathing, gradually slowing as you both come down. Matthew's weight presses you into the mattress, a comforting heaviness that grounds you to the present when your mind wants to float away on endorphins.
"Seven stars," you murmur eventually, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "Maybe eight."
He laughs, the vibration traveling from his chest to yours. "Now who's being generous with their rating system?"
"Credit where it's due," you say, running your fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. "You've been practicing."
He lifts his head to give you an incredulous look. "Practicing?"
The implication hits you a moment later, and you flush. "No! I meant—like, working out. Your stamina."
"Uh-huh." His grin is teasing as he carefully withdraws, both of you wincing slightly at the sensitivity. "For the record, there's been no 'practicing' with anyone else."
The confession shouldn't warm you the way it does. You've never discussed exclusivity, never put labels on whatever exists between you. But as Matthew returns from disposing of the condom, sliding back into bed to pull you against his chest, you can't deny the satisfaction that curls through you.
"Me neither," you admit into the quiet space between heartbeats. "No practicing."
His arms tighten around you, a physical acknowledgment of words that cost you something to say. You lie there together, skin cooling in the aftermath, neither of you quite ready to untangle from the moment.
"I really did miss you," Matthew says eventually, his voice soft in the dimming light of the bedroom. "Not just this—though obviously this is amazing—but all of it. Talking to you. Arguing about stupid stuff. Watching you get excited about things I don't understand."
You trace patterns on his chest, following the contours of muscle with idle fingers. "I missed you too," you say, the words easier now in the afterglow. "More than makes sense, considering."
"Considering what?" His tone is carefully neutral, but you can feel the tension in his body.
"Considering the distance. The different trajectories. The whole improbability of whatever this is."
He's quiet for so long that you wonder if you've finally said too much, pushed too hard against the fragile bubble you both maintain around your relationship. But then his hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers in a deliberate gesture.
"Maybe improbable doesn't mean impossible," he suggests, voice tentative in a way Matthew rarely allows himself to be. "Maybe the trajectories aren't as different as they seem."
You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly. The vulnerability in his expression makes your chest ache. "Matthew—"
"I know, I know," he interrupts, free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "No pressure. No expectations. Just... something to think about, maybe."
The hope in his eyes is too raw to dismiss, but too complicated to embrace fully. So you do what you've always done when emotions threaten to overtake you—deflect with humor.
"I'll add it to my to-do list," you say, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Right after 'figure out the meaning of life' and 'solve climate change.'"
He laughs, but there's a shadow behind it. "Set your priorities straight, huh?"
"Exactly." You settle back against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. "Besides, I'm pretty sure we just burned through at least half of those seven stars. We should conserve energy."
"Conservation has never been my strong suit," he admits, fingers trailing lazily up and down your spine. "But I'm willing to rest up for round two."
"Round two?" You raise an eyebrow, though he can't see it. "Awfully confident for someone who played professional hockey this morning."
"What can I say?" His voice rumbles through his chest and into yours. "You inspire me."
The simple statement shouldn't affect you the way it does, shouldn't make your heart flutter like you're some character in a romance novel. But as Matthew's breathing gradually evens out, his body relaxing into the beginning stages of sleep, you find yourself memorizing another moment—the weight of his arm around your waist, the steady rhythm of his heart against your cheek, the fading sunlight casting golden patterns across the bed you share.
Five days suddenly seems both too short and too dangerous, a span of time just long enough to forget all the reasons why this can't work. But as you close your eyes, syncing your breath with his, you decide that's a problem for tomorrow's you.
For now, there's just this—the quiet aftermath of connection, the warmth of skin against skin, and the unsettling realization that maybe, just maybe, some fires are worth the risk of burning.
Now
The dashboard clock reads 3:17 AM when Matthew pulls over at a scenic overlook somewhere in upstate New York. You've been driving for hours, taking turns behind the wheel as you make your way from Toronto to Boston for his away game. This spontaneous road trip was his idea—"Let's make an adventure out of it," he'd said, eyes bright with that familiar restless energy that still makes your heart skip after all this time.
"Why are we stopping?" you ask, voice rough with almost-sleep. You'd dozed off somewhere after crossing the border, lulled by the rhythm of tires on asphalt and the quiet playlist he'd made specifically for night driving.
"Look up," Matthew says simply.
You follow his gaze through the windshield. Above you, the night sky blooms with stars, countless and clear in a way they never are in the city. The Milky Way stretches across the darkness like spilled sugar, brighter than you've seen since those desert nights in Arizona where everything between you began.
"Worth waking up for?" he asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice without having to look at him.
"Always showing off," you murmur, but there's no heat in it, just the comfortable teasing that's become your shared language.
Matthew unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for the door handle. "Come outside. It's better without the glass between us and them."
The night air hits you like a shock when you step out—crisp and cold in a way that makes your lungs ache with each breath. Matthew is already at the front of the car, leaning against the hood, his face tilted skyward. You join him, sliding onto the still-warm metal, your shoulder pressed against his.
"Reminds me of home," he says after a moment. "The desert. All that space above us, making everything else seem small."
You nod, understanding exactly what he means. It's one of the things that's always connected you—this shared appreciation for vastness, for moments that remind you how tiny and temporary your human concerns really are.
"I miss it sometimes," he continues, his voice quieter now. "Not enough to go back if I could, but enough to need this every once in a while."
You study his profile in the starlight—the strong line of his jaw, now perpetually shadowed with stubble he maintains at the perfect length, the slope of his nose, the fullness of his lower lip. At twenty-three, Matthew has grown into his features in a way that still catches you off guard sometimes. The boyishness hasn't disappeared entirely, but it's tempered now with something more solid, more certain.
"What?" he asks, catching you staring.
"Just taking pictures with my eyes," you admit, echoing his old accusation. "Some habits die hard."
His laugh is soft in the stillness. "Still documenting instead of living?"
"I'm doing both these days," you say, and it's true. The past year has been an exercise in presence—in learning to inhabit moments fully while still preserving them, in finding balance between caution and surrender.
Matthew's arm slides around your waist, drawing you closer against the chill. "You've gotten better at it," he agrees. "Being here while you're here."
The simple observation warms you more than his physical heat. He's always seen you more clearly than you'd like, always called you out on the ways you try to protect yourself from fully engaging.
"I've had a good teacher," you say, leaning into him.
You sit together in companionable silence, watching your breath form clouds in the cold air. There's something magical about being the only two people awake in this slice of the world, like you've stepped outside of normal time into a pocket dimension where only this moment exists.
"Remember that night in Arizona?" Matthew asks suddenly. "When you told me I burned too bright for anyone to hold?"
The memory surfaces immediately—the heat of the desert night, the hood of his Camaro warm beneath you, the way his fingers had inched toward yours without quite touching. "I remember," you say, wondering where he's going with this.
"I think about that a lot," he admits, his thumb tracing small circles against your hip. "How scared you were. How scared I was too, though I tried not to show it."
"You? Scared?" You turn to look at him properly. "Mr. Confidence himself?"
He shrugs, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Terrified. You were so sure it couldn't work—us, I mean. And I was just this kid with a dream and a draft pick, trying to convince both of us that distance and careers and different lives weren't insurmountable."
"And now?" you prompt, curious about this rare moment of reflection from a man who typically lives firmly in the present.
"Now I think we were both right, in a way." His eyes find yours in the darkness. "It is hard. The distance when you're back in Arizona for research, the crazy schedules, the different worlds we inhabit. But also..." he gestures vaguely at the two of you, at the car, at the stars above, "...we're here. Together. Making it work in our own weird way."
The simplicity of his assessment catches in your chest like a hook. Making it work. It hasn't been smooth or easy or conventional, this relationship you've built over three years of long-distance compromises and stolen weekends and difficult conversations. But somehow, improbably, you've created something real between you—something that bends without breaking, something that's evolved from those first tentative "non-dates" into a partnership neither of you could have imagined.
"I want to come live with you," you say suddenly, the words falling from your lips before you've fully processed them. "In Toronto. When my internship ends next month."
Matthew goes very still beside you, as if afraid any movement might make you take back the declaration. "You do?" he asks, voice carefully neutral despite the tension you can feel radiating from him.
"I do." Now that you've said it, the certainty settles into your bones like it's always been there, waiting for you to acknowledge it. "I've been thinking about it for a while. Dr. Patel has connections at the University of Toronto—she's already offered to put in a word for me at their environmental science department. And my research can be adapted to the Great Lakes ecosystem fairly easily."
Matthew turns to face you fully, hands coming up to frame your face. "Are you serious right now? Because if this is hypothetical, or something you're just considering, or—"
"I'm serious," you interrupt, covering his hands with your own. "I want to wake up with you more than once every few months. I want to come home to you after work, to build something that doesn't require TSA clearance and six hours of flying to maintain. I want—" your voice catches on the enormity of what you're saying, "—I want to try being in the same place for once. For real."
The smile that spreads across his face is like sunrise breaking over mountains—slow at first, then all at once, brilliant and transformative. "You're sure?" he asks, though his eyes are already bright with plans, with possibilities. "Because your career matters, your research matters. I don't want you to resent—"
"Matthew," you cut him off again, this time with a gentle squeeze of his hands. "I've spent three years arranging my life to be as mobile as possible so we could see each other whenever a gap in your schedule aligned with a gap in mine. I'm tired of living in the in-between. I want a home. With you."
He kisses you then, cold lips against yours, his hands still cradling your face like you might disappear if he lets go. There's reverence in the gesture, and relief, and something that feels like gratitude.
"I love you," he says when he pulls back, the words visible in the cloud of his breath between you. "God, I love you so much."
It's not the first time he's said it—Matthew has never been stingy with those words once he knew they were true—but it hits differently now, under this vast sky, with the promise of a shared future suddenly concrete rather than theoretical.
"I love you too," you reply, the declaration easier now than it was the first time, when you'd struggled to push the words past years of careful emotional distance. "Enough to brave Canadian winters on a permanent basis."
His laugh is bright in the darkness. "The ultimate sacrifice," he teases, pulling you into a proper embrace. "I'll keep you warm, I promise."
"You better," you murmur against his neck. "I'm moving countries for you. The least you can do is provide body heat."
"Oh, I'll provide more than that," he says, waggling his eyebrows in the exaggerated way that always makes you laugh. "Starting with a proper bed for tonight, because if we don't get back on the road soon, we'll be sleeping in this car, and while I have fond memories of the Camaro's backseat—"
"That was one time!" you protest, shoving his shoulder playfully. "And we were young and stupid."
"I'm still young and stupid," he points out, helping you off the hood. "Just with better hotels now."
You follow him back to the car, sliding into the passenger seat while he reclaims his position behind the wheel. As he starts the engine, you reach across the console to take his hand, an echo of that night years ago when he'd reached for you the same way.
"Stay here with me," you say softly. "Just for now."
Matthew's smile is knowing, remembering too. "Always," he promises, squeezing your fingers before shifting the car into drive. "For as long as you'll have me."
As you pull back onto the empty highway, the stars fading behind you as dawn approaches, you find yourself memorizing another moment—the profile of the man beside you, the warmth of his hand in yours, the quiet certainty that wherever this road leads, you're traveling it together.
Maybe someday you'll stop taking these mental photographs, stop preserving moments against some future loss. But for now, as Matthew hums along with the radio and the miles disappear beneath your wheels, you decide that some habits are worth keeping—especially when what you're documenting isn't just the fleeting beauty of now, but the promise of all the moments yet to come.
