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I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can) | Matthew Tkachuk

"The smoke cloud billows out his mouth Like a freight train through a small town The jokes that he told across the bar Were revolting and far too loud"

*** Request: "i heard you were looking for requests!!!!! i’m always a sucker for like “runaway bride” stories if that makes sense where someone is getting married to another character and it’s a last minute confession or like right person wrong time things like that if you were just looking for inspo OR!!! right before getting married or engaged and it’s like again there have been all these feelings and it’s the big confession but it’s too late"

Summary: Picture perfect, but you can't handle him not being in the frame.

Word Count: 8.8k

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ NSFW! unprotected sex, smoking (cigarettes), and then just angst/pining

Notes:

I haven't written for ratthew in so long so yayyyy

I love him I fear even tho he's a dick

I barely proof read this so ignore if it's repetitive af for now I'll go back in later.

italics symbolize flashback

***

The week of your wedding has been going perfectly.

Your bachelorette party? Perfect. Fun, glitzy, glamorous—Michael even chipped in so you and your friends could spend a weekend in Vegas. And his bachelor party? No strip clubs. Score. The pictures he’d shown you made you giggle, just a bunch of guys goofing around. He’d mentioned that one of his groomsmen couldn’t make it, someone named Matt, but you brushed it off. You’d met most of them already, and Matt seemed like a name that should’ve been familiar but wasn’t.

Now, you’re back home, seated at your rehearsal dinner. The night feels like a dream—your loved ones chatting over glasses of wine, the soft hum of laughter filling the room. Your maid-of-honor is mid-story, drawing all eyes to her as she recalls one of your more humiliating dating experiences.

“This girl was seriously whipped,” she says, gesturing toward you. “The guy would fly her out to Canada every other weekend, and she’d just take it. Dude was a cocky asshole too, and she was all like, ‘I can fix him!’” She’s laughing, and so is everyone else, even Michael. “Thank God she has you now, Mike.”

You laugh too, even though it stings. It is kind of funny. You’d been young and stupid, chasing someone who treated your heart like an afterthought. And maybe… you haven’t quite reached that level of deep, overwhelming, out-of-control love with Michael yet, but he’s stable. He’s the one. The right choice.

The other guy—the one your maid-of-honor so graciously brought up—is ancient history. Matthew. He Who Shall Not Be Named. You think of messy brown curls falling over his forehead, that crooked grin flashing like a warning sign. The way he’d play you over and over. He’d hurt you; you’d cry; and then he’d show up, eyes soft, voice low, apologizing just enough to keep you hooked: “Sorry—”

“—I really tried to be here on time, trust me, but fuckin’ Delta kept delaying my flight. I swear, Miami will never not be a nightmare to fly through.”

You freeze.

The voice is deeper now, richer, but unmistakable. Slowly, you turn your head. And there he is, standing in the doorway, still buttoning up a crisp white dress shirt with familiar hands like he’s done it thousands of times before–and maybe he has. Maybe you’ve done it for him thousands of times, but that doesn’t matter.

Matthew Tkachuk is here.

What the fuck?

His curls are a little shorter than you remember, but his eyes are no less are intense as he flashes his crooked teeth towards your fiance. Michael’s already standing, opening his arms as he pulls Matthew into one of those manly half-hugs, the kind that makes everyone else in the room start smiling too, because they’re clearly great friends.

No, seriously, What the fuck?

You feel your stomach twist into a knot that pulls tighter and tighter with every passing second. Matthew—Matt, to you, once upon a time, in what feels like another life—is here.

Not just here, but here as if he belongs. Laughing like he’s known Michael for years, throwing his arm around him like they’re in some stupid buddy comedy. And maybe they are. Except no one sent you the script, and now the air feels sharp and thin, like you can’t quite pull enough of it into your lungs.

“Guys, this is Matt,” Michael says, turning to the table with an easy grin. “Finally made it. Barely.” He claps Matthew on the shoulder, who lets out a loud, obnoxious laugh, and you know that sound too well. Too fucking well. The kind of sound that’s not really sorry, not really anything, but enough to make people like Michael laugh and forgive and forget.

Matthew’s eyes scan the table. You’re willing him not to look at you, not yet, not until you can pull yourself together. He’s going to see you unravel, thread by thread, right here in front of your closest friends and family. Then, his gaze lands on you. His expression doesn’t flicker, not even slightly, but something behind those dark eyes changes.

Recognition. Acknowledgment.

You feel like you’re shrinking under his gaze, which lingers for one, two, three heartbeats longer than it should. Then, mercifully, he looks away.

“Hey, everyone,” he says casually, waving a hand. “Sorry to crash the party late. I’m Matt.”

Your fiancé beams. “Matt’s one of my groomsmen! He couldn’t make it to the bachelor party because of work, but I’ve been telling everyone how excited I was for you all to meet him tonight.”

Oh, have you?

Matthew takes a step closer to the table, moving around to shake hands with the other guests. Polite smiles and murmurs of “nice to meet you” ripple through the group. You’re hyper-aware of every move he makes, the way his shoulders fill out his shirt, the way his grin—that fucking grin—is still crooked, still boyish, still devastating.

“And this is my fiancée,” Michael says, gesturing to you with unmistakable pride.

You want to say something—anything—but your throat is dry. For one terrifying second, you’re convinced Matthew will say something stupid. Some inside joke, some slip of the tongue. But he doesn’t. He steps forward, extends his hand, and… nothing. Just a simple, normal, perfectly inoffensive handshake.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice steady, his face calm. Too calm.

The second your hand touches his, you’re gone.

*** It’s a Friday night, and the bar is loud. Not in the fun, electric way where music pulses through your chest and laughter bubbles over in every corner. No, it’s the obnoxious kind of loud, where voices clash and drinks spill, and you’re starting to regret letting your roommate drag you out.

You’re nursing a vodka soda when you hear him for the first time—a voice that somehow cuts through the chaos like it’s got a microphone attached.

“I’m just saying, if you’re not gonna shoot the puck, what’s the point? Might as well hand it to the other team, right?”

You glance over, and there he is. Messy brown curls, a cocky grin that somehow manages to look endearing, and a voice that’s way too loud for someone who’s only halfway through his beer. He’s leaning against the bar, gesturing animatedly to his friend, and you immediately hate him.

Or at least, you think you do.

“God, some people just love to hear themselves talk,” you mutter under your breath. But of course, your roommate hears you. And because she’s the worst, she says it louder:

“Why don’t you tell him that?”

Before you can stop her, she’s waving him over. You want to die.

“Hey, my friend here thinks you’re a little full of yourself,” she says with a grin that makes you consider changing your identity and moving to another country.

To your horror, he laughs. A full, genuine laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes his shoulders shake.

“Does she now?” he asks, turning his attention to you. “Guess I’ll have to prove her wrong.”

And somehow, against all odds, he does. His jokes are terrible, his confidence is ridiculous, and yet, by the end of the night, you’re laughing. Real, honest-to-God laughing. You tell yourself it’s the vodka.

It’s not.

***

The rest of the rehearsal dinner feels like an exercise in torture. You try—really, truly try—to focus on the people around you. The familiar faces of your closest friends and family blur into a comforting but distant haze as the conversation flows, laughter ringing out like background music. Michael’s hand rests on your thigh, his touch warm and steady, a silent reassurance that everything is perfect. And it is. It should be.

Except every so often, your gaze flickers to the other side of the room—to him.

Matthew blends in far too easily, slipping into conversation like he’s been a part of this group all along. The way he leans back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, feels infuriatingly familiar. His smile comes easy, crooked but charming, disarming everyone around him. He’s always been good at that. Winning people over.

Making them laugh. Making you laugh.

You hate how your body remembers things your mind has spent years trying to forget. The way his shoulders shift when he laughs, the way his curls catch the light, the way his voice dips just slightly when he says something sarcastic. It’s maddening, the way your chest tightens every time he moves. You’re too aware of him, as though the universe has tethered your attention to his every breath.

Michael leans in to kiss your temple, pulling you momentarily back to earth. You force a smile, turning to him as he murmurs something sweet about how well the night is going. You nod, agreeing with him because it’s easier than admitting the truth: you feel like a stranger in your own life tonight. Like someone’s taken the script and rewritten it behind your back.

By the time the dinner ends, you’re practically vibrating with the need to escape. As the guests begin to disperse, you excuse yourself as politely as you can, slipping outside into the cool night air. The garden behind the venue is quiet, secluded. Strings of fairy lights cast a soft glow over the path, the faint scent of blooming flowers mingling with the crisp evening breeze. You inhale deeply, trying to steady the whirlwind inside you.

But your relief is short-lived.

Because he’s here.

Matthew stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the wrought-iron railing, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. He’s dressed impeccably, but his shirt is untucked now, his tie loosened around his neck. The soft glow of the lights casts a halo around his messy curls, and for a split second, he looks like every reckless decision you’ve ever made come back to haunt you.

He doesn’t look at you right away, taking a slow drag from his cigarette until the smoke cloud billows out his mouth–like a freight train through a small town. Then, finally, he glances over, his expression maddeningly neutral. “‘Sup.”

That’s it. One word, tossed your way like it means nothing. Like he means nothing. You’re not sure whether to laugh or scream. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, the cool air biting at your skin.

“What are you doing out here?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intend.

He shrugs, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Needed a break. Your boy keeps pouring me drinks like I’m a fuckin’ lightweight. Thought I’d sneak out before he tries to get me to shotgun a beer or something.”

Your boy. The phrase lands somewhere deep in your chest, twisting like a knife.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” you say instead, because it’s easier than addressing the real issue—the one standing in front of you, looking entirely too comfortable in your presence.

Matthew smirks, taking another drag. “Didn’t realize you still cared.”

“I don’t,” you snap, too quickly.

He chuckles, low and throaty, the sound curling around you like smoke. “Sure you don’t.”

You take a step back, the gravel beneath your heels crunching just loud enough to cut through the quiet tension. Your arms tighten across your chest, a makeshift shield against him. Against this.

Matthew doesn’t move, but his smirk sharpens—a flash of crooked teeth that’s just as infuriating as it is familiar. He flicks his cigarette again, letting the ash scatter onto the ground, then leans an elbow against the railing like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Like this is normal. Like he’s normal.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asks, his voice light and teasing. “You gonna stand there glaring at me all night, or are we gonna catch up? I’ve got, like, ten years of bad decisions to tell you about. Could be fun.”

“No thanks,” you say, the words clipped. But you can’t soften it. Not for him. Not now. “And I’m pretty sure I know all about your bad decisions. Most of them, anyway.”

His grin doesn’t waver. If anything, it widens. “Ouch. Guess I deserve that.”

“You think?”

“Alright, fair.” He holds up a hand, like he’s surrendering, but there’s something playful in the gesture, something maddeningly unserious. “But hey, for what it’s worth, I’m happy for you.”

“Sure you are.” The sarcasm drips off your tongue before you can stop it. You hate how easily he draws it out of you, like some old habit you thought you’d kicked. “Because nothing says ‘I’m happy for you’ like showing up uninvited to my rehearsal dinner.”

He raises an eyebrow, his grin finally faltering—just a fraction. “Uninvited?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Michael asked me to be here,” he says, his tone shifting just slightly, losing some of its humor. He’s still casual, but there’s an edge to it now. “I didn’t crash your big day, okay? He wanted me here.”

That throws you for a second. You’re not sure why you’re surprised. Of course, Michael wanted him here. He had no idea who Matthew was—who he really was. To him, he’s just a groomsman. A friend. Someone who belongs.

“Fine,” you say after a beat, your voice stiff. “But you didn’t have to come.”

Matthew’s grin returns, softer now, more teasing than sharp. “What, and miss all this?” He gestures vaguely, his free hand sweeping through the air. “Come on. I’m not that heartless.”

You roll your eyes, turning away from him slightly, but not enough to actually leave. Your chest feels tight, like there’s a weight pressing down on it, but you can’t seem to move. You’re stuck in this moment, stuck in him.

“Alright,” he says, his voice breaking the silence, playful again. “Let me see it.”

You glance at him, frowning. “See what?”

“The ring.” He nods toward your left hand, still tucked under your arm. “Come on, let me take a look. I gotta make sure he’s treating you right, don’t I?”

Your fingers twitch instinctively, but you don’t move. “Why do you care?”

“I’m just curious,” he says with a shrug, his grin tugging at the corners of his mouth again. “Promise I’ll be nice.”

Before you can protest, he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the faint warmth of him, smell the faint trace of smoke clinging to his shirt. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that your skin prickles with awareness.

“Don’t,” you start, but your voice is quieter now, uncertain.

Matthew reaches out, slow and deliberate, like he’s giving you time to stop him. But you don’t. His fingers brush yours, and you hate the way your breath catches, the way your body betrays you with that split-second of hesitation. He takes your hand, gently uncrossing your arms, and lifts it toward him.

The world feels like it tilts. You’re hyper-aware of every point of contact, every rough callus on his palm, every inch of space between you. His thumb brushes against the edge of your ring, and you swear you feel it like a spark in your chest.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, his eyes on the diamond glinting in the soft light. His thumb traces lightly along your knuckle, a touch so faint you could almost convince yourself it’s not deliberate. Almost. “Big, though. Kinda flashy for you, isn’t it?”

“Let go,” you say, but your voice is weak, shaky. You’re not sure if you mean it.

His gaze flicks up to yours, dark and steady, holding you there. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let go. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, the rest of the world fading into the background. You’re caught, trapped in his orbit, and you hate how easy it is for him to do this to you.

Finally, he lets your hand go, stepping back just enough to give you space to breathe. His smirk is back, but there’s something softer behind it now, something almost sad.

“Still can’t take a compliment, huh?” he says lightly, tilting his head at you.

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?” you snap, crossing your arms tightly again, trying to erase the feeling of his fingers on yours. It’s ridiculous how he can still make your heart race, how he can unravel you with just a look. “Because it sounded more like an insult.”

“Come on,” Matthew teases, his voice dropping into that infuriatingly familiar low timbre, the one he’d use whenever he wanted to coax you into something. “I know you. I meant you’re just a different… vibe. Classy. Timeless. Not like some of those giant rocks you see on Instagram.” He gestures vaguely, rolling his eyes for effect. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t really suit you. That’s all.”

Matthew’s grin sharpens when you stiffen at his words, the playful malice in his tone as pointed as ever. His voice is low, teasing, every syllable dripping with amusement.

“So, are you two gonna celebrate tonight?” He tilts his head, eyes flicking to your left hand with exaggerated purpose. “You know, something sweet? Some... vanilla sex? Seems on-brand for you two. Romantic, missionary… candles, maybe?”

Your jaw tightens, and you’re sure the way your teeth grind together is audible. “Jesus Christ, Matthew.”

He laughs at your tone, a low, rich sound that feels like nails on a chalkboard—and also something you hate to admit you missed. His smile stretches wider, impossibly pleased with himself.

“What?” he says, raising his hands as if in defense. “I’m just asking. Big night like this, rehearsal dinner… you’ve got to cap it off somehow, right? Or is that just my idea of fun?”

“Your idea of fun is incredibly warped,” you snap, crossing your arms tighter across your chest. “You’re disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Come on, don’t be shy. You didn’t always think I was disgusting.” He leans in slightly, dropping his voice. “In fact, if I remember right, there were plenty of times you thought I was fucking incredible.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, your pulse jumping unbidden. Anger flares in your chest, bubbling beneath the surface as you fight to keep your expression neutral. But then—because of course he knows exactly how to get under your skin—he’s grinning again, leaning back against the railing like he hasn’t just set you on fire.

Your mind betrays you, dragging you back to memories you’d worked so hard to bury.

It was in Calgary, late winter. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. Matthew had flown you out last minute, a spur-of-the-moment decision that left you scrambling to pack and rearrange your schedule. You’d told yourself it was romantic, that he couldn’t wait to see you, but deep down, you’d known better. You’d known exactly what he wanted.

And now, you were here, pressed against the wall of his apartment, your coat barely hanging off your shoulders as his mouth moved over yours with bruising intensity. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him as he muttered something against your lips, his voice low and breathless.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he’d murmured, his lips trailing down your neck. “You have no idea…”

You’d tried to reply, but he didn’t give you the chance, his mouth finding yours again, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your knees weak. One hand slid down to your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist as he pressed against you, his arousal evident through his jeans.

“This fucking dress,” he’d muttered, his voice tinged with frustration as his hands roamed over the fabric. “Looks so good on you, but it’s gotta go. Now.”

He didn’t wait for a response, his fingers deftly tugging the hem up until it bunched around your hips. His hand slipped between your thighs, his touch confident and unapologetic, and you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your lips as he found your most sensitive spot.

“God, you’re already wet for me,” he’d said, his voice a mix of awe and smugness that made your cheeks burn. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Shut up,” you’d managed to gasp, but your words lacked any real bite, your body arching into his touch as he worked you over with practiced ease.

He’d chuckled, the sound low and rough, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Make me.”

And then he’d sunk to his knees, his hands gripping your thighs as he…

The memory fades as quickly as it came, leaving you breathless and reeling. You blink hard, forcing yourself back to the present, but the heat lingers in your cheeks, your chest, your stomach.

Matthew is watching you, his grin softer now, but no less infuriating. “What’s the matter?” he asks, his tone light, almost teasing. “Thinking about something fun?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you bite out, though the edge in your voice is dulled by the lingering haze of the memory.

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he says, leaning against the railing again, casual as ever. “I know you’re thinking about it. About us.”

You glare at him, but he doesn’t stop.

“Remember that weekend in Banff?” he asks, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach twist. “You were so mad at me for dragging you up there without telling you it was a team thing. But then…” He smirks, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I seem to remember you being pretty forgiving after a few rounds in that hot tub.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, your face flaming.

“Or what?” he presses, stepping closer, his voice dropping even lower. “You’ll tell Michael? What are you gonna say? That your fiancé’s buddy knows exactly how you like it? That he used to make you come so hard you forgot your own name?”

Your breath catches, and he’s grinning again, sharp and wicked, like he’s won something.

“Does he take care of you, though?” he asks, his tone deceptively casual. “Like really take care of you? Because… if he doesn’t, you know I still could.”

“You’re disgusting,” you say, the words sharp but hollow. They don’t land the way you want them to. He smirks anyway, the edge of his mouth tilting in that infuriating, lopsided grin that’s always been more trouble than it’s worth.

“You keep saying that,” Matthew drawls, his voice low, almost amused. “Starting to think you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it,” you snap, even as your pulse hammers against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. “Every word.”

He shrugs, unbothered by your tone. “Alright, fine. Clearly, this isn’t the time or place for a trip down memory lane. I’ll get out of your hair.” He steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets with an air of exaggerated nonchalance. “Think I’ll hit some of my favorite spots while I’m in town. Relive the glory days, you know?”

“Good for you,” you say flatly, crossing your arms tighter over your chest. “Have fun.”

He takes a step toward the garden path, then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder with that same damn grin. “You should come. Could be fun.”

You let out a sharp laugh, incredulous. “Not a chance.”

“Suit yourself.” His grin widens, and he gives you a lazy salute before turning and strolling away, his gait easy and unhurried.

You watch him go, the ache in your chest spreading like a slow burn. You hate it—hate the way your heart clenches, hate the way his presence feels like a hook lodged deep in your ribs, tugging you backward when all you want is to move forward.

The night air feels colder without him, the absence of his warmth leaving you hollow in a way you can’t explain. You take a deep breath, forcing your shoulders to square, your chin to lift. This is your life now—your future.

And he’s nothing but a ghost.

But as you turn to head back inside, the echo of his laughter lingers in your ears, and you can’t shake the feeling that some part of you is still tethered to him, no matter how much you wish it wasn’t.

***

The room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every little sound unbearable: the rustle of sheets, the hum of the air conditioning, the faint creak of the bed frame when you shift. You’ve been lying here for hours, staring at the ceiling, your mind a chaotic tangle of thoughts you can’t unravel. The clock on the bedside table reads 1:14 AM, its red numbers glaring at you like an accusation.

You should be asleep. You should be dreaming of tomorrow—your wedding day, the start of forever. Instead, you’re wide awake, your heart heavy and aching in a way that doesn’t make sense.

Your hand rests on your stomach, trying to soothe the knot tightening there. It’s not cold feet. You know that much. Michael is perfect—kind, stable, dependable. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted in a partner.

So why does your chest feel hollow?

Matthew Tkachuk

Your throat tightens as you sit up, your movements slow and deliberate to avoid waking Michael. He’s sprawled on his side, his breathing deep and even, oblivious to the storm raging inside you. The sight of him should bring you comfort, but it doesn’t. Not tonight.

You need air. Or clarity. Or… something. Anything to quiet the noise in your head.

Slipping out of bed, you grab a pair of jeans and a sweater from the chair by the window, pulling them on quickly. Your heart pounds as you ease the door open, the hinges mercifully silent. The hallway is dark, the plush carpet muffling your footsteps as you make your way to the living room. You hesitate by the front door, your hand hovering over the doorknob. This is reckless. Stupid. You’re getting married in less than twelve hours, for God’s sake.

But the ache in your chest won’t let you stay.

The streets are quiet, the city wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes in the dead of night. The chill in the air bites at your cheeks as you drive, your hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. You don’t need to check the map on your phone. You know exactly where you’re going.

Matthew’s favourite bar.

It’s not a conscious decision, not really. It’s more like muscle memory, your feet carrying you to the place you’d spent so many nights back then, sitting in a dimly lit booth while Matthew charmed everyone in sight. You’d watch him, your heart caught between admiration and frustration, convinced you could be the one to ground him, to pull him back from the edge he seemed determined to teeter on.

“I can fix him,” you’d told your best friend once, your voice trembling with conviction. It was a warm summer evening, the two of you sitting on her apartment balcony with glasses of cheap wine.

She’d given you a look that was equal parts pity and exasperation. “You can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed. And let’s be real, does he even think he needs fixing?”

You’d bristled at her words, defensive in the way only someone deeply in denial could be. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s not just… some cocky hockey player. He’s… he’s more than that.”

“Maybe he is,” she’d said gently, her hand covering yours. “But that doesn’t mean he’s good for you.”

You’d brushed her off, too stubborn to listen.

And now, years later, her words echo in your mind as you push open the heavy wooden door of the bar, stepping into the warm, dimly lit space. The faint scent of spilled beer and old wood lingers in the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glassware. You hesitate just inside the door, the chill of the night still clinging to your skin as you scan the room.

He’s not here.

Relief and disappointment twist together in your chest, a confusing knot of emotions you don’t want to unpack. What did you expect? That he’d be sitting in his usual spot, leaning back in that infuriatingly casual way, his grin already pulling at the corners of his mouth? That he’d see you and everything would… what? Fall into place? Or fall apart? You’re not even sure anymore.

The bouncer, a burly man with a shaved head and a tattoo snaking up his neck, watches you with mild curiosity. His arms are crossed over his chest, the black T-shirt he’s wearing straining slightly against his broad shoulders. You approach him, your sneakers quiet against the worn floorboards.

“Hey,” you start, your voice low but steady. “Have you seen a guy in here tonight? Brown curls, about six-foot-one, probably wearing something too nice for this place?”

The bouncer raises an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over you like he’s trying to place you in a story he’s not yet heard. “I’ve seen ten guys exactly like that tonight,” he replies, his voice a rumble that matches the room’s ambiance.

You frown, your heart thudding faster than you want to admit. Before he can say more, a voice comes from behind you, low and maddeningly familiar.

“Hey, bride.”

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn, the knot in your chest tightening as your gaze lands on him. Matthew leans against the wall near the bar, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass of whiskey. His hair is a little messier than it was earlier, curls tousled like he’d run his hands through them too many times. His tie is gone, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a hint of tanned skin. There’s a casualness to him that feels like a deliberate contrast to your turmoil, like he knows exactly how to tilt the balance of power in his favor.

“I hate that,” you say, your voice sharper than you intend. His grin widens, the corners of his mouth pulling up in that lopsided way that’s both infuriating and devastating.

“Hate what?” he asks, feigning innocence as he takes a step closer, his eyebrows quirking. The amber liquid in his glass sloshes slightly, catching the dim light.

“‘Bride,’” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest. “Don’t call me that.”

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—amusement, maybe, or something softer. “Why not? It’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“I don’t feel like one,” you admit before you can stop yourself, the words tumbling out in a rush. Heat rises to your cheeks as his gaze sharpens, the teasing edge to his expression fading slightly.

“No?” he asks, his voice quieter now, his head tilting as he studies you. “What do you feel like, then?”

You’re not sure how to answer that. What do you feel like? Not a bride, certainly. Not the glowing, confident person everyone expects you to be the night before your wedding. You feel raw, unsteady, like a shadow of yourself stretched too thin.

“You’re such an asshole,” you suddenly blurt, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. Your voice is sharp, louder than you intended, and a few heads turn your way. You’re too far gone to care. “Why the fuck are you even here, Matthew? To ruin my life? To make everything about you, like always?”

His eyebrows lift slightly, and that goddamn grin creeps back onto his face—crooked, smug, utterly maddening. He takes another sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours. “I thought we already had this conversation. I’m here because your fiancé invited me, sweetheart. Believe me, crashing your rehearsal dinner wasn’t exactly on my bucket list.”

“Don’t call me that!” you snap, the heat rising to your cheeks again. Your chest feels tight, your pulse hammering in your ears. “And don’t act like you’re doing me some kind of favor by showing up. You’re not some…some innocent bystander in this. You’re a fucking tornado that destroys everything in your path.”

He sets his glass down on the bar with a deliberate slowness that makes your skin prickle. Then he takes a step closer, his head tilting slightly as his gaze roams over your face. “Is that what I am?” he asks, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “A tornado?”

“Yes,” you hiss, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “You blow into people’s lives, tear them apart, and then act like it’s their fault for not holding on tighter.”

“Hmm.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the faint scar along his jawline, the one he’d gotten years ago in some fight in a Flames jersey you hadn’t even asked about because you’d been too angry to care. “And what does that make you, then? The poor, helpless bystander who got caught in the storm?”

“Don’t,” you warn, your voice trembling slightly. You’re not sure if it’s anger or something else entirely, something you’ve spent years trying to bury. “Don’t you dare make this about me.”

He doesn’t back off. Instead, he leans in just slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Maybe it is about you. Maybe it always was.”

Your chest feels like it’s going to explode. Every nerve in your body is on high alert, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything about him: the faint smell of whiskey and smoke clinging to his shirt, the way his lips curve into that infuriating smirk, the heat radiating off him in waves.

“You’re…” Your voice falters, and you shake your head, trying to find your footing again. “You’re unbelievable. You think you can just show up here and… and look at me like that, and everything will go back to how it was? Like I’m some fucking backup plan you can keep in your pocket until you get bored?”

His smirk softens, just a fraction, and for a moment, you see something else in his eyes—something that looks suspiciously like regret. “I never thought that,” he says quietly, his voice losing some of its teasing edge. “Not about you.”

You should walk away. You should turn on your heel and leave him standing here, let him drown in his own arrogance and charm and whatever twisted version of affection he’s trying to sell you. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, your breath coming in shallow bursts as his words wrap around you like a noose.

And then he looks at you again—really looks at you. Like you’re the only person in the room, the only thing that matters. His gaze is heavy, piercing, and it’s like he’s peeling back every layer you’ve built up since he left. It’s unbearable. It’s intoxicating. It’s him.

“Fuck you,” you whisper, the words trembling on your lips as your fists clench tighter.

And then you’re moving, crossing the space between you in two quick steps. Your hands grab the front of his shirt, and before you can think better of it, you’re pulling him down, your lips crashing into his with a force that feels like it might shatter you both.

The kiss is electric, messy, overwhelming. His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, and it feels like your body is on fire, every nerve ending alight with sensation. You’re drowning in him, in the taste of whiskey on his lips, the way his fingers dig into your hips like he’s afraid to let go. It’s too much, and it’s not enough, and you hate yourself for how fucking right it feels.

He’s everywhere—the heat of his body pressing into yours, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, the low, almost guttural sounds he’s making as your lips move together in a frantic, desperate rhythm. His fingers slide up your back, tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp against his mouth.

The sound seems to break something in him. His grip tightens, his kisses growing more urgent, almost devouring. He’s not holding back, and you don’t want him to. You’re not sure you’d survive it if he did.

A loud, deliberate throat clearing breaks through the haze.

“Hey,” the bouncer’s voice rumbles from a few feet away, sharp and unamused. “If you two are gonna do that, you need to take it somewhere else.”

You’re breathless, your lips swollen and tingling as you pull back just enough to glance over Matthew’s shoulder. The bouncer’s expression is a mix of exasperation and boredom, his arms crossed over his massive chest like he’s seen this a thousand times before.

Matthew doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even flinch. His forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged, his hands still firmly gripping your waist. His thumb brushes against your side, a small, grounding motion that makes your stomach flip.

“Hear that?” you whisper, your voice shaky but laced with a faint smirk. “We’re causing a scene.”

Matthew’s lips twitch, his grin lazy and crooked, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans in, capturing your mouth again in a kiss that’s slower this time but no less consuming. It’s maddening, the way he ignores everything else, the way his focus narrows to just you.

The bouncer lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Seriously. Take it outside.”

Matthew finally breaks the kiss, his lips lingering against yours for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls back. His dark eyes meet yours, and there’s a heat in them that makes your knees weak. Without a word, he takes your hand, his grip firm and sure, and starts leading you toward the door.

You’re not sure who’s moving faster—you or him. The cool night air hits you as soon as you step outside, a stark contrast to the heat still radiating off your skin. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Matthew’s mouth is on yours again before you’ve even made it to your car, his hands cupping your face as he backs you against the driver’s side door.

You’re a mess of want and frustration, your fingers tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel more, to erase the years and the distance and the fucking ache that’s been sitting in your chest since the moment he walked back into your life.

“Back seat,” you manage to gasp between kisses, your hands fumbling for the door handle.

Matthew doesn’t hesitate. He pulls back just long enough to open the back door, his movements quick and impatient. Then he’s pulling you in with him, his hands gripping your hips as you both tumble onto the seat in a tangle of limbs.

Your fingers are already at the buttons of his shirt, working them open with shaky urgency. His skin is warm under your touch, the muscles of his chest flexing as you slide your hands over him. He groans softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, and it’s like a spark lighting a fire in your veins.

You straddle him, your knees pressing into the worn leather seats on either side of his thighs. His hands grip your hips, guiding you against him, and you can feel how hard he is through his slacks. It’s intoxicating, the way he’s looking at you—like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“Matthew,” you murmur, your voice breathy as your hands move to the buckle of his belt. “I need—”

“Fuck,” he breathes, cutting you off as his hands slide up your back, pulling you closer. He’s not saying much, which is unusual for him, but the way he’s touching you, the way his lips find the curve of your neck, the way his breath hitches every time you grind against him—it says everything.

You fumble at the buckle of his belt, your fingers trembling with the raw urgency coursing through you. He doesn’t rush you, but the heat in his gaze as he watches your hands move over him is electric, a silent encouragement that sends a shiver down your spine.

As your hand brushes against him, your engagement ring catches, the sharp edge of the diamond nicking his skin. He flinches slightly, a low hiss escaping his lips, and you freeze.

“Shit,” you stammer, trying to pull back, but his grip tightens on your hips, keeping you in place. His eyes find yours, dark and unreadable, and then he glances at your hand. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he reaches up, fingers wrapping around yours with deliberate slowness.

“This thing…” he murmurs, holding your hand up so the ring catches the dim light. “It’s a fucking weapon.”

You open your mouth to apologize, but the words catch in your throat as he slides the ring off your finger, his movements slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment. His gaze locks on yours, and the air between you crackles, heavy and charged. When the ring is finally free, he holds it up between his thumb and forefinger, his expression unreadable.

“Don’t need this right now,” he says, his voice low and rough, before setting it on the seat beside you.

The loss of the ring should feel like a betrayal, a symbol of everything you’re throwing away in this moment. But instead, it feels like freedom. Like shedding a weight you didn’t realize you were carrying. And when his hands find your hips again, pulling you flush against him, you let the last shred of hesitation slip away.

“God, you’re still so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, his lips brushing against yours as his hands slide under your sweater, pushing it up and over your head in one smooth motion. His eyes rake over you, and the hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch. “Been thinking about this for years.”

Your fingers work at the button of his slacks, tugging them down just enough to free him. The sight of him, hard and ready, sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. You’re on him in an instant, your lips crashing against his as you grind against him, the friction making your head spin as you rid yourself of your jeans and panties in one.

“Condom?” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough but steady.

You shake your head, the desperation in your chest bubbling to the surface in a soft, breathless whimper. “I don’t care. I just… I need to feel you.”

He groans at your words, his hands gripping your hips as he positions you over him. The stretch as he enters you is almost too much, but you don’t stop, can’t stop. You sink down onto him slowly, your breath hitching as your body adjusts to him. He’s big, filling you completely, and the sensation is overwhelming in the best way possible.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his head falling back against the seat as he holds you steady. “You okay?”

You nod frantically, your hands bracing against his chest as you start to move. The slow, deliberate grind of your hips pulls a low groan from his throat, his fingers digging into your skin as he guides you. Every roll of your body sends sparks shooting through you, and you can’t hold back the moans spilling from your lips.

“Matthew,” you gasp, your voice trembling with the force of your emotions. “God, it’s… it’s so good. I didn’t think…”

He hums in response, his hands sliding up your back to hold you closer. “Yeah? Feels good?”

“So good,” you whimper, your head falling forward as you lose yourself in the rhythm of your movements. “Better than it ever was. Better than anything.”

He hums, low and deep, his thumbs stroking your skin as he rocks his hips up to meet yours, each thrust pushing him impossibly deeper. The stretch of him inside you is overwhelming, the way he fills you making your thighs tremble and your head spin. You’re soaking wet, every motion of your bodies sliding together producing a filthy, obscene sound that fills the small space of the car.

"You… you have no idea," you stammer, your words coming out in fragments as you move faster, chasing the heat coiling low in your belly. "How… how fucking awful it’s been…"

Matthew’s hands slide up your sides, steadying you as he sits up slightly, his face dangerously close to yours. “Yeah? Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice a husky rasp that sends a shiver down your spine. His lips brush the curve of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he adds, “What’s been so awful, sweetheart?”

“Everything,” you cry, your nails digging into his shoulders for leverage as you bounce on his cock, your movements wild and desperate. “Michael… he’s so fucking perfect, but…” You groan, your words breaking into a moan as his hips jerk up, hitting that perfect spot that makes your vision blur. “God, he doesn’t… he doesn’t fuck me like this.”

His hands squeeze your hips, his grip firm but not demanding, his gaze fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “No?” he asks softly, his voice steady even as his breathing comes hard and fast. “Doesn’t make you feel good, huh?”

“No,” you gasp, shaking your head. “Not like this. Not even close.”

His lips curl into a faint smile, almost smug but tinged with something softer. “How about now?” he murmurs, his hips rolling in a way that has you clenching around him, a cry tearing from your throat.

“Yes,” you whimper, your voice breaking. “God, yes. It’s so… so fucking good, Matthew. You’re so good.”

“That’s it,” he mutters, his hands sliding to your waist as he starts guiding your movements, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. “Keep talking, baby. Tell me how it feels.”

You’re rambling now, the words tumbling out of you in a breathless rush as you ride him, your body trembling with the effort. “It feels… fuck, it feels like… like you’re breaking me in half, but I don’t care,” you pant, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. “I’ve needed this. God, I’ve needed this so fucking bad.”

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that makes your toes curl. “Needed me?”

“Yes,” you cry, your hips jerking against his as he thrusts up into you, each movement pulling another moan from your lips. “Fuck, yes, Matthew. I needed you. I… I—”

Your words dissolve into a sharp cry as his hands slide down to your ass, squeezing firmly as he pulls you harder against him. His mouth finds your collarbone, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver.

“Keep going,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and soothing all at once. “Tell me everything, sweetheart. I’m listening.”

“He… he’s so perfect,” you manage between moans, your nails raking down his chest as your hips buck wildly. “He’s kind, and sweet, and… and safe, but he doesn’t… he doesn’t make me feel like this.”

Matthew groans softly, his lips pressing against your shoulder as his hands guide you, his touch firm but gentle. “Like what?” he asks, his voice low and smooth. “Tell me how I make you feel.”

“Like I’m alive,” you gasp, your voice breaking with emotion as your body trembles against him. “Like… like I’m losing my mind, but it’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever felt.”

His grip tightens slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, “Good. That’s how you should feel.”

You’re moving faster now, your body driven by pure instinct as you chase the release building inside you. Every thrust sends sparks shooting through your veins, your moans growing louder, more desperate with each passing second. Matthew’s hands never falter, his touch steady and grounding even as his own breathing grows ragged.

“You… you ruin me,” you cry, your words tumbling out in a rush as your climax edges closer. “Every fucking time, Matthew. You ruin me, and I let you, because… because I…”

“Because you what?” he asks softly, his voice coaxing, his lips brushing against your temple.

“Because, I can’t fucking fix you!” You sob his name, your body arching as the tension inside you snaps, pleasure crashing over you in a wave so intense it leaves you shaking. His hands hold you steady as you ride it out, his hips still moving, drawing out every last ounce of sensation until you’re nothing but a trembling, gasping mess in his arms.

Matthew’s lips are against your shoulder, stilling as he processes your words. His chest heaves, his breath hot and unsteady, and he lets out a low, nearly imperceptible hum—not of agreement, but acknowledgment. He presses a kiss against your skin, slow and deliberate, before his hands slide from your hips to the curve of your ass, pulling you closer again.

“Maybe I don’t want to be fixed,” he murmurs against your neck, his voice hoarse and quiet, the words barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

You shudder at the sensation of his lips brushing your skin, your forehead falling against his as you struggle to steady yourself. His cock is still buried deep inside you, every subtle twitch of him sending jolts of electricity through your overstimulated nerves. When he moves again, it isn’t with the same desperate urgency as before—it’s deliberate, his hips rolling up into you in slow, measured thrusts.

“Matthew,” you whisper, your voice shaky, your hands clutching at his shoulders. You don’t know if it’s meant to be a plea or a warning, but he doesn’t stop. He won’t. His movements are quieter now, the rhythm of your bodies a languid grind that borders on torturous. His gaze locks on yours, intense and searching, as though he’s trying to peel you apart piece by piece.

“I’m not fucking perfect,” he says, his words coming out low and uneven, his breath hot against your lips. “Never have been. Never will be.”

You can’t respond, not with the way your body reacts to his, every nerve sparking to life with each slow stroke. His hands stay steady, grounding you even as your world tilts and spins. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your lips parting to release a shaky gasp as his pace quickens just slightly, his cock dragging against you in a way that makes your thighs tighten around him.

“But you…” He trails off, his voice breaking as his head tips back against the seat. His hands flex on your skin, holding you in place as his rhythm stutters, his restraint unraveling. “Fuck, you ruin me too.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, your breath catching as his movements become erratic. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his groan muffled against your skin as his hips jerk one last time, the warmth of his release spilling inside you. The quiet intensity of it is staggering—no shouting, no bravado. Just him, holding you close, his arms wrapping around you as he shudders through his climax.

For a long moment, you stay like that. The car is silent except for the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven as you cling to each other. His forehead rests against your collarbone, his fingers drawing absent patterns along your spine. Neither of you speaks, the weight of what you’ve just done settling over you like a thick fog.

When Matthew finally leans back, his eyes find yours, and there it is—that unspoken question hanging in the air between you.

What now?

Your throat tightens as you look at him, your chest aching with something you can’t name. You don’t have the answer. You don’t think he does either. But the thought of leaving this moment, of walking back to the life you’ve built with Michael—a life that suddenly feels suffocating and wrong—makes your stomach churn.

“Take me with you,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with desperation. Your hands frame his face, your thumbs brushing against the stubble on his jaw as your eyes search his. “Take me to Florida, to fucking Timbuktu, or… I don’t care. Anywhere but here.”

Matthew’s brows furrow, his expression softening into something that looks dangerously close to regret. “You don’t mean that,” he says quietly, though his hands don’t move from your waist, his touch still firm, still grounding.

“I do,” you insist, your voice breaking. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. “I can’t… I can’t go back to that. To him. Not after this. I—” Your breath hitches, your hands tightening on his shoulders as you plead. “Please, Matthew.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze drops to your lips, then to your hands still gripping him like a lifeline, and finally back to your eyes. There’s something unreadable in his expression—conflict, maybe, or guilt. But then he nods, the movement slow and deliberate, and his grip on your waist tightens.

And it’s okay. Because for the first time in years, you feel alive.

#mt19 fic

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#mt19 fic