Letters to Matt (Part 5)
MIA Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader Mature | Smut | MDNI After days of hiding from the world, you realize the only thing more dangerous than the secrets in your closet is Matt being inside your room. Part 4 Part 6
You wake up the next morning feeling absolutely miserable, the fake excuse you gave on the phone has officially become reality.
Your body is burning up, a mix of getting completely drenched in the freezing downpour and overheating in the steam of his shower.
You know this because you wake up drenched, your sheets twisted around your legs like something trying to swallow you, and for the first time in five days your head doesn't feel stuffed with wet cotton. The ceiling fan spins lazily above you. Dust motes drift through the slice of afternoon light cutting across your comforter. You lie there for a long moment, just breathing. Just existing in a body that no longer feels like a war zone.
Then the notifications catch your eye.
Your phone, face-down on the nightstand, blinking with a small green light that won't stop. You reach for it, arm heavy, muscles protesting, and swipe. Seventeen missed texts. Four missed calls. All from them. Nick: hey just checking in, you alive? Chris: dude answer your phone i'm bored and you're my only entertainment. Nick again: mom said you're still sick, text us when you're up. Chris: if you died i'm giving your hoodie collection to goodwill. Matt, yesterday morning: I hope you're okay. Please let me know if you need anything.
You close the messages. You don't respond.
The thing about being sick is that it gives you permission to disappear. Those first three days, the flu was real. Body aches that made your bones feel like they'd been replaced with glass, a cough that rattled around your chest, fever dreams that blurred the edges of wakefulness. You couldn't have answered your phone if you'd wanted to. But the last two days? Those were something else. Something heavier. The physical sickness had burned itself out, leaving behind only the emotional exhaustion, the kind that made getting out of bed feel like climbing a mountain.
So you stayed under the covers. True crime documentaries played on a loop, Forensic Files, Unsolved Mysteries, anything where the bodies dropped and nobody fell in love. You curated your Netflix queue with surgical precision. No rom-coms. No period dramas. No couples gazing at each other across candlelit dinners. Just grit. Just terrible stuff. Just the cold, clinical distance of narrators describing crime scenes.
It helped, mostly.
Except when it didn't. Except when you'd be staring at a reenactment of a convenience store robbery and suddenly you'd feel it, the phantom press of his mouth on your neck, the way his fingers had curled around your waist under the shower spray. The memory would hit like a gut punch, visceral and unwanted, and you'd have to physically shake your head to dislodge it. No. Stop. We're not doing this right now. You'd press play again, crank the volume, let some forensic expert explain blood spatter patterns until your brain quieted down.
By day five, you're done.
Not healed. Not okay. But done rotting in your own filth. You strip the bed with methodical fury, sheets balled up and shoved into the laundry basket, pillowcases peeled off, the whole room aired out with windows thrown wide to the afternoon breeze. You find an old candle shoved in the back of your closet, something vanilla-scented you bought on impulse at Target, and light it. The flame flickers, then steadies. The air shifts from stale-sick to something softer.
The box. You almost forgot.
Your hands find it before your brain catches up, muscle memory guiding you to the closet's darkest corner where it sits beneath an old folded blanket. You don't open it. You can't. Instead you push it deeper—behind a stack of board games, behind a forgotten duffel bag, behind everything you won't need for a long, long time. If you can't see it, it doesn't exist. That's the logic you're working with.
The shower is scalding. You stand under the spray until the hot water runs out, scrubbing your skin raw, washing five days of sickness off your body. When you step out, the mirror is fogged completely white. You don't wipe it clean. You don't want to see your own face right now.
You pull on the first thing you find, a massive, oversized t-shirt that hangs past your thighs, the fabric soft and faded from years of washing. Black boyshorts underneath. That's it. You don't bother with real clothes. There's no one to see you.
Headphones in. Lorde's Pure Heroine floods your ears, the track "Ribs" hitting exactly the way it always does, that ache of growing up, of feeling everything too much, of wanting to go back to a time before you knew what it felt like to be touched by someone who doesn't love you back. You flop onto your freshly-made bed, stomach down, arms tucked under the pillow. The bass thrums through your skull. You close your eyes.
This is fine. This is surviving. This is—
A sliver of light cuts across your eyelids.
You open one eye. The bedroom door is cracked open, your mom's face hovering in the gap. She's got that look—the one that means don't be mad, I did something you're going to hate. You slide the headphones down around your neck, Lorde still shrilly and distant through the speakers.
"You're feeling better?" your mom asks, her voice carrying that particular maternal mix of relief and scrutiny. "And you're decent?"
You nod against the pillow. "Yeah. What's up?"
She doesn't answer. She just smiles, too bright, too innocent. Then she swings the door fully open.
Nick walks through first. Then Chris, already spinning toward your computer chair like it's been assigned to him since birth. And behind them, framed in the doorway like a photograph you didn't ask to take—
Matt.
Your stomach drops. Then tightens. Then drops again, a sick elevator sensation that makes your fingers curl into the bedsheets.
He's let his beard grow. That's the first thing you notice. It's not long, just enough to darken his jaw, to make him look older, rougher, like he's been sleeping as badly as you have. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. He still looks achingly handsome. His eyes find yours immediately. They don't look away.
You sit up too fast. The room spins for half a second. You tug the hem of the t-shirt down, hyper-aware of how little you're wearing, of the bare skin of your thighs against the comforter.
Nick settles onto the mattress beside you, casual as anything, like this is a normal visit and not an ambush. Chris claims the computer chair, spinning it once before planting his feet. Matt doesn't move from the doorway. He leans against the frame, arms crossed, watching.
"What's up girl," Nick says. No preamble. Just the words, flat and pointed.
"We called your mom," Chris adds, swiveling the chair slightly. "You know, like concerned citizens. She told us you were actually sick, so we came straight over."
"I'm fine," you say. The words come out scratchy. You clear your throat. "Just recovering. It was just a flu."
"A flu that makes you ignore seventeen texts?" Chris raises an eyebrow. "Is that a symptom now? Textphobia? Because I feel like that's not in the CDC guidelines."
"I read somewhere that being on your phone while you're sick makes you sicker."
The lie falls out of your mouth before you can stop it, flimsy and transparent. Nick stares at you. Chris stares at you. Then they both crack up, Nick's laugh a sharp bark, Chris doubling over in the chair so hard it squeaks.
"That's—" Nick wheezes, "that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"Literal nonsense," Chris agrees, wiping his eyes. "Medical misinformation. I'm reporting you to the FDA."
"It's true," you insist, but you're almost smiling now, the familiar rhythm of their teasing pulling you out of your own head. "It's like... the blue light. And the radiation. Or something."
"The radiation," Nick repeats, deadpan. He turns to Chris. "She's been watching too many conspiracy documentaries."
"I've been watching true crime," you correct. "Completely different genre."
"Oh, well, that's fine then. Nothing mentally damaging about five days of murder." Nick bumps your shoulder with his. "You sure you're okay now? For real?"
"Fully recovered. Today's the first day I actually feel human."
Chris gestures grandly at the room. "Good thing, too. Another day and we would've had to break down the door. You could've died and we wouldn't have even known."
"You would've known eventually. The smell would've tipped you off."
Nick snorts. Chris grins. The three of you fall into the old rhythm—that easy back-and-forth, the call-and-response of inside jokes and comfortable silences. Nick tells you about the video they filmed yesterday, some chaotic challenge that ended with Chris accidentally breaking a lamp. Chris defends himself loudly, blaming the lamp's "structural integrity" and Nick's "aggressive energy." You laugh. It feels rusty. It feels good.
Through all of it, Matt says nothing.
He's still by the door. Still watching. His eyes track the conversation like he's observing something through glass, present but removed, a satellite orbiting the room. Every now and then your gaze flicks toward him, involuntary, magnetic. And every time he's already looking at you. The silence between you is a living thing, breathing in the corner, waiting.
Nick stands, stretching his arms above his head. "We should probably go. Let you get more rest."
"Yeah, yeah." You wave a hand. "I'll be back to normal by tomorrow. Promise."
"Define normal," Chris says, rising from the chair. "Because your normal was already questionable."
"Get out of my house."
"Wow. Rude."
They're moving toward the door, Nick reaching for the handle, when Matt's voice cuts through.
"You guys go ahead."
The words are quiet. Steady. They land in the center of the room and everything stops.
Matt pushes off the doorframe, finally stepping fully inside. "I'm gonna stay for a bit. Make sure she's okay."
Nick and Chris exchange a look. It's quick, barely a flicker, but you catch it. Nick's eyebrows lift a fraction. Chris's mouth twists into something that's almost a smirk but not quite. They know something. Or they suspect something. Or they're just confused, and confusion on their faces looks suspicious by default.
"Sure," Nick says, drawing the word out. "Yeah. Cool. We'll, uh. See you at home."
"Text us," Chris adds, pointing at you. "Or I'm calling your mom again."
They leave. The door clicks shut.
You're sitting on the edge of the bed, back to the door, facing the window. The afternoon light is starting to turn golden, that pre-sunset glow that makes everything look softer than it is. You don't turn around. You can't. If you look at him right now, something inside you will crack.
Behind you, the rustle of sheets. The mattress dips. He's climbing onto the bed from the opposite side, moving slow, deliberate, like he's approaching something that might bolt. You feel him settle behind you, his body a wall of warmth at your back, and then his legs are spreading wide to frame your hips and his arms are wrapping around your waist.
Tight. Secure. His chest presses against your spine. His chin drops onto your shoulder, the weight of it heavy and familiar, and the first thing you register is the scratch of his beard against the sensitive skin of your neck. The second thing is his breath. Warm, steady, ghosting across your collarbone.
Your entire body locks up. Every muscle. Every nerve. You're a statue in his arms, rigid and unbreathing.
"You look cute in my shirt," he murmurs.
The words are soft, almost teasing, but there's an undercurrent to them. Something heavier. You glance down at the faded fabric stretched across your thighs and the realization hits you all over again. His shirt. You've had this shirt for a while now. It smells like your detergent now, not his cologne, but it's still his. The logo on the chest, some band you've never listened to, is cracked and peeling.
You don't answer. You can't find your voice.
Silence stretches. The kind that's too thick, too loaded, threatening to suffocate. His thumb moves against your waist, a small absent-minded circle, and the touch burns through the thin cotton.
"I'm sorry," he says.
Two words. Simple. They hang in the air between you like a held breath.
Your mind goes into overdrive, spiraling in a dozen directions at once. Sorry for what? For the shower? Sorry for what? Does he know you were jealous? Does he know how badly it broke you that he went to hang out with the girl he likes right after taking you in his bathroom? Does he know? Does he know about the box under the blankets in the closet? Does he know about the letters, the notes, the tear-stained notebook page?
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "Sorry for what?"
He shifts behind you. His arms tighten fractionally.
"First," he says, low and careful, "for getting you sick. We shouldn't have stood out there in the rain for so long. That was stupid."
The knot in your chest loosens slightly. You swallow. "It wasn't your fault."
Another pause. Longer this time. You feel him take a breath, his chest expanding against your back, and when he speaks again his voice is different. Cracked at the edges. Raw.
"And... I'm sorry for what happened."
The knot retightens. Harder.
"I didn't know how," he continues, stumbling over the words. "It just... it felt right. At the moment. In the moment. I don't know." His chin presses deeper into your shoulder, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. "I'm sorry if I took advantage of our friendship. You're my best friend, and I crossed a boundary, and I—"
His voice breaks. You feel it vibrate against your skin.
"I'm sorry if I wasn't able to control myself."
Your eyes sting. The anger is still there, the fury from the notebook, the desperate scrawl of I'm done that's buried somewhere in your desk drawer, but it's muffled now, smothered under the weight of him. Under the exhaustion of being sick and sad and furious for days. Under the heat of his arms wrapped around your waist like you're something precious he's afraid of losing.
You let your head fall back against his shoulder. The fight drains out of you in a single exhale.
"Matt," you whisper. A warning. A plea. You're not even sure which.
He doesn't answer with words. His arms tighten, pulling you closer, and then his face is burying into the crook of your neck and his lips are pressing against the spot just above your collarbone. A kiss. Soft. Lingering. His beard rasps against your skin and you shiver, involuntary, your hands coming up to grip his forearms.
"I am sorry," he murmurs against your throat, "but I don't regret anything."
Your heart stops. Starts again. Double time.
His hand moves from your hip, sliding up, cupping the side of your face. His palm is warm, the same hand that pulled you out of the pool and fixed your collar and held yours in the rain. He turns your face toward him, gentle but insistent, and then you're looking at each other.
His eyes are dark. Close. There's a vulnerability in them you've never seen before, something unguarded, almost frightened, like he's standing on the edge of something and doesn't know if there's water below.
You kiss him.
Or maybe he kisses you. It doesn't matter. What matters is his mouth on yours, the way his lips part and yours answer, the familiar taste of him flooding your senses. It's slower than the rain kiss. Deeper. There's no storm to blame this time, no adrenaline, no excuse. Just the two of you on your bed, his hand still cupping your face, his other arm still wrapped around your waist.
This is happening again. How is this happening again.
Your mind screams the question but your body doesn't care. Your body is arching into him, your hand reaching back to tangle in his hair, your mouth opening under his with a sigh that sounds embarrassingly like surrender.
His hands move. He was under your shirt. Fingers splaying across your stomach, sliding up, up, until he's cupping your breasts. His palms are hot, his thumbs finding your nipples and brushing across them in slow, deliberate circles. They stiffen under his touch, pebbling against his skin, and you gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound.
His tongue traces your bottom lip. You press back against him, your spine curving, and that's when you feel it—the hard length of him through his jeans, pressing against your lower back. He groans, low and rough, the sound vibrating against your throat.
Your hand reaches back. Finds him. Your fingers curl around the shape of him through the denim and he jerks, his hips pressing forward into your touch. He's breathing harder now, his lips leaving yours to trail down your jaw, your neck, his beard leaving a burning trail in its wake.
His other hand slides down. Past your ribs. Past your navel. He is so close to finding out how wet you actually already is. His fingers now brushing the waistband of your boyshorts, teasing the elastic, dipping just beneath—
"Sweetheart!"
Your mother's voice shatters the room like a stone through glass.
"Food's ready for you guys! Come down!"
You jump. Actually jump, your body separating from his like opposite ends of a magnet, and suddenly you're standing at the foot of the bed with your heart slamming against your ribs and your shirt rucked up around your hips. Your face is on fire. Your lips are swollen. You can still feel the pressure of his hands on your breasts.
Matt is still on the bed. He's propped up on his elbows, looking at you with an expression that's half amusement and half something darker, something that makes your stomach flip.
He's smiling.
"We should probably go down," you manage, your voice high and breathless.
He swings his legs off the bed. Stands. Adjusts his jeans in a way that makes your eyes look away. "Yeah," he says, and there's a laugh hiding in the word. "Probably."
Downstairs, you are surprised to see Nick and Chris are already at the table. They're still here. Your mom is setting out plates of something that smells like garlic and comfort. Nick looks up when you enter, his mouth curving into a smirk. "There they are."
"Your mom told us she was making food, so we stayed," Chris explains, already reaching for a bread roll. He glances between you and Matt, and his expression shifts. Calculating. "You two are weirdos, though. Who just hangs out in the quiet?"
Matt claps him on the back harder than necessary. "Shut up and eat."
You slide into a chair, still trembling, still tasting him on your tongue. Your mom asks if you're feeling better. You nod. You smile. You perform normalcy with every ounce of acting ability you possess.
And Matt sits across from you, eating your mother's cooking, laughing at Chris's jokes, and every now and then his eyes find yours across the table and your chest seizes all over again.
An hour later, the front door closes behind them.
You stand in the entryway for a long moment, staring at the wood grain, your bare feet cold against the floor. The house is quiet again. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that lets your thoughts get loud.
You walk back to your room on autopilot. Close the door. Turn the lock, the same lock he turned earlier, the click of it still echoing somewhere in the back of your mind. Your study desk is waiting for you like it knows.
You sit down. Grab the pen. Start writing.
Matt, My heart was beating so hard against my ribs I was terrified you'd feel it through my shirt.
The words come faster now, your handwriting messy and urgent, the pen scratching across the paper like it's trying to keep up with something that's sprinting ahead.
When my mom called us from downstairs and you just sat there smiling at me, your lips still swollen from kissing me, your beard scratching my skin. I wanted to scream. Chris called us weirdos for sitting up here in the quiet, but they have no idea. Nobody has any idea that the entire room still smelled like you.
You pause. Breathe. The pen hovers.
They don't know that my skin was burning exactly where your hands had just crawled under my shirt. We sat at the table and shared the food my mom made, acting like normal, while my body was still trembling from the way you squeezed me.
You said you don't regret anything. You looked me right in the eyes and said it like it was that simple. But it isn't simple for me.
Your hand is shaking. You keep writing.
Best friends don't do that, Matt. Best friends don't lock bedroom doors. They don't frame your body with theirs, or press against you until you can feel how hard they are, or make you reach for them in the dark. They don't fuck and shower together.
I'm terrified that I'm going to regret this. I'm terrified that if we keep blurring these lines, I'm going to lose you completely, and the friendship we've built for years will just turn into a mistake we try to forget. And the worst part—the absolute scariest part—is that even knowing how badly this could end, when you tilted my face up... I didn't want you to stop.
The pen presses so hard the ink bleeds.
I let myself be fragile. I let you get away with it, and I'd probably let you do it again right now.
❤️ Little Miss Fragile
You set the pen down.
The letter sits on the desk, ink still glossy, words still hanging in the air like a confession you'll never make. Outside the window, the sky is deepening to purple, the first stars pricking through the dusk. Somewhere across the neighborhood, Matt is walking into his house with his brothers, probably already fielding questions from Nick, probably already deflecting.
And you are here. Alone. Again.
The box is still in the closet, buried under everything you used to hide it. You'll add this letter to it later, fold it carefully, tuck it in with the napkins and the notebook pages and the years of things you've never said. For now, you just sit at your desk, the silence pressing in, your lips still swollen, your skin still burning.
You don't cry.
You don't do anything at all.
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