“Umm…” I clear my throat, grateful for the neutral topic.“I could really use a brush.”
Matthew nods.“Top drawer of the vanity in the bathroom.”He gestures towards the adjoining door.“Fully stocked in there.You’ll even find a blow-dryer.”A shadow crosses his face as he says it.
My chest tightens with a pang of shared sadness, remembering his confession about his mother who never got to use this room.
He meets my eyes again, and a wry, almost self-deprecating smile touches his lips.“And by the way,” he adds softly.“I was kidding about the five minutes.Take your time.Shower if you want.Come down whenever you’re ready.No rush.”
With one last nod, he steps back into the hallway.I watch the door click softly into place, the space where he stood now empty.
I let out a long breath.
My gaze drifts towards the bathroom door, then to my dress.
Shower.Clothes.Brush.
It sounds simple, but the effort feels monumental.
Still, he’s waiting downstairs.
Pushing myself off the bed requires more willpower than I possess.In the well-stocked bathroom, I find the brush exactly where he said it would be.The shower, blessedly hot, washes away the lingering grime of Hydra and the tremors in my bones.The steam eases the pounding in my head.
Toweling off, I avoid the mirror.The olive-green sweater dress on the chair sends a sharp pang through me.It’s the armor I wore for a battle I lost spectacularly.
But it’s all I have.
Pulling it on feels strange.Different from the anonymous comfort of the tracksuit.This dress is me, back in my skin.Flawed and fragile, but here.
A few ruthless strokes with the brush tame the worst of the tangles, and I scrape my hair back into a simple ponytail, less severe than last night’s knot.
A final glance in the mirror shows I’m still pale.The bruises of sleeplessness lie dark beneath my eyes, but at least I look clean.
Taking a deep breath, one hand smoothing down the dress, I leave the quiet of the guest room and head towards the stairs.The descent feels less treacherous this time.My footsteps are quieter on the wood, my hand barely needing the banister.
Reaching the bottom, I glance toward the living area.It’s a comfortable space with deep couches and walls lined with books.Matthew is there, settled one a powder-grey sofa, long legs stretched out, ankle crossed over his knee.He’s bent over his phone, thumb scrolling absently.He looks relaxed.At home.
I hesitate, feeling like an intruder all over again.
A faint creak in the floorboards gives me away.He looks up.His scrolling thumb stills.The simplicity of it, him looking at me, waiting, sends a sudden flutter through my stomach.A warmth that makes me feel seen.
He takes me in, his gaze gentle.Pocketing his phone, he rises in one fluid motion.“Ready?”
I nod, managing a small, genuine smile.“Ready.”
The engine hums quietly as Matthew navigates down the tree-lined street.Sunlight streams through the windshield, warming my face, but the chill deep inside me lingers.I keep my eyes on the passing houses, breathing in the clean leather of the interior mixed with the faint, fresh scent of soap clinging to Matthew.I steal a glance at his profile.The slight furrow between his brows, the focus in his eyes, the way his hand rests easily on the wheel.
“So…” He breaks the quiet, keeping his attention on the road.“All good at the café?”
He definitely heard.
I continue looking out the window, feigning interest in a passing cyclist.“Yes,” I say, aiming for breezy.“All good.Helen’s got it covered.”
He merges into traffic.“Sounded a little tense.”
My fingers find the strap of my purse, tracing the worn leather edge.“Oh, you know Helen.”I attempt a light laugh that doesn’t quite land.“She can get overprotective.And overly curious.”
“Curious about you and James, I assume.”Matthew glances at me briefly.“I heard you mention him.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t like James.”My confession is a brittle thing.
