I reach into the cupboard for two mugs.My hands are steady as I pour the steaming liquid, but my mind is miles away, filling each one to the brim without noticing.
“You made coffee.”
Matthew’s voice from the doorway makes me jump.Coffee sloshes over the rim, the hot liquid scalding my hand.It splashes across the pristine white countertop, runs down the sleek grey cabinet fronts, and drips onto the floor near my bare feet.Shaking my burnt fingers, I turn sharply and freeze mid-motion as I take him in.
Gone is the sweaty, shirtless man from the basement, consumed by rage.
Gone is the shattered, sobbing man in the shower, stripped bare by grief.
Gone is the tender, exhausted man who carried me to bed.
Standing before me now is Matthew Warren, Senior Counsel.
Immaculate in a perfectly tailored charcoal grey suit that fits his broad shoulders flawlessly.Crisp white shirt.Muted silver and black silk tie, expertly knotted.His dark hair is meticulously styled, combed back, showing only the faintest hint of lingering dampness at the roots.Jaw clean-shaven.Posture controlled, upright, radiating a cool, professional confidence.
The transformation is whiplash-inducing.
He’s rebuilt his walls, fortified his armor, with breathtaking speed.
I stare at him, the spilled coffee forgotten, searching this intimidating stranger for any trace of the broken man whose grief I held.Whose skin I touched.
Matthew takes in the scene at a glance: my startled expression, the spreading pool of coffee.His own expression shifts instantly, concern replacing the guarded distance.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, approaching me.“Are you alright?Show me—” He reaches for my hand.
“I’m fine,” I say curtly, turning away from him and grabbing the roll of paper towels.“Where did you put my clothes?I really need to change.”I tear off a sheet, but it rips unevenly, leaving a jagged edge.“Shit…” I mumble.
“They’re in the dryer,” he says, his voice neutral.“I was coming to take them out for you.”
“Here—” he starts to say, but I cut him off.
I crouch down and start wiping at the coffee on the floor, my movements quick and jerky.I can feel his gaze on me, but I refuse to meet his eyes.
“Amy…” he begins, his voice a low murmur.
I scrub at the floor with unnecessary force, the paper towel shredding in my hand.
“Hey, hey…” He crouches down beside me.His hand reaches out to cover mine, stopping my frantic movements.
I resist, trying to pull my hand away, but he holds on.His grip firm.
“It’s okay.Leave it.”He tugs gently, and I reluctantly let go of the soggy paper towel.
Before I can react, he reaches for me.His hands firm on my arms as he pulls me to my feet.He guides me gently, insistently, to the round wood table.He pulls out a chair and presses lightly on my shoulders.
“Sit, please.”His tone leaves no room for argument.
I sink into the chair, cradling my stinging hand in my lap, shame heating my cheeks.
Without another word, Matthew walks to the stainless steel sink, sidestepping the mess on the floor.He turns on the tap, wets a clean, dark grey dish towel, and wrings out the excess water with a sharp, decisive twist of his wrists.
He walks back to the table, the damp cloth held loosely in one hand.His professional mask is mostly back in place, smoothed over the exhaustion I can still see shadowing his eyes.
But as he looks down at my hand, I see it.
Just for a second.
A flicker of genuine concern softening the stern line of his mouth before it vanishes.
