I step out of the elevator the second the doors open, desperate for the privacy of my room so I can safely fall apart. Let it all out.
I walk through the kitchen and head straight for my room.
“You’re not going to say anything?” Matt asks, finally breaking the silence.
I stop, my shoulders drooping as I turn slowly. “There’s nothing to say, Matt. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” My voice wobbles. “And that my family is… difficult.”
He scoffs. “Difficult? They weren’t difficult. They were cruel. Your grandmother crossed a line.”
I go into defense mode instantly. “I know my yiayiá can be harsh, but?—”
“Harsh?” he cuts me off. He’s not yelling, but his voice rises, just enough to get my attention. “Jordan, your yiayiá was a real bitch tonight.”
My jaw drops, tears springing to my eyes. I fold my arms across my chest, instinctively bracing for a fight.
He exhales hard and lifts a hand, already backing off. “I’m sorry.” He takes another breath, slower. “I shouldn’t have said itlike that.” He steps closer. “But I don’t care if she’s eighty or a hundred. She doesn’t get to treat you like that.”
His hand scoops behind my neck, thumb grazing my pulse point. “Not in front of me,” he says quietly. “No one does.”
I don’t dare look at him. Because I know exactly what I’ll find there.
Matt.
The Matt who saved me when everything went to hell.
The Matt who promised he’d always be here.
The Matt I fell in love with almost two decades ago.
The Matt I’m so desperately trying not to sleep with.
Possessive, burn-the-world-down-for-me Matt.
My Matt.
His other hand comes up, cupping my cheek. “Look at me,” he murmurs.
My chin tilts, and I grip his wrists, steadying myself against the current zipping between us. All the history. All the pain. All the love I know he feels but won’t ever say.
Yep.
There he is.
“You don’t have to fight my battles,” I say quietly.
“I know.” His expression stays soft and caring. “But someone has to.”
He gets even closer somehow, our foreheads almost touching, breath intertwined. His gaze flicks from my eyes to my lips, then back again. Almost like he’s asking permission.
It’s too much. Too many unnamed emotions. Too much gratitude. Too muchhim.
Anticipation swirls low in my stomach, begging me to give in. And I want to. God, I want to.
Letting him kiss me and take me to his room would be so much easier than pushing him away.
His lips press to my forehead, and I close my eyes.
His breath skims across my temples, warm and electric.
