I’m not okay. Because Owen knows. Owen read my book, and he knows.
“How did the book club go?” Mateo’s crossing the space between us, his presence solid and grounding.
“They readWildfire Summer. And loved it.“ The words come out shaky.
“That’s the book that’s everywhere?”
I nod, unable to meet his eyes. “I wrote it, Mateo. I’m Sienna Saguaro. I didn’t want anyone to know. It’s a thing. I can’t… they can’t find out, but they’re going to. And they spent an hour talking about how much the town in the book sounds like Sierra Rose.”
His jaw tightens with understanding. He doesn’t look surprised. Not the way someone should look when they find out their friend is a secret bestselling author.
“Did anyone say anything about you yet?”
“No. Not yet.” I sink onto the stool behind the counter. “But Owen figured it out. He read the whole book. He knows it’s me.”
Mateo’s hand settles on my arm, warm and steady. “What did he say?”
“Some vague insinuation I’ll be needing him. That it’s only a matter of time before everyone else figures it out too.” I look up at him. “What if he’s right?”
“Then we deal with it.” Mateo’s other hand comes up to my other shoulder, turning me to face him fully. “You’re not alone in this, Sadie. Whatever happens.”
We.
He saidwe.
The panic doesn’t disappear, but it shifts. Makes room for something else. Something that feels like solid ground.
“Are you done closing shop?” He asks quietly. I nod. “Let me walk you home.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He waits while I grab my keys and bag, checking that everything’s locked up. Then we step out into the November night, crisp with only the subtlest hint of warmth from earlier. He walks beside me to the stairs that lead to my apartment above the shop, close enough that our arms brush with every few steps.
I don’t move away to create space like I used to with Owen. With Owen, I was always making myself smaller, taking up less room. Being less.
With Mateo, I can just be.
“You doing okay,tesoro?“ he asks quietly.
I nod, even though we both know it’s only partially true. We climb the stairs, I unlock the door, and he follows me inside, closing it behind him with a quiet click.
My apartment is small—just a living room that flows into a kitchen, a bedroom, and a bathroom. But it’s mine. The first place that’s ever felt truly mine.
I set my bag on the counter and fill two glasses of water, my hands shaking. When I turn, Mateo’s leaning against the counter, watching me with that steady gaze that always makes me feel seen in a way that’s both comforting and terrifying.
“How long have you been writing?” he asks quietly.
“Since I was a kid.” I hand him a glass. “But seriously? Publishing? About five years.”
“Around the time you moved here.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “Yeah. My family... they found some of my writing. They didn’t react well.”
“What did they say?”
I take a sip of water, buying myself time. “My mother called it pornography. Said I should be ashamed to put my name on something so degrading. That I was embarrassing the family. That no respectable woman writes that kind of filth.”
The words taste bitter even now.
