Page 82 of Matteo

“Same.” I can see how most people would look at Matteo and see tattoos, the leather, the messy hair, and attitude.

They make assumptions.

Just like people who look at me do.

He grins. “Guess you and I are just a pair of rebellious nerds.”

“Speak for yourself,” I retort.

But inside, I feel ridiculously elated. Thrilled that he’s here, that he’s not a drug addict, and that he’s come all the way to my apartment to check in on me. I look like a mess, but at least I’ve showered and brushed my teeth. Though I'm back in my pajamas, with my hair not combed, feeling self-conscious, hormonal and vulnerable.

This is not how I want Matteo to see me, but he's here now, uninvited and in my living room, and I'm secretly so happy to see him.

“You can sit down,” I say, walking into my tiny living room and sitting on a couch. I move closer to the end of it, and leave a big gap between us. But he grabs a chair from the kitchen instead, plopping it in the middle of the room before sitting on it.

It leaves me feeling super paranoid that I smell, and I try to take a few discreet sniffs of the air around me.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his brow lifting.

This man never misses a thing. “I'm ...I thought I was going to sneeze.” It’s the first thing that pops into my head.

“Need anything?” he asks. “A tissue? Anything I can get for you?”

That's so sweet. He's so sweet. He has two different sides to him, and this one is my favorite. I love Matteo being so considerate, and especially because I'm not used to the attention, I soak it up like a sponge that's been left out in the sun too long.

“I'm okay, thanks.” I clutch the hot water bottle to me, though it’s lukewarm now, and cover myself with the blanket.

“You sure?” His dark eyes assess me carefully.

“I'm sure. Thanks. I’m not dying.” I smile, because I’m all lit up from inside.

He stands up. “Let me refill your water bottle, at least.” He puts his hand out for it.

“You don't have to do th—”

“I came here to see if you were okay, it's the least I can do.” His hand is still outstretched, so I get up and hand him the water bottle, then follow him into my small kitchen, and watch him go about the task of refilling it.

It feels ... oddly comfortable. And so unbelievable that he's doing this for me, in my kitchen, like he's at home. I like it.

“Did you catch a cold from being in the server room?” he asks, putting the kettle on.

“Uh, no.” I hesitate. “It's not a cold.”

He glances my way, as he empties the water bottle. “No?”

“It's not contagious either.”

“I hope not.”

“Unless you have a pair of ovaries and we’re syncing our cycles.”

Confusion sweeps over his face for a few seconds, then. “Oh ...” His eyes fall to my stomach, then quickly back up again. “Oh. I. See.” He seems a little flustered, then peers at me. “Are you in pain?”

“I have cramps. I get them bad mostly every month.” Though having Matteo here has made me forget about them for now.

He opens his mouth because he doesn’t know what to say. Then, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”