Embers After Dark
Focus.
The city drummed with screams and chaos, rendering cries for help nothing but shots in the dark.
Focus.
Your eyes burned, wet with blurry tears that could have any number of causes - the residual grip of ash and smoke, the aches and sharper stings of pain throughout your body, or the sting of Jessica's departure from your life, once and for all.
Focus.
You clenched your jaw and followed the cop car in front of you through a left turn, even as another agonizing grind of torn flesh shot hot torture through your leg. Luckily, your helmet was darkly tinted enough so that no one could see your mask, nor could anyone see the tormented grimace that flashed across your gaze.
It took you no time at all to reach the warehouse. You'd seen the chaos of it all from a distance - the crowds, the cops, the cameras, lights flashing, and people caught up in the shock of the circumstances.
The cop car you were tailing pulled into the scene as you pulled off and away from it to circle around.
No links needed, no attention, no eyes.
Here for Matt.
Can't risk anything.
The warehouse was old and abandoned. Boarded windows, crumbling brick, turned from deep brown to dusty gray in the darkness.
One win, though, was that you knew this warehouse. In spite of the heaviness of the moment, you nearly chuckled to yourself.
What are the odds?
Way back, during one of your first field missions, you had to map out this very building - each floor, its entrances and exits, the works. You were assigned to help stake out some suspected dealers and traffickers who the Bureau thought were doing their dirty work there; it was pretty surveillance based, and at the time, you found it quite tedious and boring.
But you learned this place like the back of your hand.
You also learned how to get inside without anyone seeing you.
The bike roared as you drove off onto a side street just a block behind the warehouse. This road was quiet, almost serene in the darkness, dried puddles in the pavement now pockets of dust, swirling in the cold air. You pulled into an alley, praying that you got the right one, and parked behind another dumpster.
Okay.
I have a way to get to him.
Now to get off the bike.
Kicking off the safety, you put your weight on your right foot. The simple twist of your body grated through the slit in your leg, and you winced, biting down on your lip to keep yourself from crying out. The helmet came off easily, and you hung it on a handlebar, taking a moment to fix your slightly shifted mask.
Pulling your hands back down, you caught a glimpse of them and gasped. Each fingertip was smeared with sticky blood. Some streaks had dried, but some remained wet and glistening from where you'd pressed against your gash. Your gaze trailed down your chest to where your attacker's blood had splattered over your shirt. Looking lower, various streaks littered your thighs - and your worst injury, that slice through your left thigh, shone a jagged line of deep wine red under the flickering, stark shine of the few streetlights around you.
In your slight surprise at all this blood, your breath hitched. That hitch tickled something in your still-dry throat, and you started to cough, feeling the need to hack as if smoke and ash still filled every crevice of your lungs. It took a minute for you to catch your breath, and you clutched at your chest with a wheeze, feeling that nausea, that dizzy, dehydrated feeling rise back up within you.
Fuck.
This is not good.
But no matter.
You set your jaw and forced yourself to get off the bike on a mental count of three. You gripped the handlebars, clenched the muscles in your core and your right leg, and on three, you lifted with a gritty flex of fatigued muscle. The pain was searing as you moved your left leg up and over the bike, working a muscle that desperately needed to be stitched together and allowed to rest - and to be seriously cleaned first. Your nose twitched, and you felt a burn climb up your throat, biting your tongue as you worked to stifle your pain.
This is hardly the worst you've suffered.
Get your shit together.
Here for Matt.
The alley wasn't wide, but it was long, extending back so far that you could barely make out the end of it in the shadows. Any shade of yellow or brown of the brick around you just seemed black and blue, painted into darkness by way of the night. You scoured the ground and, right near the back corner of the alley, you spotted it.
A manhole cover.
The manhole cover.
During that first mission, you and your team discovered connecting tunnels between that warehouse and other underground spaces - the subway, the sewer, and smaller maintenance tunnels that led to various exits and other buildings in the area. This was one of those exits. You'd been assigned to keep information on the route from the warehouse to this manhole, keeping tabs and reviews on any suspicious activity you caught around it or, during field missions, within it.
It was a mission from years ago, but you were certain you remembered the route.
Well.
Pretty certain.
In any case, it was your best bet.
You clenched your jaw and strode over to the manhole cover. Biting into your cheek was all you could do to stop yourself from groaning as you lowered into a squat, working to balance as much of your weight as you could onto your right side. A rusted, rod-looking handlebar rose up and over the cover, and you wrapped your hands around it, gripping onto the metal and pulling upward. After a few tugs, you got the cover off with one last yank and a low grunt, casting it to the side.
Beneath you was almost a black hole, dust swirling and whirling into darkness past the low light of the outside. The limited, broken glow extending from streetlights cast eerie shadows down the long ladder before you - your path into the underground.
To save Matt.
Something in your tired lungs twitched, your gut twisting at the thought of Matt trapped, injured - imprisoned by both the cops and his own battered body, with no escape but surrender and inevitable punishment.
God, I hope he’s okay.
You took a sharp breath through your nose and swung around to place your feet on one of the rungs. After lowering them down by one rung, then two, you set your hands on the top rung and began your descent. Each step somehow seemed easier on your hurt leg, and you got to a point where it was no longer the pain that bothered you but the weakness in the muscle, the tickle in your lungs, the pounding throb of your head, your back, your heart.
Maybe it's just the adrenaline.
About halfway down the ladder, you glanced up, catching a faint glimpse of the sky, starlight eclipsed by the sullen gray of insistent clouds. Still, it was brighter than the tight space around you, a tunnel upward and downward, small enough that you'd touch the greasy sides of it just by sticking each of your elbows out. You looked down and caught the slightest hint of dim emergency lighting beneath you.
You were close.
After another minute of climbing, the tight tunnel you were shimmying through extended into the expanse of a wall laden with thick concrete slabs. You settled your breath and let your eyes adjust to the light, dim and dusty as it was.
A few more rungs, and you set your feet onto solid ground once more. Gravel crunched beneath your boots, and you stood there momentarily to catch your breath. The air was damp, stale - smelling of wet wood, rained-on concrete, and hints of sulfur.
You had to find Matt - but what would you say to him once you did?
"I'm sorry I missed your calls - work kept me late, my ex-friend threw me into a wall in a fit of rage, and a mobster tried to trap and kill me in a burning building."
Yeah, no.
A shiver passed through you. It wasn't work or Jessica, nor was it your scuffle with the assassin that had really been impeding your contact with Matt.
Well, to a certain extent, it was those things - but there were deeper issues at play.
As you began to trudge down the dark path before you, you considered your feelings.
He said he trusts me.
He doesn't know me.
Once he knows me, he'll know I'm not worth trusting.
Jessica learned more about me than she should have, and now she's gone - and she barely scratched the surface.
It would only be a matter of time before he goes, too.
You shifted your jaw, reaching the end of this hallway and turning a sharp left. The pain in your leg was returning, aching throbs seeming to match your pulse. You pushed it down and focused your eyes ahead of you. Stopping wasn't an option now.
The arched ceilings were decently high, and the brick in the space seemed to take on a gray-yellow hue, splintered shadows dancing across the floor from where the lights above you flickered. Moments of that early mission filtered across your memory - the boots you wore, the scuff-free shine of your badge, the bright flashlight you kept tucked in your utility belt.
And above all, that damp sulfur scent was the same.
As you continued, working to keep your pace steady, you recalled the care Matt had shown you in the comfortable dark of his apartment. The kindness in his low voice, the focused light of his soft smiles, his thumb's slow drag across the back of your hand - it all made him a symbol of calm in the face of the storm that was your fear.
He cared.
You shook your head, scoffing at yourself through a still-dry throat.
This is why this thing was a mistake from the start.
Not for my sake - of course not.
For his.
For all you knew, though, it could have been a front. But, deep inside, you knew Matt's care was genuine. You knew he was authentic in his consideration, even in how he simply seemed to enjoy your company.
Dangerously, it made you feel safe - safe in ways few people could make you feel.
And is that the problem?
Was it your main worry that he would get hurt - or that you would?
There were so many people you'd given a great deal of your love to, only to have your giving heart ripped from your chest by their cold, unfeeling claws. Narrative after narrative had been pushed into your head, deconstructing even your kindness to a point where you sometimes wondered if you still carried a soul. It was all you could do now to try and shove those narratives away, forge your own path, and write your own story instead of letting others steal the pen from your battered grasp.
And giving yourself a chance to care about Matt, to be cared about by Matt - it felt like a death wish, claustrophobic and inviting of destruction.
You could see the ending from a mile away - a classic story of misplaced trust written in indelible ink in your past, many times over. Matt would trust you enough to learn who you really are, and you'd let him. You'd show him all of you - the good, the bad, the parts of you that had never known darkness, and the parts that never saw the light.
And, once he knew what you truly were, he'd leave.
Matt claimed, he claimed that he understood, and you thought he did, to an extent - but there were things you'd witnessed, things you'd been part of, that you could hardly bring yourself to understand.
But - fuck, you told him that the two of you could be the exception to the goddamn rule!
Whether that was a moment of weakness or a moment of strength, you couldn't decide. In any case, though - this was a risk.
No unnecessary risks.
Fuck.
Maybe this is for my sake.
Self-preservation at its fucking finest.
This twist of emotion through your ironclad heart was getting to you. That sense of safety, the comfortable peace in the way he just got parts of who you were without you even having to explain - not to mention how easily he could shift between heat and rage and concern and still, still have such a layer of fucking kindness beneath it all?
God, it was addictive.
Sparks pricked at the base of your throat as you turned another corner. This stretch of hallway was a bit thinner than before, and large hanging lights flickered above you, casting shadows along walls that were now closer to maroon.
Either way, you're being selfish.
Selfish for wanting to let him in.
Selfish for wanting to push him away.
And, either way, you didn't know which choice was the right one. Indecision could sometimes rock your mind, what with your ability to choose having been stripped from you so many times over, and although you made plenty of decisions - you could have trouble trusting your own judgment.
Matt might be a help, but he could also be a liability - or simply another loss.
But still - you couldn't get him out of your head, couldn't ignore the pull he had, the grip he seemed to hold on you even after having known you for such little time.
You reached the end of the maroon hallway and faltered.
Right or left?
With a grit of your teeth, you closed your eyes, stepped forward - and turned right.
Better have been the right choice.
This hallway's walls spread flat into stained concrete, streaks of brown and greenish sludge stretching up from the ground. Those emergency lights were still ever-dim, few and far between here. If you weren't careful, your footsteps would echo on the concrete floor, sound splaying across its watery sheen, that layer of dampness extending over the walls and into the thick air.
Your injured leg had begun a steady, aching throb after all the use it was getting in your trek through the underground. Your lungs didn't burn, but they still felt dry, fragile, tired - and the stale, heavy air here wasn't helping.
Nor were the tears you fought to contain.
If Matt was going to stay close and, God forbid, get closer - he'd have to be able to take you as you are.
Light and dark alike, in full view, with complete acceptance.
Big ask for such a complicated man.
And, God, as long as he gets out of this okay.
You shivered, clenching your jaw and pressing your lips together, tasting the salt of sweat and tears on your tongue.
Focus.
You’ll get to him, and he will be alright.
Always is.
From there, you can figure out what he’s thinking - how he really feels about you.
But a man like that, with all he does, all he has on his plate - wouldn't he know better than to trust a woman like you?
You didn't understand it.
People never just trusted you.
There was always a caveat, always some need for control over you - never an acceptance that maybe, just maybe, your decisions had merit on their own. From beatings to gunshots to the slice of metal through skin, the stab of hateful words through wasted ears, trust was never freely given to you. It was earned, and time and time again, you'd never seemed to be enough for it.
And how could he, after such a short time, after barely scratching the surface of who I am - how could he think I'm enough?
You set your jaw as you neared the next turn.
If Matt wants to trust me, he has to take me for all that I am.
And, either he'll leave, or-
Or he'll stay.
You gulped at that last thought, not fully knowing how to process it.
Either way, it'll be settled.
This section of the tunnel curved off to the right. As you followed the curve, the arched ceilings sloped down into the walls, connecting in a sleek mesh of stained and soaking concrete. Two stretches of pipe ran along the upper right side of the arch, reaching off into the long expanse of the tunnel. The limited glow of light from above was a deep gold, shining a dark hue of yellow onto the walls in some sections, while in between the lights, the walls remained in relative shadow. The ground, slick as it was, shifted between shadowed black and a slightly lighter brown, and the sulfuric, damp air felt heavy through your clothes. Your hair, loose and lined with sweat and ash, felt grimy, as did your skin where it met the air. Lips parted beneath your mask, you prayed that the oxygen you sucked in was relatively clean.
Turning with the path before you as you walked, you could see further down the tunnel - and caught a glimpse of a shadow, the shadow of a steady stalk forward.
Your breath caught.
The faint echo of boots on slick concrete quickly matched that shadow as it continued in strong strides along the wall - far down the tunnel from you, but you could still make it out. You eyed the hall ahead of you carefully, your steps slowing to a halt.
Matt.
Emerging from the curve of the tunnel, the Man in Black kept on his forceful strut - before faltering, slowing, stopping, when he seemed to realize that a particular masked woman stood, weakened and beaten, at the other end of his path.
A trickle of warmth flitted through your chest.
He's okay.
You noticed that his black suit was spattered with splashes of soot, ash and dust seeming to litter his clothes just as they did yours.
What happened to him?
Matt's lips parted, and you were sure his brows had raised beneath the mask.
You breathed, the two of you frozen for a moment.
He started up again, his lips contorting into a frown as he charged toward you, all fiery concern.
"Selena-"
"Stop."
Matt slowed, paused, and froze once more, confusion drawing over his lips.
"I-" you fought to find the words, searched your smoke-riddled mind for what to say. You kept your voice low and wary in case sound traveled further than was safe in these tunnels. "I'm sorry I missed your calls. Work kept me late. I tried to get out of it, but I- I couldn't."
Matt's shoulders rose and fell in less a shrug, more a simple sigh. "That's okay," he insisted breathily, his voice just as low. "I'm just glad you're alright." His mouth tipped into the beginnings of a frown, and a pause fell over the two of you.
"I'm glad you're okay, too." You opened your mouth to speak but struggled to find the right words. "But- but we need to talk about this."
His brows twitched beneath the mask. "About what?"
You weren't sure how to proceed with this conversation, but it was one you had to have.
Just rip the band-aid off.
"I just don't think I understand you as much as I thought I did."
Matt tilted his head, his upper lip curling slightly in confusion. "What," he breathed, "What do you mean?"
You sighed. "You said you trust me, Matt."
He nodded. You clenched your jaw.
"Why would you say that?"
Matt's lips quirked upward. His voice, though carrying a light lilt, was softly certain, and he took a slow step closer. "Because it's the truth."
"It shouldn't be," you insisted, stepping back. Matt halted once more, giving you the space that your body language requested. Part of you wanted to run, wanted him to stay where he was and not dare come any closer - while another part, clawing at its intricate chains, wished his arms were already wrapped around you. "It shouldn't be. You don't know me-"
"I want to." His voice was calm, insistent, decided. You huffed a sigh.
"You shouldn't want to."
Matt shook his head, licking his lower lip. "Trust me, Selena," he insisted, a few feet away from you but much closer than he'd been. "I've made worse decisions than choosing to get to know a woman better."
You wanted to laugh, but it didn't seem to work. "Maybe up until right now."
"Selena-"
"I've done things, Matt," you started, fighting off a tremor at the base of your voice. "I've done some pretty bad things. Some had a good purpose, but some - I don't even know where to begin describing them to myself, let alone to you."
You didn't want to tell him everything - God, it was way too soon for anything like that - but you had to explain. Matt had to know the mistake he was making. Or, at the very least, he had to be aware of what he was getting himself into - both eyes open, lungs ready to be plunged beneath unforgiving waves, aware that they may not resurface.
He waited as you found your next words.
"I have been used, and I have been the one to do the using. People have taken advantage of me to such an extent that I hardly know what I actually believe in sometimes - and I've turned that around to do the same thing to people I care about." Your eyes shut briefly, and you felt once more the heartache of Jessica's final words to you.
You won't be hearing from me again.
"I just-" you started, a thrum in your chest pushing air from your lungs, pressing heat against your eyes. "I am trying to warn you, Matt. You shouldn't be trusting someone like me."
Matt considered you for a moment, and you knew he must have some idea of what you'd faced tonight, but he knew this wasn't the moment to discuss it.
He twisted his lips and tipped his head back to face you straight-on before dipping it a touch lower, working to imbue all possible sincerity into you through both his body language and his words.
"Can I say something?" he asked earnestly, the question quiet, patient, sure.
After a beat, after a chain of anxious tension strung itself along the back of your neck, you gave a slow nod yes.
The muscles in Matt's jaw flickered, and - after a deep, considering breath - he began to speak.
"Maybe I don't know you well, but I do know how to read people. Sensing beyond the surface is kind of my whole thing," he joked, though it didn't erase any of the burgeoning sincerity in his voice. "And, no matter what you think makes you unworthy of my trust, whatever you might have done in your past - you're human, Selena. So am I."
You blinked, twisting your lips, wishing you could have avoided this conversation - but wanting to know what he meant all the same. "And?"
"We do things we regret. It's like a core part of what it means to be human." Matt paused once more, stepping closer.
You didn't step back this time.
"But the regret," he continued, his voice husky, genuine, soft. "The regret is what gives us our humanity. It shows us that, even when we make mistakes, we still have goodness somewhere inside. And from the surface and beneath it," Matt breathed, one of his hands twitching up before settling back at his side, "I read so much good in you."
You tilted your head to the side and felt a sheen of glaring slickness line itself along the edges of your eyes. The air felt all too stale and yet all too damp, poking at your gaze.
That's what it is.
Yeah.
The air.
Matt stepped forward once more but paused. Something in him shifted. His lips curled, and he rushed right up to you, one hand flying to your shoulder, the other to your left hip.
"God, Selena, you're really hurt-"
You shook your head. "I'm fine, Matt," you began. You tried to add the word "really" to the end of that sentence, but a tickle at the back of your throat turned the word into a hacking cough. You turned your head to the side, and Matt dragged his thumbs back and forth against you where they gripped, letting you cough and collect yourself. Once you steadied your breathing, his fingers dug into you - gently, but with no lack of force - and he turned you back to face him fully. The coughing spell drew back dizziness within you, and that nausea spawned by smoke, exhaustion, and the smell of so much blood rippled briefly through your stomach.
"No," Matt insisted, the tone of his voice deeply commanding. "You're not."
You tried and failed to shift backward and away from his worrying grip, and if your grimace at the sharp pain of the twist didn't give you away, nothing else would have.
But Matt was Matt. He could see beyond what pain simply looked like.
"Selena," Matt hummed, though it came out as more of a poorly constrained hiss. "Who did this to you?"
You sighed, clenching your jaw. "I think it was one of Fisk's goons. Must have been. My friend's office was blown to pieces in the blast, and what was left of it was - well, on fire. I got her out, but this guy trapped me for a while." Matt pursed his lips, unsatisfied. You sighed. "And I did get into a bit of a fight with the friend. But it really was mostly the guy."
As you spoke, Matt's hand on your hip slid up and around to your back, his gloves trailing slowly up your spine as if tracing the damage from the blows you'd taken.
"I do know you can handle yourself," Matt spoke, carefully concerned, "so, no offense, but he fucked you up."
You shook out a light laugh as Matt's careful touch tracked up the back of your neck, his fingertips cradling the base of your skull and sending shivers through you. "You should see him. Won't be trying me again, that's for sure."
Matt chuckled, though it was twinged with something dark as his head tilted down, as if to get a better sense of your injuries. "Believe me," he insisted, the words laden with threat. "I'd like to do a lot more to the bastard than just see him."
Your smile flickered into something different - something resigned to parted lips and bashful waves of blush in the face of Matt's protective admission.
His care.
His care for me.
The moment faded quickly, though. This conversation wasn't over.
"Matt," you began again. His attention focused back up from your sliced leg to your face, though he let his probing hand rest against the back of your neck. Its presence was both dizzying and steadying for you.
"If you want to trust me," you continued, eyeing him with cutting solemnity, "you need to be able to take me for all that I am. At all times. No exceptions."
Matt pursed his lips and relaxed them, letting them part. He nodded. "I can do that. I want to do that."
You clenched your jaw, trying to stifle the warmth his words had spurned in your core. With an unsteady breath, you lifted your hands to the back of your neck. They brushed over his careful fingertips and landed at the knot at the back of your mask. You settled yourself and, with deft pulls and twists of fabric, untied it. Matt's hand stilled against you as he observed your movements, his breaths slow and natural, close enough that you could feel their warmth across your skin in the cool of the tunnel's heavy air.
"If you want to know me, Matt," you started, pulling the mask out and away from your face, "here I am. All of me, light and dark." You let your hands fall back to your sides, the mask in one of them - your face entirely bare in front of the Devil, every inch of your once-concealed skin now on full display, even though, as of this moment, it was the Nightingale his hands were on.
Matt sucked in a breath, the meaning behind this seemingly insignificant action hitting him.
"This goes deeper than a mask. I've done things in both lives that I can't get away from. Those two sides - they can't be split. They're both equally, unequivocally me." You paused. "I want you to know that I won't blame you if you realize this is too much. But, in any case, you need to know what you're getting yourself into."
Matt shifted his jaw, considering you for a moment. "Okay."
You felt his hands release you, and something cold split through your chest as his touch moved off your body.
Oh- okay.
That was… well.
That was quicker than I thought.
You clenched your jaw, ready to turn and walk away from Matt, from this night, from everything-
-until Matt's leather-clad hands reached down to yours, his fingers twining them into a soft, sure grip.
Oh.
You stood there, still and silent, as Matt lifted your hands. His hands wrapped around the backs of yours, guiding them gently up. Your shallow breath hitched as he placed your fingertips against the base of his jaw, that dark stubble rubbing roughly on the stitching of your gloves. Slowly, cautiously, he dragged your hands up his face, over the softer skin beneath his cheekbones, before your touch collided with the black fabric of his mask.
Matt stepped closer to you as his grasp on your hands shifted once more, and he guided your thumbs up and under the fabric while keeping the rest of your fingers overtop. Gradually, gently, with the only sound in the tunnel the soft cadence of your breaths, Matt moved your hands up further, the mask - hooked by your thumbs - moving up with them.
With his hands and yours, he was removing that last barrier - that line of cloth that separated night from day. Apart, they were so unalike, but neither side could exist in full without the other.
There is no night without the day - and no day without the night.
Your eyes caught on the tip of Matt's nose before tracking to the skin on either side as the two of you pulled his mask away together. He paused for a split second, drawing a breath, before moving your hands over the bridge of his nose, the line of his brows, across his forehead until finally - finally - the mask was off.
Your breath caught.
Matt's hands still held to yours, and he moved them down through his hair. It was slightly ruffled, waves of dark chocolate sitting messily where they'd been pressed beneath the fabric, reaching just over the tips of his ears and laying in scattered locks across his forehead. A part of you cracked and softened as your eyes traced over Matt’s fresh bruising, scrapes of red dancing over the skin around his eyes and mouth. It felt as if a heartstring strummed through your chest, vibrating new moisture up over your eyes as you took in Matt’s pain.
Yeah, sure, he’s okay - but with heightened senses, this must kill.
Your gloved nails trailed over his scalp, and he blinked a few times, letting out a long breath where your fingers thoughtlessly tangled in his hair on their slow drag down. He moved your hands to the base of his neck before letting go of you. You left your hands where they were, feeling the warmth of his skin even through your gloves.
What really caught your attention, though, were his eyes.
His eyes.
You'd never really seen Matt's eyes before. They were always obscured, whether by this mask or those red-lensed glasses.
And here, under dim lighting and gold-twinged shadows, you drank in every detail you could get.
Matt's sightless gaze seemed to be searching your reactions, lines at the edges of his eyes coming in and out of focus as they shifted over your face. They were a deep, warm brown, honeyed and vivid, with dark lashes lining each eye in a subtle frame of black and delicately-frayed thread. His brows knit together and apart over and over before relaxing, his focus settling.
"Selena," Matt spoke, his soft voice low with certainty and gritty with warmth. "You keep saying I don't really know you, and maybe you're right - but I think we both know that some parts of you and I are too similar to ignore."
Your lips were parted, air softly floating in and out over them as you - against your better judgment - found yourself hanging on Matt's words.
"This is all of me," he continued, "and- and I've decided I want you to know each part. Light and dark. You know, maybe you wouldn't trust me if you knew what I might be capable of," Matt paused, his hands floating once more upward. "But I've been left for less. I know how it feels - and I wouldn't dream of doing that to you."
He placed one hand at the curve between your shoulder and your neck, electing to let the fingertips of the other land at your chin. He ran his thumb over the lower part of your cheek, sliding his hand back to stretch over the line of your jaw. As if involuntarily, your head tilted up with the movement.
"Maybe you shouldn't trust me, and, hey, maybe I shouldn't trust you - but I don't care." You shivered as Matt tilted his head more toward yours - watched his tongue flick out over his lips, the subtle movements of his light, open eyes. "I want to know you anyway."
You let your tongue drag out over your own lips, trying to fight off the warmth, the heat, the comfort that had risen so high within you, buzzing over your skin, setting your chest alight, your core on fire.
Your fingers raked back into Matt's hair, dragging over his scalp and tangling in his dark locks. He clenched his jaw and shifted that hand against your shoulder, letting it trail tenderly over your skin and up the back of your neck.
Shivers glittered over your head and through your body as his fingertips wound into your hair. His other hand still cradled your jaw, each soft stroke of his thumb over your skin shooting lightning strikes of feeling through your nerves. You shuddered, still hanging by your pinky fingers onto your hardened ropes of resolve.
They were fraying fast.
"Could be a big risk for you, Matt,” you swallowed, unable to look at your injuries, at the low-glowing lights above, at the darkly stained cement - at anything but him.
Matt's drawl was warm with grit and sleek like syrup, his words doled out to you in no time - as if the response was so natural, so obvious to him, that it required no thought at all.
"It's one I'm willing to take."
Oh.
My.
God.
Beneath the dim, golden lighting, Matt's eyes were soft with awe and yet sharp with intent. The overhead glow cast shadows down his face, further defining his already-perfect bone structure, from cheekbones to jawline. He took a step closer, and that scent of cinnamon and vanilla and traces of incense filled your nose, casting away sulfur and stale air. Your eyes nearly fluttered.
And the warmth of him, the heat - it cradled itself around you in an aura of comfort, of buzzing intensity, stretching from the hard lines and peaks of his body to the gentle grasp of his fingertips in your hair and against your jaw.
Your eyes fell, then, to Matt's lips.
His lips.
Pink and perfect, soft and perfectly parted. Matt's tongue darted out over them again, and they quirked up slightly as if they knew you were staring.
And - yeah. You were staring.
But you couldn't look away.
You felt your head tilt up, and Matt's hands slid over your skin with the movement, both of them now cradling either side of your jaw, his fingertips extending down onto your neck. You shifted closer, leaning on your right leg, and your hip brushed against his, the touch both innocent and so far from it.
Matt dipped his head closer to yours, so close that if he tilted it any further, your foreheads would touch. Shit, if either of you turned your heads to the side at all, your noses would brush one another.
The two of you were breathing lightly, heavily, cyclically, caught on hitches of heat and sweat and resistance and- and-
Temptation.
That's the word for it.
You clenched your jaw, feeling swirls of tightly coiled want wind up through your core, stretching into your mind to pierce at the last shreds of your reasoned resolve.
You- you wanted this.
No.
You needed this.
Matt's hands tugged you closer, and you leaned in further, parts of your mind that you'd locked away now screaming to the surface - dreams you wanted to make real, touch you wished to give and receive, heights you hoped to reach by way of him and only him.
You felt his muscles jump beneath your fingertips as you lifted your jaw up a touch more, and your eyes fluttered as you took in the heat of him, imagining how his lips would taste against yours. You shifted, moving to take just one more step to finally, finally close the distance-
"Fuck!" you cried out, hopping your weight back onto your right foot before you stumbled. Matt's hands flew to your shoulders, his vise-like grip making sure you didn't fall. The sharp pain from your gash screamed out in throbs through your leg, and you groaned, snapping to reality with a pained shut of your eyes.
Stupid.
Stupid move.
Stupid leg.
Stupid goon.
Matt let out a somewhat shaky but decided breath, setting his jaw. "We've got to get you out of here." His hands relaxed and slid down your arms, and you nodded.
"Yeah," you murmured, the rosy haze of the moment fading fast, though some of it still lingered. Matt's lips curved up to the side in a hint of a lopsided, lazy grin. You felt your lips do the same.
Okay.
Seems like, whatever happens-
I'm not getting rid of him.
And, to rephrase:
He really, really doesn't want me to.
Matt's eyes glimmered at you in the darkness. In a swift movement, keeping your weight on your right fucking side, you slid your arms up and around Matt's neck, pulling him close. He moved with you, sliding his hands gently over your waist to wind solid, warm arms around your torso. Your cheek slid over his stubbled skin as he leaned into you, dragging you against him, his warmth devouring your cold.
Matt gripped you with heady resolve, holding you so much tighter than you'd realized you needed to be held. In response, you stretched your arms further around him, splaying fingertips over the layered muscle between his shoulder blades. He sighed, the sound of it buzzing past your ear as his chest rose and fell, pressing into yours.
"Thank you, Selena," Matt murmured. "For your help, for your stitches - for giving me the chance to know you."
You drew in a shaky breath.
He wants to know me.
So…
I might as well give him another piece of the puzzle.
"Matt," you whispered, turning your head to the side so your voice would rush right into his ear - so that, even without his advanced hearing, there'd be no way he could miss what you were about to tell him.
In a tone feathery soft, lilted with both lingering apprehension and determined acceptance that yes, it's time - you whispered your name to him.
Your real name.
"That's me, Matt. That’s my name."
A pause fell over your both, and Matt’s hands stilled against you.
Deep breaths.
You’re okay.
This is right.
Matt pulled back from you carefully, his hands rising up to cradle your jaw. Wonder streaked his eyes as he dragged his thumbs softly over each side of your face. You shuddered under his touch, under the weight of your dangerous admission, but that glimmering shine of interest, care, and awe in his gaze drew light heat through your chest, settling any wariness you might have felt.
Matt's mouth broke into a gentle smile as he said your name. Tasting each vowel, each consonant, he said it as if it was that of a legend, of a saint - of an angel, shining in glory and deserving of every last piece of reverence.
That soft smile hit a grin, and, with a breath, he broke the tension.
"Well, it's nice to officially meet you."
You laughed, dipping your head. Matt gently pulled it back up to face his once more, and you smiled, your voice soft.
"Nice to meet you, too."
Matt's grin shone through the shadows just as a blush crept over your skin. He dipped his head to touch his forehead to yours, hands rising back into your hair. You let your eyes close, drinking in the feeling of his skin, his certain heat melting your icy indecision until it dripped from you, fading faster by the second. Cradling your head against his, Matt sighed your name with just as much reverence as before - savoring its new, sweet tang over his tongue as if he couldn't get enough.
"Let's get you home."