Page 48 of The Official Problem
In theory, it was a solid plan. He’d talk to Matthieu and end things in a way that wouldn’t hurt either of them. Kieran refused to let himself be the coward Matthieu had been when he’d ghosted him out of the blue back in college. In practice? Kieran knew he’d probably take the easy way out.
Matthieu would text, looking for a hookup, and Kieran would say he was busy. Maybe he wouldn’t respond at all. Maybe he’d block Matthieu’s number. Maybe he’d change his own.
Kieran hit the bed and exhaled as he curled into fresh sheets. He was grateful his housekeeper had stopped by while he was gone because these sheets had smelled of Matthieu when he’d left. Kieran knew it had been stupid to let him come here. Honestly, he’d expected Matthieu to shoot him down when he’d offered, like Matthieu had done before. To his surprise, Matthieu had shrugged and said, “Yes.”
Now his home was tarnished with little impressions of everywhere Matthieu had been, echoes of the sounds he’d made as he came apart. Kieran swore Matthieu’s phantom touch wrapped around him instead of the crisp cotton sheets. He’d have to move. That much, he knew.
At some point, Kieran must have dozed off, because loud pounding on his front door jolted him awake. He checked his phone—11:37 p.m.—no missed calls, no texts. For a moment, Kieran thought he’d imagined it, just part of a dream, but then the hammering came again. Kieran groaned and pushed himself upright. He was still partially dressed in the suit from the plane,the fabric so spectacularly wrinkled it would need to be dry-cleaned.
Very few people had this address. Just Cole, who was back in Chicago. Ivan, who was no doubt getting reacquainted with his husband. And Matthieu—who was standing on Kieran’s threshold, looking like the world had ended. His dark hair stuck out at wild angles, like he’d been yanking at it. His lips were bitten raw. His eyes were completely bloodshot. He stepped forward and stumbled straight into Kieran’s arms.
Kieran pulled him close, and Matthieu buried his face in Kieran’s neck. He held him tightly, and that was all it took—Matthieu’s brittle edges snapped. He came apart with a sob, ripped from his chest like an earthquake, sending tremors through Kieran’s arms as he tried to hold him together.
Somehow, Kieran wrestled him inside and got the door shut. They sank to the floor, Kieran with his back against the wall and Matthieu cradled in his lap like an overgrown infant. All he could do was hold him tightly, run his fingers through tangled hair, whisper reassurances into his hairline, place soft, soothing kisses to his forehead. Kieran didn’t know what had driven Matthieu to his doorstep like this, but in that moment, he would’ve done anything to take the pain away.
Nearly thirty minutes passed before Matthieu’s breathing steadied. He gripped Kieran’s arms tightly, nuzzling his face into the now-drenched dress shirt. He tilted his face up to kiss Kieran’s chin, then the corner of his mouth. Kieran let him, foolishly, despite being so sure he wouldn’t allow this again.
“Will you fuck me?” Matthieu whispered against his lips.
Kieran pulled back, searching Matthieu’s face. The fact that Matthieu was even asking was a clear sign of his mental state. His eyes were puffy from crying, skin pale, nose red—yet still, heartbreakingly, the most handsome man Kieran had ever seen.
Kieran brushed his thumb over Matthieu’s cheek, wiping away the last of his tears. Matthieu leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—not tonight.”
It had nothing to do with Kieran’s earlier promise to end things and everything to do with the broken man in front of him. If he took Matthieu to bed like this, he’d never forgive himself. Things were too raw, Matthieu too fractured.
“I can’t be alone.”
“Then don’t be.” Kieran gently pushed Matthieu back, enough to stand, then pulled him into his chest. “Come with me. We’ll get some sleep and face it all in the morning.”
Matthieu followed Kieran upstairs without protest. He let Kieran undress him—slowly, carefully, platonically. Then he crawled beneath Kieran’s sheets, snuggling into his pillow. He let out a long sigh of relief as he breathed in Kieran’s scent.
Kieran headed to the bathroom to wash his face and remove his suit. He stared at himself in the mirror and gave his reflection a long, stern talking-to. He would not make a move on Matthieu. He would not pull him into his chest. He would not wrap him back up in his arms. He would absolutely not fall asleep thinking about how right it felt to have Matthieu in his bed again.
There was still plenty of opportunity for Kieran to do what he had planned. Tonight hadn’t been the night. But in the morning, if Matthieu was back to his typical cold, assured self, he could end things face-to-face, like a man.
By the time Kieran got back to his room, Matthieu was asleep, soft little sleep noises slipping from his lips onto the pillow. Kieran fought it for all of five seconds before pulling Matthieu against his chest and wrapping an arm around him. He fell asleep thinking about how, for the first time since he’d moved to New Jersey, the house felt like home.
He was so fucked.
Morning came too quickly for Kieran’s liking. His bed was cozy, his sheets carried a clean, familiar scent, and a warm body pressed into his side. He blinked the sleep away, letting his eyes adjust to the dim morning light filtering in through a small gap in the curtains. He tried to remember the details of the night before.
The brush of dark hair against his shoulder brought everything rushing back. Matthieu. Distressed and crying. How Kieran had held him in his arms. How he’d poured him into bed and curled around him, where he still lay sleeping.
Kieran allowed himself to gaze at him—to take in the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the softness of Matthieu’s lips surrounded by the coarseness of his beard. He should have felt stronger after a night’s rest. Instead, he felt an overwhelming determination to find out what had hurt Matthieu so badly and take that pain away.
Matthieu blinked awake, and Kieran suddenly realized he’d been lying there, simply staring at him—memorizing every pore on his face, committing the tranquility of the moment to memory, imagining a future where they woke up every morning tangled together like this. Matthieu didn’t seem to mind, judging by the softness in his expression. The need to kiss him was so strong that, before Kieran could stop himself, he leaned in and did. Matthieu parted his lips willingly.
For a long time, they lay there, limbs wrapped around one another, making out, neither doing anything to push things further. They were slow, unhurried. Each brush of their lips soft,each slide of their tongues patient. Kieran cradled Matthieu’s head in his palm, rubbing soft circles with his thumb at the base of his neck.
This was exactly how they should always exist together, Kieran thought. Until Matthieu came to his senses and pulled away, he decided he would allow himself this dream. He’d silence the scolding voice echoing in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Cole.
Eventually, Matthieu did pull back, though not to run. “Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes locked on Kieran’s. “I shouldn’t have shown up like that.”
“I’m glad you did.”
Matthieu closed his eyes again and turned his face into Kieran’s palm. He muttered something that sounded like “I should go” against the sensitive skin at his wrist. The soft breath at his pulse made Kieran hard instantly, but he twisted his hips away to avoid contact. If Matthieu wanted things to go there this morning, Kieran would let them. He would be powerless to stop it. He refused to let this moment of raw vulnerability turn into something it wasn’t.
“Stay a little longer?” he asked.
