Page 56 of The Official Problem
Kieran gripped the wheel and cleared his throat, fighting the surge of feeling clawing its way up. He wasn’t ready for the day to end, not when it finally seemed like the wall between them was crumbling, but one look at Matthieu told him it had to. Matthieu slouched in the passenger seat, both hands cupped around the Styrofoam cup. His shoulders sagged. His half-lidded, unfocused eyes held an exhaustion that went deeper than a few sleepless nights.
“Will you call me if you need anything?” Kieran asked, voice low and hoarse. It was all he could manage, better than what he wanted to say.Will you let me hold you again, all night?
Matthieu turned his head slowly, like the movement pained him, and met Kieran’s gaze. For a moment, Kieran swore something flickered behind Matthieu’s eyes, like he was about to say something important, something profound. He only nodded once and reached for the door handle.
“Thank you,” Matthieu murmured, the words worn from overuse.
“There’s nothing you need to thank me for.”
Matthieu paused, halfway out of the car, then turned back. “Do you want to come up for a bit?”
God, yes. Kieran wanted that more than anything. But not if it meant something it shouldn’t.
“Are you—yes,” Kieran started, then stopped. He shook his head like that might help him find the right words. “Before I say yes… I need to ask: are you inviting me because you want me there, or because you think you’re supposed to?”
Matthieu bristled.
“If you think you’re obligated to invite me up because we spent time together that didn’t involve sex,” Kieran said carefully, “and you feel like you need to fix that to keep to our arrangement… I need you to know it stopped being about that for me a long time ago.”
Panic flashed across Matthieu’s face, quick and sharp. Kieran was sure he’d bolt.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have…”
“I want you to come up,” Matthieu cut him off. “It has nothing to do with that.”
Well fuck, if that didn’t knock the wind out of him. Kieran swallowed hard, throat tight. “Okay,” he whispered. He looked away, trying to hide his smile. “Okay then.”
Matthieu stepped out of the car. Kieran followed and locked it behind them. He trailed Matthieu in silence up the staircase, the flickering hall lights casting an eerie glow over scuffed wallshe tried not to notice. Matthieu stopped outside a chipped apartment door, fumbling with his keys like he already regretted inviting Kieran up. He stalled at the lock so long that Kieran almost offered to leave.
“It’s not much,” Matthieu said finally. “The league pays well, but after Julie’s tuition and Mom…”
Kieran nodded, offering a look of understanding so Matthieu wouldn’t feel pressured to continue. He opened the door and stepped aside to let Kieran in.
The place was small, tired, and impersonal but otherwise fine. Sparse. No art on the walls, no throw pillows or rugs. Everything was neat and, as with most things Matthieu touched, impeccably clean. Not just tidy—scrubbed. Surfaces gleamed under dim overhead lighting. The couch was worn but vacuumed, a single blanket folded with precision over one arm—shoes lined up evenly by the door.
No clutter. No chaos. No excess. Everything in its place.
Kieran stood still, waiting for direction, a strange tightness tugging at his chest. It wasn’t pity—Matthieu wouldn’t allow that—but something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Or the slow realization of how much he didn’t know about Matthieu’s life. How much space had grown between their worlds.
Matthieu moved around him, set down his keys, and slipped his shoes into place by the door. It had the rhythm of quiet routine, practiced and solitary. As if Matthieu had lived alone so long he’d momentarily forgotten someone else was even there.
Kieran finally moved, stepping out of his shoes and lining them up by the door, so unlike the careless sprawl he allowed at home. He added his wallet and keys beside Matthieu’s on the counter. His presence felt loud in the quiet, carefully controlled space, like he didn’t belong in it, an impostor encroaching on Matthieu’s world.
Kieran closed his eyes for what felt like a second. When he opened them, Matthieu stood in front of him with a strange look on his face.
“I don’t need a lot,” he muttered. “I know this isn’t what you’re used to.”
“That’s not what I was thinking.”
“Okay.”
Matthieu pressed a hand to Kieran’s chest, curling his fingers into the fabric and tugging him closer in one swift move. His other hand slid to Kieran’s neck, fingers brushing the short hairs at the nape of his neck.
Kieran tilted his chin, searching Matthieu’s face, a silent question. Was this really what he wanted tonight? But Matthieu was already kissing him, soft and slow.
God, this kiss felt all wrong.
In the car, Matthieu had said he wasn’t inviting Kieran up out of obligation, that he wanted this. Wanted Kieran—not just the release of pent-up emotion Kieran had been so willing to give. So why did it still feel hollow? Why did Matthieu’s touch feel like a transaction?
