"I missed my shift." My voice cracks as I scramble to find my phone. "I was supposed to work from seven to twelve."
I feel the lump forming in my throat before the tears even start. My back is to him as I open my messages, hoping, praying, there's not some furious all-caps rant from my boss waiting for me.
There's not.
Instead, I find a text from Tori, my shift manager.
You missed work today, so you can pick up your paycheck next week. Gonna assume you don't feel well. Get better soon.
A simple message. No guilt. No judgment. Just quiet grace.
God, I don't deserve her. Anyone else would've chewed me out and probably fired me.
Mateo's voice cuts through the moment. "Well… it's not like you really need the money or anything, right? Just ask your parents to float you or something."
And there it is.
That familiar tone of arrogance, the one i actually detest. That silly assumption that the world works the same for everyone.
I don't even turn around. I can't. Because if I do, he's going to see the tears already spilling over. He's going to see that his dumbass comment sliced through me more than he'll evernrealize.
Not everyone has parents they can lean on.
Not everyone can miss a shift without wondering how they're going to eat next week.
Not everyone is lucky enough to treat money like it's optional.
"I have to go," I whisper, voice shaking as I try to swallow down the lump in my throat.
Mateo shifts behind me. "Let me take you home," he offers gently, already sliding out of bed.
"No," I say quickly, reaching for my jeans and shirt. "It's fine."
But my voice gives me away. There's a crack in it, barely noticeable, but it's enough.
And he hears it.
Everything goes still for a few seconds.
"Hey… are you okay?" he asks, his voice quieter now, less sure of itself.
I don't answer. I can't. I'm too busy fumbling with my shoes, blinking away tears that won't stop, furious that he's seeing me like this, exposed. I'm not upset that I'm crying. I'm upset that he's the one here, seeing it.
Mateo doesn't say anything else. He just walks over, slowly, like he's approaching a wounded animal that might bolt. Then, carefully, he reaches out and cups my face in both hands, his thumbs brushing gently under my eyes, wiping away the tears I hadn't even realized were falling so fast.
I flinch slightly, but don't pull away.
"What's wrong?" he murmurs, still holding my face like I'm something fragile he's scared to break.
My bottom lip trembles, and the words tumble out before I can stop them.
"I, I do need the money," I choke, hating how small my voice sounds. It's the kind of confession that feels like peeling off your skin and showing someone all the bruises underneath. The ones you hide. The ones you pray no one ever sees.
Mateo's brows pinch together, confused. "What do you mean?"
His hands drop from my face slowly, giving me space, but I already feel exposed. Too seen. I turn away and wrap my arms around myself, biting down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying again.
Because for the first time since we met, this, not his teasing, not his flirting, not his intensity, this is what scares me the most. Someone asking what's wrong and actually meaning it scares me.
"Never mind," I mutter, swiping at my cheeks with the sleeve of my shirt. My face still feels blotchy and warm, but the crying has mostly stopped. My voice is steadier now. Hollow, but steady. "Thanks for letting me crash here," I add, trying to sound casual, like the whole emotional breakdown thing didn't just happen.
I turn toward the bedroom door, wanting to get out of this house, out of his space, out of this whole awkward, crying situation.
But before I can make it two steps, Mateo grabs my wrist.
"Philip, wait."
His fingers curl gently but firmly around my arm, and I freeze. I turn halfway back, not quite looking at him, just staring somewhere past his shoulder.
"If you're not going to tell me what's going on," he says quietly, "at least let me drive you home."
My heart stutters.
Nope. Absolutely not. He's not seeing where I live.
"I'm good," I lie, forcing a weak smile. "I actually like walking. It clears my head."
Mateo raises an eyebrow, a bit skeptical, or maybe very.
"It's also pouring outside."
I blink, confused, and then realize, Oh. Of course it is. Of course the universe would throw in dramatic weather to match the emotional whiplash I'm going through.
Mateo doesn't wait for me to respond. "Well, now I'm definitely driving you home," he says, brushing past me like the conversation is over. "Let's go."
His tone leaves no room for argument. He's already out the door.
I sigh and follow him down the hall, still wiping my face. I'm pretty sure my makeup is halfway down my cheeks by now, smudged into an abstract expressionist painting of my anxiety and broken pride. My eyes feel puffy, my head is pounding, and I'm 98% sure I look like someone who just got dumped in the middle of a romance movie.
"Thanks," I mumble under my breath as we head into the garage.
Mateo doesn't respond, just unlocks the passenger side of a sleek, expensive-looking car that probably costs more than I make in a year. I'm not a car person, but even I can tell this one's stupidly nice. Shiny black exterior. Leather seats that smell like money.
Everything inside hums softly, like even the air is richer here.
We pull out of the garage and start driving. It's quiet, uncomfortably so, until Mateo glances over and asks, "Where do you live?"
I hesitate before rattling off my address, avoiding his eyes like they might see right through me. He doesn't say anything, but I can feel it. The silence stretches long and heavy, like he's connecting dots.
He knows.
He knows that address. He knows what kind of neighborhood it is. The kind of place rich kids wouldn't drive through unless their GPS glitched. The kind of place with rusted gates, flickering street lights, and neighbors who play music too loud just to drown out the silence.
A soft click interrupts my thoughts as Mateo turns on the stereo, letting some mellow indie song fill the car. I'm grateful for the distraction. At least now we don't have to sit in the thick, suffocating quiet.
The ride doesn't take long.
Eventually, he pulls up in front of my apartment building, the same one that looks like it's been chewed up and spit out by time. The siding is peeling. The steps are cracked. It's the kind of place that looks like hope moved out a long time ago.
Mateo shifts the car into park.
"Thanks for driving me," I say quietly, already reaching for the door handle.
It doesn't budge.
The doors are still locked.
I glance over at him, confused.
"Philip," he says.
There's something different in his voice. Softer. More careful.
I turn to him slowly, uneasy under the weight of his gaze.
He leans in just slightly, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, its warm anf clean and so annoyingly addictive.
"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asks, his tone low and serious. His eyes search mine like they're trying to find a crack in my armor, some little hole that'll let him in.
My breath catches. My fists clench.
He's in my space again, poking at things he doesn't understand. Digging at feelings I've spent years learning how to hide.
And it pisses me off.
"No," I say sharply, refusing to meet his eyes. My gaze drops to the floor of the car, where my shoes are still damp from the rain.
"There's nothing."
"Philip," he says again, more insistently this time.
And then, something in me snaps.
Maybe it's the hangover. Maybe it's the stress. Maybe it's the buildup of trying so hard to act okay when I'm not. Maybe it's the fact that I've been carrying all of this alone for so long and now someone is noticing, really noticing, and I don't know what to do with that.
But I break.
Hard.
Maybe too hard.
"Fine!" I snap, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I've been trying so hard to keep buried. "You want the truth? Here it is, I'm broke, okay? Like, actually broke. Poor as hell."
The words tumble out of me, loud and fast and wayyy too bitter.
"Is that what you wanted to hear? You want me to admit that because I missed one shift, just one, I'm going to be living off stale school lunches and whatever's left on the food pantry shelf for the rest of the month?"
My voice is rising, but I can't stop. The dam's broken, and everything I've been swallowing down is finally spilling out.
"Or maybe you'd prefer the part where I tell you that when my next check bounces, which it will, they're probably gonna shut off my power. And then I'll get to do my homework in the dark and pray the fridge doesn't start to smell like death before I can get it turned back on."
I still can't look at him.
My eyes are fixed firmly on the floor of his stupidly clean car, watching the rain slide down the window like it's mirroring the mess in my chest. My hands are fists in my lap. My jaw is tight. Everything in me is clenched because I hate this, I hate this so much. Not just the situation, but the admitting of it. The way it strips me down, leaves me exposed and pathetic and makes me feel less-than.
There's a beat of silence. Just long enough for me to feel the regret crawl up the back of my throat. Maybe I said too much. Maybe I ruined something that wasn't even anything to begin with.
And just then, i feel his hand.
Mateo reaches out and gently grabs my chin, his fingers surprisingly warm and careful as he lifts my face toward him.
I don't resist, but my whole body tenses like I'm bracing for a sarcastic remark or a cruel smirk.
But it doesn't come.
Instead, he leans in and presses a soft, barely-there kiss to my cheek.
I freeze. Yes, of course. Even if it were you or someone else in my shoes, you'd freeze up too.
My mouth opens like I want to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. My brain is had already bettayed me, scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Before I can protest, before I can even process it, Mateo's voice cuts through the silence.
"You didn't have to tell me that," he says softly.
His thumb brushes along my jaw before he lets go, his tone so uncharacteristically gentle it makes my throat tighten all over again. "I shouldn't have pushed. I thought I was trying to help, but… I was just prying. That was on me. I'm sorry."
His words were so oddly comforting, i think i could cry again. It's the first time I've heard an apology from him that actually felt real. Not a joke. Not a cover-up. Just… honesty.
I still don't know what to say.
But for once, I don't feel like I have to. It's one of the situations were words aren't needed
"I hate the word homophobia. It's not a phobia. You're not scared.You're just an asshole." - Morgan Freeman