"Yeah," I mutter, my voice a little sharper than I intended, "you should be."
My face is on fire. I can feel the heat blooming across my cheeks and down my neck, and I honestly don't know what's causing it anymore, whether it's the humiliating confession about being broke, or the fact that Mateo just kissed me on the cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Probably both.
Definitely both.
Maybe?
Mateo doesn't move back. If anything, he leans in a little closer, like personal space is more of a suggestion than a rule.
"What if I made you breakfast to apologize?" he says, his voice is low, it's soft, and… that melts me. It rumbles through the air between us, and it's like only he and I exist. The words aren't the shocking part….. No, no, no, it's how he says them.
And then it hits me.
He's not saying we go to some diner or pick something up. No, not at all. He's implying he'll come inside! Into my apartment!! Into my tiny, worn-down, cobwebbed corner of the world where the paint peels and the neighbors argue through the walls and the lights flicker when you turn on the microwave!!!!
Panic flares in my chest.
If Mateo steps through that door, it won't take long for him to notice what's missing and what's not missing. There's no mom to ask him how he takes his coffee. No dad to grill him about his intentions. There's just me. Alone. In a place that screams barely scraping by.
"A-are you saying you want to… come inside?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, but it still trembles on the edges. My eyes flick up to his, and that was a mistake, because those eyes, those warm, honey-brown eyes look like they're seeing straight through me. Like they already know what I'm trying to hide.
His lips curve into something that's almost playful. "Well, you've seen my place," he says with a small shrug. "Isn't it only fair I see yours?"
As he speaks, his hand reaches out, fingers trailing lightly, intimately down the side of my neck. My breath catches. I don't know if he's teasing me again or if he actually wants to come in. I don't even know which one would terrify me more.
"I mean…" I swallow, hard. "I guess. Just… you don't get to judge me, okay? My place isn't exactly, " I pause, forcing myself not to say livable ", nice."
I avoid the word alone too. No need to give him more ammunition for questions I have no interest in answering.
"Not everyone lives in a goddamn mansion," I add, eyes still fixed somewhere near my knees. The embarrassment is creeping in again, curling in my gut like shame always does. The blush that started from nerves has now fully transitioned into humiliation.
Mateo chuckles, but not unkindly, and unlocks the car doors with a click.
"It's not a mansion," he says easily.
Yeah, right.
He steps out and makes his way around the car to my side, slipping into the rain like it doesn't bother him. I watch him from my window as he jogs across the street with the kind of ease you only have when you've never had to worry about leaking ceilings or eviction notices.
Of course he'd say something modest like that. I'm sure even the smallest room in his house could eat my apartment for breakfast and still have space left over for dessert.
Still, I open the door and step out. My stomach knots tighter with each step i take toward the building.
Because this isn't just about showing him where I live.
It's about letting him see me, the real version, Who I am, What I come from. No sarcasm. No attitude. Just the kid who hides a world of problems behind smudged eyeliner and secondhand shoes.
And I'm not sure I'm ready for that. I don't think I'll ever be.
"Well… mine's more of a hovel than a home, so…" I trail off, my voice dipping into something between sarcasm and self-deprecation. The words stumble out before I really think about them, and now they're just hanging there, awkwardly. I wince inwardly.
I push open the heavy front doors of the apartment complex, and the familiar scent of musty carpet and stale coffee greets me like a punch to the face. The fluorescent lights above flicker slightly, buzzing the way they always do when it rains.
"Morning, Morrie," I say, offering a small smile to the elderly man stationed in the lobby chair by the front desk. Morrie's been here longer than I have, always wearing that same threadbare cardigan and watching everyone with silent judgment.
His gaze moves to Mateo, eyebrows rising slightly, then back to me.
I know that look.
Who's your friend?
I give him a subtle shake of my head and a sheepish smile, the universal sign for: Don't ask right now. I'm already dying inside.
Mateo, to his credit, doesn't act weird about it. He lifts a hand in a polite wave, which earns a gruff nod from Morrie. I glance back at Mateo, wondering if he's registering just how different this place is from his world.
Probably.
Ughh.
Without thinking, I reach out and grab his hand, wrapping my fingers around his like it's something I've done a hundred times before.
He flinches slightly, surprised for a bit. But he doesn't pull away. I tug him gently toward the elevator, pretending I don't feel how fast my heart is beating. The elevator doors slide shut behind us, and for a brief moment, the air feels too quiet. Too tight.
I'm still holding his hand when he asks it.
"Are your parents going to be home?"
The words drop between us like a brick.
There it is. The question. The one I've learned to always dodge, laugh off, lie about, anything to avoid the raw sting it always brings. Any question that starts with your parents is a red flag for me. A trigger warning.