I shift uncomfortably, our hands still tangled together, and let the silence stretch.
Mateo glances over at me. "Philip?"
His voice is gentler now. Like he's trying not to spook me.
I release a breath and finally answer, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. "Technically, yeah. They're probably at their home."
I put emphasis on the word their, and I don't care if it comes off bitter. Because it is. It's not just a house they live in. It's a home they've made without me. And they're fine with that.
"So… this isn't theirs?" he asks after a pause. He sounds hesitant now, like he already knows he's pushed too far and is trying to backpedal.
I feel the heat rise to my face. "No," I whisper, the word small and fragile, even though I wish it wasn't. I wanted to say it with steel in my spine. To make it sound like freedom. Like beautiful independence.
Instead, it sounds exactly like what it is.
Loneliness.
Mateo's lips part slightly, but he doesn't say anything right away. "Oh," he says softly, and the discomfort in his voice mirrors mine.
The elevator dings.
I step out without looking back, suddenly aware of how loud my footsteps sound in the hallway. I jam my hand into my pocket, fingers fumbling for my keys. My eyes burn from shame, a whole lot of frustration, and maybe just the exhaustion of holding it all in all this time.
I find the key and fit it into the lock. The door sticks, of course. It always does. The frame is warped from years of weather and neglect, and sometimes you have to shoulder your way inside like you're breaking in.
I give it a hard shove.
The door creaks open, loud. Welcoming us into my private little mess of survival.
And now Mateo's about to see it.
All of it.
I step inside first, instantly regretting every detail of the apartment that meets Mateo's eyes. It's not like it's dirty.
I mean, I try to keep it clean, but it's… bleak. The walls are that kind of off-white that used to be white ten years ago. The furniture is all mismatched hand-me-downs, and the single overhead light buzzes like it's protesting its own existence.
The air smells faintly of cheap laundry detergent and last night's instant noodles.
I glance back at Mateo, who stands in the doorway for a beat, just taking it all in.
His expression is unreadable. His eyes scan the room slowly, tiny kitchen, tiny couch, tiny everything. I can't tell if the look on his face is curiosity or judgment, or some awkward mixture of both.
"Welcome to the palace," I say, forcing a weak smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.
The sarcasm tastes bitter in my mouth. My whole body radiates awkward energy, like maybe if I act cringey enough, it'll make him uncomfortable enough to never pull this surprise house call crap again.
"It's…" Mateo pauses, eyes still moving around. "Nice."
I bark out a small laugh, just one short, dry note. "Sure," I say, even though we both know that's a flat-out lie.
Let's not pretend we're not both aware this place is barely scraping above livable. I don't have matching dishes. My couch is an old futon with a squeaky spring that pops every time you sit on it too fast. I'm already bracing for the mountain of pity that's probably forming in his head.
Or even worse, sympathy. I can handle judgment. It's pity that always breaks me.
But instead, Mateo claps his hands together like he's hosting a cooking show. "Alright! I promised you breakfast, didn't I?"
And just like that, he's strolling into my sad excuse for a kitchen like he owns the place.
I blink. "You really don't have to, " But he's already opening cabinets and rummaging around.
Then he moves to the fridge.
I freeze.
That's when it hits me.
I barely have anything in there.
Sure enough, Mateo pulls the fridge open and stares inside for a few seconds before laughing under his breath. He glances back at me, grinning like this is some hilarious sitcom moment.
"You have three eggs, two slices of ham, and… is that a tub of frosting?"
I wince. "Yeah. It's vanilla."
He raises an eyebrow. "Is that dinner or dessert?"
"Neither," I say, stepping further into the room, rubbing the back of my neck. "I haven't really had time to go shopping this week."
I don't meet his eyes when I say it. And I pray, beg, that he doesn't hear what I'm actually saying.
Time is just the easier excuse. The socially acceptable lie. Because what I really haven't had is the money.
And from the way Mateo's smile falters, just for a split second, I know he gets it.
His gaze softens. His posture shifts.
His cheeks tint red, and not from embarrassment, but something else. Regret, maybe. Or guilt.
And then because it's Mateo, and of course it is. He smirks again and leans casually against the counter.
"Well," he says, a devilish glint in his eye, "I could always just have you for breakfast instead."
I blink at him.
The words register a second later, and my stomach does something weird and traitorous and fluttery.
"Mateo," I say, trying and failing to sound annoyed.
He shrugs like it's no big deal. But there's a look in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.
God help me. I think he's flirting.
Again.
Despite how completely vulgar his suggestion was, I'm oddly grateful.
Because for once, he doesn't mention the apartment. He doesn't make a snide remark about my nearly-empty fridge, or the secondhand furniture, or how I'm one bounced check away from candlelight dinners by necessity. He doesn't say a word about my financial status. And maybe that, just maybe that is why my chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to relief.
It isn't until I feel the shift in the room that I realize I've been staring at the floor, caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief.
I blink and lift my gaze.
Mateo is standing right in front of me.
Too close.