"After, you could spend the night at my place again. That way, you can check for yourself if the rest of me is real."
He delivers the line with that damn smirk, the one that makes my brain short-circuit.
"While that sounds… tempting," I say, dragging the words out, "you have this habit of making me miss work. And I need that money for groceries, amongst other things."
The confession slips out before I can stop it, before I can dress it up with some witty remark or bury it under a joke. The truth hangs there between us. Ughhh, so stupid.
Mateo tilts his head. "How much do you make? I could match that," he offers, as if it's the simplest solution in the world.
I know he doesn't mean it to sting, but it does. The offer feels like someone pressing their thumb into a bruise, well-meaning, maybe, but still painful.
"Mateo, I don't want your money," I say, sharper than intended. "I've been self-sufficient since I was fourteen."
