Ridiculous: Mattory

24: Waiting Game

A/N: This was the FOURTH attempt I had to make at this chapter. It's why my five chapter buffer zone has now shrunk to two... *buries self in Open Office for the day*

Mallory

We don't speak of those wonderfully terrible few days.

But I know we all think of them.

I know from the tentative glances I get when I come back to work—from the odd way my friends look at me, like they're not quite sure what to believe.

I know from the way I start when I see a piece of creamy paper from the corner of my eye, how my heart rises in my throat until I can check and make triply sure it's not what I'm afraid it is.

I know from the way I wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat when I sleep alone—or from Matt clutching at me desperately when I don't.

No matter what anyone says or doesn't say, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It's easier to ignore those demons when Matt's around. For the first month or so thing are a little off-balance between us as we try to sort out the ground we're standing on. It's a lot like when we first started dating, though such dates rarely consist of actually going out. Instead they take place at one apartment or the other.

I try very, very hard to sleep in my own bed rather than his, at least on weeknights. We never officially told the cast that we were back together—though they must have noticed the major shift in our interactions. Still, showing up at work together is something I'm just not ready to explain yet.

But today's Sunday, which means I at least wake up in his arms even if I won't fall asleep in them.

I come out of his kitchen around one in the afternoon with a sandwich in one hand and my phone in the other. "Do you know why Jason wants us to come down to the studio tonight?" Before Matt can respond, another text pops up that I read aloud.

Whitney says I'm supposed to tell you to dress nice.

"Well that's not suspicious at all," I say dryly.

"You know Jason," Matt says. "Who knows what he's up to?"

I tuck my phone in my pocket, put a hand on my hip, and take a bite of my sandwich. "Why are you smirking, then?"

"I am not smirking," he says with a dignified air and a fake sniff.

I cross the room and lean over the couch, finding myself poking his lips. "What do you call this then?"

"Smiling," he says. "Because I've got a beautiful woman in my arms." Just when I'm about to protest that I'm not, in fact, in his arms, he puts his hands on my waist and pulls me down on top of him. "See?"

"You're a sap," I accuse, shifting so my lunch doesn't end up smashed between us.

"Don't tell anyone, it'll ruin my image."

"What image?" I say with a laugh. Instead of answering, he kisses me.

"I love you." He speaks the words with reverence, the way he always seems to—at least since The Days We Don't Talk About. Quiet, solemn, searching, and not as often as he did before... everything.

He adjusts his grip on me—a little tighter, a little closer. When I peer at him there's a wild look in his eyes, one that I catch a glimpse of sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking. Desperate. Needy.

Afraid.

"I'm not leaving you." My voice quavers a little, because every so often there's a thought in the back of my head that tells me one day he'll wake up, remember that I was the one to break his heart, and question why he'd want to be with someone who'd already done it once. "I love you."