opia; matty healy.

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"You're incredible," Matty muses, "You know that, right?"

"I do now," I laugh.

We're sat on my bedroom floor the following day. Matty insisted on seeing my finished art project after he'd shown his off in the morning. It was a large watercolour piece, a map of Manchester with every tiny detail filled in to give it an almost 3D appearance. It was a surprise to see Matty create something of such significance and greatness, and he only keeps surprising with his hidden talents.

At around 2am we made our way back to the car, both sober – me, for the most part the shots were wearing off, but I was still having a nice time holding Matty's hand. I was too afraid I wouldn't make it up to my bed and I was comfortable in Matty's company. He didn't need to invite me to stay, it went unspoken that he missed my street and went straight to his.

"Seriously," he takes in a deep breath, "if I had your skills..."

"You have better skills than I do, Matty," his work is far nicer than I could ever achieve.

"Don't doubt yourself," he frowns.

I roll my eyes and lean back on my hands, "Thanks for the advice, mum."

He cocks his head to the side and furrows his brows; as if my comment has confused him, "Don't call me Mum."

"Make me," I smirk, watching him pause for a second before moving closer, his face now inches away.

"You can't speak if I'm kissing you," he smiles, his lips softly colliding onto mine as the heat rushes to my cheeks. He hovers over me, one hand on my cheek and the other keeping his weight up as I melt into every inch of him that's close.

We pull apart for a few seconds, standing momentarily before Matty's hands go for my hips and I'm on the bed. His hands trace my bare skin while mine manage to find themselves around his neck, somehow his hair becoming the only place they want to be once again.

The feeling of his hands so close sends my skin into frenzy, as if every part of my body is burning a gasoline fuelled fire. Matty is the fuel. He pulls back to pull my shirt off all at once, my chest now exposed except for a small amount of material that covers my upper half. His shirt is off too, and his lips find my neck quickly and softly. This is territory I've never tread, but I melt into Matty's hands like I've done this before.

Seeing Matty this gentle and polite despite his raging teenage hormones intrigues me more so than ever before. The boy who weeks before broke someone's nose, who fought his best friend on school grounds, finds ways to make every touch feel soft. I let go of all my weight, the mattress keeping me up when a small moan escapes my lips.

Matty's hands go for the top of my jeans as his lips come back to mine, my breath hitching and getting heavier by the second. Only a minute or so has passed, but it feels like an entire day. Everything slows, and in an instant, speeds up again.

"I'm sorry," Matty says quietly, pulling away quickly and sliding off me while I prop myself up on my elbows. Still shirtless, he reaches for his clothing, now on the floor, "That was too much."

"It wasn't," I shake my head, "I don't mind if you don't mind."

He looks down at me for a second, his grey shirt in his hand and a blank expression, "I just want you." His words come out as more of a question, something he's been doing a lot recently.

"So I'm here," but he shakes his head, "What?"

Watching him brush his hair out of his face, his expression turns to a frown, "I'm still scared."