𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦. ⁽⁽⁽ᵗʰᵉ ¹⁹⁷⁵ ᵒⁿᵉˢʰᵒᵗˢ⁾⁾⁾

grazes.

Matty gets into a sticky situation and calls in on his ex. It's a bit angsty.

997 words.

When the doorbell rings, it's just as I've gotten into the swing of the new chapter's introduction, and I curse the intrusion loudly. But it's late - nearly eleven at night, and cold even for January. It's either an emergency or a crackhead.

I open the front door by a few centimetres, and then let it swing open wider when I see who it is. 'Matty... why are you here? This really isn't a good time.'

He looks wrecked, in all honesty - dark circles under his eyes, darker than usual, his leather jacket half hanging off his shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbles. It alarms me. 'I didn't know where else to go. But if it's not a good time...'

'Get inside, you idiot. Don't worry, it's just my thesis. Nothing life-changing,' I grumble, ushering him into the hallway. 'It's been a month, hasn't it? I thought you were doing alright. I mean,' I grab his upper arm to steady him as he leans against the stair bannister, 'this was a mutual agreement.'

'I know, I know. Trust me, the last thing I expected to do this evening was drop in on my ex.' This might have sounded bitter in any other tone, but he seemed sincere, even remorseful. He holds out his palm, a messy graze darkening the skin down to his wrist. I take it gingerly, noticing the awkward way he holds his arm out.

'Jesus. What happened?'

'Got jumped by two guys, they took my phone and my wallet.'

'God. That's awful!' My hands fly up to my face, one clapped over my mouth in shock.

'I'm alright, I'm... that hasn't happened since I was a kid. People don't wave a knife about when they mug a kid,' he says, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

'You didn't try to fight them off, did you?'

'Fuck no, of course not. I'd be no good, would I? They just shoved me on the ground, I think in case I ran after them.'

'What can I do?'

'I just need, um... I think I need to wash this.' Matty holds out his hand again, suddenly looking terribly young and vulnerable. 'And can I use your phone? I'll call George, get him to pick me up.'

'You don't need to rush off, stay as long as you need,' I say quickly. 'Come on.'

He lets me wash his palm for him in the kitchen sink, wincing as I brush bits of gravel and dried blood away. I've thought about his hands a bit, how slender and elegant they are. I feel guilty recalling this now as I tend to his injury; now is not the time to dwell on my regrets. After drying the skin with a paper towel, I grasp his elbow gently and lead him over to the armchair, gesturing for him to sit. He lowers himself down and supports his wrist with the other arm, staring at the purpling skin as I rummage for plasters in a drawer.

'I feel so stupid,' he mumbles. 'I'm really sorry.'

'Stop apologising,' I reply softly. 'I'm glad you came to me. Watched my mum do this enough times, remember?'

'I remember you saying.' He watches as I roll a piece of gauze over his palm, pressing the fabric down firmly. 'I wish I'd met her.'

I know he feels me stiffen, right before dropping the hand to rest on top of his knee. 'You should have, I guess.'

Matty reaches out and grabs my hand again, without warning. 'I'm so glad you're around, you know. I'd be so fucked this evening.' His voice cracks, and as I watch him talk, it's like someone is reaching behind my ribs and gripping my heart, forcing it to release dormant, pent-up feelings. I so fiercely want to hold him and care for him the way he did for me; it seems cruel that I can't now, or at least I don't think I can. I take a deep breath, in an effort to shake off the psychosomatic pressure.

'Don't be silly. You've got yourself into some crazy situations before now, you'd have figured it out.'

He shakes his head, squeezing my hand more tightly. I'm still kneeling in front of him, and it's a strange angle, so I move to perch on the arm of the chair. I bring my other hand up so that I'm clasping his fist in both, and gently press my lips against the sore knuckles. I kiss each one in turn, intending it to be soothing, though we both know the intimacy it communicates. I don't care, for a few moments. I don't care that I have a half-begun thesis waiting on the desk, I don't care that we broke up a month ago because I can't rationalise a relationship with a touring musician.

'You're the kindest person I know. And I still love you. I never stopped.'

'Neither did I,' I reply, a lump forming in my throat.

'What?' He looks up at me sharply, as if surprised. 'Do you mean that?'

'Of course I do.'

Matty hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me onto his lap. I think he does it with his sore arm, because it makes his wince, but being so physically close again is like heaven, all the memories of rolling around on Sunday morning and Friday nights rushing back, on the sofa beside us, in my bed. And when he kisses me, his lips pressing hungrily to mine and his thumb brushing my cheek, it's exactly the way I would expect after a month of depriving each other of that very specific pleasure.

'Stay over?'

'Of course.' He nudges my nose with his, his smile speaking of relief and delight.

I want him to devour me. But for now, I'll be content to wrap my limbs up with his, and hold him back.