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"I know enough," I said simply. "I know you're stronger than you think. I know you care deeply, even when you try to hide it. I know you're kind to everyone except yourself."
His eyes flickered back to mine, surprise evident in them.
"And I know," I continued softly, "that I want the chance to learn more."
The stove beeped, breaking the moment. Matty turned away quickly, busying himself with the pasta while I slid the garlic bread into the oven. The conversation hung between us, unfinished but not forgotten.
As we moved around each other, setting the table and then serving the food, I could sense Matty processing what I'd said. I didn't push, giving him the space he needed.
"This is good," he said after taking his first bite of pasta.
"Thanks. Old family recipe," I replied, watching him carefully. "My mom taught me."
"She must have been a good cook."
"She was," I said, a familiar ache in my chest at the memory. "Sunday dinners were sacred in our house. No matter how busy the store got, we always sat down together."
Matty's expression softened. "That sounds nice."
"It was." I took a sip of water. "What about your parents? What were they like?"
“I don’t really remember them. I was three when they died.”
I could have kicked myself and it must have shown on my face. I knew that.
“It’s okay. Like I said, I don’t really remember them.” I knew he didn’t have any other family because of the details Ricky had sent and what Digger told me, but I ached to give him just that—a family. But I’d pushed him enough for one day.
"Maybe you could tell me about Harold," I suggested. "Before all this, I mean."
Matty pushed pasta around his plate for a moment before answering. "He was... distant. Always has been. I lived with him after my parents died, but I barely saw him. There were nannies, housekeepers. Then boarding school from age six."
I tried to imagine Matty as a small boy, sent away by the only family he had left. "No visits home?"
"Holidays, sometimes." He shrugged, aiming for casual but missing by a mile. "Usually he'd be 'unexpectedly called away on business' halfway through. I spent most breaks at school."
The matter-of-fact way he described his isolation made my chest ache. "That must have been lonely."
"You get used to it," he said, but the slight tremble in his voice betrayed him. "By high school, I preferred staying at school. At least there were other kids."
I thought of Matty in his Little space, his delight over simple things like dinosaur pajamas and pancakes with faces. How much of that came from a childhood of neglect?
"When did you first realize you were a Little?" I asked carefully, watching his reaction.
He tensed, then deliberately relaxed his shoulders. "Submissive,” he corrected me. “College, I guess. I started going to clubs, met some people in the scene." He took a sip of water. "The Little, I would never even acknowledge to myself. I guess I’m broken."
"You're not broken," I said firmly.
Matty's lips curved in a small, sad smile. "Tell that to Harold. He walked in on me once, just after I arrived back from Charlotte, when I was... in that headspace. I’d found a box at the bottom of my wardrobe with some old toys in it I didn’t even remember I had. Buzz Lightyear. Woody. Even an old teddy. Before I knew what I was doing I was playing and imagining they were saving the world. I'd thought he was out of town."
I set down my fork. "What happened?"
"He looked at me like I was something disgusting," Matty said, his voice soft but steady. "Sitting on my bedroom floor with cowboy dolls and stuffed animals. He didn't yell, just... stared. Then he said, 'I see you haven't grown up after all.' And left."
"Matty—"
"Two days later, he introduced me to James Degrassi." His fingers tightened around his water glass. "Said he'd found someone who wanted what I could offer. Maybe even 'fix' me."
White-hot rage surged through me at the thought of Coombes deliberately placing Matty with an abuser to "fix" him. "There's nothing to fix," I said, fighting to keep my voice level.