Page 12 of Falling for My Matchmaker (The Matchmaker Files #1)

They found me at dawn.

Technically, Nate found me.

But it was a full entourage—Nate, two uniformed officers, and one very alarmed paramedic who nearly dropped his flashlight when he saw me chained to a chair.

“Diana,” Nate said, and I swore I’d never heard my name sound like that—like a swear word, a prayer, and a punch to the gut all at once.

He moved fast but stopped just short of touching me, probably because the cop behind him had already started shouting things like “scene secure” and “call dispatch.”

Within ten minutes, I was being unshackled, assessed, and burrito-wrapped in a trauma blanket so thermal it felt like being swaddled by a giant baked potato.

I made exactly one joke.

About not being into chains but appreciating the symbolism.

No one laughed. Except Nate.

Just once. A sharp, unsteady exhale that sounded a lot like relief .

They loaded me into the back of an ambulance with the soft urgency of people who did this often.

Vitals. Questions. Flashlights in the eyes.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Do you want someone to ride with you?”

“Do you feel safe? ”

I answered yes to all. Then they gave me a ride to the hospital.

***

I was technically fine.

Which was what you say when you were physically unharmed, emotionally cracked, and still half-convinced this was all some weird dream powered by trauma and bad dating decisions.

They gave me Sprite in a little plastic cup.

Wrapped me in another blanket.

Asked me the same questions five different ways then gently offered a victim advocate and a safe ride home.

The fluorescent lights were too bright, the blanket too warm, and the Sprite was either flat or I’d lost the ability to taste carbonation. But none of that mattered.

Because Nate was sitting in the corner.

In a plastic chair too small for him, still wearing the same clothes from last night, elbows on his knees like he didn’t trust himself to lean back.

He’d been quiet since they let him in.

I’d been quiet too.

Not out of awkwardness—just...fatigue. Shock. Maybe a little emotional buffering.

Finally, I said, “So. This is definitely going in my Matchbox feedback form.”

His head snapped up. That half-smile he did when he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to laugh flickered across his face.

“You’re okay,” he said softly. “You’re actually okay.”

“Well,” I said, gesturing to the blanket, the IV port, the general crime-drama ambiance. “Okay-ish.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at me.

Really looked.

Like he was taking inventory.

Eyes. Voice. Sarcasm level: normal.

“I got your message,” he said. “Or part of it. Enough.”

I nodded. “I figured. You’re the only person I know who’d show up to a hostage situation in tailored pants.”

His mouth twitched. “Technically I wasn’t invited.”

“You showed up anyway.”

“Of course I did.”

Silence settled again. But this time, it felt full. Not heavy. Just full.

“You didn’t have to stay,” I said finally. “They’ve got snacks here. Sprite. A victim advocate with kind eyes. I’m very supported.”

“I didn’t stay because I had to,” he said.

And there it was.

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I looked down at the cup in my hands.

“You want to know the worst part?” I said after a beat. “I almost liked him.”

Nate leaned forward. “That’s not the worst part.”

“No?”

“The worst part,” he said, voice quiet, “is thinking you were alone.”

I blinked. Hard.

Then, from the hallway, I heard a familiar voice.

“Diana? ”

Lauren.

Thank God.

“Back here!” I called, clearing my throat and blinking fast. “Just wrapping up my involuntary wellness retreat.”

Nate stood, awkward. Like he didn’t know whether to stay or disappear.

I looked up at him. “You okay?”

He smiled, tired. “You’re asking me ?”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “You’re the one who had to listen to my entire personality while also talking to law enforcement.”

He laughed, just once.

Lauren knocked lightly and peeked in. “They said I could take you home. You decent?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

I stood. Wobbled slightly. Nate moved to help, but I waved him off.

“I’ve got it.”

But before I left the room, I turned to him and added—quietly—“Thank you. For showing up.”

His voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t.

“Always.”

***

That night, at home, I did something I hadn’t done in months.

I sat down with a blank notebook and a pen. No app. No algorithm. No Matchbox-approved framework.

Just me.

At the top, I wrote:

What I Want.

Not a man. Not a résumé. Just...the feeling .

I wrote:

I want to feel safe without shrinking.

I want to be challenged without being diminished.

I want to laugh in the middle of something serious.

I want to be held without being handled.

I want to feel like myself—not just seen but known.

I sat back and stared at the list. No edits. No filter.

And there it was.

Exactly how I felt around Nate.

I closed the notebook. Set the pen down.

No dramatic music played. No epiphany confetti fell from the ceiling.

But I felt it.

The ache of something I wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.