Page 19 of What Broke First (The Cheating A$$hole #1)

It had been four months since Matt’s confession, and the house was still too quiet. Too quiet, and too full of echoes she couldn’t scrub out of her skin.

Sarah lay in bed, sheets tangled around her legs, one arm flung over her eyes like it could block out the storm inside her. But nothing helped. Not the ceiling fan humming overhead. Not the chamomile tea growing cold on her nightstand. Not the ache that pulsed beneath her ribs, deeper than loneliness, sharper than want.

Matt’s words wouldn’t leave her alone. Her skin still hummed where his mouth had touched. That maddening trail along her neck, his breath hot, his hands trembling like she was something sacred. He had looked at her like a man starving. Like touching her was the only way he remembered who he was.

She tried to fight the memory. But her body betrayed her.

One hand slid under the hem of her sleep shirt, fingertips ghosting over her stomach. Her eyes fluttered closed as she exhaled slowly, trying not to feel and failing completely. The image of Matt leaning over her, voice rough and reverent, filled her mind.

Her hips shifted. A sharp breath escaped her lips. It wasn’t just desire. It was grief, too. Grief for the way he used to love her. For the way she still wanted to be loved like that again. She bit her lip as her palm pressed lower and her fingers slid into her panties, chasing the heat blooming inside her.

Her thighs tensed, her breath coming faster now. She was wet. She imagined his voice, low, gravelly, saying her name like a promise.

She imagined those hands, that mouth, that terrible, beautiful honesty in his eyes. She spread the wetness across her bundle of nerves and rubbed. Steadily at first and then more frantically.

She came undone quietly, a soft gasp into the dark. Not just from pleasure, but from the weight of remembering what it was like to be wanted, completely, devastatingly.

After, she lay there motionless, her pulse slowly returning to normal.

And when she finally rolled over, her pillow was damp with tears she hadn’t realized were falling.

It wasn’t just the kiss. It was everything still lingering after it. By morning, she was punchy from exhaustion and emotional whiplash. The kids were still at her parents’ place, and she didn’t have work until noon, which meant... absolutely no distractions. Perfect.

And then the knock.

Matt, of course. Holding a bakery bag and wearing that same face, the one that made women forgive war crimes.

She didn’t let him speak.

“No,”

she said, stepping aside.

“You’re going to sit, and I’m going to talk. Because if I let you say one more perfect thing in that gravel-voiced apology tone, I’m going to lose my mind.”

He sat. She paced.

“You’ve been doing this thing,”

she started, waving a finger in his direction like an accusation and a prayer.

“This charming, tragic ex routine. You bring cake pops and sad eyes and let me carry the emotional labor while you cosplay the reformed man.”

Matt blinked. “Cosplay?”

“Yes, Matthew. Cosplay. Because I don’t know if this new version of you is real, or if it’s a costume you wear to avoid consequences.”

He exhaled, leaning back.

“I get it.”

No, you don’t,”

she snapped.

“You don’t get it. You want forgiveness without the work. You want the movie montage without the therapy bills. You want the big kiss in the rain, but you haven’t earned it.”

“What do you mean? You know I’m going to therapy.”

“Congratulations,”

she said flatly.

“That’s called the bare minimum. It’s not a gift to me. It’s a requirement.”

Matt was quiet for once. And that unnerved her more than if he’d yelled.

“You’re right,”

he said finally.

“I want the ending without fixing the middle. I’ve been... desperate. But lazy. And I’m sorry.”

That silenced her.

He stood, slowly.

“I’ll leave the croissants. You’re going to need carbs if you’re going to keep chewing me out at this level." Then he left without another word.

Sarah sat down, tore off a piece of the croissant, and chewed like it owed her money.

This wasn’t about the bakery bag. Or the fact that he showed up unannounced again. It was the persistence. The maddening consistency. The way he kept inching back into her life like gravity, and the way she, despite all logic and self-respect, was still orbiting him.

She didn’t want to be impressed. But she was. And that pissed her off.

Because wanting him after everything felt like betrayal. Not of her past self, the one who cried on the bathroom floor and made promises to never let him close again. No, this was a betrayal of her current self. The one who swore she’d never be that kind of idiot. The kind who mistakes effort for accountability. The kind who believes a few sincere words are enough to trust someone again.

She stared at the spot where he’d stood, croissant halfway to her mouth, and shook her head.

This wasn’t a movie. There were no violins playing. Just the faint hum of the fridge and the loud realization that she was losing control of the very emotions she had spent months forcing into stillness.

She hated that she didn’t want him to stop showing up. Hated that his stupid gravel voice still echoed in her skull hours later. Hated that she knew the smell of his skin better than the name of her own perfume.

She took another bite. Chewed slower this time. Swallowed.

If she gave in, even a little, she knew exactly what it would cost her.

And she wasn’t sure she could afford to be that kind of fool again.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But damn if he wasn’t making it harder to say no.