Page 29 of What Broke First (The Cheating A$$hole #1)

Sarah took a breath, grounding herself, then gave Tommy and Emily a pointed look.

“Okay, syrup monsters. March back upstairs and wash your faces. You’re not going to school looking like waffles.”

Tommy groaned dramatically.

“But I already wiped—”

“Your cheek is literally sticky,” she said.

Emily inspected her reflection in the microwave door and gasped.

“My eyebrows are sticky!”

“Upstairs. Now,”

Sarah said, swatting Tommy’s backpack toward the stairs.

The two of them took off, still bickering about who was stickier.

And then, the house was quiet again.

Matt was still standing there, just close enough that the space between them buzzed with everything left unsaid.

Sarah glanced up at him, and before she could speak, he stepped forward, leaned in, and kissed her.

It wasn’t polite or casual. It wasn’t a war.

“thank you”

or a light, nostalgic brush of lips. It was deep, deliberate, the kind of kiss that curled her toes and cracked her resolve.

When he finally pulled back, Sarah stayed frozen in place, lips still parted, eyes still closed, like her body hadn’t caught up to the end of the moment.

She blinked, breath shaky.

“Where are you going?”

Matt chuckled, brushing a hand against her cheek.

“Taking the kids to school. Then work. You’ve got work too, you know.”

From the stairs, Emily shouted,

“We’re ready.

“ Tommy’s voice followed.

“Oh yeah, Dad! I told Ms. Fallon you have your own office and a thousand pens!”

Matt smirked.

“A thousand pens, huh?”

He leaned in, one last kiss to Sarah’s forehead.

“Tonight, dinner. A real one. A date. Just us. What do you say?”

Sarah looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel on the verge of shattering. She felt... maybe.

“I say... pick me up at seven.”

Matt gave her a wink and a smile that nearly undid her.“Seven it is.”

Matt spent forty minutes googlin.

“what to wear to dinner with your ex-wife who might love you again but might also stab you with a salad fork.”

The results were unhelpful.

He settled on dark jeans and a navy button-down, which Sarah had once described a.

“the only shirt you own that doesn’t scream midlife real estate agent.”

High praise. He was aiming for a non-threatening and mildly attractive appearance. Think: Labrador in people form.

The restaurant was quiet and cozy. Not fancy, Sarah didn’t do pretentious, but it had candles on the tables and a decent wine list.

Matt got there early and made the rookie mistake of reading the menu five times. The sixth time, he was just hallucinating entre?es.

When Sarah walked in, his stomach did a weird, nervous backflip that reminded him of their first date. She was wearing a simple black dress, effortless and understated. Her hair was up. Her face was unreadable. The mai?tre d said something pleasant. She smiled politely, but when her eyes found Matt, she beamed a megawatt smile that knocked him back.

“Hey,”

he said, standing too fast and nearly knocking over his chair.

Graceful.

“Hi.”

She stood for a beat too long and then sat down. He sat down. And then they both sat there for a second, like awkward teenagers forced to co-chaperone prom.

The server came. She ordered wine. He ordered the same. Because if she were going to drink, he would absolutely need to.

Halfway through the wine and well into the laughter, Sarah leaned back and studied him for a beat.

“I’m not ready,”

she said softly.

“To take you back, I mean. I’m still confused. Still scared. I don’t know what I want yet. But... I know I don’t want you to stop. I don’t want this version of you to disappear.”

Matt set down his glass, thoughtful. Then he nodded.

“I will never rush you,”

he said.

“I’m not asking for promises. I’m showing up because I want to, because I need to. You think I’m doing this for you, and I am. But I’m also doing it for myself. Because I like the man I’ve become, I’m trying to be worthy of you again. He’s not perfect, but he’s better. He’s honest. He’s learning. And if you need time, take it. I’ll be here, rooting for you even if I’m just the guy who brings you dinner and remembers your coffee order.”

Sarah blinked. Slowly. Then smiled. And maybe that thread between them? It wasn’t just holding. It was mending.

After the meal, when the server came by with the dessert menu, Sarah glanced at it briefly, then looked up at Matt with a different kind of smile, softer, maybe a little vulnerable.

“Skip dessert?”

she asked. Matt arched an eyebrow.

“You’re passing on chocolate lava cake? Are you ill?”

She laughed.

“Take me home. Watch old movies with me. Fall asleep on the couch like we used to.”

Matt’s grin was crooked.

“Casablanca?”

“Psycho,”

Sarah deadpanned.

He chuckled.

“We meet in the middle?”

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

“Done.”

As they pulled out of the restaurant parking lot in separate cars, Sarah rolled her window down, the night air brushing against her face like a sweet caress. She tapped the steering wheel in rhythm, the bass from Kiss Me More by Doja Cat and SZA spilling out of her speakers. Her voice joined the chorus, slightly off-key but full of sass.

She didn’t even care who was watching at the red light. She sang louder, tossing her hair like she was in her own damn music video. For the first time in forever, she felt playful. Soft. Unarmored.

Meanwhile, a few cars behind her, Matt sat at a light, pounding his palm against the dashboard in rhythm to I Gotta Feeling by The Black Eyed Peas, yelling.

“Mazel Tov!”

out the window like he had just been knighted. He drummed the steering wheel as if it were Madison Square Garden and he was the headliner.

He couldn’t stop smiling. It wasn't the promotion. It wasn't the wine still clinking around in his blood.

Because of her.

That night, they didn’t pull into the same driveway, not yet. But they drove home in perfect sync, two grown-ups in separate cars, singing like teenagers, thinking maybe, just maybe, this thing still had a chance.

They practically ran inside the house, queued up the film, grabbed blankets and a bowl of popcorn, and nestled together on the couch.

Somewhere between Holly Go-Lightly’s cat monologues and the rain-soaked kiss, they drifted off. Her head on his shoulder. His hand rested over hers.

Breathing together. Dreaming again.