The "Fuck Buddy" bubble didn't just burst; it exploded on a rainy Tuesday night in Paris.
Matt had flown her out on a whim, claiming he had "logistics" to handle at the port. He'd left her in their suite at the Hotel Plaza Athénée, but he had been careless—or perhaps, buried deep in his subconscious, he was tired of the mask.
Cheska was looking for a universal adapter in his leather briefcase when she found it: a burner phone and a set of printed manifests tucked into a hidden compartment. She was a marketing major; she spent her days reading data and balance sheets. These weren't "hotel supplies."
The manifests listed weights for high-grade hardware, transit routes through the Golden Triangle, and "disposal fees" that were far too high to be for trash. Her stomach did a slow, sickening flip as she realized the "logistics" Matt managed weren't for the Manila skyline. They were for the underworld.
When Matt walked in an hour later, the scent of ozone and expensive cologne clinging to him, he found Cheska sitting on the edge of the bed with the papers spread out like a deck of tarot cards.
"Logistics consultant, my ass," she said, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and fear. "You're an arms dealer, Matt. Or a hitman. Which one is it? Or are you the one who cleans up the bodies?"
Matt's face went stone-cold. The "fun" version of the man she'd spent the last few months with vanished, replaced by the Enforcer. He moved with a speed that made her gasp, closing the distance between them in two strides. "You weren't supposed to open that briefcase, Cheska."
"People are dying, Matt! You spend your days moving weapons and your nights in my bed? Is this where the penthouse comes from? Is this why Joie looks like she's carrying the weight of the world?"
Matt grabbed the papers, his grip so tight the edges crinkled. "The world is a filthy place, Cheska. We didn't make it that way; we just manage the filth. The hardware I move goes to people who are stopping worse monsters from taking over. The 'disposals' are people who would have put a bullet in Joie or Stephen without a second thought."
He sat down in the armchair across from her, the shadows of the Parisian night making him look ancient. "I'm not a good man. I never told you I was. You have a choice now. I'll have a private jet take you back to Manila tonight. You can walk away, tell Alliana everything—though I promise you, she won't believe you. Or you can stay, and realize that the man who held you last night is the only thing standing between the people you love and the darkness."
Cheska looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the scars on his knuckles and the hollow exhaustion in his eyes. She saw the monster, but she also saw the man who had stayed up until 4:00 AM the week before helping her with a marketing presentation because she was stressed.
"I'm still mad at you," she whispered, the tears finally falling.
"I know," Matt said, his voice cracking just a fraction.
"And I still think you're a monster."
"I am."
Cheska stood up, her legs shaking, and walked over to him. She didn't pack her bags. She straddled his lap, gripping his shirt with enough force to rip the fabric. "Then you'd better be my monster. But if you ever lie to me again about the 'Main Work,' I'm gone. I don't care how many jets you own. Understood?"
Matt's hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him as if he were afraid she'd disappear if he let go. "Understood."
"Good," she hissed, kissing him with a violence that tasted of betrayal, fear, and an agonizingly deep surrender. "Now, shut up. I need to forget who you are for a while."
They were still "fuck buddies." But the secrets were out, and the burn had turned into a permanent scar.