Learning Curve - Disciplinary Action #2 - ch. 9 (Patreon)

Unbeta'd/Unedited. Internet is still being glitchy as hell. They're coming to fix it in the morning. In the meantime, here's a chapter of Learning Curve. Matteo is having an existential crisis.

Matteo

Name one thing you did today that made a positive difference in someone else’s life.

Matteo read the journal prompt for the hundredth time.

What the fuck did that even mean?

He scrubbed his hands over his face, then flopped back on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. This was his own fault. He’d gotten too comfortable with Evander’s stupid journal prompts too quickly.

The first week had been annoyingly simple, almost childishly so. Something that had rubbed Matteo raw the first couple of nights, causing him to leave equally childish and increasingly acerbic responses to each one.

What was the most frustrating part of your day? Seeing your face.

Which chore did you hate the most? You. 

Describe this house as if it were a character. No.

He’d rolled his eyes as he’d read them each night, texting them to Cal with a WTF only to receive several crying-laughing emojis in return. Sometimes, Matteo laughed, too. Even though he’d start with petty one or two word answers, he’d eventually expand on it like he was supposed to. He’d never admit it, but journaling was his favorite part of the day. He’d always loved writing…like his mom, which was probably why his father had forbidden it. Matteo wasn’t allowed to experience joy. Nobody within his father’s orbit could. The man was a thief of joy, a vampire who lived by sucking the fun out of anything.

But this new question…

Name one thing you did today that made a positive difference in someone else’s life.

Did Evander expect him to do…charity work? How was he supposed to do that? He hadn’t left the house in days. How could he? The press were everywhere. And they were fucking mean. They hated him. They critiqued his looks, his clothing…even the way he walked. They called him a gold digger. A bad influence. They wrote substack posts and wordy internet stories, TikTok influencers—several who used to be his friends—now had entire threads dedicated to his fall from billionaire nepo baby to billionaire’s sugar baby. They spent hours waxing poetic about how he’d seduced Evander, how he’d…hypnotized him into seeing him as something other than the selfish, self-centered criminal he was.

Matteo huffed out a nonhumorous laugh. The joke was on them. Evander knew exactly how awful Matteo was. He just thought he could fix him. It was clear Evander loved a project and Matteo was the ultimate fixer-upper. But he was wrong. Matteo was a renovated mansion with black mold and rotting foundation. He even came with his own ghosts. He shook his head at his analogy. Did he have a right to feel sorry for himself while lying in a penthouse apartment on sheets stitched for royalty? 

Lots of people had thought they could fix him. If Matteo had a dollar for every person he’d disappointed, he wouldn’t have had to turn to Evander for his help in the first place. Or whatever the fuck this was. Was he helping? Up until last night the whole thing had felt pretty stagnant, orbiting each other but never growing any closer.

He snapped a pic of the journal prompt. It seemed like the least he could do was allow Cal to laugh at his plight each day. It was an odd form of penance but the only one he was in any position to offer someone who now had everything. Especially now that Matteo had nothing.

Matteo: [pic attached] What the fuck does this even mean?

He hadn’t expected a quick response—Cal was usually busy with school—but three dots began to bounce.

Cal: That you need to think about someone other than yourself?

Matteo: How? Like, what?

Cal: Are you asking me how to think about someone other than yourself?    

Matteo: No, asshole. I’m asking what I can do to help someone else? I can barely help myself. What does that mean? Am I supposed to go to a shelter or a…what do they call those places where they feed people? A soup kitchen? Does he expect me to, like, put on a hair net and serve people food or something?

Cal: I don’t think anyone has such high hopes for you just yet. Just go out and, like, be nice to people?

Matteo frowned down at his phone.

Matteo: Nice?

Nice was not in his skill set.

Cal: Yes, it’s the opposite of mean. You know this. You suck at math, not English, dude. Just go help an old lady cross the street, open a few doors for people. Just do something that benefits someone else more than yourself. It’s not that hard to be a good person if you just pull your head out of your own ass long enough to look around and see that there’s a ton of people in need.

The idea of going out, being perceived, people looking at him, judging him, thanking him, treating him like he was a good person, like he mattered…it made his skin crawl. It rubbed him raw from the inside out. It grated, like something caught just under his skin.

He wasn’t good. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t nice.

He’d tried being nice. When he was a kid. When his mom was still around. And what had that gotten him? His mom leaving, his dad and grandfather abusing him. Being nice had never gotten him anything but a need for a therapist on speed dial. 

Nice just led to being caught off guard, to having someone yanking the rug out from under him when he least expected it.

It was better to have no expectations of people and for people to have no expectations of him. Better to not try and be labeled a loser than to try his hardest and still fail miserably. Or worse, only to have success ripped away from him by a man who expected excellence than punished him for outshining him. 

That hurt far worse.

Matteo: Can’t I just, like…donate money?

Cal: You’re a grown ass man. You can do whatever you want. I’m sure if you donated a part of your allowance Evander would accept it. He’s taken every one of your half-assed, three sentence answers so far. But you know that’s not what he wants. He’s going to keep upping the ante. He’s going to keep pushing you out of your comfort zone. He’s training you.

Training him…to be his perfect submissive.

Two weeks ago that would have made Matteo’s lip curl in disgust. He’d thought submitting to Evander would feel like a loss, that it would have Evander gloating, holding it over his head, making him feel inferior and cheap. 

Now the idea filled his belly with this heat that spread to his limbs like shockwaves. 

What was happening to him? 

Was this Stockholm syndrome? 

Did it happen that fast? 

Matteo googled the definition: Stockholm syndrome is a psychological response where hostages or abuse victims develop positive feelings, empathy, or loyalty toward their captors/abusers.

Was he a hostage? Evander certainly wasn’t abusing him. Matteo huffed out a sullen sigh. He barely touched him. Develop positive feelings…Did he have positive feelings toward Evander? Empathy? Loyalty? It was hard to be empathetic toward someone who shared nothing with him. Would he be loyal to Evander? His stomach churned. He didn’t even know what he wanted the answer to be. 

How fucked up was that? He wanted to believe he wasn’t already somehow in too deep with his childhood…nemesis? First crush? First heartbreak? What were they to each other when they were children?

God, he was a fucking mess.

Matteo: What do I do?

Cal: That’s up to you. But you’re not going to see the impact that doing something nice for someone else has from behind your phone screen. You’re going to have to face the world sometime.

Says who?

If anyone could stay inside for a year, it would be him. Even if this house looked more like a prison than an actual prison did. He hated the gray walls, the one blood-splatter-red painting, the lack of color, lack of style, lack of creativity. There was nothing about this house that represented him…or even Evander. It was just…gray.

Sterile. Controlled. Intentional.

Maybe he could decorate the place for Evander. Would that count as his good deed? Did Evander want Matteo touching his grayscale nightmare of a penthouse? Was that only allowed after Matteo had passed this test?

Matteo: I’m going shopping.

Cal: Well, at least you’re leaving the house. That’s something, I guess. 

He dragged himself to a sitting position, wincing when the skin of his lower back felt tight and itchy from the fluid that had dried there before he slept. Would Evander be pleased he’d listened? That he hadn’t cleaned himself up? 

Matteo huffed out an angry breath through his nose. Why the fuck did he care?

He grabbed his journal and bumped it against his head a few times, hoping to knock all of these complicated feelings out of his head where he could sweep them up and toss them in the trash.

Where they belonged.

Where they belong or you do?

He shook his head like he could shake the negativity away. He wished his brain worked like that. It used to. Once upon a time, he’d been the human equivalent of an etch-a-sketch, shaking his father and grandfather’s expectations and disappointments off before the bruises had even healed.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. When his lungs were empty, he would force himself to stop fixating on this. He would. He had to.

He allowed himself five deep cleansing breaths before rolling out of bed. He headed to the bathroom, standing under the scalding water, letting the sting numb his thoughts. Letting it burn just enough to feel something he could control.

His hair was still damp and feet still bare when he entered the kitchen in his joggers and a t-shirt that clung in the right places. He frowned when he didn’t see Evander in his usual spot, sitting at the dining table looking polished and sexy, groomed to perfection, tablet in one hand and phone face up on the table. 

Usually, he was forced to make Evander’s coffee, then stand there, as Evander sampled it and gave him a nod of approval or a command to remake it. When it was finally how Evander wanted it, he would sit Matteo on the counter beside the stove so he could watch him cook their breakfast. After that, they would eat together, Evander setting the day's expectations for Matteo.

But today, the house was silent, not a single sound but for the air conditioner humming. 

He frowned when he saw a piece of cream-colored paper on the counter.

Morning Hatchling,

Had an early meeting. Make sure you eat well today. Your maintenance spankings start tonight. You’ll need your strength. Make sure all your chores are done before I return if you don’t want tonight to escalate before you’re ready.

~E

Escalate.

Anticipation coiled low in his stomach, sharp and unfamiliar.

When Matteo had gone to bed last night, he’d imagined he’d be up all night, staring at the ceiling, frustrated and fretting over what had happened between them, in the bedroom, then, again, in the kitchen. But he’d been asleep before his head hit the pillow. A deep, dreamless sleep that was over almost as quickly as it started.

He’d woken up feeling confused and contemplative, a heavy feeling behind his ribs that he couldn’t pinpoint. Like something had shifted while he wasn’t paying attention.

Matteo walked to the sink, leaning into it until his hips ached from the counter pressing against them. Just like last night. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back, pretending it was resting on Evander’s broad shoulder. It was so easy to imagine his hands on him again.

Everything that had happened there last night had felt surreal, like a fever dream, something he’d conjured up in the shower to get off. His punishment, Evander’s touch, his teasing, his hands on his body, the way he’d brought him to the brink then left him wanting, only to get himself off right there.

Matteo bit his lip as he thought about it, thought about the way he’d marked him, the way he’d rubbed his release into his skin like he was claiming him.

It should disgust him. It should feel degrading…insulting…but it had left him feeling…powerful.

Chosen.

Evander, who never lost control, who seemed completely unaffected by Matteo every day, had snapped. It had been like he couldn’t stop himself. The heavy sound of his breath against his ear, the feel of his hands on him…the way Matteo had made that happen…it was addictive.

What would sex feel like? What would it feel like when Evander touched him with intention? When he didn’t stop? When pleasure was tied to pain? When Evander held Matteo’s fate in his hands in every way?

Wasn’t that already what was happening?

Cal had warned him that this wasn’t a game. He’d told him that—eventually—there would be complicated feelings involved. Matteo had laughed. He’d been cocky. He’d imagined that—even if Cal was right—it would take months and, by then, it would be almost over. He’d either have Evander in checkmate or he’d be walking away with enough money to start over.

But barely a week had passed and Matteo’s head was spinning.

He’d been in Evander’s presence for just over seven days. There was no slow unraveling over weeks, no subtle changes that he hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Matteo was just…undone by Evander. He hadn’t felt like himself since the moment he’d crossed that threshold.

It was this strange dichotomy.

He had never had more responsibility than the chores Evander assigned him, but he’d never felt safer either. No matter what Evander said—no matter what their contract said—Matteo knew, on a cellular level, that Evander wouldn’t let him fail. He wouldn’t let him fall. He believed in him far more than Matteo believed in himself.

It wasn’t flashy or performative. Evander’s unwavering steadiness made Matteo feel safe and that safety scared him. He laughed sharply at the stupidity of the thought. Evander’s care came with terms and conditions, literally, ones so important to him, they’d signed a contract to ensure those conditions were met. Evander’s care and comfort made Matteo want to try, it made him want to hope and that was terrifying. He couldn’t be the person Evander thought he was. He simply wasn’t capable.

Fuck. 

It had been just seven days…That meant fifty-one weeks still to come before Matteo got what he wanted. What had he wanted again? Right. Money. Safety. Security. Would Evander change then? Would Matteo? Would he change before then? Would he be better? Could he? What about Matteo’s family? 

But what happened then? Would his life be like this? What did a life with Evander look like? Chores and punishments and sexual servitude? Lavish trips and fancy parties and fake smiles? Both? He tried to muster up some outrage at the idea. He really did.

He had lived the latter, but by the end would he crave the former? And would his family try to take that from him next? Cal was right. This whole situation was a mind fuck he just hadn’t anticipated. He was already spiraling. 

He slipped his headphones in and began to do his daily chores. He didn’t much care for housework. If not for his endless Spotify playlists, he’d likely crawl out of his skin, floating around this concrete prison. But if the punishments left him feeling like he had last night…if servicing Evander left him feeling as…sated as he had last night…then housework didn’t seem that bad to Matteo.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

Matteo was already settling into a routine, one that Evander could rip away any time he wanted to. Matteo was only auditioning for the role of Evander’s husband. He wasn’t guaranteed the role. Evander was the one evaluating him, judging him, shaping him, attempting to turn him into his idea of the perfect husband.

Or maybe he was just fucking with him and he would send him on his way with a big fat check and a hollow feeling that never went away.

Used up. Discarded.

The thought made Matteo’s stomach churn.

He stopped in the kitchen to stare down at Evander’s note once again, tracing the letters with his fingers. He had such elegant handwriting. Everything about him was elegant, really. Maybe that was the problem. It was hard to reconcile Evander from his childhood and Evander now.

Childhood Evander had always been sweet, loving, attentive. Quick to smile. Quick to help. Quick to shelter Matteo in any way someone so young could have. He’d been nerdy, awkward, limbs too long, teeth too crooked, a laugh so infectious it was impossible not to join in. When Evander laughed too hard as a child, he’d snorted.

Did he still do that?

Did this version of Evander even know how to laugh? Matteo realized he was smiling at the thought, immediately forcing himself to stop. Like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

The old Evander was nothing like the new. Sexy, successful, altruistic to the point it was his whole personality. He had over a million followers on every social media platform yet struggled to remember to answer an email. Every outfit he wore cost thousands of dollars, but that—much too hot—publicist had sewn tags into every item that told Evander which items went together.

It was ridiculous. And endearing. But also annoying. 

Infuriating.

Why would Evander want Matteo when he could have someone who was his equal? Had Julian rejected him? Why did Matteo even care?

He wasn’t looking for love. He was looking for safety, security, a way to show his family he didn’t need them. That he might be stupid and shallow and…unworthy…of their name, but he would always find a way to survive.

Always.

Even if it meant becoming someone he didn’t recognize.

His chest tightened, self-loathing filling his lungs like a diver who’d gone too deep beneath the water’s surface. He didn’t have time for a shame spiral today.

He quickly finished up his chores, then changed his clothes, remembering at the last minute to grab his keycard for the elevator.

The moment he stepped foot outside, it felt like he’d stepped onto a stage, the sun his spotlight. He’d yanked a beanie down over his dark hair and hid behind his Gucci sunglasses, but he could feel eyes on him everywhere.Or maybe that was just paranoia. 

It didn’t feel like it.

Matteo had tried to dress down in jeans, a t-shirt, and a suede jacket, but there was no missing that spark of recognition that he saw in every other person who passed him on the sidewalk. Even when he was trying to disappear, he didn’t know how.

He stayed away from his old haunts, but still stuck to smaller boutique stores. He didn’t buy anything big. A bowl for the lemons. A plant for the kitchen window. A candle that smelled like a forest after it rained. Nothing Evander would notice. Nothing that would change the house. Just…things that made it feel less like a place Matteo was staying and more like somewhere he might eventually belong.

Matteo only realized he hadn’t eaten breakfast like Evander had asked when his stomach started growling. He crossed the street, heading into the courtyard of an open-air shopping plaza. In between name-brand shops sat small specialty stores and restaurants with varying goods and sundries. A shop that sold gourmet olive oils sat next to a new age shop with crystals in the window. Across from that was a brick oven pizza place, a gelato shop and a place that sold bubble tea and two thousand calorie milkshakes with entire  slices of cake balanced on top. 

There was a guy not much older than Matteo standing outside the shops, a guitar in hand, singing loudly with his case open at his feet to collect money. There wasn’t much inside. Less than twenty bucks. Matteo didn’t recognize the song but could tell it was old and Irish. 

It was clear he lived on the street. His clothes were rumpled, stained, tiny holes and hems that seemed chewed up. His hair was too long, his beard unkempt. Beside his guitar case there was a duffel bag at his feet that spilled over with items. Matteo watched as people looked at him, then quickly away, like they were embarrassed. For him or for themselves, Matteo didn’t know.

Matteo might have done the same if some pinched face redhead with a karen cut and a cross around her neck hadn’t looked him up and down before sneering, “You’re what's wrong with this country. Get a job.” She threw her empty cup in the case as she walked away. 

Matteo just stood there, frozen in place, staring at the empty cup. He didn’t move until the guy stopped playing to reach for the cup. Matteo rushed forward, scooping it up and putting it in the trash can less than a foot away. 

Matteo opened his wallet and dropped a hundred-dollar bill into the guitar case. 

“I—I don’t have change or anything,” the guy said.

“It’s fine. I don’t need it,” Matteo said. 

The guy studied him, confusion evident. 

Matteo started to walk off, but then turned around. “Are you hungry? I was gonna go inside and grab a burger. Wanna join me?”

He pointed to the shop to the left. The man shook his head.

“No, he’ll get mad.”

Matteo frowned. “What? Who will?”

“The owner,” the man said. “He—he doesn’t like me being out here. He gets really mad.”

“Who cares what that guy thinks? Does he own the whole plaza?” Matteo asked. 

The guy’s lips twitched with an aborted smile, then he shook his head. “No.” 

Matteo grinned. “Stay here. I’ll bring you something.”

The man studied Matteo suspiciously. “Okay.”

It was noon so the place was crazy busy. Matteo stood in the line with several others, but eventually made it to the front of the line.

No one paid him much attention here. That helped.

When he received their food, he returned, handing one of the boxes to the man, who set his guitar down to take a seat on the bench.

Matteo was going to walk away, already thinking of how he finally had something he could use for the journal prompt response when the man said, “Hey, thanks. I’m Garett, by the way.”

Matteo hesitated, box in hand, then sat down on the bench. “Matteo. Nice to meet you.”

He crisscrossed his legs beneath him, then settled the food into his lap. 

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Matteo couldn’t take the quiet anymore. “How long have you played guitar? You’re pretty good.”

Garett shrugged. “Since I was old enough to hold one, really.”

“You’re really talented,” Matteo said sincerely.

Garett nodded, tone hovering somewhere between cynical and wistful. “Too bad talent doesn’t pay the bills.”

“You sound like my dad,” Matteo said without thinking.

He snapped his head around to see if he’d offended Garett, but the other guy just laughed. “Mine too.”

“Where is your family?” Matteo asked. “Can I—ask that?”

Garett snorted. “You bought me food and gave me a hundred bucks. You can ask me whatever you want.”

“So…do you? Have a family?”

Garett shrugged. “I’m sure they’re around here somewhere. My mom went into a mental hospital when I was seven. I never saw her again. My dad drank himself unconscious every day, then bailed when I was around fourteen.”

“Fourteen?” Matteo echoed. “Where did you live then?”

Garett frowned, waving a hand around. “You’re looking at it.”

“You’ve been homeless since you were fourteen?” Matteo asked. “How did you eat? Where did you sleep?”

“The politically correct term is unhoused,” Garett said, voice taking on a haughty tone.

Matteo’s eyes went wide. “Oh, sorry, I—”

“I’m just fucking with you, man,” Garett said, eyes shining with laughter. “Most of us don’t care what you call us. We’re just happy if people even acknowledge that they see us.”

That landed harder than Matteo expected.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re an…uncomfortable truth,” Garett said. “People don’t like acknowledging us because we represent something nobody wants to think about.”

Matteo pondered that for a minute but  still didn’t understand. “What truth is that?”

Garett shrugged. “That most people are only one bad day away from being us.”

“Is that true?” Matteo blurted.

Garett shrugged. “If I took you back to my camp, who do you think you’d see there?”

Matteo’s gaze floated away from him.

Garett chuckled. “You wanna say addicts and crazy people, right?”

“Um, I—”

“You should see your face right now,” Garett said, clearly enjoying watching Matteo squirm. “There are a few junkies, more than a few people who needed psych help and didn’t get it. But mostly it’s just people who had one emergency they couldn’t cover.”

“How?” Matteo asked, shaking his head. “How does one emergency end in people being homeless?”

Garett shrugged. “Say the transmission blows in your car. Three thousand dollars you don’t have. Now you can’t get to work. You have no sick leave. No emergency backup. Now you can’t pay rent.” He counted on his fingers. “Kid breaks an arm. Hospital bill shows up. Rent’s late.” Another finger. “You get pneumonia. Miss two weeks of work. Landlord doesn’t care why.”

He glanced around the street.

“It’s not the emergency that ruins people,” he said quietly. “It’s everything that happens after.”

“That’s…crazy,” Matteo said, shaking his head.

And a little too close to home.

“Yeah, it’s fucked, man,” Garett said. “Imagine having to decide if you’re gonna pay the rent or for your son’s chemo meds? Imagine having to choose between leaving your severely disabled child home alone or getting fired.”

Matteo looked down at his half-eaten food, stomach churning.

He thought about Cal.

Cal, who he’d mocked, ridiculed, beaten up. Cal, who had only ever been a friend to him. That must have been terrifying. He’d been on the street less than a week and had ended up in the hospital for almost a month. No wonder he’d fallen so deeply in love with Gideon. He’d saved his life.

“My friend, Cal—he lived on the streets for a few days because his father went to prison and he couldn’t afford his insulin. He almost died out there.”

“Shit, man. That’s rough,” Garett said. “Is he good now?”

Matteo nodded. “Yeah, he’s great. He’s in law school.”

“Wow. Talk about a comeback,” Garett said, sounding impressed.

“He had help. Without it, he’d probably be dead.”

The truth in that statement hit Matteo like a cartoon anvil. It was one thing to know something like that had happened to someone, but Matteo had never let himself truly think about what that meant—what it had meant to Cal. What it would have meant if Gideon hadn’t stepped in.

Cal really could have died.

What would have happened then? Would Matteo have continued to make fun of him with the others? He’d never stood up to Micah when he could have.

He’d never stood up for anyone.

“He’s lucky,” Garett said. “Help is hard to find. Especially nowadays.”

“I know this is gonna sound fucking stupid and kind of…privileged, but I thought they had programs and stuff to help people who don’t have a place to sleep or food to eat.”

“My friend, Maggie—she stays in the tent beside mine—she has three kids. Her husband was a computer analyst. He made good money. Not six figure money, but enough that they could afford a three-bedroom house, ballet, flag football, that kind of thing. Then he collapsed. Brain tumor. Cancer. Rapidly progressing, eating up his whole body. They only had a fifteen-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. Which, turns out, isn’t even enough to bury someone nowadays. She wasn’t working because someone had to take care of him and the kids. They’d maxed out what their insurance will cover. She goes to the state for help and they offer her $120 a month in food stamps for five people.”

“Per person?” Matteo asked, trying to imagine stretching a grocery budget of $600 a month to feed five people.

He’d spent more than that on just one of the items in the bags at his feet.

On something that would probably sit untouched and unnoticed in their ugly gray kitchen.

“Total,” Garett said. “$120 divided by five people. Feels impossible, right?”

Matteo nodded. He felt sick.

He closed the box that held his half-eaten burger, prepared to chuck it into the garbage.

“Hey, don’t do that. If you’re not going to eat it, can I have it?” Garett asked.

Matteo nodded.

He pulled his wallet free and took out the two remaining hundred-dollar bills, dropping them into the guitar case with the other.

It felt like nothing. It felt like too much. It felt like he was trying to buy his way out of something he couldn’t name.

“You don’t have to do that, man,” Garett said.

“I don’t have to,” Matteo said. “But I definitely should. I got a lot of bad karma to work off. Share it with the others if you don’t want to keep it all for yourself.”

Garett nodded. “Thanks, man.”

Matteo picked up his bags. “Are you always here?”

Garett nodded. “Yeah, the lady who owns the whole plaza lets me stay because the customers like the music. But if anyone complains, I’m sure she’ll kick me out.”

Matteo gave a singular nod. “I’ll see you around.”

“Not if I see you first,” Garett said with a grin that showed off two overlapping front teeth.

Matteo smiled and waved, then turned to leave. He wandered home on autopilot.

He carefully set the potted plant on the windowsill. He put the new bowl on the kitchen counter, filling it with lemons. 

The candle he put on his own desk because something about the scent reminded him of Evander. He cracked open the journal, pen in hand, staring down at the question once more until the letters were seared into his brain.

Name one thing you did today that made a positive difference in someone else’s life.

He pressed the pen to the page, but then stopped.

He didn’t want to share any of it. He didn’t want to tell Evander Garett’s story just to fulfill a prompt in his journal. It didn’t make any sense. He’d only sat down to talk to him because he knew it would satisfy Evander’s question. But now it just felt…exploitative.

Matteo didn’t know what it was like to be homeless—unhoused—but he did know what it was like to be used, to have your tragedies splashed all over the news for headlines, for content. To have your worst moments turned into someone else’s lesson. 

He didn’t want to do that. 

Not to Garett or his friend, Maggie.

It was nobody’s business.

Name one thing you did today that made a positive difference in someone else’s life.

He once more pressed pen to paper.

Nothing.

Even if he was punished harshly for his answer, it would be worth it. 

For the first time in forever, Matteo didn’t feel like pond scum. 

 He knew it wouldn’t last. He wanted to savor the fleeting feeling while he could.