What The Hell Did You Do To Me? -M.S
Matt didn’t do love. He didn’t do attachment, or affection, or anything that required his heart to actually be involved. His life was neat, orderly, and emotionally untethered. He kept things simple. No complications. No strings.
The arrangement with you had always been straightforward. A mutual release. A way to unload the stress of the day, to let off steam. Nothing more. At least, that’s how he saw it. He didn’t need more, and you didn’t seem to want it either. He made it clear from the start that he didn’t do relationships. He didn't do feelings. And you’d never pushed.
But somehow, little by little, things had started to shift. He tried to ignore it at first—dismiss the way your smile made his chest tighten, the way your laugh lingered in his mind long after you’d left. Your habits, the way you spun the ring on your finger when you were nervous, or how your eyelashes fluttered when you looked up at him—all of it started to invade his thoughts. He hated that he noticed. He hated how his eyes seemed to always find you, how his mind followed your every movement.
You’d say things sometimes—innocent things, really. After a night together, when the air between you both was heavy with sweat and whispers, you’d murmur something like, “Maybe this could be more, Matt. Maybe we could be more.”
And he’d shut it down, every time. Quickly. Firmly. No hesitation.
“No,” he’d say, voice flat, “I don’t do that. You know that.”
It was always easy to push you away in those moments, to remind you of the boundaries. He kept everything in check, just the way he liked it. But over time, it wasn’t so easy. The words, the touch, the way you made him feel—he could no longer ignore it.
It was like a constant hum in the background of his mind. And it pissed him off.
He tried to fight it. Focus on his work. Keep his distance. But no matter how hard he tried, you were there. In the quiet moments when his mind was free to wander, there you were. The way your hand grazed his skin when you passed him in the hallway, the way you sighed against him in the dead of night, making him feel like he was drowning in something he didn’t want to feel.
He hated it. Hated how you made him feel. How he could no longer go a day without thinking about you, without wondering what it would be like to have you in his life, to actually have something real with you.
And then, one night, it all came to a head.
The frustration, the confusion, the raw need to just get it out, to scream it all into the universe—Matt couldn’t take it anymore. He was shaking, his heart racing as he drove to your apartment, unable to stop himself, as if some unseen force was pulling him toward you. The road blurred in his vision, his hands tight on the wheel, his breath coming too fast. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he knew he needed to get to you. He needed to yell at you. To tell you exactly what he was feeling, what you’d done to him.
He knocked on your door, the sound echoing in the quiet of the night. When you opened it, you barely had time to register the fury in his eyes before he pushed past you, forcing his way inside.
“I fucking hate you,” he growled, his voice sharp and dangerous.
Your eyes widened at his words, your mouth opening to respond, but before you could say anything, he was already on you, his hands gripping your arms, shaking with pent-up anger.
“I hate you,” he repeated, his voice a low growl, “for what you’re doing to me. You made me feel this... this thing, and I can’t get rid of it. Every time I look at you, it’s like I’m losing my mind. You’re all I think about, and I fucking hate it.” He let out a airy laugh, but it was a bitter sound, twisted like a knot in his chest, as if the anger and disbelief were clawing their way out, refusing to let the truth in.
His breath was ragged, his chest heaving as the anger spilled out. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling.
“I didn’t want this,” he continued, his voice quieter now, a mixture of frustration and something else he couldn’t quite name. “I didn’t want to care. But here I am, thinking about you all the goddamn time. And I can’t stop it. I can’t stop this... this feeling you’ve given me.”
You stood there, silent, trying to process what he was saying, but before you could speak, he was there again, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his eyes searching yours like he was looking for something he couldn’t find.
“You’ve fucked me up,” he muttered, his voice breaking on the words. “I hate the way you make me feel.”
There was a silence, thick and heavy, as you stood frozen in his gaze. You could see it in his eyes—the conflict, the anger, the raw emotion. You didn’t know what to say. He didn’t seem to know either, but before you could say a word, his lips crashed onto yours, hard and desperate. It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t soft—it was a kiss that carried all the frustration, the confusion, the need he had been trying to suppress.
When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven, his face just inches from yours.
“What the fuck did you do to me?” he whispered, his voice rough, like it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to say.
It wasn’t a question. Not really. It was an admission of something he wasn’t ready to face, something that had been building up between you both for so long that neither of you could pretend it wasn’t there anymore.
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He didn’t hate you. Not really. What he hated was how you made him feel, how you turned his world upside down with just a touch, a smile, a word.
He hated it because he didn’t know how to control it. How to stop it.
And now, neither of you could pretend anymore.
wc: 1k
©sagesturns
