Page 40 of Falling for My Matchmaker

Brad stood and turned away, like he needed a second to stare into the middle distance and process his own intensity. Then turned back toward me, bare chest glowing under the single flickering bulb, scars catching the light like plot points.

“No one will ever love you like I do,” he said again, more intense this time.

And that’s when it hitme.

Not the line.

Not the scars.

The moon.

Big. Full. Perfectly timed.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “It’s a full moon.”

Brad paused. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just...some keywords.”

But my brain was sprinting now.

Of course he was shirtless. Of course there were scars. Ofcoursehe was suddenly monologuing.

Every paranormal dark romance I read before I turned full true-crime girl had warned me: the full moon makes the unhinged gofull fanfic.

He wasn’t just Brad anymore. He wasDark Brad.Possessive, tortured, moonlit Brad.

Fine. If I couldn’t control the plot, I’d at least take over the dialogue.

“You think you’re the only one with pain?” I proclaimed, shifting in the world’s most uncomfortable chair. “I know what pain is. I have a Girl Boss mug I didn’t ask for, a kleptomaniac ex, and student loan debt for a degree I never got to use.”

His eyes widened, just a little.

“You want a scar story?” I continued, lifting my chin. “Try surviving low-rise jeans, side bangs, and being called ‘intimidating’ in a Bumble message. Try shaving your legs in a dorm shower with two inches of standing water. Try group projects with men who call themselves ‘idea guys’.”

He took a step back.

I smiled, sweet andsharp.

“Put your shirt back on, or I monologue about the housing market.”

He stared at me—unblinking, unnerved, like someone who’d just realized his villain arc was no match for a woman with emotional range and monthly payments.

Then, without a word, he backed up.

Grabbed his shirt from the floor.

Fumbled with the door.

“Wait—are you seriously leaving?” I asked, half in disbelief, half annoyed I didn’t get to finish my bit about getting ghosted during a shared Spotify trial.

He didn’t answer. Just yanked open the door and disappeared into the cold night air, shirt balled in one hand like it had betrayed him.

The door slammed.

Silence.

“Well,” I muttered. “I guess Iamintimidating after all.”

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