Page 41 of Falling for My Matchmaker

Chapter 12: Aftershock

They found me at dawn.

Technically,Natefound me.

But it was a full entourage—Nate, two uniformed officers, and one very alarmed paramedic who nearly dropped his flashlight when he saw me chained to a chair.

“Diana,” Nate said, and I swore I’d never heard my name sound like that—like a swear word, a prayer, and a punch to the gut all at once.

He moved fast but stopped just short of touching me, probably because the cop behind him had already started shouting things like “scene secure” and “call dispatch.”

Within ten minutes, I was being unshackled, assessed, and burrito-wrapped in a trauma blanket so thermal it felt like being swaddled by a giant baked potato.

I made exactly one joke.

About not being into chains but appreciating the symbolism.

No one laughed. Except Nate.

Just once. A sharp, unsteady exhale that sounded a lot likerelief.

They loaded me into the back of an ambulance with the soft urgency of people who did this often.

Vitals. Questions. Flashlights in the eyes.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Do you want someone to ride with you?”

“Do you feel safe?”

I answered yes to all. Then they gave me a ride to the hospital.

***

I was technically fine.

Which was what you say when you were physically unharmed, emotionally cracked, and still half-convinced this was all some weird dream powered by trauma and bad dating decisions.

They gave me Sprite in a little plastic cup.

Wrapped me in another blanket.

Asked me the same questions five different ways then gently offered a victim advocate and a safe ride home.

The fluorescent lights were too bright, the blanket too warm, and the Sprite was either flat or I’d lost the ability to taste carbonation. But none of that mattered.

Because Nate was sitting in the corner.

In a plastic chair too small for him, still wearing the same clothes from last night, elbows on his knees like he didn’t trust himself to lean back.

He’d been quiet since they let him in.

I’d been quiet too.

Not out of awkwardness—just...fatigue. Shock. Maybe a little emotional buffering.

Finally, I said, “So. This is definitely going in my Matchbox feedback form.”

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