Chapter Text
There are several things Mattias Slater knows for certain:
1. Gigi Grayson does nothing in moderation.
2. If there’s glitter involved, she’s either about to cause a scene or already mid-disaster.
3. And wherever she is, she is absolutely, one hundred percent his problem.
The bartender at the rooftop brunch points vaguely toward the noise.
“She’s… on a table,” they say carefully, like trying to describe a wild animal without startling it.
Mattias doesn’t thank them. He just storms toward the music, shouldering through the half-drunken crowd until—
Oh. Oh, hell.
Gigi Grayson is in the center of the patio, standing on a table in six-inch silver heels that should be illegal. Her oversized sunglasses are perched crookedly on her nose, her mimosa is raised like a microphone, and her lipstick is smudged in a way that suggests both chaos and victory.
“…and THAT is why you should never date a man who drives a Jeep and says ‘vibes’ unironically,” she announces.
Scattered applause.
Mattias stops in his tracks. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Gigi lifts her glass like she’s about to toast the revolution. “Ladies, we are not rehab centers for emotionally constipated men with mother issues. Say it with me—”
“Gigi,” Mattias snaps.
She freezes, then grins down at him like a tipsy war criminal.
“Oh, Slater!” she calls sweetly, gesturing dramatically. “Did you come to support women’s voices? Or just mine?”
The crowd turns. Oh, they love this.
Mattias is already removing his jacket.
“You’re coming down.”
“Aw. You missed the good part.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m brilliant.” She lifts a finger. “And giving a public service announcement.”
“On a table.”
“It’s brunch theater.”
Mattias sighs. Deeply. Painfully. And when she sways on her ridiculous shoes, that’s the last straw.
He strides forward, grabs her waist, and lifts her—like a sack of glittery, stubborn flour—right off the table.
“Hey—!” Gigi shrieks.
“I warned you.”
“You are manhandling me.”
“You’re wearing heels that look like weapons and you’ve had three mimosas too many.”
“Two and a half,” she mutters into his shoulder.
He adjusts his grip and carries her like royalty through the stunned crowd. His jacket is draped around her, shielding her legs and saving her dignity—or at least what’s left of it.
Someone claps.
Gigi lifts her head and calls, “TEDx thank you for having me! Next week: how to fake cry your way out of a parking ticket!”
Mattias doesn’t stop until they’re out of the building, down the stairs, and standing beside his car.
“You’re infuriating,” he mutters, setting her down.
She wobbles slightly but doesn’t let go of him.
“And you are just mad because I was funnier than you.”
“I’m mad because you could’ve gotten hurt.”
Gigi arches an eyebrow. “You think a brunch table could take me down?”
“I think you don’t know your limits. And I think I’m the one who always has to clean up when you cross them.”
That lands.
Her smirk falters.
For a second, she’s quiet. Still half-draped in his jacket, half-drunk on champagne and bravado, but quieter than she ever lets herself be.
“Sorry,” she mumbles.
Mattias blinks.
“I’m not actually sorry for the TED Talk,” she adds. “But maybe… a little bit for the table.”
Mattias studies her. The eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes. The slight tremor in her fingers. The way her bravado is unraveling at the edges.
“You okay?”
Gigi shrugs. “I was fine. Until I wasn’t. So I ordered a pitcher.”
“Alone?”
She glances away. “It was supposed to be a birthday brunch with Harper. She bailed. Said her boyfriend needed her. Again.”
He exhales. “And you didn’t text me why?”
“Because I knew you’d come.”
“That’s… kind of the point.”
Gigi laughs. Softly. “I didn’t want to ruin your day. Just mine.”
Mattias stares at her. “Juliet.”
She winces at the name. “Matty.”
“Don’t.”
“Then stop using my government name.”
He steps closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You think I care if you ruin my day?”
“I think I ruin everything.”
“Yeah?” His voice drops. “Then why do I keep showing up?”
Gigi swallows.
The tension shifts—sharp, electric, familiar. The kind of push and pull they’ve lived in for years. Him, the storm she tries to outpace. Her, the flame he never stops chasing.
“I didn’t want to cry at brunch,” she whispers.
“So you climbed on a table instead.”
“I wanted to feel like I had control over something.”
Mattias doesn’t respond. Just takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead.
“You don’t have to perform for me, sunshine.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were. You always do. But you don’t have to.”
She lets herself lean into him. Just a little.
“Still mad?” she asks.
“Oh, furious.”
“But?”
“But you looked hot doing it.”
Gigi snorts.
He opens the passenger door for her. “Get in. We’re going home.”
“We?”
“You’re not being left alone while you’re crash-crying in last night’s makeup. I’m making you food. You’re drinking water. Then you’re sleeping it off on my couch.”
“I could go to my apartment.”
He gives her a look.
She relents. “Fine. But I want hash browns.”
“I was already making them.”
“Ugh,” she groans as she climbs in. “You’re such a wife.”
Mattias shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side, still muttering, “You’re lucky I love you.”
She grins out the window. “Say it louder for the TED Talk!”
Gigi is wrapped in a blanket burrito, mascara wiped off, hair in a messy bun. Mattias sets a plate of hash browns and eggs in front of her and collapses beside her.
She gives him a look. “You really do love me, huh?”
He shrugs. “God knows why.”
Gigi hums. “Probably because I’m a glitter-covered disaster with excellent stage presence.”
“Definitely not that.”
She leans her head on his shoulder. “You always catch me.”
“Always.”
Silence.
“Hey, Matty?”
“Yes, sunshine?”
“Thanks for the brunch extraction.”
“Thanks for the table-top feminist manifesto.”
They grin.
And just like that—between the mayhem, the mimosas, and the mess—Gigi Grayson lets herself feel safe. Even if she’s still drunk. Even if tomorrow she’ll make it worse again.
Tonight, she has him.
And that’s enough.