poor guy has to defend his every move. it’s fucking ridiculous. like i promise the normal people do not care!!! it’s so embarrassing to be apart of this fandom
It started small—barely-there shifts in the way you looked at him, lingering glances you didn’t think he caught. But Matt had always been observant when it came to you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.
He started connecting the dots the night you came over to the apartment and found him on the kitchen floor surrounded by a million unassembled IKEA parts. Chris and Nick had bailed on him hours ago, both declaring they “had better things to do” than decipher Swedish instructions. He was sweaty, frustrated, and halfway to throwing the Allen wrench across the room when you appeared in the doorway.
“Wow,” you teased, leaning against the frame, “domestic king.”
Matt rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “Shut up. This thing’s impossible.”
But then your gaze shifted—not to the instructions or the mess, but to him. More specifically, his hands as he carefully fitted two pieces together, brows drawn in concentration. And you just… stared.
It was subtle, but he caught it: the way your lips parted slightly, the way your fingers drummed against the doorframe, the way your voice came out a touch softer when you asked, “You’re… doing this all yourself?”
Something in your tone made his stomach flip.
“Yeah,” he muttered, trying to sound casual. “Figured I’d get it done before it turns into another one of those… Sturniolo disasters.”
You smiled, slow and a little lazy, like you knew something he didn’t. “Responsible and self-sufficient? Look at you.”
Your gaze flicked from the shelf to his hands, lingering there a second too long, and Matt caught it again. Your throat bobbed when you swallowed, your cheeks a little warmer than usual.
Interesting.
After that night, he started testing a theory.
The next time you hung out, you came over after a work, your voice raspy and tired. Without thinking, he filled up a glass of water, set it on the counter, and slid it toward you before you could even ask.
Your eyes flicked up to his, wide for a split second, before you whispered, “Thanks.”
He swore your cheeks were a little pinker after that.
Then came the real giveaway.
The next time was on a random Tuesday night. Chris and Nick were gaming in the living room, screaming loud enough to shake the walls, while Matt was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, towel slung over his shoulder.
You walked in mid-yawn, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, and stopped dead in the doorway when you saw him at the sink.
“You’re… doing dishes?”
Matt glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”
You blinked, silent for a beat too long. “Like… voluntarily?”
He snorted, flicking water off his fingers. “Believe it or not, I know how to clean up after myself.”
“Since when?” you teased, leaning against the counter.
Matt rolled his eyes, but when he glanced at you again, you weren’t looking at the plates. You were watching him. Your gaze followed the flex of his forearm as he scrubbed, the veins in his hand when he turned off the faucet, the soft dip of his bottom lip when he bit it in concentration.
And then you blinked fast, like you’d caught yourself. “Right,” you mumbled, tearing your gaze away. “Cool.”
That’s when it clicked.
You liked this.
Not him being funny. Not him showing off. Not some grand romantic gesture. You liked him being… responsible.
It made no sense and perfect sense at the same time.
From then on, Matt couldn’t not notice it.
Every time he offered to drive instead of making you Uber, your pupils dilated.
Every time he reminded you to take your coat because it was cold, your lips curved in this soft, knowing smile.
Every time he picked up your coffee order without asking, you’d stare at him like he’d just hung the moon.
It was subtle, but to Matt, it felt loud.
And maybe—just maybe—he started leaning into it.
One night, you came over, hair damp from the rain, your oversized hoodie swallowing you whole.
“You look exhausted,” Matt said softly, taking your bag off your shoulder before you even asked.
“I am,” you sighed, kicking off your shoes.
“You eat?”
You shook your head, scrolling through your phone lazily. “Was gonna order something.”
Matt frowned, grabbing his keys from the counter. “I’ll go. What do you want?”
You blinked up at him, startled. “You… you’ll go get it?”
“Yeah,” he said, like it was obvious. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Text me what you want.”
You hesitated for a second, watching him, your fingers tightening around your phone like you were grounding yourself. “…Matt?”
He turned, eyebrows raised.
“Nothing,” you said quickly, biting back a smile.
But he caught it anyway—the way your chest rose and fell a little faster, the way you wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.
When he got back twenty minutes later, you were curled up under his blanket, knees tucked to your chest, phone discarded on the couch.
He set the food on the coffee table, kneeling down so he was eye-level with you. “Hey,” he said gently. “Eat first, sleep after.”
You gave him this look—soft and unreadable and a little too warm—and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.
“Why are you… like this?” you whispered.
“Like what?”
“So…” You trailed off, lips twitching as if you were fighting a smile. “So responsible.”
Matt laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not,” you said, eyes dropping to your lap. “I just—” Your voice caught for half a second, almost too quiet to hear. “—like it.”
Something in his chest tightened, a slow, spreading heat that had nothing to do with the takeout bag sitting between you.
He sat back on his heels, pretending to busy himself with unpacking the food, but the corner of his mouth curved upward despite himself.
“Good to know,” he murmured softly, handing you a container.
You raised an eyebrow. “Good to know… what?”
Matt just shrugged, lips twitching as he reached for his own chopsticks. “Nothing,” he said casually, but there was a glint in his eyes you didn’t miss.
And he didn’t push it.
Didn’t tease you outright.
Didn’t make you explain.
But from that night on, he noticed the way you looked at him a little differently—and maybe, just maybe, he started leaning into that too.
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