Matthew’s mind is on autopilot when he opens the door to the diner. He sits up front, massaging his face tiredly, but his expression softens at the sight of you walking over— the only reason he’s here.

“Hey, doll. You know my order already, don’tcha?”

You nod and smile, and he feels like swooning like a little girl already because the bright red of your lipstick is so alluring.

Matthew’s been trying to charm you for months, but the most he’s been able to do is bury his face in his hands to hide the heat that grew on his face each time you spoke to him. Your voice was like the finest silk on his ears.

Like usual, he eats in silence when you hand him his plate, swallowing slowly before patting his jean’s pockets for his pen. He doesn’t look the type, but writing poems is his favorite pastime— most of them being about you.

After pulling the cap off with his teeth, Matthew jots down neat lines onto his journal while it rests on his thigh, and only pauses every few moments to take small sips from his coffee.

He’s given some pages to you on occasion when you ask, his answer of a quick ‘yes’ or a hesitant ‘no’ decided by if he thinks the writing is subtle enough or not for you not to notice.

Matthew’s supposed to be the rugged type— usually is, when he’s out with his friends, but right now, all he can think about is how beautiful you are when the sunlight spills over your hair from a slit in the curtains.

Today, you’ve got him writing up a storm.