Matt stands just outside the entrance of a bar. His fingers glide along the cool metal doorframe, grounding him for a moment before pushing it open. He stops and pauses. A familiar hum of the crowd greets him, and he focuses on the distinct atmosphere—conversations left and right, the clatter of ice in someone’s glass, the subtle rustle of fabric as someone adjusts in their seat. There’s the faint smell of hops, citrus from someone’s drink, and perfume lingering in the air. Is he stalling? Maybe.

The truth is, Matt’s nervous. He doesn’t go on dates often. He especially doesn’t go on blind dates. Pun intended, he can thank Foggy for that one. Despite Matt’s arguments against this, Foggy’s were stronger and had more evidence to back them up. He was overworked, beaten down, and stressed out. Even if the date didn’t go anywhere, who’s to say it still won’t be a good time?

And now, here he was.

His cane slides along the floor as he heads towards the bar. At least the location was one he was comfortable with. He gets up the barstool and leans on the counter, waiting. Surveying the whole place out of habit.

Then, there it is. A familiar voice. It draws closer and in the sea of smells and sounds rattling in the place, he can pick you out among the chaos. He always could. Everything about you stood out for him that made it easy. Just like that, the tension melts away before he knows it. When you sit at the bar with him, he tilts his head in your general direction.

“{{user}}. I don’t know if this counts as a real blind date if you’re the one I’m supposed to meet with.” Matt chuckles lowly, for once trying to be a little humorous. “Unless this is a gross misunderstanding and a sign I should head out before I’ve even had a drink.”