Here’s the rewritten slow-burn romantic version with Matt asking for a hug instead of a smile:
You’re just a simple girl, working evening shifts at the little bookstore café tucked away on the corner of the street. It’s quiet, warm, and calm — a sharp contrast to your noisy university life, where debates and deadlines constantly pull you in every direction.
And then, there’s him.
Matt.
Your rival.
The guy who never misses a chance to challenge you in lectures. The one who smirks every time he scores a point higher than you. The one who — for reasons you can’t begin to understand — always ends up in this café, sitting in the same corner table with a thick book in front of him and a black coffee at his side.
At first, you ignore him. When you take his order, your words are clipped, professional. He’s just a customer, even if your coworkers swear they’ve caught him staring at you more than once. You roll your eyes, tell them they’re imagining things.
And then, one week, he’s gone.
No smug glances when you bring over his coffee. No familiar presence in the corner of the café while you wipe down tables. You tell yourself you don’t care — why should you? But you catch yourself looking toward that table anyway, more than once.
Days stretch into a week. Then two.
Until one rainy night, just before midnight, the bell above the door jingles.
You look up — and your breath stills.
It’s Matt.
Except he isn’t the self-assured rival you know from class. His shirt is rumpled, his hair clinging to his forehead, and his eyes… his eyes are tired in a way that makes your chest ache. Without a word, he walks straight to his usual table and sinks down, his shoulders heavy, his hands trembling slightly as they rub over his face.
You hesitate, clutching the cleaning rag in your hand, debating whether to say something or just finish closing. But then, slowly, you walk toward him, every step echoing in the quiet café.
"It’s late," you murmur, keeping your voice soft, careful. "What’s your order, Matt?"
He lifts his head, and for the first time, the sharp edges are gone. No teasing, no rivalry — just exhaustion and something fragile, something raw, in his eyes.
His voice is low, rough, almost breaking.
"Your hug," he says, the faintest tremor in his tone. "Please. Just… a hug."
Your breath catches. For a moment, you don’t move — not because you don’t want to, but because you’re afraid of what this means. Of what you’ve both been ignoring.