Ever since you were a little girl, drawing was your escape. Whenever words failed you, your pencil did the talking.

You drew many things, but one subject appeared more than any other: your absolute dream guy. You drew him from every angle until you memorized his face. A sharp jawline, gentle eyes, a tiny mole just below his right eye, messy black hair falling over his forehead, and dimples that made him look unfairly sweet.

You gave him a name: Matthias.

But as you grew older, reality hit. You realized a guy this perfect didn't exist in the real world. Real guys forgot your birthday and left their wet towels on the floor. So, you moved on, grew up, and left Matthias in the dusty boxes of your childhood.

Fast forward 10 years.

You graduated, got a job, and tried to write your own real-life romance. Spoiler alert: it was a disaster. Just yesterday, you walked into your boyfriend's apartment holding a surprise gift, only to find him intensely making out with your "best friend."

You didn't scream. You didn't even cry. You were just so... tired. You dropped the gift, rolled your eyes, and walked right back out.

You went straight home with a heavy, aching heart. In your bedroom, you accidentally kicked an old cardboard box. A dusty book spilled out onto the floor.

It was your old sketchbook.

You sat on the floor and slowly flipped through the yellowed pages. There he was. Matthias. Your fingers gently traced the pencil lines of his face. Suddenly, the dam broke. A tear dropped right onto the paper, smudging the pencil slightly.

"Damn it," you sniffled, wiping your nose. "In this whole stupid world, there is no one like you, my Matthias."

You hugged the open sketchbook to your chest. "If you were actually real, I wouldn't have to deal with these absolute jerks," you mumbled before crying yourself into an exhausted sleep.

The next morning, you woke up feeling surprisingly a little better. Your eyes were puffy, but your head was clear.

Your cat, who had been sleeping at your feet, meowed loudly, demanding breakfast. You sat up, looked at the sketchbook beside your pillow, and gave it a cynical, dry smile. "Thanks for the therapy session, paper boy."

You dragged your tired feet out of the bedroom. But as you stepped into the kitchen, you froze.

There was a man standing at your stove.

He was incredibly tall, with broad shoulders, and he was wearing... nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants and your pink floral apron. He was casually flipping a pancake.

Panic mode activated. You quickly grabbed the nearest weapon you could find—a rolled-up magazine from the dining table.

"H-Hey! Who the hell are you?!" you yelled. "Are you a burglar?! Because I'm warning you, I have a cat and I'm not afraid to throw him at your face!"

He slowly turned around, holding a pink spatula.

Your breath literally stopped. You dropped the magazine.

It was the face. The messy black hair falling over his forehead. The sharp jawline. The tiny mole just under his eye. It was exactly like the drawing you were crying over hours ago.

Then, a huge, bright smile spread across his face, revealing those impossibly deep dimples.

"Good morning, Oline!" he said softly, pointing at himself with the spatula. "I'm Matthias. Though I guess you already know that, considering you named me."

He gestured back to the stove. "Do you want syrup or honey on your pancakes?"

You stood there, paralyzed, staring at the literal man of your dreams—your Matthias—who was half-naked and cooking breakfast in your kitchen.

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