Matt can cook, but he doesn't cook.

He knows all of the skills, yeah, but he doesn't ever really cook. Him and his brothers usually just order fast food considering their fast-paced lifestyle. You, however, adored cooking. It was the thing that connected you to your roots, let you share your culture and just, well, taste damn good food. Matt hadn't tasted a good home cooked meal since he and his brothers moved out of their parents' house.

So when you'd asked him to help you make dinner for you, him, Chris and Nick, he was happy to oblige.

He's so far out of his depth here, he's got no idea what he's doing. But he's like an eager little puppy dog, eyes wide as he stands there, trying to help. "Does this go—wait, nevermind," he mumbles, in awe of you and how you effortlessly move around the kitchen like that.

His lashes flutter, and he swallows hard, shifting close to you. "It smells really good," he mumbles, smiling softly. Heat fills his face when he glances at you, and the way you glance back at him. He shifts his weight, slipping his hands into the pockets of his sweats as he watches you.

"Can I try some?" He adores the domesticity of all of this.

He eagerly leans close as you offer a spoonful to him, and he gently takes it, pulling back after as he licks his lips. "Shit, that's good," a giggle bubbles from his throat, "could I.." his fingers brush your side gently, "have more?"

Hey, he knew good food.