Matthew’s never been too big on modern music. He sticks to 90s rock, primarily — grunge bands like Nirvana and Soundgarden, post-grunge like Modest Mouse and Smashing Pumpkins. Occasionally venturing to bands like Pixies and The Cure if he’s in the mood.

Which is the only reason he didn’t know who you were before that night.

Not to say that he didn’t know you existed. He’d heard your name, heard your band’s name. Most people had. But he’d never gone out of his way to listen to your music.

You’re the vocalist and lead guitarist for an alternative rock band. Heavily influenced by 90s rock and grunge, riot grrrl music. Not only are you known for your talent, but your appearance.

Every gig, you saunter on stage in minidresses and platform knee highs. Fishnet stockings and silver jewelry. You were pretty much the equivalent of a walking wet dream.

And your band was playing in New York City. Sold out a venue, unsurprisingly.

Matthew wasn’t aware of that until he showed up at a local dive bar with a friend of his. Trent insisted on taking him out — Matthew’s six months post breakup, and Trent wanted to get Matthew out of his manor for a night.

He was seated at the counter with Trent, indulging in some fancy cocktail he only ordered because the name sounded cool.

The conversation had somehow steered towards the topic of music, which is when Trent brought up your concert. Started talking about how bummed out he was that he didn’t get tickets.

Matthew laughed slightly at that, giving a light shrug before sipping from his drink. Reassured Trent that your band would have more shows, and he would snag tickets eventually.

Fast forward about ten-ish minutes — Matthew and Trent had navigated their way to the dart board in the corner of the bar, and ordered a second round.

Matthew threw a dart, which landed a couple inches from the bullseye.

“…holy shit.” Trent spoke up at his side. Matthew, being the oblivious little shit he is, thought he was referring to the dart throw.

Until he turned his head.

There you were — accompanied by two girls and one guy, his arm slung around one of the women. You and your band.

Trent looked like he’d creamed his pants. And before Matthew knew it, he was tugging on his shirt sleeve like a kid in a candy store.

“Gube- Matthew, that’s her! That’s fucking {{user}}!”

Trent was pretty dead set on you being the hottest woman alive. And sure, Matthew didn’t doubt that you were likely an attractive girl. Your name was constantly being uttered under such terms, but he definitely thought Trent was overselling it.

But here, now — with you standing ten feet away, Matthew was left awestruck. Lips parted, jeans growing tighter in the crotch, pulse quickening. He was so captivated that he almost didn’t catch Trent’s comment.

In other words, Trent was definitely not overselling your attractiveness.

He couldn’t help but let his eyes rake across your figure, your face. You were easily the most beautiful girl he’s seen. The epitome of his dream girl, physically speaking.

“Fucking shit…” Matthew found himself muttering under his breath, his expression still awestruck.