I somehow ended up on curly cut TikTok and came across a little kid getting their first curly cut and pay of it is shampooing and defining the curls and
GirlDad!Matt taking over Minnie's hair maintenance because playing with her hair is incredibly soothing to him. The smell of her shampoo and the feel of her hair. How his little girl is so excited her Daddy is learning about her curls bc he sucks at helping picking out hair styles.
Esp after a hard day in court? Before he goes out for the night?
It helps him recenter and tame the Devil so he doesn't spiral into Darkness.
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previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: matt needs to even the score after your last date.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
notes: get dressed, matt's taking you shopping😏more notes at the end
word count: 4.6k
Paint was streaked across the side of your hand as you stepped back from the canvas in your living room. The apartment smelled like acrylic paint and stale coffee again. Dani was sprawled across the couch scrolling through her phone while occasionally offering deeply unhelpful artistic criticism.
“That one looks sad.”
“It’s just a blue background so far.”
“Exactly.”
You rolled your eyes and reached for your brush again just as your phone buzzed on the table beside you. You wiped your fingers quickly on a damp rag before opening the message.
Matt: How attached are you to your afternoon tomorrow?
You stared at the text for half a second, immediately suspicious.
You: That sounds threatening.
Dani looked up instantly. “Oooooh. Sugar Daddy texted?" You ignored her. It buzzed again.
Matt: That wasn’t my intention.
Though now that you mention it, I could probably phrase things less like a subpoena.
You snorted softly despite yourself.
You: Probably.
Matt: I’d like to take you shopping tomorrow.
You blinked. Dani watched your face narrow from across the couch. “What?”
You held up a finger.
You: Shopping for what?
The response took slightly longer this time.
Matt: Things you need.
You: Matt.
You stared at the message in disbelief, breath catching slightly. "He wants to take me shopping, apparently."
Across the couch, Dani’s eyes widened with absolute delight. You pointed at her without looking away from your phone. “Stop reacting. You’re making this worse.”
She clutched a couch pillow to her chest. “Girl, did you suck his dick last week or something?” You nearly dropped your phone.
“DANI.”
“I’m asking because men do not talk like that for free.” Heat flooded your face instantly.
You: You already give me an allowance.
The typing bubble appeared immediately this time.
Matt: Yes.
You: So if you’re doing all this then reduce this month's or something.
The response came so quickly it almost felt automatic.
Matt: No.
Matt This is part of our arrangement too, remember?
Your stomach fluttered unexpectedly. Before you could answer, another message appeared.
Matt: I enjoy taking care of you. Also, if I’m being selfish about it, it would make me happy.
You physically stopped breathing for a second. Your pulse hammered embarrassingly hard while you stared at the screen. Because somehow that sentence was calm and matter-of-fact and so very Matt. I enjoy taking care of you.
You actually closed your eyes briefly. This man was going to kill you.
You: You know this is insane behavior, right?
Matt: Will you let me do it anyway?
You: …Nothing too crazy.
Matt: Good. I’ll send a car at noon.
You covered your face with both hands immediately. “Oh my god.”
The next afternoon you stood outside your apartment building staring at the car that arrived for you while Dani practically vibrated beside you. You narrowed your eyes at the driver opening the back door for you.
“I’m scared.”
“You should be,” Dani said solemnly. “If you come home with a tiny designer dog and a silk robe, we'll have officially lost you.” Then she quietly added “…Also ask if he has a brother.”
You shoved her lightly before climbing into the car.
The drive downtown only made you more nervous. The further into the Upper East Side you went, the more obvious it became that Matt was not taking you to a normal shopping center. This place looked less like a mall and more like rich people habitat simulation. There were what looked to be private storefronts, and quiet stone walkways. Your stomach tightened instantly when you stepped out of the car.
The driver smiled politely. “Mr. Murdock is waiting upstairs.”
You stepped out of the elevator a few minutes later and immediately spotted Matt near one of the lounge areas. And god. That man was going to be the death of you. Dark charcoal coat over a dark sweater. Silver threaded through his hair beneath the afternoon light. Disgustingly handsome.
You greeted him, and he smiled the second he heard your voice. “There you are.”
Your stomach flipped traitorously. “You brought me to the Capitol from The Hunger Games.”
Matt laughed softly. “That bad?”
“There’s a woman over there holding a tiny dog wearing cashmere.”
“Based on that description she seems happy.”
“She seems tax exempt.”
The corner of Matt’s mouth lifted higher. The bastard was smirking at you. And before you could fully recover from that, another woman approached smoothly beside him. Stylish and impossibly polished. “Miss?” she asked warmly. “I’m Evelyn. I’ll be helping you both today.”
Helping. Today. Your soul briefly left your body. Evelyn gestured gracefully toward the first door.
“We thought we’d begin with body and skincare.”
You looked immediately at Matt. “You planned categories?”
Matt’s expression remained infuriatingly composed. “I may have prepared slightly.”
“Slightly,” you repeated.
“Well, you mentioned yesterday needing to restock a few things. And you've said before your skin was sensitive.”
Your mouth opened. Closed again. Because annoyingly, you had mentioned that. Once. Matt had apparently archived it permanently inside his terrifying lawyer brain.
Evelyn smiled knowingly beside you. “This way.”
The skincare boutique smelled heavenly. Soft citrus, bright florals, and warm vanilla.
“No,” you whispered weakly while staring at the shelves. Matt tilted his head slightly toward you. “You brought me to rich Sephora.”
“I don’t think they’d appreciate that comparison.”
You moved slowly through displays trying not to touch anything because every tiny glass bottle probably cost the same as your electric bill.
Unfortunately, Evelyn was apparently a professional enabler. “These formulas would be wonderful for sensitive skin,” she explained while showing you several products. “Especially once winter rolls around.”
You looked at the price tag and nearly blacked out. Then she handed you a small jar.
“This moisturizer is one of our bestsellers.”
You opened it carefully. And immediately melted. “Oh my god.”
Matt’s expression shifted instantly at your tone. “You like it?”
You rubbed a tiny amount into your wrist automatically. Matt’s head tilted subtly toward the motion. His voice lowered just slightly. “Let me smell.”
Your brain short-circuited immediately. Still, you stepped closer automatically and held out your wrist. His fingers wrapped lightly around it, gentle and warm. Then he leaned slightly closer. One slow inhale.
Heat crawled instantly up your chest and throat. Matt’s thumb brushed once against the inside of your wrist before he let go again.
“That’s nice on you,” he said quietly.
You forgot how to speak for a second.
Evelyn continued, “This line also carries shower gels and lotion bars.”
You looked over. Then immediately gasped. Matt heard the delight in your voice instantly. Within twenty minutes there was a growing haul despite your increasingly horrified protests.
“Matt. This is insane.”
“You’ve said that several times.”
“You’re buying me like twelve things.”
“Twelve seems high.”
“Fine, nine but still.”
“Ah. Much better. I knew I was more reasonable than that.”
You stared at him in disbelief while Evelyn hid a smile nearby. And then you saw it. Sitting beautifully illuminated on a display pedestal like a futuristic weapon. Your eyes widened immediately. “No fucking way.”
“What?”
You moved closer automatically. “It’s that microcurrent facial device.”
“The what?”
“The fancy one,” you breathed.
Evelyn smiled. “It’s wonderful for sculpting and lifting.”
You looked physically pained. “I’ve wanted this thing forever.”
Matt heard it instantly, that tiny genuine longing in your voice. And that was it. Done. You noticed the exact moment his provider instincts fully snapped. “Add it,” he said calmly.
You whipped around. “WHAT? No.”
Matt looked entirely unbothered. “You want it.”
“It costs more than all of my utilities.”
“And?”
“And MATT.”
His mouth twitched slightly. “You’re very cute when you’re outraged.”
Your jaw dropped. Matt stepped a little closer then, lowering his voice just enough that it curled warm down your spine. “You deserve nice things.” Your pulse stumbled. “And,” he continued softly, “I really want to get it for you.”
Oh, you were doomed.
The private fitting suite should not have existed outside of movies. Soft lighting and blush-colored couches. Mirrors everywhere. Actual champagne being offered the second you sat down. You were beginning to understand how rich people became so detached from reality.
Matt sat beside you on one of the couches while Evelyn disappeared briefly after taking your measurements. And despite the absurd luxury around him, he still looked like he belonged here more than the furniture did.
Relaxed now. Recovered from the other night’s exhaustion. One arm draped comfortably along the back cushion behind you. You sipped quietly from the champagne flute. “This place makes me nervous,” you muttered.
Matt tilted his head toward you and the corner of his mouth lifted.
Then Evelyn returned carrying several pairs of jeans folded neatly over one arm. “These are the Japanese denim styles Mr. Murdock requested.”
You turned slowly toward him. “...Requested?”
Matt looked entirely unashamed. “I asked you on the phone to name one thing you needed and you said your jeans are falling apart.”
“That does not mean I need luxury artisanal denim.”
Evelyn handed you the first pair with professional calm. “These are hand-finished. Pre-washed as well to bypass the break in phase.”
You stared at her. “See?” you told Matt. “That’s not a sentence normal people say.”
Matt laughed softly into his champagne. You hated how much you liked making him laugh. “Try them on,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “That sounded less like a suggestion.”
“Mm.”
“Matt.”
“You need jeans.”
“I have jeans.”
“You told me you patched the knee with embroidery floss.”
“Because I’m resourceful.”
“You’re stubborn.”
Evelyn quietly vanished again before the flirty argument could become legally actionable. You changed quickly after that.
You stepped out of the dressing room cautiously. Matt turned immediately toward the sound of your footsteps. You looked down at yourself.
“…I hate that these are so nice.”
Matt smiled slowly. “Come here.”
Your stomach fluttered traitorously but you stepped closer automatically. He reached out carefully, fingertips brushing lightly against the denim at your hip first. Then lower along your outer thigh. Just feeling the fabric. His touch stayed respectful. But heat still bloomed instantly on your face.
“These are soft,” he murmured mostly to himself.
“Yeah,” you said weakly.
Matt’s hand slid to your waist. “You like them?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated. “…Maybe.”
“Then we'll get them.”
You exhaled slowly. “Matt.”
“There it is again. The ‘this is too much’ tone.”
You folded your arms immediately. “Because this is too much.”
Matt leaned back slightly against the couch, expression calm. “You needed clothes.”
“I needed like… Target clothes.”
“You deserve better than Target.”
“That is an insane sentence.”
“You know what I mean.”
You looked away first. Because the problem wasn’t really the things, it was this feeling in the pit of your stomach. This overwhelming uncomfortable sensation of someone looking at you like you were worth investment. Worth luxury and care. But for how long?
Matt seemed to sense the shift immediately. His voice gentled slightly. “Hey.”
You looked back toward him and your throat tightened unexpectedly. Which was annoying. You tried deflecting immediately.
“You know, most people would simply buy their sugar baby a designer purse and call it a day.”
Matt’s mouth twitched. “Would a purse make you happier?”
“No.”
“Then I’m struggling to see the issue.”
“The issue,” you said carefully, “is that I feel like you’re spending an irresponsible amount of money on me.”
Matt actually looked faintly amused by that.“I promise you I’m not.”
“You bought me a skincare device that could probably communicate with satellites.”
“You were excited about it.”
“That is not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point.”
Your heartbeat stumbled a little at the firmness in his voice. Matt set his champagne down carefully before speaking again. “This arrangement works because we’re both honest about what we want from it.” You went quiet.
“I like taking care of you,” he continued calmly. “You know that already.” Heat crept slowly up your neck. “And before you offer to reduce your allowance again, no.”
You stared at him. Matt tilted his head slightly toward you, voice lowering just a little.
“This is one of our evenings together.”
Your stomach flipped hard. “You spending time with me while I spoil you is not some separate inconvenience for me that you need to compensate for.” Jesus Christ. The almost condescending warmth in his tone made it worse somehow.
“You’re still overdoing it,” you muttered weakly.
Matt smiled faintly. “I know.”
“You admit it?”
“Of course.”
“Then why are you still doing it?”
“Because it makes me happy.”
Oh, you were in actual danger here.
An uncomfortable sigh that was almost a squeak came out of you and Matt picked up on it immediately. His expression softened slightly, amusement flickering faintly at the edges again. “You really don’t know what to do when someone wants to spoil you, do you?”
Silence settled briefly between you both.
Jeans had been one thing. Especially in a private fitting suite with soft lighting and Matt sitting on the couch looking like that. But Evelyn returned carrying garment bags this time. Several of them. Matt looked vaguely pleased with himself.
Evelyn laid the dresses carefully across the seating area while describing each one professionally.
Silk.
Satin.
A black cocktail dress.
A deep wine-colored wrap dress.
Something backless.
“I’m sensing panic,” Matt murmured. You hummed and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Try one on for me.” For me.
Your stomach flipped so hard it should’ve been medically concerning. Evelyn disappeared tactfully after setting the last dress down, leaving you alone with Matt in the suite.
The first dress was black, simple and elegant. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a second too long before stepping out cautiously.
He immediately straightened slightly at the sound of your heels against the floor. “You changed shoes too?” he asked quietly.
“Uh… yeah, she brought a few pairs.”
“What kind?”
“Just heels.”
Matt smiled faintly. “That’s not a description.”
Your pulse fluttered stupidly.
“They’re black,” you muttered. “Strappy.”
His fingers flexed once lightly against his knee. “Come over here,” he said softly.
Matt reached out carefully when you stopped in front of him, fingertips brushing first against the fabric at your waist. Then lower. Slowly tracing the drape of the dress like he was reading it. Heat flooded your entire body instantly. His hand skimmed lightly along your side, pausing at your hip. A tiny exhale left him quietly and his hand slid away.
By the third dress his hesitation had faded.
“Turn around for me?”
Your brain short-circuited instantly. “For-” You cleared your throat. “For what?”
“So I can understand the fit.”
You stared at him. Then slowly twirled. The silence behind you stretched dangerously long. Matt’s head tilted slightly as he listened to the fabric shifting, the heels clicking softly.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you accused weakly.
You heard the smile in his voice. Then he held out a hand.
Your knees almost gave out. Matt’s fingertips found your wrist this time, guiding you a little closer to sit down beside him before his hand slid carefully down your arm. Then suddenly he was kneeling in front of you.
Your breath caught sharply as his fingers wrapped lightly around your ankle. Oh. Heat surged instantly through your stomach.
Matt’s expression stayed perfectly composed. Too composed. “You okay?” he asked softly.
Absolutely not. “Fine,” you lied.
His thumb brushed once slowly against the delicate strap around your ankle while he adjusted the heel slightly. And suddenly you felt on a deeply spiritual level that this man should not be allowed near any women.
His touch remained maddeningly restrained while he unfastened the shoe carefully. Then slipped it off. His fingers lingered for one dangerous second against the arch of your foot before releasing it.
You nearly stopped breathing. Matt definitely noticed if the low laugh that escaped him was any indication. Warm. Soft.
“This feels unrelated to shopping.”
“I disagree.”
You stared at him while he calmly reached for the other heel. The champagne in your bloodstream was not helping.
Neither was the fact that Matt looked devastating sitting there between your legs while removing expensive heels from your feet like some kind of bodice ripper sugar daddy fantasy. You were going to die here.
You sat at the edge of the couch while several shoe boxes sat open around you now. Matt remained kneeling in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Every single pair had Matt carefully undoing any ties or straps, steady hands sliding against your ankle as he felt for them, warm fingers bracing lightly beneath your calf.
“These are stiffer,” he murmured while adjusting one pair against your foot.
“Yeah.”
“And the heel?”
“Not too high.”
Matt hummed quietly. The sound settled low in your stomach. His fingertips brushed slowly along the delicate strap wrapping your ankle before fastening it carefully. He ran fingertips over the raised design on top.
The movement was precise. Gentle. Then his fingers paused. Just briefly. His brows knit slightly.
“What?”
You looked down instinctively and immediately saw where he'd paused. The toe rings. Tiny delicate bands you wore almost constantly.
Matt’s thumb brushed lightly against one before he spoke again. “…You wear jewelry on your feet too?”
Heat crawled instantly up your neck. “That sounded judgmental.”
A soft laugh escaped him. “It wasn’t.”
His fingers moved carefully again, tracing lightly over the cool metal before continuing upward along your ankle strap. Your stomach flipped violently.
“Do you like them?” you asked before thinking better of it.
Matt went quiet for too long. He replied softly, “Very much.”
The suite suddenly felt ten degrees warmer.
Matt continued unfastening the heel like he hadn’t just casually detonated your nervous system. You stared helplessly down at him and his broad shoulders, pushed up sleeves, dark hair threaded with silver beneath the warm lighting. Beautiful hands adorned with an expensive watch. Kneeling between your legs helping you into designer heels.
The next pair was beautiful. Soft blush pink with thin straps crossing delicately over your feet and winding upward around your calves. The kind of shoes that existed purely to make women suffer beautifully.
You walked in them and immediately felt pretty. Like devastatingly pretty.
Matt straightened slightly at the sound of the heels against the floor. “What do they look like?”
You looked down at yourself. “They’re pink.”
“Mm.”
“And taller.”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly.
Matt’s hands found your ankle immediately when you stopped in front of him. Warm palms sliding carefully upward along the ties wrapping around your calves.
You inhaled sharply. Because this pair had required more adjustment. More touch.
His fingertips traced slowly along the ribbons as he loosened one side slightly. And god, he looked affected now too. His jaw was tight like he was concentrating a little too hard.
You looked down at him helplessly. At the careful concentration in his face and the tenderness in his hands.
“…Can I have these ones?”
The words came out smaller than you'd intended. Shy.
Matt went completely still. You realized suddenly that this was the first thing you’d explicitly asked for. Not argued against or reluctantly accepted. Wanted.
And apparently that realization hit him like a truck. A tiny pause stretched between you both. Matt swallowed once.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped lower somehow. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Of course you can, princess.”
Princess.
The pet name wrapped warm around your spine while Matt’s hands remained lightly against your legs. You were dead. The sudden ringing in your ears was surely your heart flatlining.
He sounded so pleased that you’d asked. Like he’d been waiting for it all day. Matt cleared his throat softly before undoing the ties at your calves with careful fingers.
Evelyn returned carrying entirely too many garment bags. You knew you were doomed immediately because unlike the dresses, these bags were smaller. A lot smaller. Fuck.
“I pulled a few evening and lounge options as well,” Evelyn explained smoothly while laying pieces carefully across the couch seating.
Silk.
Lace.
Satin ribbons.
Matt, seated beside you now, tilted his head slightly.
“She brought lingerie." you squeaked.
Matt went very still beside you. Evelyn, traitor that she was, continued calmly. “Some clients prefer more practical sleepwear, and I'm aware this was not on the list, but I thought these suited your style beautifully.”
Your style. As if she’d known you for years instead of four horrifyingly intimate hours. One by one, she began laying pieces out, matching lace sets, silk robes, delicate slips, something involving garters that nearly made you pass away on sight.
You avoided looking directly at Matt. Cowardly? Maybe. But absolutely necessary.
Evelyn lifted a black lace set first. “Very elegant,” she said. “Especially layered beneath the silk robe.” You made a tiny choking sound. Matt cleared his throat softly beside you.
“Would you like me to leave these here for you to browse privately?” Evelyn asked politely.
“Yes,” you answered immediately.
“At your leisure,” she continued smoothly, absolutely unconcerned by your ongoing psychological collapse.
Then, like the menace she truly was, “I’ll have the champagne refreshed as well.”
And with that she disappeared again. Silence. Complete silence. You stared at the couch covered in enough silk and lace to destroy any marriage.
Matt sat beside you with one hand wrapped around his champagne glass. Too composed.
“I think she believes we’re sleeping together,” you muttered weakly.
Matt’s mouth twitched faintly. “I gathered.”
“She brought garters, Matt.”
“Mm.”
“That's not a response.”
“I’m trying to behave.”
Heat flooded your entire face instantly. You looked over at him in horror.
Matt tilted his head slightly toward you, amusement low in his voice now. “You can look if you want.”
Something about the way he said it, calm, warm, and completely sincere made your stomach flip hard. Like he genuinely wanted you to enjoy yourself. Not for him.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he continued quietly. “We’re shopping.”
“Normal shopping usually involves fewer corsets.”
A low laugh escaped him. “You’re very cute when you’re flustered too.”
You decided immediately that Matthew Murdock needed to be stopped by federal law enforcement.
Still despite your embarrassment you found yourself moving slowly toward the pieces laid out across the couch. Because some of them were beautiful. Soft ivory silk. Blue satin. Delicate lace trims. The robe sets especially caught your attention. Elegant and not overtly scandalous. Just...intimate.
You picked up one ivory slip carefully between your fingers. Soft silk with lace detailing at the neckline and hem. Short. Very short. Your brain immediately supplied the image of wearing it in Matt’s apartment and you nearly combusted on the spot.
“Found something?” Matt asked quietly.
You swallowed. “Maybe.”
His head tilted slightly toward the sound of the fabric moving through your hands. You looked down at it again.
“It's a... nightgown,” you murmured. “Ivory silk. Lace.”
Matt inhaled slowly once. Tiny but noticeable.
“Looks there’s a matching robe,” you added.
Matt’s fingers tightened slightly around his champagne glass. “You should get it,” he said softly.
Your heart started beating in embarrassing places. “You haven’t even-” You stopped. Then made the catastrophic mistake of continuing.
“…Do you want to feel it?”
Matt turned his head toward you slowly. Like he was making very sure he’d heard correctly.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
He set his glass down slowly before holding one hand out. You placed the silk carefully into his palm.
His fingertips slid carefully over the silk first. Then the lace. Matt’s thumb traced lightly along the delicate lace trim once more before he spoke.
“…Jesus.”
The word slipped out low. Barely audible like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. He swallowed once before carefully folding the fabric back into your hands. But his fingers brushed yours during the handoff.
“You should definitely get that,” he said softly.
And you were pretty sure your soul physically left your body.
By the time Evelyn returned again, you had emotionally accepted that this shopping trip existed solely to test the limits of your cardiovascular system. Especially because now jewelry trays accompanied her.
“Oh no,” you whispered immediately.
Matt smiled beside you like he could physically hear the panic in your soul now.
Evelyn set several velvet trays carefully across the low table in front of you while another associate quietly refreshed the champagne.
Various gemstones. Delicate chains glinting beneath the soft lighting. Your apartment rent for the year sat on that table in jewelry form. Meanwhile Matt looked entirely too calm.
“I selected pieces that layer well with the clothing we chose,” Evelyn explained smoothly. The we chose nearly killed you.
Then she lifted the ivory silk set from earlier carefully.
“Oh. The matching thong is included with the slip, of course.”
Your soul left your body instantly.
“But,” Evelyn continued professionally, “you can choose between the silk or the lace version.” You stared at her. She looked directly at you waiting for an answer. You could physically feel heat climbing up your throat. “…The silk one,” you muttered weakly.
Matt picked up his champagne very slowly beside you. You refused to look at him.
Evelyn nodded calmly. “Excellent choice.”
You focused aggressively on the jewelry trays in front of you.
There were so many pieces. Tiny diamonds. Silver chains. Pearls. But one piece caught your eye almost immediately. A delicate gold necklace with a tiny ruby pendant resting at the center. Your fingers hovered over it automatically.
“You find something?”
You glanced toward him. “…Maybe.”
“Describe it to me.”
Your fingertips brushed lightly against the pendant before answering. “It’s gold,” you said softly. “Really thin chain.”
Matt tilted his head slightly toward you, listening carefully. “And?”
“A tiny red ruby.”
Something shifted faintly in his expression. His mouth softened slightly at the edges. “You like red,” he murmured.
You smiled faintly. “I do.”
Matt held one hand out slowly. “May I?”
You placed the necklace carefully into his palm and watched as his fingertips traced slowly along the chain. Then the pendant. The ruby rested against the center of his palm while he ran his thumb once lightly over the stone. A tiny smile appeared afterward.
Matt nodded once immediately. Like he could already imagine it on you. Evelyn smiled knowingly before stepping subtly away again to give you both space.
Traitor.
Matt held the necklace carefully between his fingers before speaking. “Turn around for me?”
You turned away from him slowly and the suite fell impossibly quiet. You reached up to pull your hair carefully over one shoulder but Matt spoke softly behind you before you could.
“Lift your hair for me, princess.”
Your entire brain dissolved. The pet name making your stomach flutter while your hands moved automatically. Matt moved closer. Close enough that you could smell his clean soap, cologne, something heady and masculine lingering faintly beneath it all.
The first brush of his fingers against the back of your neck made you shiver.
He moved slowly while fastening the clasp. Knuckles brushed lightly against the sensitive skin beneath your ear. Finally the clasp clicked softly into place. But his hands stayed there resting lightly at the back of your neck.
The ruby pendant settled cool against your chest and the air felt thick suddenly.
Matt murmured near your shoulder “…Beautiful.”
You weren’t entirely sure if he meant the necklace.
notes: and there we have it, matt's name for reader. fitting 👑 and wooo would you look at that matt has a provider kink but we already knew that
so we all know this is a sugar daddy fic, but how do we feel about that title (daddy/dad/sir) being used in future smut chapters? i'm still playing with some bedroom names for matt but at the moment it's just baby
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previous chapter I series masterlist | next chapter
artist!reader × sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: matt takes you to a jazz club.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
notes: two uploads in one day yayyy. would you guys prefer if i staggered chapter releases weekly/biweekly? i have several ready to undergo final edits but i'm not sure if i should hang onto them while i continue working on the rest of this series.
word count: 2.8k
Matt’s text arrived a little after six.
Matt: Dress nicely tonight.
I’m taking you somewhere with live music. I’ll pick you up at eight, if that works for you.
You stared at the message for an embarrassingly long time. Dani noticed your expression from the couch almost instantly. “Oh no,” she said slowly. “That’s a face.”
You held up the phone silently. She read the message then looked at you with devastating calm. “You’re gonna fall in love with that man," you rolled your eyes, “Second of all, wear the black one.”
At seven-thirty, your entire bedroom looked like a department store exploded. Three dresses abandoned across the bed. Shoes chucked into random corners, and jewelry was scattered across your desk beside camera lenses and half-dead plants.
Meanwhile Dani sat cross-legged against your headboard providing entirely unhelpful commentary. “That one just says ‘I’m hot.’”
You glared while holding another dress against yourself. “And the black one says?”
“That you’re hot and devastating gorgeous. It’s the silk, babe.”
And honestly? The silk was doing a lot of heavy lifting. The dress skimmed over your body perfectly, soft fabric hugging your waist and hips without feeling too formal.
Pretty. Like the kind of woman who absolutely belonged in places with cloth napkins and expensive cocktails. You fixed your hair a little after that. Kept your makeup soft. And then the bracelets. Thin delicate bangles stacked loosely at your wrist that clinked softly whenever you moved.
Dani narrowed her eyes immediately. “Oh, that’s intentional.”
“What? They’re cute.”
“You realized the blind lawyer likes sound.”
Heat rushed into your face instantly. “I did not- I wear these all the time.”
She cackled and you threw a glare in her direction.
Then came perfume. Warm vanilla layered with bright fruity notes, sweet enough to feel soft, not overpowering. You sprayed lightly at your wrists and throat.
Your phone buzzed against the vanity.
Matt:
I’m downstairs.
You ignored Dani's vulgar parting comments and grabbed your purse before you could spiral any further. The elevator ride downstairs felt suspiciously like impending doom.
Through the glass doors of your apartment building you saw the car first. Black town car of course. A driver sat waiting inside while city lights reflected off polished paint.
And in front the car was Matt. One hand tucked into the pocket of a dark coat, the other resting lightly against his cane. God. The man had no business looking like that.
And the second your heels clicked across the pavement, his entire attention shifted toward you. You saw the exact moment he started piecing you together, the sharp rhythm of your heels, the faint clink of bracelets, the whisper-soft sound of your dress against your legs.
A tiny inhale, and then his mouth curved. “Hi,” he said.
Heat crept up your neck. “Hi.”
For half a second neither of you moved. Then Matt tilted his head slightly toward you.“You changed your perfume.”
“…What?”
“It’s different from the other night.”
You suddenly became acutely aware of every inch of your body. “It’s weird that you noticed that,” you managed weakly.
A soft laugh escaped him as he folded up his cane. “I’ll pretend not to take offense to that.” The smile lingering around his mouth said he absolutely enjoyed how flustered you sounded.
He opened the car door then, but before you could slide inside, Matt’s hand found the small of your back lightly. Your entire nervous system lit up instantly.
“You seem nervous,” he observed quietly.
“You keep saying things.”
“That’s usually how conversation works.”
You narrowed your eyes at him while climbing into the car and he laughed softly behind you. That lovely sound followed you all the way through the rest of the night.
The jazz club was underground. Literally.
The driver dropped you and Matt near a narrow stairwell tucked between two old brick buildings, warm music drifting faintly up toward the street.
Inside felt like stepping into another decade. Dark leather booths and low amber lighting. Tiny candlelit tables were crowded close together and the soft clink of glasses could be heard beneath the band warming up onstage.
It was sexy. Can a physical space be sexy?
You guided Matt carefully through the crowded room, your hand still looped around his arm while people shifted around you in a blur of expensive coats and low conversation.
And maybe it was the lighting or the music already humming through the floorboards, but tonight felt different from dinner last week. More intimate.
The hostess led you toward a tucked-away curved booth near the stage. A small booth. Very small. Matt slid in beside you instead of across this time, likely because there physically wasn’t enough room otherwise.
The second he settled next to you, warmth radiated along your entire side. God. The booth forced your thighs dangerously close together. One shift and your knee brushed his. Neither of you acknowledged it or moved.
A waitress appeared quickly with cocktail menus and a list of tonight's small plates. Matt tilted his head toward you slightly. “What sounds good?” The candlelight flickered softly across the sharp line of his jaw while you scanned the menu.
“Patatas bravas,” you decided. “And maybe the garlic shrimp?”
“Good choices.”
“You haven’t even checked the menu.”
“I trust your judgment.”
Your stomach did an annoying little flip. The waitress asked for each of your drink orders. Matt ordered whiskey. You quickly picked something citrusy and sparkling mostly because you were trying very hard not to think about how close his shoulder was to yours.
The music started fully a few minutes later. Smooth saxophone, a cello, warm piano curling through the room.
And beside you Matt melted into it. You felt his entire body loosen slowly as the set continued. The tension he carried so constantly seemed to unravel piece by piece with the music. His fingers tapped lightly once against his glass. Head tilted toward the stage. His posture softer than you’d ever seen it. He looked beautiful.
“You really love this,” you murmured. The music was loud enough now that you had to lean closer for him to hear and your shoulder brushed his as you spoke. Matt turned slightly toward your voice. And suddenly you were very aware of how close your faces were.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. His voice sat low beneath the music.
You swallowed. “My mom used to play records constantly when I was a kid,” you said. “Old jazz. Soul. Random stuff from thrift stores.”
A smile touched Matt’s mouth. “You collect vinyl?”
You blinked. "You do too?"
“Mm.”
Something delighted immediately lit up inside you. “No way.” Matt laughed softly at your excitement. “What?”
“You don’t seem like a vinyl person.”
“What does a vinyl person seem like?”
“I don’t know. Less…” You gestured vaguely toward him. “Serious.”
That earned a real laugh from him. Low and rough and close enough that you felt the rumble.
“I’ll have you know my collection is very pretentious.”
“Oh my god.”
“It’s true.”
“How many records?”
Matt looked almost sheepish suddenly. “…A few hundred.”
You stared at him. “A FEW HUNDRED?”
“I’ve been collecting for a long time.”
“You rich people are unbelievable.”
“You said you own records too.”
“Yeah, like twelve.”
“Twelve good ones?”
You smiled despite yourself. “Very good ones.”
The waitress returned with drinks and small plates, interrupting whatever dangerously comfortable thing was building between you. And the food was incredible.
At one point you reached for the same plate at the exact same time as Matt and your fingers brushed.
His hand stilled instantly beneath yours and for one suspended second neither of you moved. He pulled his hand away. Then Matt shifted slightly, his arm sliding along the back of the booth behind you as he leaned closer instead. Close enough now that warmth radiated steadily beside you.
The silk of your dress whispered softly when you shifted, and it brushed lightly against the back of Matt’s hand. A subtle inhale left him and his hand flexed once lightly against the booth behind you. Oh. He likes it. You had to be radiating an impossible amount of heat with the constant blushing tonight.
The band transitioned into something slower then, sax low and aching through the room while conversation around you softened. You leaned closer instinctively so he could hear you as you both spoke over the music. Your thigh pressed against his fully this time.
Matt turned slightly toward you, face close enough now that his breath was warm on your ear when he spoke. “You smell good.”
Your entire brain went blank. Heat flooded your face instantly. “You’re doing that on purpose now,” you whispered weakly.
Matt chuckled warmly. “No,” he admitted.
You turned slightly toward him then, a little too quickly. Your faces ended up dangerously close. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips for one lovely suspended second.
Matt froze beside you. The music swelled around the booth. Bass vibrating softly beneath your feet. And for a moment you really thought he might kiss you.
Instead, he leaned back first. But his arm remained behind you along the booth.
The second round of drinks arrived with another spread of tiny plates you definitely could not pronounce correctly. The jazz band shifted into yet another song while candlelight flickered softly across the booth.
And beside you, Matt looked unfairly attractive. Honestly it was becoming irritating. The low amber lighting caught the silver at his temples and along the neatly groomed edge of his beard whenever he turned toward you. His sleeves were still rolled slightly from earlier, exposing strong forearms beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. And the way he smelled. Subtle cologne, whiskey on his breath.
“You’re staring again,” Matt murmured beside you.
Your stomach flipped. “How could you possibly know that?”
“You went quiet.”
“That’s not evidence.”
“It usually is.”
You narrowed your eyes at him while he smiled faintly into his glass. Annoying. Your gaze dropped toward the amber liquid in his hand.
“Can I try that?”
Matt tilted his head slightly toward you. “The whiskey?” A small amused smile touched his mouth. “You’re going to hate it.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
You scoffed softly and reached for the glass anyway. Matt let you take it carefully from his hand. Your fingers brushed briefly against his. Warm. You ignored the tiny jolt and lifted the glass for a cautious sip and immediately regretted it.
“Oh my god,” you coughed softly.
Matt laughed instantly. Not the restrained little huffs he usually let out. A real laugh. Warm and low and genuinely amused beside you.
“That bad?”
“It tastes like a bookshelf.”
He laughed harder. “A bookshelf?”
“And paint thinner.”
Matt was still smiling when he took the glass back from you, fingers brushing yours again in the process. The sight of his mouth curved around that amused smile did something deeply unfortunate to your nervous system. Especially when he leaned closer afterward.
“You made a sound like I poisoned you.”
“You basically did.”
“This is a very expensive whiskey.”
“Tasted expensive,” you admitted solemnly. “Like haunted wood.”
Another laugh. You liked making him laugh far too much.
The waitress returned briefly with a dish of chocolate-covered strawberries beside two small glasses of deep ruby port wine. Your eyes widened immediately. “Oh, those are dangerous.”
Matt tilted his head “Well, you already survived the bread pudding incident.”
You groaned softly. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
The warmth in his answering chuckle wrapped around you like velvet. You reached for one of the strawberries automatically, only to pause when Matt did the same.
Your fingers brushed again. This time you moved yours away immediately. Matt’s hand remained still for one second too long. Slowly his fingers closed around the strawberry.
He took a bite first, and maybe it shouldn’t have mattered. Maybe it shouldn’t have felt intimate. But watching his mouth nearly killed you.
Then Matt turned the bitten strawberry toward you. “Here,” he said quietly. “This one's really sweet.” Oh, Jesus. Heat flooded your face instantly. His mouth had just been there.
The jazz music swelled warmly around the booth while you stared at the strawberry like it might kill you. Matt waited patiently beside you. Your heart pounded stupidly as you finally leaned forward and took the offered bite.
Chocolate.
Strawberry.
Wine from his lips.
A pleased hum slipped out before you could stop it. He chuckled quietly beside you, setting the stem back onto the plate.
Matt leaned back slightly afterward, his arm still stretched along the back of the booth behind you. Close enough that the backs of his fingers continued to occasionally brushed the silk at your shoulder whenever either of you moved.
“So,” you said eventually, mostly to save yourself from combusting, “how’d you even find this place?”
Matt turned his whiskey glass slowly between his fingers. “I come here after work sometimes.”
“By yourself?”
“…Usually.”
Your chest tightened immediately. Because now you could picture it too clearly, Matt alone in this dim little jazz club after impossible days. Just sitting quietly with a drink and music instead of going home.
And the worst part was he didn’t even sound sad about it. Just accustomed to it.
Matt exhaled softly through his nose. “It was easier sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “Staying out for a while.”
“Instead of going home?"
“Yeah.”
The honesty of it settled warmly and painfully between you. You stared quietly at him too long. And maybe he felt it because his head tilted slightly toward you after a minute.
“Dating was never really the difficult part,” he said quietly. Your stomach tightened as you watched a faint smile ghosted across his mouth. “Keeping people close,” he admitted. “Without disappointing them.”
The vulnerability in that answer hit harder than you expected. Especially sitting here beside him, close enough to feel his warmth. Realizing how lonely he must’ve been before this. Before you.
The drive back felt quieter than the jazz club. The kind of quiet that settles after good music and wine and too much eye contact -on your part- in low lighting.
City lights blurred across the tinted windows in gold streaks while the car moved smoothly through traffic. Beside you, Matt sat relaxed against the leather seat. Warm liquor lingering faintly around him beneath cedar and expensive cologne.
He smelled really good.
Matt turned his head slightly toward you “You got quieter.”
You smiled faintly. “So did you.”
A small hum of acknowledgment.
Your bracelets clinked softly when you adjusted against the seat. Matt’s hand rested nearby along the leather between you both. Very close to yours The car turned sharply enough that your fingers brushed accidentally.
“Sorry,” Matt murmured automatically. But he didn’t move his hand away.
You looked down briefly toward where your fingers still touched lightly in the dim glow from outside streetlights. Then back toward him. “You don’t seem very sorry.”
For half a second Matt looked caught off guard. Then a smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
His fingers shifted carefully against yours after that. Like he was giving you room to pull away. You didn’t, he continued slowly until your fingers linked loosely together between the seats.
Your pulse shot up immediately. His hand was so warm. Large. Matt exhaled quietly beside you.
Neither of you spoke for a while after that. You just sat together in the dim backseat while the city passed outside and your joined hands rested warm between you.
By the time the car stopped outside your apartment building, your heart was beating entirely too fast. The driver stepped out first to open the door for you both. Matt let go reluctantly.
Cool night air wrapped around you both as you stepped onto the sidewalk. Your heels clicked softly against the pavement while you guided Matt toward your building's entrance.
And then your ankle twisted slightly.
“Shit-”
Your heel had caught unevenly against the curb. Before you could fully stumble, Matt’s hand caught your waist firmly. His other hand braced your arm. Matt’s fingers twitched once unconsciously against your waist.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower than before.
You swallowed hard. “Yeah, thanks.”
Matt loosened his grip carefully after another second, though his hand lingered at your side for just a moment too long before finally letting it fall away completely. It was another moment before he spoke.
“I had a really good time with you.”
Something warm cracked open in your chest a little. You stepped closer before you could overthink it. One hand found his arm lightly first, letting him know where you were.
Then you leaned up and pressed a soft kiss against his cheek. Warm skin and the faint roughness of his beard under your lips.
A tiny caught breath.
You pulled back just enough to see Matt completely short-circuit. A faint flush touched high along his cheekbones beneath the streetlights while his mouth parted slightly like he’d forgotten what he planned to say.
Then finally, “…Goodnight,” he managed.
You smiled helplessly. “Goodnight, Matt.”
For one suspended second longer, neither of you moved. Then he laughed softly under his breath and finally turned back toward the waiting car.
summary: Scraping by as a photographer and bartender in new york city, you finally cave under your roommate's pestering and sign up for a sugar baby dating app. The arrangement is simple: Keep Mr Murdock company once a week, and you'll be paid enough to support your artistic pursuits without the side effect of exclusively eating microwave dinners.
chapter summary: your roommate is tired of watching you suffer.
warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 3.8k
The apartment smelled faintly like garlic, acrylic paint, and burnt coffee. In all fairness it was pretty indicative of your current lifestyle. You kicked the door shut behind you with more force than necessary, peeling your apron off your body with an exhausted groan as your keys clattered onto the tiny kitchen counter.
“If one more finance bro had called me sweetheart tonight, I would've become a felon.” From the couch, your roommate snorted without looking up from her laptop. “Tough shift?”
“Tough life.” You toed your shoes off near the door, wincing immediately as feeling returned to your feet. Eight hours of fake smiling, cocktail shaking, and pretending drunk men were charming had officially destroyed your will to live. Your roommate finally glanced up. “You made tips, though?” You held up a pathetic wad of bills. “Enough to either buy groceries or buy the new camera battery I need for tomorrow’s shoot.”
“Oof.”
“Yeah.” You opened the fridge anyway, as if the universe might’ve magically restocked it while you were gone.
Half a lime.
Wilted spinach.
Three eggs.
Two packets of soy sauce.
And baking soda.
You sighed and closed it again. "Ramen it is.”
“At least your shoot tomorrow pays.”
“Eventually,” you corrected, irritatedly scrubbing at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie. “After editing. And revisions. And waiting for the client to remember I exist.” Your roommate watched you quietly for a second. You knew that look. “No.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You’re about to.” She slowly closed her laptop. “You’re a beautiful woman with an art degree, and probably seventy-three cents in your checking account. But before you get offended-”
“Too late.”
“-I love you deeply, but I physically cannot watch you live like Oliver Twist anymore.”
You glared at her as the microwave started humming with your ramen. “I knew this was going somewhere stupid.” She had the nerve to look offended. “It’s not stupid.” She grabbed her phone from the coffee table. “You remember that app I told you about?” You stared. “No.”
“Yes you do.”
You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you talking about the sugar daddy app?”
“It’s not a sugar daddy app, I was simplifying.” She rolled her eyes dramatically and scooted over on the couch, patting the cushion beside her. “Just come look.”
“It’s prostitution, Dani.”
“It’s networking with benefits, and the app verifies their income.”
“That sentence made me lose years off my life.” Your ramen finally beeped. You retrieved and shuffled toward the couch clutching the steaming cup like it was the only stable thing left in your life. Your roommate immediately started scrolling. “It’s not all weird old men.”
“It’s definitely weird old men.”
“Some of them are just rich and lonely.” The app itself looked disturbingly elegant. Dark interface. Minimalist design. Sleek fonts. The app screamed expensive discretion.
An hour later, you were still on the couch. “I can’t believe I’m making a sugar baby profile,” you huffed. “Mutually beneficial companionship profile,” your roommate corrected.
“You sound indoctrinated.”
“You sound poor, for now.”
You glared at her while she sorted through photos in your camera roll with the concentration of a celebrity publicist. “No bikini pictures,” you warned.
“Yes, Mother Theresa.” She cackled while flicking through pictures. The final choices were… actually pretty good. One candid shot of you laughing, camera hanging around your neck. One dressed-up photo from a gallery event in front of some of your work, light makeup, black dress, and a soft smile. One close-up selfie with warm lighting that made your eyes look enormous. They were cute, pretty, a little sexy, but still you.
“Perfect,” your roommate said, tilting her head. “You’re going to destroy these men, or eat them alive.”
“I hope they all explode.”
“See? That’s the spirit.”
You groaned into your hands. The bio took even longer. Every draft sounded so painfully awkward, or like an application for a customer service position. Finally, after twenty agonizing minutes, you settled on something simple:
Photographer trying to make art and survive New York. I love quiet coffee shops, old movies, bookstores, live music, and conversations that actually mean something. Looking for transparency, kindness, and a connection that feels comfortable for both of us.
You stared at it. Then at your roommate. The glowing “publish profile” button seemed to mock you. “This feels wrong. I feel like my ancestors are judging me.”
“Your ancestors were lucky to make it to thirty and not die of dysentery. They would appreciate you living your life. Hit the button.” You laughed despite yourself. Before you could think too hard about it you pressed publish and the screen refreshed. The two of you sat there in silence for a few minutes and in that time you managed to completely psych yourself out. Your stomach dropped. “We need to delete it.”
“No we do not.”
“I’m serious, Dani, I can't do this."
A series of soft pings interrupted you both. Your roommate’s eyes widened theatrically “No fucking way.” She turned the phone toward you.
New messages received: 37
Dani squealed in absolute delight. “Thirty-seven messages in under ten minutes,” she breathed. “You absolute maneater.” You snatched the phone from her hands before she could start opening messages without supervision. You scrolled silently, your stomach twisting despite the snort you let out.
“What?”
“Someone named CryptoKingNYC just offered to pay my rent if I’ll ‘be sweet.’” Dani barked out a laugh. “Hard pass.”
“You think?” You opened another one:
You look like trouble. I like trouble.
“Ew.”
I can tell you’re submissive.
You stared at the screen in horrified silence.
“What does that even MEAN?” you demanded. Dani was fully folded over laughing now. “I don’t wanna know but he sounds like he hosts at least three podcasts.” You dropped the phone onto the couch cushion beside you. “This was a mistake.”
“No, this is educational. Keep going.”
Against your better judgment, you did. The app had apparently alerted every wealthy man within a fifty-mile radius that fresh meat had entered the building. And somehow they were all either divorced, near illiterate, or old enough to remember the moon landing firsthand. One man’s profile picture was just him standing beside a tiger. You were going to lose it. “I think this one’s a cult leader,” you whispered.
Dani leaned over your shoulder and the two of you dissolved into exhausted laughter against the couch cushions. You rubbed your eyes hard enough to smear your remaining eyeliner. This was absurd. Why were multimillionaires suddenly speaking to you like you were a rare collectible item?
You clicked into another profile.
68.
No photo.
Bio all about golf.
“Dani,” you said carefully. “I think this man was present for the invention of color television.”
“You’re being ageist.”
You groaned, dropping your head back dramatically against the couch. “Feels like I’m being hunted for sport.” Dani plucked the phone from your hands before you could launch it across the room “Ooh, wait. This one writes in full sentences.”
“That should not be impressive.”
“And yet."
You leaned over reluctantly as she opened the profile.
Matt M.
51
No picture of him.
Just a very blurred photo of what looked like a whiskey glass beside the sleeve of a dark suit jacket.
“Hm,” Dani murmured.
The bio was short.
Attorney seeking consistent companionship. Mutual respect, discretion, and honesty are important to me. I value intelligence, kindness, and good conversation more than appearances. Clear expectations benefit everyone involved.
You frowned slightly. "How weird. He sounds normal, if a little bit too serious.” If nothing else at least this one seemed interesting. You clicked into the message.
Good evening.
I hope your night’s treating you well. Your profile stood out to me because you seemed genuine, which feels increasingly rare on here.
I’d like to get to know you if you’re interested.
— Matt
Silence. Dani blinked, staring at you expectantly. You kept staring at the screen. No weird petnames or comment about your body. No creepy implication hidden between the lines. Just… polite.
“He writes like he pays all his taxes early,” Dani mused. You snorted while your thumb hovered uncertainly over the screen. The lack of photo should’ve made him feel sketchier. Instead it made him feel more private than secretive.
And the strangest part still was that he hadn’t mentioned your looks once. Nothing. After thirty straight messages from men acting like they were bidding on a mail order bride, the absence felt startling. Refreshing. “No,” you decided suddenly, tossing the phone onto the couch cushion beside you. “Absolutely not.”
Dani stared. “Wow. You like him.”
“I do not.”
“You did the thing. You get this little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you’re intrigued.”
“I’m not intrigued.”
“Right,” Dani said smugly, picking up and shoving the phone back into your hands, “Yet you’re still holding the lawyer’s message open. You should answer him.” Dani watched you expectantly, curled deep into the corner of the couch with your throw blanket wrapped around her shoulders. You looked back down at the phone in your hands. Matt’s message still sat open on the screen, painfully normal among the chaos surrounding it. No sleazy undertones or overinflated ego. It shouldn’t have felt as disarming as it did. “You know what’s weird?” you murmured.
“What?”
“He almost sounds…” You searched for the word. “Nervous.” Dani blinked. “You’re psychoanalyzing the lawyer already.” You ignored her and stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box. This was ridiculous. You didn’t belong on this app. Still, your thumbs started moving before you could overthink it.
Hi.
Honestly, you seem significantly less terrifying than everyone else here, so congrats on that.
And thank you. You seem genuine too.
— Sent reluctantly from my couch while questioning all my life choices.
The second you hit send, you groaned and dropped your head into your hands. You peeked through your fingers in time to watch the typing bubble appear. His response came a few seconds later.
I’m glad I'm less terrifying. The competition seems fairly intense. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think questioning your life choices on a couch is all that unusual.
I’ve done it myself many times.
You stared. The typing bubble appeared again.
To be transparent, I’m new to this.
I’m not interested in making anyone uncomfortable, and I’d prefer we meet somewhere public first to see whether we’re actually a good fit. Coffee or drinks, whichever you’d feel more comfortable with.
Okay. That actually made your chest loosen a little. You tucked your legs beneath you on the couch. “I fear he may be a functioning adult.” Dani snorted. You bit your lip before typing back.
Coffee sounds safer.
His response came almost immediately.
Coffee it is. There’s a place in Hell’s Kitchen called Loft that's pretty quiet in the afternoon. What does your availability look like this week?
You typed more carefully this time.
I’m free tomorrow after four, if that works for you?
The typing bubble paused longer this time.
Perfect, I should also probably give you my number instead of relying on this app.
A phone number appeared beneath the message and you replied with yours. Then, another notification slid across the top of the screen.
Payment received: $300.
You froze, and Dani peeked over your shoulder. Slowly, both of you looked at each other. “What the fuck,” you whispered. Another message appeared beneath it.
For the record, there’s no expectation attached to that. Consider it good faith.
It was the casualness of it, three hundred dollars sent over like it was nothing. Beside you, Dani stared at the screen with wide eyes.
“…Girl.”
By the time four o’clock rolled around the next day, you'd once again convinced yourself this was terrible idea. Possibly several terrible ideas stacked on top of each other wearing a trench coat.
Your photoshoot had gone well, but the exhaustion still clung to your bones as you pushed through the door of the coffee shop with your camera bag hanging heavy against your shoulder.
Loft was warm and quiet. Soft jazz hummed somewhere overhead beneath the muted sound of conversation and clinking ceramic cups. The place smelled like espresso and cinnamon, with lovely dark wood counters and display cases filled with specialty pastries.
You spotted an empty two-person table near the window and sat down carefully, trying not to look like you were one spook away from fleeing the country. Your phone buzzed.
Matt: I’m a few minutes away. I apologize for the delay.
You: No worries. I just got here.
You frowned at the screen before putting your phone down. A snag on your long sleeve top caught your attention and you picked at it nervously.
“Excuse me.”
Your head lifted automatically. And your brain immediately stopped functioning. Oh. The man standing beside the hostess stand was absurdly handsome. Not in an overly polished manner, but sharp. Dark suit, tie loosened slightly at the collar. He had such broad shoulders and a strong jaw dusted with faint greying stubble. A face that looked unfairly good even with visible exhaustion carved beneath it. He was certainly older, but in a way that only made him more attractive. Like time had enhanced him instead of draining him.
And then you noticed the cane. The hostess touched his arm lightly, speaking quietly to him, and he nodded once before turning his head slightly toward the café, red lenses catching the light. Not looking but listening. Ah.
Why he hadn’t commented on your appearance. Why there’d been no profile picture. Why his messages felt so strangely attentive without being visual.
You watched him thank the hostess softly after she gestured vaguely in your direction. He smiled politely and then he walked directly toward you anyway. There was the faintest hesitation near another table, but he was confident in his stride. Your pulse raced with nerves. When he reached the table, he tilted his head slightly. He said your name.
“Hi,” he said, voice warm and low and distractingly beautiful. “You must be my...." He stopped himself and a tiny smirk tugged at his mouth. “Sorry. I realized midway through that I don’t actually know how to finish that sentence without sounding ridiculous.”
A startled laugh escaped you and he visibly relaxed. “You’re Matt,” you managed.
“I am.” He folded up the cane and set it carefully on the edge of the table before offering a hand toward you. “And apparently significantly less terrifying than the rest of this app.”
His hand was warm. Large. Your brain short-circuited briefly during the handshake and you could practically hear the computer reboot chime in your head. You chuckled weakly in response to his quip.
His smile deepened slightly and transformed his entire face. His crows feet became rather prominent with the movement. Oh, he has dimples too. “May I sit?”
“Yeah- Yes, obviously," you squeaked. Smooth.
Matt sat across from you with practiced ease, folding his hands loosely atop the table. The man radiated competence, no ego. Just quiet certainty. “Well,” Matt said after a moment, sounding faintly amused. “I think we’ve successfully completed the hardest part. Actually showing up.”
You laughed again. And once more, that tiny visible release in his shoulders. Like he’d been hoping for that. A server appeared and took your orders, and for a few minutes the conversation stayed easy. He asked about your day. Both of you were born and raised in the city, and he talked about growing up in Hell's Kitchen.
Matt listened in a way that felt so intimate. You never got the impression that he was just waiting for his turn to speak or distracted. It was disorienting. “And you’re a lawyer?” you asked eventually. “I’m afraid so.”
“You say that like it’s terminal.”
“Some days it feels terminal.”
You snorted into your coffee. “Funny.”
“I’ve been told I’m occasionally funny.”
“By your employees?”
A soft laugh slipped out of him then, and for one terrifying second you forgot what this meeting was supposed to be. Suddenly it just felt like… coffee with a beautiful older man who made you laugh.
Matt cleared his throat lightly after a moment. “So,” he said carefully, posture straightening just slightly, “We should probably discuss the reason we’re both actually here.”
There it was. Your stomach tightened a little, and you hummed in agreement. Matt seemed to notice your nerves immediately because his tone gentled. “There’s no pressure attached to any of this,” he said. “I’d rather be overly clear than make any assumptions.” You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He folded his hands again. “I’m not particularly interested in something… performative and flashy.” A faint pause. “Or purely physical.” You flushed at that addition.
The honesty of it caught you off guard. “I work a lot,” he admitted. “Too much, probably. I don’t really have room in my life for a conventional relationship right now.”There was something distant in his voice suddenly. “But,” he said after a second, “I miss having someone around.”
Matt continued carefully. “I’d ideally like something consistent with someone I enjoy spending time with.” A tiny self-conscious smile touched his mouth. “Someone willing to accompany me to events occasionally so I stop being interrogated by colleagues.”
You smiled and huffed a quiet laugh.
“And in terms of the arrangement itself…” He exhaled softly. “If we decided we’d like to continue seeing each other, I’d prefer a consistent allowance rather than making things feel transactional every time we spent time together.” His hand tightened slightly on the edge of the table.
Your heart skipped a beat and Matt tilted his head slightly then. “There’s one practical thing I should ask,” he said gently. “Are you currently seeing anyone else through the app?”
“No,” you answered honestly. A subtle shift crossed his expression, not relief exactly, but something almost sheepish. “I’m not either,” he admitted. “And if this progressed, I think I’d prefer exclusivity. But that would obviously need be a mutual decision.”
You stared at him for a second too long. Because this was supposed to feel sleazy and transactional. Instead, somehow, it felt strangely… safe. You wrapped both hands more tightly around your coffee cup, staring down at the ruined foam art for a second longer than necessary. Matt waited. “I should probably be transparent too,” you admitted.
“I appreciate that.”
The corner of your mouth lifted slightly. “Of course you do. You’re a lawyer.”
“I’m trying very hard not to sound like one.”
“Well, you’re failing a little.” A soft laugh escaped him. It was like every time you teased him and didn’t immediately run away, he relaxed another inch. You shifted in your chair. “I’m not really…” You searched for the right wording. “I’m not someone who does this kind of thing.” Matt nodded once immediately. “I assumed.” The answer startled you. Was it that obvious you were out of your depth here? “You did?”
“You don’t approach this like someone overly comfortable with it.” Heat crept into your face. “Oh.”
“I didn’t mean that critically,” he added quickly.
“No, it’s okay.” You huffed out a small laugh. “You’re right.” You glanced down again, thumb tracing the rim of your cup. “I went to art school,” you said after a moment. “Photography and painting. Only the first one actually helps pay the bills.”
Matt leaned back slightly, listening with complete focus. “And I love it,” you admitted quietly. “I really do. I know everyone jokes about useless art degrees, but it’s the only thing that’s ever felt right to me.” You swallowed lightly before continuing. “But making enough money from it consistently is…” You laughed once under your breath. “A nightmare, honestly.” Student loans, equipment costs, unpaid gallery submissions. Constant uncertainty. You didn’t elaborate on all of that because somehow you got the feeling he already understood enough.
Matt was quiet for a second. “What do you enjoy most?”
You found yourself answering before you could get self-conscious. Portraits. Street photography. Live music sometimes when you got lucky and landed a gig. Painting was usually landscapes, sometimes abstract. “You talk about it differently than most people talk about work,” he observed softly. You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“There’s affection in it.”
You looked down at your coffee, thankful he couldn't see how much that affected you. “Well,” you muttered lightly, “it’d be concerning if I went into debt for something I hated.”
Matt smiled faintly at that before his posture straightened again slightly, business returning. Like he was carefully guiding both of you back toward safer ground before the chemistry underneath the conversation could surface any further.
“So,” he said gently, “in terms of expectations.” You nodded. He folded his hands loosely atop the table again. “I’d cover all dates, dinners, travel, events, things of that nature,” he explained carefully. “And if there’s an occasion that requires specific attire, I’d obviously handle that as well.”
The matter-of-factness of it made your stomach flip a little. Not because it sounded controlling, it just sounded so natural to him. Like taking care of someone was instinctive. “I don’t expect constant availability,” he said quickly. “You have your own life, work, priorities. But ideally…” A slight pause. “I’d like consistency."
You nodded slowly. “What kind of consistency?” He considered the question carefully before answering. “Maybe seeing each other a couple times a week? Dinner, lunch occasionally. Events when necessary.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Possibly spending time at my apartment eventually, if you were ever comfortable with that.”
“Once or twice a week sounds reasonable,” you answered. Matt nodded once, visibly relieved that you were in agreement. “And if at any point you felt uncomfortable,” he added, “I’d want you to tell me immediately.” God. This man was exhausting.
Then Matt cleared his throat lightly. “There is one thing I should warn you about.” You blinked. “I’m probably going to draft an actual contract.”
You stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. He looked momentarily offended. “In my defense,” he said, fighting a smile now, “clear written agreement prevents misunderstandings." You laughed again, and this time Matt smiled openly in response. It was faint, but real. “I’d include things like confidentiality, expectations, allowance, termination clauses,” he explained, visibly slipping into professional mode to hide his own embarrassment, "nothing hidden."
“You saying ‘termination clauses’ on a coffee date is maybe the least sexy thing anyone’s ever done.”
God. That low rough laugh again. You were in trouble. Matt adjusted slightly in his seat before speaking again. “If you’d like,” he said carefully, “I could have something drafted by tomorrow. You could come by my office and read through it before deciding anything.”
