Can you blame him? The guy has heightened senses. He doesn't want to listen to your botched impression of Frank Sinatra while you sweep your floors. It's just that… the sound waves happen to make it to his ears. He can't help it!

These observations, ones his brain had filed away way before you'd even introduced yourself, are what make him question why you've gotten… louder.

He's heard your (several) keychains jingle as you unlock your door, every day at five p.m. He's memorised the subtle scents of your vanilla deodorant and lavender shampoo. The scruff of your converse and the drag of your untied laces against the floor are enough to alert him of your presence.

Yet, ever since you finally worked up the courage to have your first conversation with him, things… changed.

You'd been there a week, spending most of it unpacking and decorating and making several trips downstairs to throw out boxes because of course the elevator doesn't work, when you finally mustered up the courage to introduce yourself.

You'd never been a very social person. Quiet, reserved, the kid in the back of the class diligently working on their assignment. You like keeping to yourself. You were sure you'd go a month without even knowing your (hot) neighbour's name if it weren't for the two of you meeting in the hallway.

You'd stepped out in your pajamas, about to head downstairs for your pizza delivery, when you saw him coming upstairs. That hard set of his jaw, dark red glasses reflecting the ceiling light, suit slightly rumpled from the workday, and… was that a bruise under his eye?

Whatever. You're not here to stare at attractive men. Get your pizza and go.

But then the end of his cane just happened to bump against your foot.

“Oh, sorry,” you muttered awkwardly, stepping back. The way he tilted his head to the side, like a curious puppy, was unfairly attractive.

“No worries. You're my new neighbour, right? 6B?” Matt replies smoothly, with the annoying confidence of a man who knows he's irresistible.

You blinked, red in the face, instinctively fixing your hair before realising how embarrassingly stupid that is. “Yeah. I just moved in a week or so ago.”

His smile is more of an amused smirk. You've never felt so observed.

“Matt,” he says, extending his hand for you to shake. You notice the callouses on his hands before you remember to say your own name. It's annoying how attractive he is. How even his voice as he tests your name on his tongue sounds like it belongs in a rom-com (or on pornhub). How his tie is just slightly loosened, the curve of his pink lips, the stubble on his face, his slender fingers. You're starting to feel like a pervert now.

After the most awkward conversation of your life (awkward on your part, amusing on his), you decide you just have to get his attention.

Typically, in movies, you'd watched women dress themselves up to get their love interest’s attention. Clearly, that won’t work for this scenario. Scandalous tops and pretty hair-dos won't cut it.

So, you focus on the other senses.

You start wearing high heels instead of converse. You spray on so much perfume it gives you a headache the first time. You ‘accidentally’ drop your keys while unlocking your door. Essentially, you turn yourself into a nuisance just for an opportunity to spark conversations with Matt.

And somehow, it seems to work.

It had taken a while, and a lot of convincing from Foggy and Karen, but Matt finally admitted to himself that you might be doing this for him. The timeline matches up. You'd never answered phone calls in the hallway or smelled that… strong before.

And besides, Matt knows what he's doing. That evil little fucker knows he's charming enough to get into anyone's pants, pre-established crush or not. So, he starts conversations with you. He knows damn well by now that you're too awkward to do it yourself.

He compliments your perfume. Asks you questions and actually listens—with that annoyingly sexy smirk and tilted head. He ‘bumps into’ you at the corner store.

Matt beams the day you show up at his door with a box of cookies, shifting your weight on your feet, your heart racing as you thrust the box into his hands. “I, um, made extra. So, I thought I might share. …They're chocolate chip!”

He makes sure his fingers brush yours when he accepts the box. Prolongs the moment because hearing your heart beat faster and your words get clumsier as you take him in—soft gray t-shirt, sweatpants hanging loose, messy hair, and dear god, he's not wearing his glasses. You can't believe the universe deprived you of his beautiful eyes for this long. They're brown with the tiniest hint of green around the edges, almost go—

He clears his throat. You blink.

“Sorry— what were you saying?”

Matt has to bite back a chuckle. He almost feels bad for you, you poor thing. You're so flustered you don't know what to do with yourself. He can't imagine the other ways he could affect you.

So, in a moment of impulsivity, and probably far too many hormones, he gestures to his apartment with his head. “Please, come in. We can share.”

Chocolate chip cookies aren't the only thing the two of you share that night.

And the best part? You so confidently think this had been your doing, that those extra lengths you'd gone to were what got his attention. As if he hadn't been noticing you since the day you moved in.

He lets you have it. You need to work on your self esteem anyway.