He's doing that thing again. That thing with his pen.
Kelly inwardly groans, sliding in his seat, holding his magazine higher—but not high enough that he can't see Matt's perfect pink lips close around the end of the guy's pen again, with just a little flash of perfect white teeth, or the intense look of concentration on his goddamn perfect face as he narrows his gorgeous, gorgeous eyes at his crossword like it's personally offended him.
It probably has.
And Kelly should not be envious of a crossword. But fuck, that's a sexy stare.
His bunker pants are getting a bit too tight. He clears his throat, straightening (Hah!) back up, and Matt switches his gaze to him, gorgeous eyes softening with warmth.
"Need any help?" Kelly, well, croaks.
Matt lets go of his poor, abused pen, and smiles at him. Kelly sort of forgets to breathes.
"Synonym for in love, seven letters?" Matt asks.
Kelly nearly laughs. "Smitten," he answers, grinning to see Matt scrambling to write it down, eyes big and sparkling.
It's how he feels, really.