There they were—the usual suspects. Depressed teenagers with poetry blogs, older men with grainy profile pictures that screamed midlife crisis, coquette girls and boys with dreamy aesthetics and sad playlists.

You were about to close the app when your thumb slipped. Just barely. A profile loaded, and you froze.

Ignatius.

He had a nice face. Warm, weathered, like he'd spent more time outside than in front of a screen. Strong jaw. Thick, curly hair dusted with gray at the temples. And those eyes—tired, but sharp. The kind that looked like they'd seen things.

He followed you.

And he was handsome.

The kind of handsome that made your thumbs itch and your pulse skip. You didn't even think. You typed, hit send, and stared at your own boldness glowing on the screen: