"So… I may have accidentally matched with you on a dating app," Evan says casually, like he's not dropping a social grenade into my oat milk latte.
We're sitting on a park bench with sandwiches from a local deli, our "non-chaotic hangout" plan in full effect. There are dogs, dandelions, and the distant sound of someone failing at the harmonica. Idyllic. Until now.
I stop mid-bite. "Excuse me?"
He pulls out his phone, opens an app, and holds it up.
There it is. My profile. Leila, 24. Professional coffee spiller. Amateur existentialist. Can out-stare your cat.
I grab the phone from his hand in horror. "WHY WERE YOU EVEN—"
"I got bored. Made a profile last night. Didn't expect to see you on it."
"Oh my god," I groan. "This is why I don't use dating apps. They're public humiliation with a swipe function."
He laughs. "Honestly? Your bio made me laugh. I was like, 'Yup, that's her.'"
I squint at him. "Did you swipe right?"
A pause.
He looks at me. "Would it be weird if I said yes?"
My brain short-circuits. I panic and take a very large bite of sandwich I don't need, stalling for time.
Swallowed wrong.
Cough.
Choke.
Die.
Evan pats my back like he's helping but is 100% also trying not to laugh.
When I finally recover and breathe like a functioning human again, I croak, "Okay. You matched with me. What does that mean?"
He shrugs. "It doesn't have to mean anything. I just thought it was funny."
"But you liked me."
"I already like you," he says.
Pause.
Heart malfunction.
I open my mouth. Close it. Reboot.
"Okay," I say slowly. "So… you like me. But like, as a person, right? Not necessarily in a romantic swipe-right-let's-get-married way."
He smiles. "I don't know. We haven't even gotten to the meet-the-parents level of our laundry-based friendship yet."
I laugh, partly out of relief, partly because I want to scream into a pillow.
Then he leans back, looking up at the sky. "But if you're asking if I'm interested—yeah. I am. I just didn't want to make it weird."
"Too late," I say automatically, but I'm smiling.
He grins. "Fair."
I lean back beside him. The silence stretches again, warm and a little electric.
Then I say, "I'm not great at this. The dating part. Or the not overthinking part."
"I'm not expecting perfect," he says. "Just honest."
I glance at him.
Honest.
Okay.
"Well, honestly," I say, "I'm glad we matched. Even if it was by accident."
He nods. "Same."
And then, without fanfare or dramatic music, he reaches over and gently links his pinky with mine.
Not a grand gesture.
Just a small, quiet one.
But somehow, it's enough.
---