Vi had downloaded Tinder half as a joke, half because her friends wouldn’t shut up about it.

Most of the swiping was muscle memory between sips of cheap beer at her kitchen counter—left, left, left—faces blurring into one another, full of guys flexing in bathroom mirrors, girls with captions like just here for the vibes. Every now and then, she’d pause at a profile, eyebrow raised, before rolling her eyes and flicking left again.

And then she stopped.

This one caught her off guard. It was not some over-filtered selfie, and the profile didn’t try too hard. It was smart, sharp, with just the right mix of humor and honesty.

Vi tilted her head, scanning every line, every picture. She caught herself smirking, just a little. “Alright,” she muttered under her breath, thumb hovering. “Not bad. Definitely not boring.”

And for the first time that night, she swiped right.