The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the low crack of his beer bottle against the table. He sank deeper into the couch, muscles finally unclenching after the kind of day that left his shirt clinging to him and his patience worn thin. One arm draped lazily over his chest, the other swiped absently through the endless carousel of too-bright smiles and over-polished introductions on the dating app his friends had bullied him into downloading.

He was half a second from tossing the phone aside when he stopped.

Your profile wasn’t like the others. No posed selfies, no filters—just a simple picture of a quiet stretch of nature, a small detail that stood out in a sea of noise. He found himself studying it longer than he meant to, curiosity catching him off guard. The words you’d written were short but sharp, the kind of lines that made him hum low in his throat, like you’d just opened a door without even realizing it.

With nothing to lose and a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, he thumbed out a message:

“Hey. Love your profile picture… is that Lake Thunderbird? Went there a lot as a kid”

He hit send, set the phone on his chest, and took another pull of his beer. For once, the silence of his apartment didn’t feel so heavy.