Your love life has been garbage lately. You scrolled through Instagram, finding your ex already moving on, announcing his engagement. You roll your eyes, tossing your phone before a thought comes into your mind. Fuck it.

You open the white flame logo app, yeah, tinder, and scroll through it as you pour yourself a glass of wine. As you take the first sip you almost choke on it.

Francisco Morales.

Your dad’s best friend.

You stare for a second, definitely him. The broad shoulders, graying beard and hair that curls around the back of his cap, wearing that worn-out jean shirt you’ve seen God knows how many times at carne asadas.

You click on his bio, a smirk forming on your lips at the short, so Frankie response.

"Just a pilot passing through."

You laugh.

"Yeah, okay, sure, Fish." You say to yourself in your kitchen island.

You're about to swipe left when you notice the small banner at the bottom. You're his type. You laugh to yourself. His type? What does that even mean? You look through his profile.

· Picture with his dog, cute. · Picture with a beer, classic. · Picture with his pilot glasses, you stare. · Picture with his hand on a book- shit.

You stare longer than necessary. Imagining things you probably shouldn't. You can't deny that he's always been attractive. In that quiet, gentleman, old fashioned way. You also think about teasing him on next Friday's carne asada for your cousin's birthday.

But before you even decide, your phone slips from your hand, your middle finger swiping right as you catch it. When you look at it again your heart sinks.

It’s a match!

"Oh, shit." You put the glass down and try to unmatch before a text appears on the screen.

"What the hell are you doing on here?” You can imagine him on his couch, scrolling through tinder with a Corona in hand or maybe a Budweiser.

You chew on the inside of your lip as you think about what to reply.

“Could ask you the same thing.” You press send.

"You’re supposed to be a kid.” He replies almost instantly.

"I’m twenty-five." You correct, picking up your wine glass.

"Still a kid without a license." You can practically see him smirking as he types that.

He's never let down that you crashed onto your instructor's car on your way back to the DMV and failed you last minute.

“So… you’re not unmatching me?" You ask, pouring yourself more wine and walking to your couch. You think he might've when he takes longer to reply.

"I will.” He types and you wait for him to do so.

“Still haven't.” You say after he doesn't and type the next message as you see he's seen it. "Come on, Cat. Admit it. You swiped on me first."

You see the two checkmarks and imagine his calloused fingers hovering over his phone trying to come up with something that doesn't make him seem like a creep.

"Maybe.” You roll your eyes. Four minutes for that reply? But you still smirk.

“Knew it.”

“Listen. This isn't a good idea.” He sends next.

“Why not?” You frown a little.

“Jesus, you're seriously asking? Your old man would kill me." He texted, imagining him lifting his cap and brushing his hair back with his fingers like you've seen him do countless times before.

"I should’ve unmatched the second your face popped on my feed.”

But across from town, a nervous and slightly intrigued Frankie is running his hand through hair, his cap forgotten on the coffee table, muttering under his breath in Spanish, shaking his head at how stupid and reckless, even dangerous this could all go and how fast everything could go to shit. And yet, his fingers are still not hitting unmatch.