Your love life has been garbage lately. After an especially stressful day, 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.

Joel Miller.

Your nextdoor neighbor. Your older nextdoor neighbor.

You stare at the profile. The unmistakable broad shoulders, graying beard and hair that curls at the back of his head when he leaves it long, wearing that navy blue shirt you’ve seen him wear to work a few times.

You click on his bio, a smirk forming on your lips at the short response, sure Joel didn't type.

"Just a man looking for his passenger princess."

You laugh. Sarah definitely wrote that. 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, just to see how Sarah probably set it up.

· Picture with his brother, cute. · Picture with a beer, classic. · Picture with his sunglasses at the beach, you stare. · Picture with his hand on the steering wheel- 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, protective, and old fashioned way.

You think about swiping right, maybe he doesn't pay the subscription and won't ever see the swipe? So you do it, for the anecdote, you think. Until the screen lits up.

It’s a match!

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

"Aren't you nextdoor?” You can imagine him on his couch, maybe his bed, scrolling through Tinder in the dim light of the moon.

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

"You've seen me, huh?.” You press send.

"You look like a kid.” He replies almost instantly.

"I’m twenty-five." You correct, picking up your wine glass as you sit on your couch.

"You're a baby." You can practically see him smirking as he types that.

"I don't see you unmatching." You send, sipping your wine. You think he might've when he takes longer to reply.

"I should.” 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, old man, admit it. You swiped on me first."

You see the two checkmarks and imagine his calloused fingers from working moving materials at work, 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.

“You're a kid, for one. I have a kid and I'm sure you're not interested in a single father." He texted next.

You knew that. You've seen him take Sarah to school in the mornings. But the part where he says not interested in a single father makes you think about how many times had women turned him down for it?

Next door, a nervous and slightly hopeful Joel is waiting for your reply, running a hand through hair, shaking his head at how stupid and reckless this could be and how everything could easily go to shit.