Chapter One
Camille
Iwasn’t even supposed to be on the dating app.
Technically, sure, the app was on my phone. But that wasn’t really on me. I was knee-deep in laundry, hands full of mismatched socks, while my best friend Dani perched on the counter, legs swinging, her grin all mischief and trouble.
“Your love life is pathetic,” she declared, eyes glinting as she spoke.
I frowned, tossing another shirt into the basket. “Okay, girl. It’s not that bad,” I countered, half-heartedly.
“And what about those lovely ‘u up?’ texts from guys who should’ve lost your number months ago?” she teased, brandishing my phone as if it were a sword.
I rolled my eyes. “Point taken.”
“Exactly. You deserve someone who isn’t allergic to commitment.” With a flourish, she swiped through the dating app she had just installed. “If you won’t get out of the house and date, then the men can come to you. Swipe, woman.”
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t delete it. Maybe I should have, but the ache of exhaustion was louder than resolve. Letting things linger felt less painful than mustering the energy to care. Even apathy came tinged with disappointment.
Two weeks later, and still, nothing had changed. The apartment felt claustrophobic. The week smothered me. My thumb, aching now, traced through endless profiles, each swipe a small resignation. Swiping was muted background noise: a quiet, repetitive no, not this one, not today.
Our apartment wasn’t glamorous. Two bedrooms housed four people’s lives. The worn couch, prone to squeaks, felt as familiar as my favorite slippers. The aroma of reheated coffee threaded through the air, grounding us in a comforting ritual. Despite its disarray, it was ours, a sanctuary where laughter offset the clutter. Laundry baskets overflowed, colors spilling into corners. Cartoon jingles looped in the background, relentless and tinny, broken up by squeals and the sharp, bright shriek of a child’s delight. Cramped, messy, chaotic. But every sound, scent, and object was a thread in our story. It was home.
Zeke, my five-year-old, had already transformed the living room into a Lego battlefield. He hummed the Paw Patrol theme under his breath, curls bouncing as I tried to dodge the sharp plastic mines scattered across the carpet. Across the room, the twins, Avery and Chloe, held court in their high chairs. Avery was banging her spoon like she was auditioning for a heavy metal band, while Chloe smeared mashed banana across her tray with the flair of a modern artist.
They were the very beings that kept me going on weeks like this. Zeke’s clever eyes sparkled every time he thought he was being sly, and the girls, identical with chubby cheeksand wide brown eyes, were impossible to tell apart unless you noticed the tiny freckle on Avery’s cheek. They were still in the stage where every discovery: spoons, books, even their own hands, was a miracle. It was chaotic and loud, yet it was somehow still the one thing that filled my chest with aching gratitude. Maybe that’s why swiping through strangers felt jagged, unfitting. Who would see the beauty in this wild circus? Who would stay?
Then.
Him.
The profile picture stopped me cold.
The first thing I noticed was his blue eyes, bright with a grayish undertone, staring back at me from the series of pictures I scrolled through on my phone screen. Each photo seemed to tell a different story, and I was sitting on my couch, trying to piece them together like a puzzle. His light brown hair was cropped short, neat in a way that said he cared without trying too hard.
One picture showed him in a Marine Corps uniform, jaw set, clean-shaven, posture sharp enough to cut. He looked like someone who knew how to hold himself together, who carried discipline in his very bones. Yet, beneath that stoic presence, there was a hint of warmth in his eyes, suggesting compassion and an underlying gentleness. Despite his polished appearance, I noticed the scuff marks on his boots in a group picture, a small reminder that even the most disciplined lives aren’t immune to wear and tear.
The next photo was a contrast: T-shirt and jeans, laughter caught mid-breath. His muscles pulled at the sleeves, broad shoulders filling the space. Strong. Solid. I couldn’t help picturing how it might feel to lean into those arms, to havethat kind of strength wrapped around me. Heat crept up my neck at the thought, quick and uninvited.
Another photo: sand and sky stretching behind him, a landscape that could only belong to a desert far from here. He stood in full gear, helmet in place, grinning widely with his squad. The smile was different, edged with grit and a kind of camaraderie. My chest tightened because beneath that grin, I could almost see it, the shadows of where he’d been.
And then, a photo in a suit. Suit crisp, tie loosened, a reddish beard trimmed close along his jaw. His hand rested under his chin like he was half-bored, half-amused. That look hinted at trouble. Not the kind that ruins your life and maxes out your credit cards. The fun kind. The kind that makes your stomach flip and has you grinning into your pillow at night.
Each photo showed a piece of him. The Marine. The friend. The man who laughed easily. The one who looked like he’d keep your secrets but tease you mercilessly anyway. And through each image, a feeling fluttered in me, much like a butterfly softly landing, something I hadn’t felt in years.
I stared at the pictures, breath caught somewhere between hope and disbelief. Men like him didn’t date women like me, my mind whispered. I was twenty-five, five-foot-two, and wore whatever I could find that fit, which was usually a pair of leggings and a clean shirt. I had three kids under five. A job at a doctor’s office that paid mostly in gratitude. Student loans stacked high, reminding me I was still trying to become someone who helps others carry pain. On paper, I was a noisy, adorable circus, with psychology exams looming. Not the kind of thing that stopped a man in his tracks.
But underneath, the fears ran deeper. A low hum of anxietywarned that my heart couldn’t take another break. The echo left by old loves haunted the edges of my days. I worried my life, with spilled cereal, frantic school runs, tired glances in the mirror, couldn’t fit the kind of romance that existed in movies or late-night novels. I was guarded. It wasn’t about being worthy of love. It was about finding my way through self-doubt, balancing chaos, and daring to hope when everything in me said not to.
So, because I felt like taking a risk, and maybe because my heart had other plans, I swiped right. Half as a joke, half because something in me had started to thud, quiet and insistent.
“Oh no!” I told the empty room, dropping my phone. Then the app glowed:Match! Send a message to Hunter, and I remembered the rule: I had to send the first message. Why would Dani sign me up for this? For someone who’d survived everything I had, being expected to make the first move felt like a tiny battle.
My thumb hovered. I typed without thinking, the words embarrassingly simple, and immediately regretted it.
Me:Hey handsome, how’s your
day going?
