Jasper Reed sat on the edge of his couch, knees wide, elbows digging into thighs, phone gripped like a loaded pistol. The living room was pitch black except for the cold blue light from Tinder — the app's logo throbbing like a bruise. He hadn't touched it in six months. Not since the last girl backed away when he flinched at her fingers on his neck, like she was touching a live wire. Not since the nightmares returned, vivid as the day: blood pooling under his palms, her pregnant belly still warm, the baby kicking one last time inside her. Sirens outside, her eyes going glassy, his screams lost in the rain.
The flat smelled like burnt garlic from dinner. He always cooked too much — pots bubbling, steam fogging the windows, like if he filled the air with noise he wouldn't hear the echo of her voice: "Jasper... I'm bleeding..." He set the empty beer bottle down on the scarred oak table, ringed from years of bottles just like this one. Rain hammered the window like fists.
He scrolled. Faces blurred past: blonde, brunette, tattoos, smiles, bios that read like ads. "Adventure seeker." "Dog mom." "Looking for real." None felt real. None looked like they'd survive the weight he carried — the scars on his wrists from the army, the shakes when he heard loud bangs, the way he locked doors three times, checked under beds, still smelled gunpowder in his sleep.
Then her.
Lydia Hart.
Blonde hair tucked behind one ear, green eyes locked on the camera like she was staring straight into him. Lips parted — not smiling, not smirking, just... waiting. Bio: "Not here for games. If you're broken, I won't fix you. But I won't run either."
His thumb hovered. Heart kicked — not fear, not lust. Just... something.
Swipe right.
Match.
The ping was soft, like a door creaking open.
Her message: "Hey. You look like you could use a laugh."
He stared. The words sat there, innocent. But they tugged — like she'd seen the photo of him in army fatigues, eyes hollow, jaw tight, and decided to prod it.
He typed: "I could use a lot more than that."
Send.
She replied in seconds: "Then come get it. Coffee tomorrow? No strings. No bullshit."
He laughed — dry, surprised, echoing off the walls. First real laugh in months. His chest loosened, like someone had cut a knot.
He stood. Walked to the window. Rain streaked the glass, London lights smearing like wet paint. He pressed his forehead to the cold pane. Felt the pulse in his temple.
He hadn't dated since the army. After the shooting — after holding her while she bled out, baby kicking one last time inside her — he joined up. Thought it would burn the grief out. Instead it added more bodies. Friends blown apart by IEDs, one guy who'd taken a bullet to the throat while Jasper dragged him behind cover. He came back at twenty-three, medals in a drawer, nightmares in his head.
Tinder was supposed to be easy. Swipe. Fuck. Forget.
But Lydia's message felt different. Like she'd read the room before he entered it.
He typed: "Tomorrow. 11 a.m. The little place on Brick Lane. The one with the burnt toast."
She: "I like burnt toast. See you there."
He set the phone down. Heart thumping. Not fear. Not lust. Just... possibility.
He walked to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Empty except for milk and a half-eaten curry. Shut it. Went to the bedroom. Bed unmade, sheets twisted from last night's sweat. Sat on the edge, stared at the wall.
The photo on the dresser — him and her, eighteen and twenty-one, laughing at a fair. She had her hand on her belly. He had his arm around her.
He picked it up. Thumb over her face. Felt the glass cool under his skin.
"Tomorrow," he whispered.
Then he lay down. Didn't sleep. Just stared at the ceiling until the rain stopped.
Morning came grey. He showered — hot water scalding his back, steam filling the bathroom like smoke. He shaved. Cut himself once. Watched the blood bead, wiped it away.
Dressed: black jeans, grey hoodie, boots. Nothing fancy.
The café on Brick Lane smelled like coffee and grease. He got there early. Sat at a corner table. Ordered black coffee. Watched the door.
She walked in at 11:02.
Lydia Hart.
Jeans, leather jacket, hair loose. She scanned the room, saw him, smiled — not big, not fake. Just... real.
She slid into the seat opposite. "You're early."
"So are you."
She laughed. "I don't like waiting."
He nodded. "Me neither."
She ordered latte. He watched her hands — long fingers, no rings. No scars.
They talked.
First nothing: the rain, the coffee, how London never sleeps. Then she asked: "Why Tinder?"
He shrugged. "Bored. Lonely. Stupid."
She tilted her head. "Honest. I like that."
Then she said: "I don't do casual. If you're here to fuck and forget, I'm out."
He met her eyes. "I'm not."
She smiled. "Good."
They talked more.
She told him about her ex — "He hit me once. Left bruises. Said I was crazy when I cried."
He listened. Didn't flinch. Didn't say "I'm sorry." Just nodded.
Then he said: "I lost someone. Shot. In front of me. She was pregnant."
The words came out flat. Like he'd practiced them.
She didn't look away. "How old were you?"
"Eighteen."
She reached across. Touched his wrist — light, no pressure. "You survived."
He pulled back. "Yeah. That's the problem."
She didn't push. Just said: "I don't run from problems."
They finished coffee. She paid — insisted. He let her.
Outside, rain again. She pulled her hood up. "Walk me to the tube?"
He did.
They didn't speak. Just walked. Her shoulder brushed his once. He didn't pull away.
At the station, she turned. "Tomorrow?"
He nodded. "Tomorrow."
She kissed his cheek — quick, warm. "Don't disappear."
He watched her go down the stairs.
Back home, he opened Tinder. Saw her profile again.
He didn't swipe anyone else.
That night, he dreamed of blood.
The flashback hit hard.
He was eighteen. Parking lot. Night. Carjacker with a gun — shaking, eyes wild. "Give me the keys!"
His girlfriend — Sarah — laughed. "It's not even running."
The gun went off.
Bullet through her chest. Blood sprayed — hot, coppery, on his face, in his mouth. She dropped. He caught her. Held her. Her belly swelled under his hands. The baby kicked — once, twice. Then still.
He screamed. Sirens. Cops. "She's gone."
He knelt in the blood. Fingers slick. Her eyes open, staring past him.
He woke gasping. Sweat soaked.
But when he woke, he wasn't alone in his head.
She was there.
Lydia.
He smiled.
First time in years.