How We Met: A Tinder Story (Larry Stylinson)✅

Matching

Harry's POV

"Fuck."

It's 12:49 and I have class at 1pm across campus. The last thing I want to do is speed walk across the green, but if I don't hurry now, I'll end up getting stuck sitting in the seat next to the professor.

Great.

Sighing, I slide out of bed and try to smooth out the wrinkles on my flannel top. I can never seem to get them out.

I look in the mirror and run a hand over my face as I grab my keys. My green eyes have purple circles under them, and my long, brown curls are a bit matted in the back.

I used to take better care of myself, but these days it was getting hard to even leave my room.

12:51. Fuck.

I hate being tall.

I always feel awkward and gangly, especially when I hang out with my shorter friends.

But my long legs do come in handy when I'm in a hurry, and I manage to make it to the Spanish building by 12:59.

Rushing inside, I take the last empty seat away from the professor. We're doing a roundtable discussion, and my stomach is already churning at the thought of having to speak.

I did the reading - in fact, I even researched the author and looked up historical context. But I'm one of the only non-native speakers in the class and my accent always keeps me from participating.

Groaning, I slink into my seat, my long legs colliding with the girl next to me, and quickly recoil, sitting upright. As the class discussion begins, I can't shake the feeling of wanting to run out of the classroom.

The professor begins the conversation with a brief overview of the historical context, which I've already done. Early 1900s, Spain. Set in Andalucía. Nothing new to me.

Discreetly, I pull out of my phone and look down at it in my lap.

No one has texted me. Surprise, surprise. No new emails either.

Sighing, I go to put it away, but I see a tiny red notification flashing on my phone. It's Tinder.

Don't ask me why I'm still on Tinder.

I've been on more dates than I can count on two hands, and all of them have been horrific, to say the least. One guy lied about his age, another used false photos. My favorite was the actual drug dealer who took me to his trap house.

I guess I have a bad taste in men, or maybe I just don't know to read people. Either way, it's been a wild experience.

I bite my lip, unsure if I should open the message. But returning to the sound of the professor's droning voice doesn't appeal to me, so I click on the notification.

New match: Louis, 23.

Louis.

I remember swiping on him when I was in Chicago for the weekend. But now I'm back in New York at my uni.

Why did he take so long to match with me? I'm way too far away now for anything to happen.

I roll my eyes, ready to shove my phone back in my pocket. But Louis' profile catches my eye. He has these bright blue eyes that nearly match the background of the bright blue sky in his photo.

And his beard and mustache give him an edgy masculine look, especially coupled with his smoothed back, chestnut hair.

I crack a small smile. He is rather cute.

"Grad student at NYU. I study chemistry. Let's see if we actually have some."

A snort escapes my lips and I instantly cover my mouth. But it's too late - the girl next to me gives me an odd stare. Screw her. She's one of those petty people who speaks Spanish with a lisp.