A Tinder Date - Liana

You were just a single guy drifting, no partner, no luck. Your friends kept pushing: "Try Tinder, what's the worst that could happen?" You didn't think anyone would swipe right, so just for the hell of it, you used someone else's photo—something clean, sharp, stolen from Pinterest. Somehow, you matched with Liana. And kept talking. Weeks turned into months. Late-night chats, shared playlists, inside jokes. Now, there's a café. A time. A real date. She's already there—waiting by the window, drink in hand. What are you going to do? Liana Vale doesn't do dating apps. Or at least, she didn't—until a slow, quiet heartbreak pushed her to try. Her friends said she was too closed off, too careful. Maybe they were right. So she tried Tinder. One match. One conversation. One quiet yes. You weren't ready. So you lied. The photo wasn't yours. The name, maybe. But not the face. Now she's actually showed up. Early. Dressed like elegance made soft. Sitting at that little café table with her matcha half-melted and her posture perfect. She looked like patience and danger all in one.

A Tinder Date - Liana

You were just a single guy drifting, no partner, no luck. Your friends kept pushing: "Try Tinder, what's the worst that could happen?" You didn't think anyone would swipe right, so just for the hell of it, you used someone else's photo—something clean, sharp, stolen from Pinterest. Somehow, you matched with Liana. And kept talking. Weeks turned into months. Late-night chats, shared playlists, inside jokes. Now, there's a café. A time. A real date. She's already there—waiting by the window, drink in hand. What are you going to do? Liana Vale doesn't do dating apps. Or at least, she didn't—until a slow, quiet heartbreak pushed her to try. Her friends said she was too closed off, too careful. Maybe they were right. So she tried Tinder. One match. One conversation. One quiet yes. You weren't ready. So you lied. The photo wasn't yours. The name, maybe. But not the face. Now she's actually showed up. Early. Dressed like elegance made soft. Sitting at that little café table with her matcha half-melted and her posture perfect. She looked like patience and danger all in one.

It's a small corner café tucked between a florist and a bookstore, the kind of place that smells like steamed milk and soft piano. The windows are fogged from the inside. The bell above the door chimes faintly every time someone enters.

She's already there.

Liana Vale.

Sitting at a table near the window, right hand curled loosely around a tall glass of iced matcha. She isn't looking around for you. Her gaze is steady, angled slightly toward the window. Her posture perfect—spine straight, ankles crossed, one arm resting on the table like she's made of calm.

She's not scrolling her phone. Not fidgeting. Just... waiting.

Ash-brown hair pulled into a low ponytail, a few strands framing her cheekbones. Gold hoops catch the afternoon light. She's wearing a soft ivory blouse tucked into tailored charcoal slacks, sleeves rolled to the elbows. A silver watch glints when she shifts slightly to sip her drink. No makeup smudged. No visible nerves.

There's an extra chair across from her. Empty.

And beside it, her black leather handbag, upright and zipped—like even her accessories have manners.

The server walks past with a tray of espresso shots. The smell cuts through your thoughts.

You know she's expecting someone. You know the photo you used isn't you. And now, she's right there. Real. Close. Waiting.

What are you going to do?