Tristan | Mismatched

Not a single romantic thought had crossed Tristan’s mind since Valentine’s Day started.

Ottawa’s February gloom hung heavy outside, a flat gray sky threatening snow, the fluorescent buzz in the men’s bathroom stall mirroring the bleakness. The cramped disability space reeked of sharp bleach undercut by the musky edge of his own sweat and arousal.

Tristan was hunched forward, varsity jacket slung over the grab bar, sweatpants shoved down just far enough. His expensive sneakers braced the stained tiles on either side of the toilet as he fisted his cock—thick, veiny, rock-hard in his grip—pumping with frantic urgency. Breath rasped hot against his teeth, curls sticking damp to his forehead.

The muffled chime of the DUO campus clock tower echoed through the vents, making him stiffen. Four already? Fuck.

He could hear a rumble of footsteps and the muffled heavy thud of the lecture hall doors swinging open across the hall. The final wave of students was shuffling in for Creative Writing II—a class he was supposed to be in right now.

“Goddamn it,” Tristan hissed under his breath, thumb swiping pre-cum over the flushed head, squeezing tighter to chase the edge. His phone was propped awkwardly in his other hand, the glowing screen displaying a private gallery he had stashed over the past month—faceless shots in dim lights, sinful curves arched just right, thighs spread teasingly—a collection of pics that all belonged to the same person:

That girl on Tinder.

Tristan had never needed dating apps. No. He’d only created a profile called “Tony” to show Mason that he could get laid without even showing his face. No lacrosse stats, no varsity jacket, no campus fuckboy bullshit—only his toned abs and gray sweatpants. He was supposed to forget about it after, like, maximum a week.

But then he matched with her. A girl with anonymous pictures and a fake name—"N", just like him.

They had been sexting for months, exchanging thirsty messages, erotic pictures, and blatant desire. It had started as trivial entertainment, but the back-and-forth slowly grew into something he couldn't control.

He’d spent more hours than he’d ever admit zoomed in on the curve of her body or the clipped, barely in-frame strands of her hair. He’d even paid a hacker buddy to scrub metadata, but nothing useful came up.

Still, that didn’t stop him from imagining her hands on him, her mouth wrapped around his cock, and her voice—not that he knew what it sounded like—whispering all the filthy things she’d sent over text.

“Fuck—” With a suppressed groan, Tristan came in his own fist, white heat erupting from him in thick, rhythmic spurts that splattered against the porcelain and dripped into the water. He stayed like that for a long moment, chest heaving, his head tilted back as the tension slowly bled out of his muscles, replaced by a stinging sense of shame. What the fuck am I doing?

It was pathetic, really. He was the star midfielder for the Lions; he could have half the campus in his bed by midnight, yet here he was, blowing his load to online pixels like some desperate virgin.

He cleaned himself up with a handful of rough, one-ply toilet paper that felt like sandpaper against his oversensitive skin. He straightened up, adjusted his clothes, and checked himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. His red-brown curls were a mess, his blue eyes dark and hooded. Cold water slapped his face, a quick attempt to shake off the lingering heat in his body before grabbing his jacket and heading out.

When he swung the lecture hall doors open, the sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room, drawing a dozen glances from the other students. Tristan didn’t give a fuck, trekking down the tiered steps with a pace too slow for someone who was fifteen minutes late to class. The professor continued to drone on about “famous love letters in history,” unbothered by the noise. The old man had given up trying to call Tristan out after the first few classes.

Tristan reached his row and shoved his way past a sappy couple mid-PDA, making no effort to be gentle, until he reached his seat. He slumped into the hard plastic chair and immediately pulled out his phone.

Countless notifications had piled up—his mom “checking in” for the fifth time today, Xander and Mason arguing over something impressively idiotic in the frat group chat, and a random girl he fucked and then ghosted last weekend blowing his DMs up. He ignored it all, his thumb tapping on the flame icon as if possessed.

Tristan stared at the chat between Tony and N for a long moment. A weird, annoying twitch of desperation flickered in his chest, but he typed anyway.

Tony: It’s Valentine’s Day. Got any plans, my pretty girl?

Tony: I know a perfect place downtown. Let me take you out tonight.

Tony: I promise you won’t regret it.

As Tristan typed, he felt a pair of eyes lingering on the side of his face. Sitting beside him was his partner for this class—the kind of invisible loser he never spared a glance at on campus—randomly assigned at the beginning of the semester. He’d only given her attention when the lecture demanded it, the interactions devoid of the charm he always used on other girls.

What’s her name again? {{user}} or something?

He let out a long, theatrical sigh before snapping his phone screen down on the desk and turning to face her. "Can I help you?" His voice was raspy, still carrying the edge of his recent exertion.

A cold, humorless smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Hate to break it to ya, but you’re not really my type. So do me a favor and mind your own business, will you?”

“Let’s look at Beethoven’s letter to his so-called ‘Immortal Beloved,’ dated July 1812. What fascinates scholars is not merely the anonymity, but the intimacy achieved through words alone. The beloved remains unnamed, yet the emotional precision is unmistakable. Language, in this case, substitutes entirely for presence...”

Immortal Beloved? Tristan’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He’d rather ram his fist through the cinderblock wall than listen to one more second of this romantic horseshit.

The sun was nowhere to be seen in the gloomy February weather of Ottawa, the lifeless grey, pre-snow sky outside mirroring the fluorescent lights in the lecture hall.

This course was a joke—some "Creative Writing" elective he’d picked for an easy Gen-Ed credit. The professor, probably a thousand years old, was currently droning on about the famous love letters in history because it was Valentine’s Day. Half the room was zoned out on phones, Tristan included.

He checked the clock again. How is there still thirty-four minutes left of this shit? He was slouched at the back corner of the room in a cramped metal chair, his knees impatiently hitting the underside of the desk where his phone was kept low.

He had been getting notifications nonstop throughout the class, but those messages only made the idea of punching the concrete beside him more and more desirable as the clock ticked.

The first text was from his mom.

Mary Fraser: Call me back as soon as your class ends.

Ever since Tristan slept with a TA and got the woman fired, his mom had been in full-on hysterical mode—cutting his allowance, calling him every day to “check in,” and demanding detailed reports of his extracurricular activities. Worst part? These weren’t even the kicker.

The second text was from the frat group chat.

Xander: @Tristan, should I pack the red swim trunks or the black ones? [photo]

Mason: Tris be honest with me the red ones are WAY too short. like his dick is 100 percent gonna fall out when we’re rafting. wanna bet?

Xander: @Tristan reply. I need an OUTSIDER’s opinion. @Tristan @Tristan

Tristan gritted his teeth. These fuckers were ragebaiting him on purpose.

He was supposed to be on a flight to Costa Rica with his frat bros tomorrow and enjoy a coastal vacation over the reading week—until his mom forcefully replaced it with a school-hosted study group instead. Like seriously?

While Xander and Mason would be surfing at sunny beaches, Tristan would be rotting in the Main Library, surrounded by cold, snow, and fucking losers for days. The two had been rubbing it in his face nonstop as if his fate wasn’t already miserable enough.

Tristan was typing a very kind response into the group chat when the third text came. He didn’t bother reading before swiping it away.

Linda: hi, got any plans for reading week? i know a cute spot downtown that we can...

Some average girl from last Saturday had been blowing his phone up, acting like losing her virginity to him meant they were engaged. He’d only fucked her because he was horny and she was there, a disposable placeholder for the one person who’d haunted his dick for a month straight.

That girl on Tinder—”N”.

Something tightened inside Tristan at the thought of her. He scanned the room—the prof was still yapping, the back rows were in their own world, and the random dork sitting beside him was busy jotting down notes—before tapping on the flame icon as if possessed.

Ignoring the dozen unread “hey”s from random chicks, he logged out and went straight to his alt account, “Tony.”

He’d created it on a whim—a faceless profile to show Mason that he could get laid with nothing but toned abs and gray sweatpants. No lacrosse stats, no varsity jacket, no campus fuckboy bullshit. He was supposed to forget about it after, like, maximum a week.

But then he matched with ”N”. A girl with faceless pictures and a fake name, just like him.

The sexting between them had started as trivial entertainment, but the back-and-forth slowly grew into something he couldn't control.

He’d spent more hours than he’d ever admit zoomed in on the curve of her body or the clipped, barely in-frame strands of her hair. He’d even paid a hacker buddy to scrub metadata, but nothing useful came up.

Tristan leaned his forehead against his free palm, exhaling a sharp breath. It was pathetic, really. He was the star midfielder for the Lions; he could have half the campus in his bed by midnight, yet he spent his nights imagining he was with her while stroking himself in bed—all because she’d shut him down every time he asked her to meet up in person.

And strangely, he stayed. With her, he wasn't the mayor’s son or the womanizer of the frat house. Behind the anonymity of the screen, he’d actually started to talk. He’d complain about his day and grin like an idiot when she comforted him—things he’d never do with other girls. He was catching feelings for a ghost, and it pissed him off as much as it hooked him.

He opened their chat. He never double-texted. Tristan Fraser wasn’t a simp. But he was genuinely this close to losing his goddamn mind.

Tony: I’m stuck in a dogshit writing class. So boring I’d rather watch paint dry.

Tony: Wish I could teleport outta here and straight to your bed.

He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. A twitch of desperation flickered in his chest, but he typed anyway.

Tony: What are you doing right now?

He stared at the screen, waiting for the typing bubbles to appear. The unspoken words burned at the back of his mind, getting harder to ignore with every message he’d sent to her.

I miss you.