Laura and Matt met at a friend’s get‑together—the kind of casual backyard hangout where someone brings an odd dip, and someone always drinks too much. This time, that someone was Laura. When the cornhole teams formed, the universe apparently decided to have a sense of humor and stuck the two unpaired stragglers together. Not planned, not picked, just the way things fell into place, and it turned into quite the pairing.

Laura, three drinks in, could not hit the board. Not once, not even by accident. Matt, meanwhile, was taking the game way too seriously—calculating angles, adjusting his stance, muttering things like “wind resistance” even though there was no wind. He tried to coach her. She rolled her eyes and told him she didn’t need coaching. Then she missed the board again and again and just danced to random music on the lawn. Somehow, they still won. Mostly because Matt carried the team. When they high‑fived, it was the kind of high‑five that accidentally lingers a second too long. They both pretended not to notice.

Over the next few months, they kept running into each other at gatherings: a birthday party, a cookout, a “we-just-felt-like-having-a-party” party. A game night where Laura beat Matt at some random game and he demanded a rematch. Every time, the competitiveness got worse. They trash‑talked each other like professional athletes. They argued over rules no one else cared about. They turned every activity into a competition—corn hole, beer pong, who had the higher credit score.

Eventually, after enough accidental run‑ins, they exchanged numbers. Laura waited for the usual grovel, but it never came. Matt didn’t chase her. No “good morning” texts. No “what are you doing tonight” messages. No desperate attempts to impress her. He was polite. He was respectful, friendly and somewhat normal. Laura hated it. She was used to men begging for her attention. Matt’s calm, unbothered energy felt like a personal attack. So, she made a decision, a competitive decision, a “challenge accepted” decision. She was going to make him fall for her. Not because she wanted a relationship. Not because she wanted love. But because he didn’t either and she refused to lose.

Laura turned on the charm. Her attempts for perfect hair (boxed dyed and blow-dried), perfect smile (whitening strips) and an occasional pedicure, is all it took for Matt to call her high maintenance. Matt tried to stay cool, he really did, but Laura was relentless. She attempted to flirt like it was a competitive sport and she was determined to win despite his offensive comments at times. Her perfectly timed jokes, laughing at his dumb puns, accidentally-on-purpose brushing his arm led to him calling her dangerous and aggressive. (Said this on our first date)

Slowly, Matt started texting more, then calling, then inviting her places. One day, he looked at her and realized that he was in love. Laura realized it too. They didn’t want love. They didn’t want marriage. They didn’t want anything serious, but they wanted each other.

And despite all the trash talk, the competitions, the stubbornness, and the “I’m not catching feelings, YOU’RE catching feelings,” they fell anyway. Not gracefully. Not romantically. More like tripping over a cornhole board and landing face‑first into something real. Laura still claims she won. Matt says he let her win. But everyone agrees on one thing: They’re perfect for each other.