"Give me an example."
"Of what?"
"Of a compliment that would be flirting versus one that wouldn't."
I gape at him. "You want me to give you examples of how to flirt with me so you know not to do it?"
"I want to make sure I don't cross the line by accident."
He says it so reasonably. So calmly. Like, this is a normal conversation to have first thing in the morning while I'm standing here in sleep shorts and an old T-shirt with no bra.
"Okay," I say, voice slightly strangled. "Um. If you said, like, 'Nice shirt,' that's fine. If you said, 'That shirt makes your tits look great,' that's flirting."
His eyebrows lift.
"Or—or not flirting. That's just inappropriate. That's—forget I said that."
"Got it. Tits are off-limits."
"Oh my God."
"What about your legs?"
I choke on my coffee. "What?"
"If I said your legs looked good. Would that be flirting?"
"Yes!"
"Even if it's objectively true?"
My face is on fire. "It doesn't matter if it's true! That's—that's the point of the rule!"
He nods slowly, processing this. "So, observational compliments about your physical appearance are off-limits."
"Yes."
"What about proximity?"
I blink. "What?"
"You said no standing too close for no reason. What's the acceptable distance?"
"I don't know. Personal space."
"Define personal space."
"I—" I gesture helplessly. "Like, arm's length? Maybe?"
"Show me."
"Show you?"
He stands.
Oh no.
He's so much bigger when he's standing. The kitchen shrinks around him; the table between us isn’t nearly enough barrier. He steps around it, closing the distance, and stops about three feet away.
