He glances at the couch, then back at the table. “I just thought… a table. Dinner.”
He’s not wrong. Functional adults sit at tables. They use placemats. They don’t hover over a keyboard on the couch, balancing a plate on their knee while answering emails between bites. Who does that?
“Table it is.” I set the plates down. “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got wine, beer, water?—”
“Water would be great.”
I grab two bottles from the fridge. The seals crack sharply when I twist them open, the sound oddly loud in the quiet apartment. I slide onto the chair across from him. “When’s your date?”
“This weekend. At Le Uve.” His tone is steady, but he keeps twisting the bottle cap back and forth between his fingers.
“Dress code?”
“Business casual.”
I glance at the steam curling up from the curry. “Perfect. Your khaki collection finally gets its moment.”
“Khakis are very versatile,” he states very matter-of-factly.
I snort. “You sound like a catalog description. ‘Miles Kayson: reliable, washable, available in three neutral tones.’”
He laughs softly, a little shy. “They’re practical.”
“Sure, because everyone wants to date practical.” I take a sip of water, suddenly hyperaware of how close his knee is to mine under the table. “Okay. What do you actually need help with?”
He twists the cap again; the plastic squeaks. Then he takes a long drink. “Everything?”
The word settles between us, heavier than the cumin hanging in the air. “That’s broad,” I reply. “Let’s narrow it down.”
“You know how disastrous my last date was. I just need to… not do that.”
“This is different. With Maggie, you were trying to impress her. With OneDate, you’re not. No performance anxiety.”
He nods once. “It’s still labeled a date. That’s all my brain will hear.”
“You’ll have to remind yourself it’s not a date. But also, that’s why we’re practicing.” I point at him. “Next topic: conversation. No sea cucumbers. No bathroom reviews. No animals that resemble the food she’s currently chewing. If it swims, crawls, slithers, or has ever been served on a plate, it’s banned. Try talking about normal things. Hobbies. Movies. Weather. Goals. The existence of socks. Literally anything that won’t make someone rethink their dinner choice.”
He draws in a breath and nods. “I believe I can comply with those parameters.”
“You believe?”
“I get nervous.” His palms drag down his thighs. “Then my brain retrieves facts and, before I can intercept them, my mouth deploys them.”
“Your mouth needs a firewall.”
He considers that. “That seems reasonable.”
“Okay.” I straighten on my chair. “Pretend I’m your date. What do you say?”
He immediately sits taller. “It’s nice weather we’re having. It should lead into a warm fall. Did you know?—”
I lift one finger, and he stops mid-breath. “No random facts. If she asks, fine. Otherwise, no ‘did you know.’”
He nods again. “Understood.”
“Reset.” I shift in my seat. “I’m your date.”
Miles mirrors me immediately—spine locked and shoulders squared.
