“So…” Miles runs his palms on his thighs. “Dating lessons?”
I glance up. “Right. Lessons. The reason why I’m here. What do you want to start with?”
“Can we go over more conversation topics?”
He asks the kinds of get-to-know-you questions someone would ask on a real date. A couple of times, I tease him when he stumbles over his answers, but the conversation keeps flowing. He feels different now. More relaxed. Next, we practice sitting closer and adding in casual touches. He drapes his arm along the back of the couch behind me—not quite touching, but close enough that the space between us disappears. Close enough that heat gathers at my side and stubbornly refuses to fade.
Miles sits up and rests his elbows on his knees. “With my family dinner, should we practice showing affection toward each other? Maybe we can start by holding hands again. Just… for practice.”
I nod, pretending my pulse isn’t racing.
His fingers lace with mine, easy and natural, as if this is something we’ve done a hundred times before. “Okay. Yeah. I can do this.”
“So,” I press my lips together. “Next step.”
His voice lowers. “What next step?”
“The thing people do without thinking when they’re… comfortable.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth and back up so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it. Almost.
“Like kissing?”
I try to keep my tone light. “No. Finishing each other’s sentences.”
“Oh.” His face drops.
I fall over with laughter, my forehead crashing into his bicep. “I’m sorry. I was teasing you.”
He chuckles softly and then he shifts closer, the couch giving under his weight until our knees bump. The contact is brief, accidental—except he doesn’t pull away.
Mallow chooses that moment to hop up between us, tail curving into a question mark and bunts my wrist.
Miles freezes. “Not now, Mallow.”
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “He’s just jealous.” I pet his head before bending down to press a kiss to the top of his head.
“Who’s jealous of who now,” he mutters, scooping Mallow up and depositing him on the far cushion. Mallow immediately turns his back to us. “Okay.” He clears his throat. “How are we going to sell this to my family?”
I wave a hand between us. “Like this. We laugh and playfully tease each other. Add in the touching. Arm around my shoulders or hand on my leg.” I reach over, grab his wrist, and gently place his hand on my thigh just a few inches above my knee. Nothing too scandalous. His fingers lightly brush against my jeans, and my breath gets tripped up. “Just like that.”
Miles stares at his hand for a second before glancing up and meeting my gaze. He nods. “Got it. Hand on thigh.”
I force a smile that feels steadier than I am. “So. What else do couples do when they’re sitting this close?”
Miles hesitates. The tension in his shoulders is visible, as if he’s afraid of getting it wrong. “Uh—eye contact? Smiling. That kind of thing.”
“Are you asking or telling me?” I tease, even though my pulse is already skidding out of control.
He frowns. “I’m trying not to mess it up.”
That’s the problem—he’s being careful. And suddenly, I don’t want to be careful. I don’t want to think about how my feelings are getting louder, heavier, harder to brush aside. I don’t want to examine how warm his house feels, or how his kindness keeps knocking the air out of me. This needs to stay simple. Fake. But it’s hard to pretend when I know the titles of the books on his coffee table.
“Okay,” Miles murmurs, eyes dropping to my mouth again, longer this time. “We should practice… the close-range thing.”
I swallow. “The close-range thing?”
“Yeah.” His voice goes softer. “Eye contact. Smiling.”
