“Thank you,” I say quietly, nodding at the tub. “For the ice cream.”
He looks at me. Really looks at me. “Anytime. Whatever you or the baby need.”
“I wonder what your dates will think about that.” I wink.
He snorts, breaking eye contact first, and digs his spoon into the tub like it’s suddenly fascinating.
“I’m not planning to open with it,” he says. “Hello, I’m Geoff. I bring dairy to pregnant women and have complicated feelings about bedrooms.”
“Missed opportunity,” I say. “Really sets expectations.”
I tilt my head, considering him. The earnestness. The way he’s half-joking, half-terrified.
“Well,” I say, tapping my spoon against the side of the tub, “if you’re meant to focus on conversation and connection, I could help.”
He looks at me. “How.”
“Practice,” I say. “Pick my brain. Run things past me. First impressions. Red flags. What not to say if you don’t want someone to fake a phone call to escape.”
He blinks. “You’re offering to coach me.”
“I am,” I confirm. “Think of it as dating rehearsal. No bedroom. Very on brand.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “You’d do that.”
“Absolutely. I have opinions. Many of them.”
He chuckles, scooping up more ice cream. “I feel like that’s a threat.”
“It is,” I say lightly. “But a constructive one.”
He considers this for a moment, then nods. “Alright. Deal.”
“Good,” I say. “Rule one: if you say ‘My dick is on strike’ on a first date, I’m confiscating your phone.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Fair.”
“And rule two,” I add, “if a woman asks you what you’re looking for, don’t say ‘I don’t know’ like it’s a personality trait.”
He groans. “I’ve done that.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s why I’m here.”
He grins at me, warmth flickering in his eyes. “Thank you.”
“For the dating advice?” I ask. “Invoice pending.”
“For… everything,” he corrects, quieter.
The ice cream melts between us, neither of us in any hurry to finish it.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a sensible voice clears its throat.
I ignore it.
This feels harmless.
Helpful.
