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“Did he touch you? Push you? Make you uncomfortable?”

His voice stays calm, but I catch the way his jaw clenches.

“Because if he did, I swear to God, I'll—”

“He didn't,” I cut in quickly. “He didn't do anything.”

Wyatt pauses, his jaw working for a moment. “Did he…” He clears his throat. “Did he kiss you?”

“What? No. No, it's nothing like that.”

He studies me for another beat. “You sure?”

I nod.

He still doesn't look entirely convinced, but he finally eases back against the couch.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Then what's going on?”

I don’t know what to tell him. What can I share without saying too much?

"He was nice," I say eventually, staring at the sandwich like it might tell me something useful. "Genuinely nice. Good job. Good jacket. Asked me real questions about my work."

"Sounds like a nightmare." He sounds confused.

"Shut up." No heat behind it. "It's not — it's not about him. He didn't do anything."

"Then what?"

I look down at my hands, swallowed to the knuckle in his sleeves, and the part of the truth comes out. Not the whole truth, but the truth anyway.

"Do you know how embarrassing it is," I say, "being twenty-three and having absolutely no idea what you're doing?"

Wyatt doesn't interrupt. He just waits.

"I spent the entire date wondering if I was smiling enough. If I was talking too much. Not enough. Whether I should laugh. Whether I should touch his arm when he made a joke. Whether I was making enough eye contact."

I let out a humorless laugh. "I felt like I was taking some kind of exam where everyone else got the study guide."

His brow pinches.

"I kept thinking, Is this the moment I'm supposed to feel something? Because I wasn't. I just... kept checking in with myself, waiting for whatever everyone always talks about to happen."

I shake my head. "I know what dating is supposed to look like." I shrug helplessly. "I've read the books. I've watched the movies. Nadia's told me every horrifying detail of her dating life."

That earns the ghost of a smile from Wyatt.

"But when I'm actually sitting across from someone..." I rub my thumb over the cuff of his sweatshirt. "I feel like I'm performing. Like I'm trying to be the version of myself I think they're expecting instead of just... being me."

I swallow. "Everyone else seems to know the rules. They date. They flirt. They have sex. They make it all look so effortless."

My throat tightens. "And then there's me."

I force out a shaky laugh. "I'm twenty-three years old, sitting across from a perfectly nice man, and I don't even know how I'm supposed to do any of it."

When I finally look back at Wyatt, I hate how small my voice sounds.

Wyatt holds my gaze, his expression so earnest it makes my chest ache.