“What about now?”

“Wow,” he said, looking impressed. “It’s a subtle change, but a powerful one.”

“Thanks,” I said, uploading it to my Instagram grid before I remembered that I wasn’t sharing images from this date. I shrugged it off. At least my caption—an emoji of the smiling moon—was ambiguous.

“So here’s where I admit that the rest of the night will be far less photogenic.”

“Careful,” I teased. “I’m grading this date on its Instagramability.”

“Then I’m afraid I’ve failed,” he said, wincing comically as he led me to a small table in the corner of the balcony, almost completely surrounded by potted palms. A blue Dutch oven sat in the middle of the table, alongside a bowl heaped with brown rice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “This tableau is lovely.”

“I made curry,” he said as he lifted the Dutch oven’s lid. “I promise it tastes good, but I’m aware it looks rather … underwhelming.” He paused, then gave me a concerned look. “I should have asked if you liked spicy food.”

“I love spicy food,” I assured him as I pulled out a chair. “I can’t believe you cooked for me.”

I COULDN’T RECALL the last time someone other than my mother had cooked for me. For that matter, I couldn’t remember the last time that I had actually cooked for me—and I certainly never made anything half as delicious as the silky lemongrass curry Max had prepared. Over glasses of dry Riesling, we talked nonstop, covering topics ranging from our undergraduate experiences (I’d attended a state school with one of the nation’s largest student populations, whereas Max had gone to the private, urban University of Chicago) to our opinions on the Washington, DC, metro system (I found it a pale imitation of the NYC subway, while Max offered, “At least it’s not on fire all the time anymore,” which sounded ominous and horrifying) and our favorite Netflix shows (I advocated for The Crown, and Max preferred Black Mirror).

“That was amazing,” I told him, setting down my fork. “If I cooked at all, I’d ask for the recipe.”

“It’s just as well, because if I gave you the recipe, I’d have to kill you.” He rose and offered his hand. “Come on, let me refresh your glass and I’ll clear the table.”

I took his hand, but he tugged slightly too hard and I stumbled on my wedges as I stood, landing against his chest and spilling the rest of my wine on his shirt.

“Sorry—” he began.

And I kissed him.

It was, hands down, the most awkward kiss I had ever experienced, including the kiss Tommy Neulander planted on me at the eighth-grade dance, when he aimed for my lips and caught my eye instead. Max was still speaking as I pushed my lips against his, his voice reverberating in my mouth. We stood like that, mashed together, for a split second before I pulled away, cheeks flaming with embarrassment.