We’re close enough to kiss, but I’m not sure I’m brave enough to initiate that. I want to protect what we have from my own brash impulses. I don’t want to mess up again, like I did that morning in my apartment. Maybe I shouldn’t worry, because Raj leans in so slowly to kiss me I can feel his eyelashes brushing my skin. I like the way his kisses warm up from gentle to enthusiastic; one hand slides up my back and another caresses my cheek. When we eventually break apart, I can see him smiling.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, ruffling his hair.

I’ve spent enough time with him to recognize it as something he does when he’s just the tiniest bit nervous. I try to soothe him by kissing him again.

“Of course,” I say. “Let’s go. My place?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

I call an Uber. Anticipation crackles between us in the backseat of the driver’s car. I slouch down on the seat so I can rest my head on Raj’s shoulder. He dangles his fingers on the curve of my knee. An indie pop song floats from the radio like we’re in a music video. He kisses a soft trail from my temple to my ear; I shift in my seat, and soon, we’re making out again.

On the surface, none of this is new: I’ve made out with plenty of people in the backseats of late-night Ubers. The difference is that this time, there’s this odd sense of potential. This could be the last first time I take a guy back to my place. Part of me is afraid to move the wrong way and ruin the moment, but another part of me feels supremely confident—I can’t make the wrong move, because whatever is between us is so perfectly right. He likes me. He gets me. Forget the lackluster chemistry and robotic kisses on my past dates: this is how dating should be. And the best part? It’s Raj, who not only makes me feel so at ease around him, but also has his hand on my shoulder with his fingers slipping beneath the neckline of my dress. His touch is magnetic.

When the driver drops us off at my place, there’s no question that Raj will come upstairs with me. His hands linger playfully on my waist as I fumble with the lock and key.

Once we’re inside, I gesture vaguely to the refrigerator. “Do you want, um, a beer? Water? Seltzer?” I offer.

“I’m good,” he says. “You don’t have to, like, host me. I’m here for you.”

“Wait,” I say, suddenly inspired.