I know this is only our second date, but I like how fresh this feels. We didn’t wind up together because we both happened to swipe right in the middle of a loneliness-induced dating-app binge. We’re not hunched over bar stools at some dive bar or cocktail spot that we’ve probably taken a dozen other dates to this year already. We didn’t spend a week texting back and forth about, oh, can you do Tuesday? No? Thursday? Six thirty p.m? Eight p.m.? This feels distinctly different than all of that—spontaneous and electric.

Conversation unfurls like a spool of ribbon. We debate if my Guillotine cocktail at the Marie Antoinette–themed bar is in poor taste (he says yes, I say it honors an icon), and he tells me about the weekend trip he took to Portland last summer. When his wineglass runs low, he doesn’t refill it. Instead, he places it gently on the coffee table and leans across the couch to get closer to me.

He kisses me tenderly at first, with one hand cupping my cheek and the other lingering on my hip. I brace myself against his chest and trail my other hand across his firm bicep. I like how broad his shoulders are and how I can feel his muscles moving beneath his starched white shirt. He kisses me deeply—and then there’s a crash.

He jolts upward. He must have knocked over the wineglass with his leg; there’s a splash of dark red across the surface of his table and it spills on the carpet. He darts into the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels and kneels down in front of the table to mop up the mess.

“Sorry,” he mutters, grimacing.

“Real smooth,” I tease, ruffling his hair.

“I guess it’s time for a refill?” he jokes.

My glass was close to empty anyway. I pour us both more wine.

“Hold on, I’m going to grab some more cleaning supplies from the closet down the hall,” he says.

An impulse washes over me. The wineglasses are tall with elegant stems, and they look chic against the backdrop of Blake’s living room. Before I can think twice, I snap a photo of the scene. A picture like that—two wineglasses atop marble coasters, Pinterest-worthy decor—looks undeniably couple-y. I can post it later on Instagram. Blake’s not on social media, so he’ll never find out. I slip my phone back into my pocket just as he returns with a spray bottle and a wet sponge.