“Do you want to have sex with him?” he asked, attempting to sound casual but failing miserably. He couldn’t even look at me, and instead stared down where he was pulling at a string in the hem of his shirt. I felt a shiver move down my spine at the hint that he wasn’t entirely okay with this.

I took a deep breath, thought about it. My first instinct was to rush to an automatic no, but instead, I just shrugged, noncommittal. Dylan was cute and I’d let him kiss me good night at my doorstep, but it was nothing compared to what I’d experienced with Will. And that was one hundred percent of my problem. I was pretty sure the reason Will made me feel good was that he was experienced. But that was exactly why he was off-limits.

“Honestly,” I admitted. “I’m not even sure. I guess I’ll just have to see how I feel when the time comes.”Any doubts I may have had about Will’s third-date protocol were quickly put to rest as soon as Dylan and I stepped inside the restaurant I had chosen.

Dylan had wanted to take me somewhere I’d never been before—not hard considering I’d been in New York three years and barely left the lab to eat. He smiled proudly when the cab pulled up and deposited us at Daniel, at Park and Sixty-fifth.

If I’d been asked to draw you a picture of a romantic eatery, it would have looked exactly like this: cream walls, silvery grays and chocolate browns, arches and Grecian columns that skirted the main dining area. Round tables draped in sumptuous linens, vases of greenery everywhere and all of it set beneath giant glass light fixtures. The complete opposite of our second-date place. The stakes had been raised.

I was not prepared.

Dinner started off well enough. We selected appetizers and Dylan ordered a bottle of wine, but it had gone downhill from there. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t text Will but near the end when Dylan excused himself to go to the bathroom, I caved. I think I’m failing third date 101.

He answered almost immediately. What? Impossible. Have you seen your teacher?

He ordered some expensive wine and then seemed insulted when I didn’t want any. You never care that I don’t drink, I typed.

The icon appeared to show that he’d entered text—quite a bit of it if the amount of time it took was any indication—so I waited and looked around to make sure Dylan wasn’t headed back my way.

That’s because I’m a genius and can do basic math: I pour you half a glass, you pretend to drink it all night, and so the rest of the bottle’s for me. Boom, smartest man alive.

Pretty sure he doesn’t see it that way, I typed.

So tell him you’re much more fun when you’re actually awake and not drooling into your soup. Why are you texting me, btw? Where’s Prince Charming?

Bathroom. We’re leaving.

A full minute elapsed before he answered, Oh?

Yeah, my place. He’s coming back, I’ll let you know how it goes.The ride back to my apartment was awkward. Stupid dating rules and expectations and Google, and stupid Will for getting in my head in the first place.

I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t really want Will. Will had a program of lovers and a shady past. Will didn’t want attachments or relationships, and I at least wanted to be open to it. Will wasn’t an option or part of the plan. I liked sex; I wanted to do it with another person again soon. Wasn’t this how it happened? Boy meets girl, girl likes boy, girl decides to let boy in her pants. I was definitely ready to let someone into my pants. So where was the rush, the feeling of heat climbing up my legs and settling in my stomach, the ache I’d felt at the very idea of pulling Will into that bedroom? The feeling that had sent me out into the snow at 3 a.m. and the thought that I might explode the moment his hands found my skin?

I most certainly didn’t feel that now.

The snow had just started to fall outside by the time we reached my building. Upstairs in my apartment, I switched on the lamp and Dylan hovered near the front door awkwardly for a moment before I invited him in. I was moving on autopilot. My stomach was in knots and the white noise in my head was so loud I wanted to turn on the most obnoxious music I could find just to block it out.

Should I? Shouldn’t I? Do I even want to?

I offered him a nightcap—I actually said “nightcap”—to which he said yes. I moved to the kitchen, pulled down some glasses and poured a tiny bit for me, a large drink for him, hoping maybe it would make him sleepy. I turned to hand him his glass and was surprised to find him right there, completely in my space. A strange sense of wrongness seeped into my chest.

Dylan wordlessly took the glass from my hand and set it back on the counter. Soft fingertips brushed along my cheeks, over my nose. He took my face in his hands. His first kiss was tentative, slow and exploring. A small peck before he came back in for another. I closed my eyes tight at the first touch of his tongue, felt the racing of my heart and wished it had something to do with longing and lust, and not this clawing sense of panic that had started to build in my throat.