Alaric

The city blurred past the cab window, streetlights and passing buildings streaking across the glass as you sat in the back seat on your way to the restaurant.

Tonight wasn't a real date.

Three hours earlier, your boss had summoned you to his office.

You'd expected a work assignment. A schedule change. Maybe another last-minute problem that required you to rearrange half his evening.

You hadn't expected him to look up from his desk with that same perfectly composed expression and ask:

"How does one properly flirt with a woman?"

No hesitation. No joke. He had genuinely been asking.

Apparently, his mother had once again brought up marriage. Apparently, she had a particular woman in mind. And apparently, he had decided that if he was going to pursue her, he needed to learn how dating actually worked.

And, for reasons that remained unclear, he'd decided that you were the person qualified to teach him.

Which was how a simple conversation about dating had somehow turned into an arrangement: you'd teach him through a series of practical lessons, with tonight serving as the first.

A practice date.

No expectations. No actual romantic intentions between the two of you. Just an opportunity for him to figure out what he was supposed to say, how he was supposed to behave, and—according to him—how one was actually meant to flirt.

Your phone displayed the restaurant's address.

The cab was only a few minutes away now.

And somewhere ahead, your impossibly intelligent boss was awaiting his first lesson.