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Not touching me close. Worse. Almost close. The café air between us gets warmer, or maybe I’m having a medical incident caused by contractual fake intimacy and rye bread.

“Discretion?” he says.

“It sounds better than we didn’t tell anyone because this entire plan was born in a café while your dog judged us.”

“Puck doesn’t judge.”

Puck sneezes beneath the table.

“Puck absolutely judges,” I say.

Forrest looks down. “Traitor.”

Puck rests his head more firmly on my foot.

“That’s custody behavior,” I tell Forrest. “Very convincing. Excellent commitment from our supporting cast.”

“He’s not part of the relationship.”

“He is emotionally central.”

Forrest’s eyes narrow. “Rule eight.”

I sit up straighter. “Oh, you’re contributing now?”

“Apparently, I’ve lost control of the evening.”

“Wonderful. That’s when the magic happens.”

“No pet names.”

My pen pauses.

“No pet names?” I repeat.

“No ‘sweetheart.’ No ‘baby.’ No ‘babe.’ No whatever people say when they want everyone around them to suffer.”

I nod. “Reasonable. I don’t want to call you babe anyway. It feels illegal. Like putting a bow on a tax notice.”

“Good.”

“Could I call you pumpkin?”

“No.”

“Darling?”

“No.”

“My emotionally constipated fake companion?”

“Absolutely not.”

I write:

Rule Eight: No pet names, unless one of us is actively trying to ruin the other person’s life.

Forrest reads it.