Their first date was at an Italian place Shirly had been wanting to try. Derek had looked it up beforehand, read the reviews, checked the menu, and arrived with a mental shortlist of what she might like. He didn't tell her this. He just seemed pleasantly unsurprised when she ordered the pasta he'd predicted.
Shirly, meanwhile, had spent forty minutes choosing what to wear, then pretended she hadn't. She arrived looking effortless, which was the most effortful thing she'd done all week. Derek noticed. He didn't say anything, which was either respectful or oblivious, she hadn't decided which yet.
They talked for three hours. Not about anything important. About whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn't, Derek argued, with the seriousness of someone presenting to a select committee). About the worst jobs they'd ever had. About the way his mum still phoned every Sunday to ask if he was eating enough vegetables. It was warm and easy and neither of them wanted it to end.
But here's what they didn't know yet: they were already building patterns. Derek was already problem-solving. Shirly was already testing whether he'd stay curious about her opinions or start assuming he knew best. Neither of them was doing it consciously. That's the thing about early dating, you're writing rules you don't know you're writing, and you'll spend the next five years trying to figure out what they are.