Him: Whoa. Whoa. Are we already at the What-are-you-wearing stage? Because if so, you need to go first. And if you’re fully clothed, please feel free to lie and say, “Nothing.”

My eyebrows shoot so far up my forehead, I fear they are going to be lost. I reread his message. And then read it again. I might lack a lot of experience with the opposite sex, and I have been a shut-in for nearly three years, but I’m pretty sure that Jake Tanner, former army person, according to Oliver, and owner of a high-profile, very expensive security firm, is flirting with me—Natalie Beck.

And while I’m contemplating this, I get another message.

Him: There should be a message retrieval. Some kind of feature that allows someone to take back a stupidly written text before the recipient reads it. (1/2)

(2/2) That was very inappropriate. Please accept my apologies. Not sure what came over me. Probably blood loss. Or just being a man. Men are dumb. Always right but dumb.

This time I didn’t even cover my mouth when I laughed out loud. I look down at my penguin pajama bottoms and my pink tank and lie like a politician.

Me: I’m not fully clothed, but I’m not naked either. Your turn.

There’s a pause, and for a moment I worry. Maybe he did mean for me to forget it. I never had much game before eliminating contact with the outside world. Even before the sight of a full inbox gave me sweaty palms, before doorbells made my heart stop, before the thought of stepping outside the safety of my apartment caused dread, I was a nerdy, socially awkward girl. An alpha male like Jake, full of testosterone, wouldn’t have paid even the slightest attention to me before, so why do I think he’s flirting? But then the phone dings and my eyes devour the words he sends back.

Him: I don’t remember wearing flannel. Since I’ve already revealed that I’m an asshole, what with the winky face and the blatant and inappropriate request, I should probably admit that I don’t even buy my own clothes. My mom and sisters still shop for me.

Me: Don’t feel bad. Oliver is the same. The only clothing interest he has is workout gear.

Him: I have a friend, Ian, who has a personal shopper. Is that more manly?

Me: So he has to pay someone to do what your mom and sisters do? I don’t think that’s more manly. More expensive, but not more manly. Is that important?

Him: Being manly? Yes. I grunt in the morning and five times at night to inject the right amount of testosterone into my system.

Me: Grunting is the key to manliness?

Him: It’s one of the keys. Also belching, scratching of the balls, being able to spit—not spray—actually spit.

Me: I don’t think I like manliness. Can we revisit the flannel? Maybe you should look into it. I bet you’d look good in flannel.

Him: I shave. Daily. I think you have to have a beard to look good in flannel. Also, you are required to be holding an axe. I prefer guns. Besides, all my manliness is done in private.

If I were braver, I’d take that innuendo-laden statement and launch into something sexy and provocative such as: “Not an exhibitionist?” Or, “What else do you like to do in private?” But I’m not. Plus, I want him to keep texting me. I want him to text me forever. I want—oh, what am I even thinking?

I can’t even open the door. The idea of Jake Tanner in my apartment terrifies me. It’s one thing to joke and flirt via innocent message bubbles, but normal people want face-to-face contact, skin-to-skin contact.

Him: Did my keys to manhood scare you off? Manliness also requires you to recognize a good Scotch, know how to kiss, and know that you drive a woman home after an evening out. No matter how late or early it is. Is that better?

He’s so sweet. He probably does wear flannel and because of that, I text him the truth.

Me: I want you to come over. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to open the door.

Him: There are things I can do without coming inside.

Me: But not as effective for you.

Him: It helps to have eyes on the inside to see exactly what we’re dealing with.

Me: What if I can’t open the door?

Him: Then you don’t open the door and I deal.

A wave of emotion swamps me—part gratitude and part yearning. This man, with whom I’ve only exchanged written messages, is killing me with his humor, his understanding, and most of all, his kindness.

Me: Why are you so kind?

Him: As opposed to what? Making you feel bad? Seems to me that you have a lot on your plate without me adding guilt to your fight against anxiety.

I decide right then and there I don’t care if Jake wears flannel, if he’s mean to small children, if he forgets Mother’s Day, and if he uses the horn too much when he drives. He’s perfect and I’m half in love with him already. Of course it will never go anywhere. Because I live inside, and every other normal person is outside.