3
The first time he kisses her is also not a date, because they don't call it that for a long time, but he is her best friend, and the stars are burning in precisely the right pattern, and they are laying on a roof still warm from the early summer sun and he turns his head and looks at her with those green eyes that hurt and hide and laugh and watch her as if she's the moon itself.
She turns and looks at him and his hand brushes hers, and then he twists her fingers into his and rolls onto his side to touch her face (right where her jaw meets her neck, and his hand reaches all the way so that his thumb is at her lips) with his callused palm.
She shivers, even in the warmth, but she's too impatient for all his care, lays her hand on his and presses her lips to his cheek because she can't make herself break that pattern of the man instigating the first kiss, and he turns his head and kisses her as if he's been waiting to since he met her. (He will later tell her that this was exactly the case.)
He tastes like black coffee and smells like cut grass, and holds her like he's afraid she'll disappear. When he pulls back to breathe she realizes that she's crushed the fabric of his t-shirt in her fists as if she feels the same way (she does).
The stars burn in that precisely-right pattern, and they don't speak. Hands tangled and her head on his shoulder they watch the world turn.