If I hadn’t already felt bad about my living situation, seeing where Mason lived made it ten times worse.

The place was adorable. The front of the apartment building looked straight out of a Christmas card: a nice awning covered in snow, big, beautiful trees everywhere, and a wreath on each of the double doors that led inside. I could even see a front desk in the entryway to the place, and—shocking—all the lights seemed to have functioning bulbs in them.

When I walked inside, I kicked the excess snow off my boots using the entry mat. A woman at the desk looked at me, sidelong and wary. I guessed this building didn’t normally have people who looked like me in it.

“Can I help you, sir? Are you here for the repairs in unit 203?”

I shook my head, trying to shoot her my best reassuring smile. “Visiting Mason Hartley,” I said, and she finally nodded and smiled, her face brightening instantly.

“Oh! Absolutely,” she said, tapping at her keyboard. “He called to let me know to let you up. A couple times, actually. Guess he just wanted to make sure I got the message.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” I said.

“All right, the elevator is open. Third floor up,” she chirped.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, heading over to the elevator that she must have magically opened with a button on her desk. Even the inside of the elevator had a mini-wreath hung above the buttons. For fuck’s sake, this place was nice. I knew that Mason had a roommate, but even with that, they both must have had healthy salaries.

Not surprising, though. Mason worked at one of the fanciest hotels in Mistview Heights, and I had no doubt he was very good at his job.

A minute later, I was in front of his door. I heard the sound of clanging metal coming from inside and waited a moment before knocking.

A few seconds later, the door swung open quickly, and there was Mason, red-faced, wearing an apron, and covered in what looked like flour. Some sort of incredible sweet smell was emanating from the inside of his apartment, and classical music was playing.

“Hi!” he exclaimed, ushering me inside. The place looked gleaming and clean, just like the lobby of the building. Mason would probably have had a heart attack if he saw my apartment.

There was one exception, though: his kitchen looked like an absolute mess, and I knew he must have been in there for hours.

“Well, hello there,” I replied. “Mason, did you… prepare a meal for me?”

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” he said, dashing back off into the kitchen and practically disappearing into a cabinet full of dishes. “You see”—his voice came, muffled from inside the cabinet—“it’s no big deal. I got out early before the snow began to really start falling. I did have to go to three different grocery stores because the first was out of eggs, and the second didn’t have any vanilla beans, but—”

He stopped short, finally extracting some kitchen gadget that he’d been looking for, and stood back up, taking a deep breath. “I was finally able to get all the ingredients.” He smiled at me for a split second and then went right back to darting around the kitchen—cracking eggs, whisking something in a bowl, chopping up some sort of herb.

The man was absolutely frenetic, and it was a little bit adorable.

“Go ahead! Uh—sit down—the couch is fine or the breakfast bar or even the dining table, if that’s what you like, but we’re going to be having dinner there—”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “I’ll sit here,” I said, parking myself at the breakfast bar where I could watch him as he worked.

“Can I get you an espresso? I have a great espresso machine. I’m on my fifth cup of the morning.”

“It’s seven o’clock at night, Mason,” I said.

He looked up at me, cocking his head to the side. “Oh yeah. I guess you’re right. Ah, well, I have… white wine and… some orange juice and water. Shoot, I was supposed to get bourbon! I knew I was forgetting something. God, I’m so sorry, Kade.”

“White wine sounds perfect,” I said. “Really. I’ll drink just about anything.”

“You sure?” he asked, his expression pained.

“I love white wine.”

He let out a breath. “Okay. Well, that’s good because Terry and I have about a dozen bottles of it. There is no shortage of wine in this place.”

“Terry’s your roommate? Is she around tonight?” I said.

He shook his head. “She’s an anesthesiologist. She’s on her night shift tonight.”

Ah. So that explained how the two of them had such a nice apartment. Terry was a doctor, and Mason was a high-power executive’s assistant.

Mason poured me a healthy glass of wine, and I sipped while I watched him tornado around the kitchen. My heart squeezed as he seemed to forget I was even here—with anyone else, it would have seemed rude, but with Mason, I knew it was a compliment. He was comfortable with me here, even if he was going nuts with the cooking and baking.

In truth, it was a completely bad idea to start a coaching session this way. The whole idea behind doing the session at Mason’s place was that he was supposed to be relaxed and calm, but it was clear he was pulling out every stop to impress me, and he was running a million miles a minute.

But it was too charming to annoy me. And if I had to stay an extra hour just to make up for it, I didn’t exactly mind. There were three large windows at the far wall of the room, and I gazed out, watching the snow falling at a steady clip. The glow of the streetlamps made its way inside, and combined with the incredible smells that were coming from the kitchen, I felt a distinct sense of coziness for the first time in years.

As he cooked, a large, gray cat peered out from the hallway and gingerly stepped forward toward me.

“Who is this?” I asked, getting off the barstool and crouching to greet him.

“Squiggles,” Mason responded. “He’s nervous around new people. I think that’s why we get along so well.”

Squiggles came toward me very timidly, and I reached out a hand so that he could sniff. After a minute, he pawed at me gently and then slunk off to go lie down on the couch.

“I like him,” I said, getting back up on the barstool.

“If he approached you at all, that means he likes you, too,” Mason said, grinning over at me before getting lost in the cooking again.

It was a bunch of small things that hit me at once, but the combination became something so much more than the sum of its parts. I liked everything about Mason’s apartment, and I was distinctly happy to be here spending time with him.

Leave it to a cat and a neurotic, socially challenged man who was currently running around like a chicken to make me feel at home.

Forty-five minutes later, Mason put his hands on his hips and made a declaration.

“It’s done,” he said, looking up and smiling at me.

I was already on my third glass of wine, and I was so hungry I could barely think straight anyway.

“Fantastic. Wonderful. I cannot wait,” I said.

“Oh! But I still have to set up the tablescape,” Mason said, looking over at the dining table with abject worry in his eyes.

“Tablescape?” I said, rubbing my temples. “Can we just… eat?”

His eyes met mine, and he nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes. Of course. I’m so sorry, Kade, you must be starving, I’m being a terrible host.”

“I don’t think a terrible host would prepare this much amazing-smelling food,” I said.

I sat down at the dining table, and Mason brought out a bowl of salad and a tray full of what looked like little bits of puff pastry.

“Red-leaf lettuce with a sherry vinaigrette and toasted almonds and caramelized onion tarts,” he said.

“Oh my god, Mason, this looks incredible,” I said. “Thank you so much for making dinner for us. You really didn’t have to.”

But I realized that this wasn’t the end of it. He went back to the kitchen, bringing out a huge tray of meat.

“And here’s the rosemary-garlic beef roast, with an apricot chutney and cream sauce on the side.”

“Holy fuck,” I said, already salivating.

“Last but not least, fresh-baked rolls,” he said, pulling a tray of golden-brown, buttery dinner rolls from the oven.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I said, looking at the veritable feast in front of me. Mason grinned, slipping off his apron and hanging it on a hook in the kitchen. He sat across from me, holding out his hands.

“Dig in,” he said.

The next half hour may very well have been the best half hour I’d experienced in recent memory. Not only was it the best home cooking I’d ever had; it was some of the best food I’d ever had, period. The meat was perfectly cooked and juicy, and the rolls as airy and light as could be. The onions in the tarts were caramelized into a jammy sweetness, with bits of lemony thyme scattered on top. Even the salad was the best I’d ever had—I swore Mason had done something to the lettuce that transformed it from a boring side dish to the most refreshing thing on the table.

Squiggles sneaked around underneath the table, and I reached down to feed him a scrap of my dinner roll. He wasn’t afraid to approach me at all when I had food in my hand.

After stuffing my face, I looked up at Mason, shaking my head.

“Mason… what… how?” I said, dumbfounded. “I had no idea you were such a good cook.”

He blushed a little, but he was smiling. This was clearly something he was very proud of, and he had every right to be.

“I love cooking,” he said. “It makes me feel like I’m in control, and… when people are chowing down, there’s always so much less pressure to make conversation and eye contact.”

I laughed. “I see your secret motivations, now,” I said. “Thank you, again. This meal was the highlight of my month. Hell, my year, probably.”

I’d never seen Mason smile so genuinely. “It’s not quite over yet,” he said, slinking back over to the kitchen.

“Oh God, you’re going to kill me,” I said.

In a moment he returned, carrying a cake on a platter.

“Oh, fuck,” I said.

“A dark chocolate and toasted hazelnut seven-layer torte, with candied hazelnuts on top,” he said, presenting it before me like a prize.

“Forgive me while I break down crying,” I said, watching him cut a slice and slip it onto a small plate for me. “Chocolate hazelnut is my absolute favorite.”

“I know. You told me,” Mason said, taking his own slice and sitting back down.

“You’re right… I did,” I said, peering over at him. This man was clearly some sort of alien, sent down to pose as the most confusing and incredible and inscrutable person who ever lived.

The cake was perfect, of course. I think I complimented it so much that Mason’s cheeks had turned permanently pink from all the blushing that ensued.

“Well,” he said, standing up from the table, “time to get started on the dishes.”

“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head. “Nice try, but I know exactly what you’re doing here. You started with the three-course meal, but we can’t keep putting off the coaching session any longer. You’re paying me for this time, Mason. We need to work.”

He swallowed hard. “I know. I know. You’re right,” he said. “But first, can I just have one more slice of cake?”

Twenty minutes later, I had managed to get Mason on the couch, sitting next to me as I held my notepad in my hand. Squiggles was curled up on the armrest behind Mason, at a safe distance from me, but still looking over to me with curiosity.

Mason had seemed to want to take any opportunity he could to avoid starting the session, and I couldn’t tell why. I had figured that Mason would want to get the session started as quickly as possible—he’d sounded totally desperate on the phone last night.

But finally, after I allowed Mason to spray a lavender mist into the air, we were ready. Mason had finally taken off his apron for good, rolled up the sleeves of his button-down, and sat with his usual perfect posture on the couch. At the very least, I was comfortable. I’d forgotten what a nice, new couch could feel like, and mine had been threadbare for years.

“Okay,” I said. “So we are going to get started with a lot of questions. Some of them might be a little personal. Are you all right with that?”

He nodded. “Of course!” he said, his voice bright. But his eyes were wide, and he was bouncing his knee uncontrollably.

“Good,” I said. “The first thing I’ll ask is simple: how are you feeling about confidence coaching right now? This is your first real session, and I want to hear your thoughts.”

He stared at me like a deer in headlights for a moment, but I let him take his time to think. I wanted an honest answer, and this was one of the most important questions I’d ask him tonight.

“I was… skeptical about it at first,” he said finally, relaxing a little on the couch. “It isn’t something I would normally do and especially after seeing all your photos on the site. But I’m thinking it might have been a good idea to… work on myself.”

I raised an eyebrow. “After seeing my photos? How come?”

“Oh, because you looked so intimidating,” he answered immediately.

“Me?”

“...Of course,” he said. “You have this whole… look.”

“I suppose I do have a bit of a style,” I said. “But confidence coaching should be about you, Mason, not about me.”

“Then what are all the photos of you on the website for?” he asked softly.

“I put them there so that people would be more comfortable contacting me, actually. I wanted to seem approachable, likable, friendly. Not like some superserious intimidating guy.”

“Oh,” Mason said, nodding and seeming to retreat into himself slightly. “I see.”

“No, no,” I said, “I’m glad you brought that up. It’s important to note that your initial reaction to confidence coaching was intimidation. My follow-up to that is a little bit more complex, though. What are your expectations for confidence coaching? What are you hoping to achieve?”

“Well, I hope to find a boyfriend,” he said.

I shook my head. “Deeper. Go deeper, Mason. I know you want a boyfriend, but what are your expectations for yourself? Why do you feel you chose to seek confidence coaching, and what do you want to change about yourself through my service?”

He nodded, trying his best to keep up. It almost felt like he was a student and I was a tutor and he was doing anything he could to be a teacher’s pet.

“I… want to be able to converse with people better. Not just dates, but everyone. And I think the root of that is that I want to feel more comfortable with myself around others. So… by the end of the coaching, I would like to feel that change.”

“That’s perfect,” I said.

“I feel like I’m not answering your questions as well as I could be,” he said, pushing up his glasses.

“You’re doing very well. We’re just getting started,” I said.

I couldn’t believe that this was the same guy who had the bravery to kiss me first, just earlier this week, and who had stood over me and called out so loud when his cock had been in my mouth. Tonight was all the proof in the world that it hadn’t just been alcohol making Mason brave last Wednesday—we were both on our fourth glass of wine tonight, and yet he was more nervous and clammed up now than he had been then.

“Next question,” I said. “What is the one thing that you think is the scariest, socially? Something you couldn’t possibly imagine doing?”

Mason didn’t hesitate at all. “Singing in front of people,” he said. “In fifth grade, they made me do a solo part in our musical, and the rest of the kids laughed as I sang. I cried for just about the rest of the day. And I will never—in my entire life—ever sing in public again.”

“Was that a tough time for you?” I asked. “Elementary school, I mean. Is that when your anxiety issues began?”

He bit his bottom lip. “I feel like I’m at a therapist or something,” he said.

I nodded. “Confidence coaching has some things in common with certain forms of therapy, although therapy is much more intense and thorough. But it’s an important question. Why do you think you feel so socially anxious?”

He paused for a while, lost in thought. “It’s… always been this way, for me. When we were kids, my siblings were always so much more outgoing than me. I got bullied a little in school for being quiet. But in reality, I just always am afraid that I’ll say the wrong thing.”

“And what would be so bad about saying the wrong thing?” I pressed him.

“It’s awful to say the wrong thing!” he said, his eyes wide. “People think… they think I’m rude or not smart, or they could think less of me.”

“What if we could make it so that you don’t care what they think of you? Do you think that would help you with your anxiety?”

“Well, of course,” he said. “But, Kade, that’s impossible.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I assure you, it’s not impossible,” I told him. “I think that’s something we should address—no matter what it is, you should know that you can always speak up. And that at the end of the day, all that matters is your own judgment of who you are. Your own worth.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“And I think we can do that. I’m not ruling out therapy as something that could greatly help you, but I think I can help you, too. In the meantime, at least. Okay, Mason?”

“Yes,” he said. But his voice was quiet. He was clearly upset, and I knew that I should steer the conversation to a slightly easier topic for now. It was my intention to build him up, not have him feel defeated already.

“Okay, well, luckily you’re not a pop star. So singing isn’t exactly something we need to tackle in our sessions. But here’s what we can do. An exercise, to get your mind starting to churn about the progress you do want to make. Take me through a failed date that you’ve had. It doesn’t have to be a real one, if you’re not comfortable—you can just give me an example of what a failed date might look like to you.”

“Oh, geez,” he said, leaning back on the couch. “Talking about more failures? Where would I begin?”

“Keep it simple at first,” I said. “But try to take me through it. There’s a reason for this exercise, I promise.”

“Are you sure you don’t want another slice of cake?” he asked sweetly, flashing his big blue eyes. I hated how it almost worked on me, made me feel a little weak when he looked at me like that.

“No cake. Take me through a failed date.”

He let out a dramatic sigh but finally started to talk. “I… a lot of times, will get to the meeting place early. Way too early, so early that I sit there dwelling on what the date will be like. Usually, the other guy will get there half an hour late, but even if he gets there on time, I’m always first, and it makes things worse.”

“Why worse?”

“Because by the time he gets there, I’m sweating and talking myself out of the date already. But once he arrives, I usually manage to say hello… and that’s where everything goes downhill.”

“After hello?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I told you, Kade, I’m not… good at these things.”

“It’s okay, just keep going,” I said. I had to remind myself consciously not to comment strongly on anything Mason said, to make sure my face remained neutral, no matter how painfully adorable or just… painful his story was.

“I always start out with the worst small talk,” he continued. “It’s like a reflex. Half the time, the guy is bored immediately, but I have no idea how to make him not bored. And the other half of the time, guys seem to ignore me, steamroll the conversation, and make it all about themselves. I don’t usually like them.”

I nodded. “Makes sense.”

“And the times when I do actually make it back to their place, I don’t know what to… do. I’m not sure I’m good at casual hookups, and a lot of guys seem to want that. If they’re at all physically interested in me, chaos ensues in my mind. I think about everything under the sun: who is this guy? What’s his family like? What are his hopes and dreams? Does he tip well? Is he nice to animals? And then even if he does feel good or touch me in ways I love, I freeze up, and—and—God, it’s so awful, Kade.”

Mason leaned back all the way on the couch, completely breaking his posture. He buried his face in his hands, and I felt like I’d gotten whiplash. He’d seemed so fine one moment but had crumbled soon after.

“Hey,” I said, reaching out to rest my hand on his shoulder. “This is why I’m here, Mason. I know it’s hard to think about past failures, but it’s so important to do so that we can move past them.”

He shook his head, dropping his hands and finally looking to me. “It’s not the failures,” he said. “I’m used to those. I think about them all the time, and it’s not that upsetting. But… telling you all this… I feel like it makes it seem so much more real.”

“You have to be able to tell me things with no hesitation,” I said. “I don’t judge you for a single thing, do you understand me? I wouldn’t judge you if you said you like sticking marshmallows up your butt, or if you liked licking random street signs, or if you secretly spied on people in the park, or if you hated chocolate hazelnut cakes. For the last one, I might have to call the police, but I wouldn’t judge you.”

Finally, this got a smile out of him, and he pulled in a long breath. My hand was still on his shoulder, gripping him a little harder now, and I pulled it away, hoping it wasn’t making him even more uncomfortable than he already seemed to be.

“Okay,” he said. “The real truth is that when I go on dates, I get nervous because… I can’t help but think that no guy would actually want me. I feel my life is so much more boring than most gay guys my age, and I don’t go to clubs or parties. I’m just… a nerdy workaholic.”

I shook my head. “Any guy who thought you were boring would have to be crazy,” I said. I held back from saying what I really felt: that Mason was a total catch, more than almost anyone else I’d ever met. He was cute, single, had a great job.

Mason blushed at my words, which was something I was getting used to at this point. Every time his cheeks got pink, I felt like I must have done something right.

I heard a tiny mew sound from behind Mason, and we both turned to see Squiggles making his way across the top of the couch. He roamed over until he reached me and then hopped right down into my lap.

“Holy mackerel,” Mason said, his eyes wide. “I’ve never seen Squiggles be that friendly to a new person before.”

The cat meowed and meowed, pawing at me some more. “He’s so cute,” I said.

“He likes you,” Mason said. “He really is just like me.”

My eyes snapped up to Mason’s, and I saw a look of shock come over his face. He clearly had said more than he’d meant to—and I knew that for Mason, even telling me he liked me had to have been a big deal.

And for some reason, that felt really fucking good to hear.

I smiled wide. “I like you, too, Mason,” I said softly. He held my gaze for longer than he usually was capable, and it stirred that lustful feeling in me that I’d been trying to hold back all night.

Mason picked up his wine glass and chugged, breaking his eyes away from mine. A car horn blared outside, and Squiggles quickly jumped in fear, knocking into Mason as he darted for the window.

“Oh, jeez—” Mason called out, and as Squiggles hopped over him, the entirety of Mason’s wine glass chucked forward and spilled down my front.

“Ah, shit,” I said reflexively, feeling the bracing cold liquid seep through to my skin.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Mason was saying, flustered and already running off to grab a mountain of paper towels.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I don’t mind. It’s just cold, that’s all.”

“I can give you one of my big T-shirts,” he said, coming back over and pressing the paper towels to my chest.

“I think what I really need is to rinse off in the shower,” I said. “I can feel wine all the way from my neck to my crotch right now.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” Mason said. “Of course. You can use my shower. Come on.” He led me down the hallway into the room at the very end, and when he turned on the light, I knew for certain that it had to be his room.

Every surface was immaculate. There were framed pictures of gardens and peaceful streams hung on the walls, and on his desk, a few framed photos of what must have been his family. Two white bookshelves were on the far wall, full of sci-fi paperbacks and larger textbooks at the bottom. His bed was in a nook, cozy with two reading lamps on either side.

“I’m sorry it’s a mess,” he said, leading me toward a modest-sized bathroom.

“To me, this looks immaculate,” I said, gazing around. The tile in the bathroom was all shiny, and for the first time in months, I remembered what actually clean grout looks like.

“Feel free to use the shower or the bath,” Mason said. He was still avoiding my gaze and obviously flustered. “Take as long as you want!” he called out, walking quickly out of the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

“Wait, Mason—” I said, and he looked at me with those big, expressive eyes. “A towel?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, smacking himself on the head. “Of course. I’ll bring it right now.”

I pulled off my shirt and looked in the mirror. I had wine all along my neck and down my chest, slowly drying into a sweet, sticky glaze on my skin.

“Oh my God.”

I turned and saw Mason behind me, holding out a towel.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—just—um—didn’t know you were taking off your shirt,” he said.

“Well, I’m not going to shower with my clothes on, now, am I?” I said, grinning and giving him a wink.

“Sorry,” he said, looking away as I took the towel.

“Sorry? Sorry for what?” I asked. “I don’t mind you seeing me, Mason. I’m a confidence coach. If I wasn’t comfortable with my body, I’d kind of be a hypocrite.”

“I guess so,” he said.

“I’ll get clean and be right back out. Our session is just getting started.”

“Christ, there’s more?” Mason blurted out.

“There’s lots more,” I said. “We’re gonna talk strategy when I’m done.”

He nodded once. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just be… opening another bottle or three of wine,” he said, walking back off down the hallway.

“The more, the merrier,” I called after him, shutting the bathroom door behind me.