Why the hell am I holding the cheese board like a psychopath? Don’t ask stupid questions.
The cabin is…something. It looks like Martha Stewart and Willy Wonka tripped acid together and decided to co-sign on a rental property. The outside is painted the exact shade of gingerbread brown you get from a tub of royal icing, complete with “frosting” piping around every window and gumdrop-colored shutters. Inside, it’s a fever dream of red-and-white plaid, peppermint stripes, and so many fake candy canes I worry I’m going to develop a Pavlovian response to the smell of mint. But for all its quirkiness, there is an undeniable cozy charm to the place I am reluctantly getting used to.
I glance around, taking in the “cozy” decor: a fireplace with a frankly obscene number of stockings, throw pillows shaped like sugar cookies, and a table runner embroidered with little gingerbread men. There’s a matching set of mugs that readDaddy’s CocoaandSanta’s Favorite Bottom, which I have thoughtfully left in the cabinet for tonight.
It’s not exactly the setting for a sultry, mature romance. But it is…well, it’s me. Or at least, the version of me that’strying to be a little less afraid of big gestures and embarrassing declarations.
I want tonight to be fucking perfect.
Which is why, even though I am objectively a decent cook thanks to years of solo bachelor living and a deep mistrust of takeout, I called in backup. Specifically, Hawk, who runs the kitchen at the B&B and is, frankly, a culinary genius, and Eva, pastry witch, general chaos agent, and unrepentant gossip. “Pitched in,” in this case, means bullied me into letting them do most of the hard parts so I wouldn’t poison my date, then sent me home with a cooler full of carefully labeled containers and a literal spreadsheet of reheating instructions. I’m not complaining. I’m not an idiot. I might have begged. There may have been bribes. Hawk only agreed after I promised to help shovel the entire parking lot next time there’s a blizzard, and Eva demanded my undying loyalty in the Great Scone Debate. Cherry almond, for the record, is the only correct answer.
We spent the afternoon in the B&B kitchen prepping, taste-testing, and occasionally getting waylaid by Mal, who insisted on taste-testing everything “for quality control.” At one point, Liam wandered in, looked at the spread, and declared it “domestic as fuck.” I’m pretty sure that was a compliment.
Now every surface in my tiny cabin kitchen is covered in steaming platters and fancy little touches that Hawk made me promise to plate “with care, not like a raccoon set loose at a potluck.” The air smells like fresh bread, roast chicken, and a hint of cinnamon from whatever dessert Eva slipped into the oven before escaping my kitchen with a parting wink and a not-so-subtle, “Good luck, lover boy.”
I take a deep breath, staring at the spread on the counter. This is it. First date. Second chance. All my chips on the table.
God, I want May to love it. I want him to see this and know I’m not the boy I was before. That I’m here, I’m all in, andI want him. Not some idealized version, not just the drag queen on stage or the careful, guarded man I left behind, but Mason. My May. Mess and all. I want to be the one he comes home to. I want to build something that lasts, even if we’re building it on a foundation of fake gingerbread and slightly too-sweet mulled wine.
Not that I’m nervous or anything.
I try to shake off the nerves. This is just dinner. With the man who got away. The man I’ve been in love with since the first time he let me hold his hand behind the old middle school gym. The man I would literally move mountains for if he asked. No big deal, right?
I check the table for the millionth time. Plates, check. Cloth napkins folded, because Eva threatened my life if I didn’t do them just right, check. Lights dimmed. Fireplace on. A playlist queued that walks the line between “sophisticated” and “I want to make out with you over dessert.” There’s a bottle of sparkling cider chilling, because for all our sins, neither of us can handle more than a glass of wine without getting handsy. I may have also scattered a few tea lights around for atmosphere, which lands somewhere between romantic and trying too hard, but hopefully in a cute way.
I glance at my reflection in the dark glass of the window. I look…decent. Maybe even good. I went with the classic. Soft blue flannel, sleeves rolled up, dark jeans, boots, a little cologne, and a nervous smile I cannot seem to shake. My hair is still a mess, but I’m told it’s endearing, and I spent entirely too long conditioning, oiling, and trimming my beard into the perfect shape. Just this side of intentional mountain man, not “man lost in woods with no human contact.”
The wildflowers feel a little excessive, but I remember May mentioning he missed the ones that grow by the river in June. Liam had a fresh batch on the front desk this morning, soI grabbed them. Deciding that standing here holding both the flowers and the cheeseboard like a deranged butler is too creepy even for me, I quickly set the board down and shove the flowers into a mason jar on the table. There. That’s more intentional. I think.
In the silence of the kitchen, I catch myself grinning like an idiot just thinking about him. About how he looked on Saturday, all smooth skin, bold jewelry, bare scalp shining under the lamp while he curled up on his couch next to me. The two of us tucked under a quilt, eating burgers and talking about everything we missed over the last twenty-five years. He watched me all night, like he was trying to decide whether I was a dream or a very persistent house cat. We talked about the old days, about the missed calls and the heartbreak, but underneath that, this wild, shaky hope that maybe, just maybe, we were right back where we wanted to be.
And after dinner, when the movie played, and the credits rolled, he crawled into my lap and kissed me so softly I thought I’d forgotten how to breathe.
I’ve lived in a lot of places since I left Sleighbell Springs. I’ve slept on couches, in shitty apartments on the bad side of town, four-star hotels when my job paid for it, and even in a tent for a few months when I was “finding myself” in the wilds of Montana. Spoiler, I found out I hate bugs and love indoor plumbing. Life lessons. But nothing, not a single night in all those years, ever felt as much like home as the way May looked at me in the flicker of his TV. Glitter still stuck to his cheek. Voice soft and sleepy as he leaned in for another kiss. That’s what I want. Not just tonight. Not just once. I want future nights like that, over and over, until I forget what it ever felt like to be lonely in a city that didn’t know my name.
The oven beeps, jerking me out of my daydream. Shit. Bread. I scramble, yank it out before it burns, and set it on thecooling rack. I pace the kitchen, double-checking everything. As I fuss over the plates, my mind flickers, like it always does, back to the years I spent away from here. I try to remember if I ever cared this much about a single night with anyone else.
There were flings in Chicago and a few longer things out west. One guy who liked to do crossword puzzles in bed, and another who thought “fine dining” meant ordering the second-cheapest bottle of wine. There were hookups in bars and clumsy mornings-after spent dodging eye contact. None of it ever felt like this, like my skin was vibrating, like I might float off the ground if I don’t keep moving. That’s how I know this is different. That I’m different. I want May to see the man I’ve become. Not the scared, stubborn mess who left him behind for “bigger dreams,” but someone who’s finally figured out what he wants. Someone who isn’t afraid to want it, either.
I’m so busy fussing that I almost miss the sound of May’s footsteps on the porch. There’s a knock, quick and sharp, and my stomach does a stupid little somersault.
He’s here.
I wipe my hands on a towel, take a steadying breath, and open the door.
May stands there, framed by the soft glow of the twinkle lights wrapped around the front beams and a drift of fresh snowflakes. He looks…fuck, I don’t have words. Tonight, he’s in navy slacks and an open-collar white shirt under a perfectly cut vest. His makeup is subtle but flawless. A hint of shimmer on his cheekbones, lashes dark and curled beneath his black frames again, lips soft and glossy. He’s holding a gift bag, eyes bright, a little color in his cheeks from the cold.
For a second, I just stare, drinking it in. This is what I’ve been missing all these years. The way May looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. The curve of his mouth when he’s trying not to smile too wide. I want to drop to my knees andbeg him to stay for the rest of my life, but I settle for the world’s dopiest grin instead.
“Wow,” I manage, because my brain has apparently been reduced to two working words. “You look…unreal.”
He flutters his lashes as he steps inside. “You clean up nice yourself, Dalton. I see you’re going for ‘sexy lumberjack with a Martha Stewart kink.’”
I bark out a laugh, the nerves in my chest loosening just a little. “Yeah, well, it was either that or lean into the full Santa’s Village strip club. Mal tried to get me into a Christmas onesie. I drew the line at elf hats.”
“Coward,” he teases, eyes twinkling as he toes off his shoes and surveys the living room. “This place is…wow. I haven’t been in here since they did the renovations.” His eyes sparkle. “Tell me you didn’t do all this yourself.”
“Define ‘all this,’” I reply, stepping aside to let him in. “If you mean the wildflowers, yes, that was me. If you mean the three million candy canes, well, you know the crew here,” I add with a chuckle.
