“You look like you’re about to challenge someone to a duel,” I tell him.
“That’s because I am,” he replies. “And I’m winning.”
I try to replicate it, pushing my shoulders back and lengthening my stride, but the second I do, Mason makes a strangled sound and grabs Dylan’s arm.
“Oh, no,” Mason says. “No, that’s worse.”
“Worse?” I repeat indignantly.
“You went from penguin to offended prince,” Dylan says.
I glare at them.
Mason steps in front of me. “Here,” he says, his voice softer now, more focused. His hands settle on my shoulders without hesitation, large and warm, steadying me. “Stop thinking so much. That’s your biggest problem.”
His palms press lightly, adjusting my posture with deliberate care.
“Relax this,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing the tension he finds there. “You’re not trying to convince anyone. You already belong.”
My breath catches before I can stop it.
He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does and chooses not to comment.
“Confidence isn’t performance,” he continues. “It’s certainty. You don’t ask for space. You take it.”
His hands slide briefly down my arms before releasing me. “Try again.”
I swallow and walk forward. This time, neither of them laughs.
Dylan watches me carefully, his expression shifting into something quieter. Mason’s gaze lingers in a way that feels far less like teasing and far more like appreciation.
“Yeah,” Dylan says finally, voice low. “That’s better.”
Mason nods once. “Much better.”
He glances at Dylan, then back at me. “See?” he says. “You’re learning already.”
There’s pride in his voice that feels entirely too good to hear.
Dylan starts to circle me like a predator. “You need more swagger and hip movement.” He demonstrates, adding this rolling motion to his hips that’s somehow both masculine and ridiculously sexy.
I try to copy it and apparently fail miserably, because Mason snorts.
“Okay, okay.” Dylan comes up behind me this time, his hands on my hips. “Feel how I’m moving you? It’s subtle but deliberate. You’re not swinging your hips like you’re trying to seduce someone. You’re moving with purpose.”
His hands guide my hips through the motion, and now I’m very aware of everywhere he touches me.
We spend the next hour working on various aspects of being a man. How to lower my voice without sounding like I’m doing a bad Batman impression. How to do that guy-nod thing that apparently means everything fromhellotoI acknowledge your existencetonice weather.
They demonstrate by doing increasingly ridiculous versions of everything, making me laugh so hard my stomach hurts.
“Okay,” Mason says, wiping tears from his own eyes after Dylan’s particularly absurd demonstration of the male stance. “Let’s work on how you stand when talking to other men. This is important. Reed will be watching for this specifically.”
I ask. “Isn’t standing just… standing?”
“Oh, sweet, innocent Anita,” Dylan says with a grin. “There’s standing, and then there’s standing like you own the fucking room.”
“Show me, then.”
