I lifted his hand and rubbed my thumb over his knuckles. “Jordan, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect just as you are. My not wanting to have sex with you isn’t personal. I don’t want to have sex with anyone. That’s where I am on the spectrum of sexuality, and there’s nothing wrong with me either. It’s just who I am.” Now for the tricky part. “Your knee-jerk reaction to thinking there’s something wrong with you because I’m not attracted to you sexually tells me you’ve spent a lot of time dealing with arseholes who told you you weren’t normal for not wanting sex.”

He chewed on his bottom lip and conceded with a small nod. “You’re very good at this support-group-mentor speech.”

I chuckled. “Thank you.”

“But yes. I’ve been told too many times to count that there’s something wrong with me.”

I scooted a bit closer so our knees touched, and still holding his hand with one of mine, I put my other to his cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Jordan. Actually, you’re pretty damn close to perfect.”

He blushed. “Well, then that’s such a coincidence because I think you’re pretty damn close to perfect too.”

I grinned at him and we both took a second to just take it in. “You feel better?” I asked.

He nodded. “Much. Thank you for not letting me freak out and ruin everything.”

“You were about ready to bolt for the door.”

“I was working out the mathematical equation of hurdling your couch and escaping.”

“It takes maths to jump a couch?”

He nodded. “Yep. Distance of the jump required times the height of the couch, divided by the energy and exertion necessary. I’m sure there’s a cos, tan, sin equation in there somewhere but I failed year-eight maths so I really wouldn’t know. And you’d need to subtract the amount of food I ate at dinner and my absolute lack of athletic ability to do anything, really, so I’d also need to allow for an inevitable crash over the back of the couch, hitting your floor, possibly denting the wall, and in all likelihood, any bones that break when gravity reminds me that I’m no longer a teenager, fit, or agile.”

I laughed, because right there was the real Jordan I knew; all hint of anxiousness was gone. “Then how about I walk you around the couch and see you out.” We stood and I took my phone out. “Let me book you an Uber. It’s late.” I handed him my phone. “Your address?”

He quickly thumbed it in and handed it back to me. “Thanks.” Then he was quick to take my hand again. “We still need to practise.”

“Oh, true. Practice is key.”