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1: Peck – The Coffee Shop
The coffee at Cafè Paradiso was four dollars more than Peck could afford, but it was the only place within three blocks of the studio with outlets that worked and baristas who wouldn’t glare when he nursed a single oat milk latte for three hours. He’d claimed the corner table by the window, laptop open to a Google doc titled “Teaching Jobs – NJ” that he’d been staring at for forty minutes without adding a single entry.
Three weeks. That’s how long he and Jasper had lasted before imploding spectacularly at 2am outside the jazz bar on Columbus, Jasper’s voice carrying across the entire block: “You’re suffocating me, Peck. Not everyone needs to process every fucking feeling the second they have it.” The troupe had pretended not to hear, but by Monday morning everyone knew. Jasper made sure of that, arriving at class with hickeys blooming across his collarbone that definitely hadn’t been there Friday, laughing extra loud at Mai’s jokes, touching everyone’s arms except Peck’s.
Peck refreshed his bank account. $847.23. Rent was due in six days. His student loan payment had auto-drafted yesterday. The Excel spreadsheet he’d made last month – the one that proved he could technically survive in New York if he never ate out, never took a cab, never had an emergency – felt like a taunt.
Maybe his mom was right. Maybe he should come home to New Jersey, take that position at the dance academy in Montclair, live with her for a year to save money. It wasn’t giving up. It was being practical.
It’s giving up, Jasper’s voice in his head, amused and cruel. But you do you, babe.
“The existential crisis look suits you.”
Peck’s head snapped up. Bash stood beside his table, holding one of those compostable cups that meant he’d ordered something complicated, wearing civilian clothes – black jeans, a charcoal sweater that probably cost more than Peck’s entire wardrobe, leather jacket that looked butter-soft. Out of the studio, without the authority of the mirror and the barre and the piano, he looked different. Smaller somehow, though that made no sense because Bash was six-foot-two and still had the body of someone who’d spent forty years disciplining every muscle into submission.
Handsomer, too. Peck had never let himself notice that in class.
“I – sorry?” Peck’s hand moved instinctively to close the laptop.
“Don’t.” Bash gestured at the screen with his cup. “I saw the tab title. ‘Teaching Jobs – NJ.’ That bad?”
Heat crept up Peck’s neck. “I was just… looking.”
“Mind if I sit?”
Peck should say no. Should make some excuse about needing to focus. But he was so fucking tired of being alone in his head, alone in this corner, alone in this city that kept demanding more than he had to give.
“Sure.”
Bash folded himself into the chair across from Peck with the controlled grace that never quite left him, even casual. He took a sip of whatever artisanal thing he’d ordered – it smelled like cardamom – and studied Peck with the same focused attention he gave to corrections in class. That look that made you feel seen in ways that were equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
“You’re thinking about leaving,” Bash said. Not a question.
“I don’t know. Maybe. The money’s…” Peck gestured vaguely at his laptop, at the coffee that represented a week of subway fares, at everything. “It’s a lot.”
“It is.” Bash didn’t offer platitudes, didn’t say it gets easier or you’ll make it work. “New York doesn’t give a fuck if you’re talented. It just wants to know if you can pay rent.”
Something loosened in Peck’s chest. Permission to admit it was hard, that he was drowning. “Yeah. Exactly.”
“And then there’s Jasper.”
Peck flinched. “That’s – we’re not – “
“Relax.” Bash’s smile was slight, knowing. “The whole troupe knows. Jasper’s not exactly subtle when he wants people to know something’s over.”
“No. He’s not.” Peck stared at his screen, at the blinking cursor in an empty document. “Three weeks. That’s got to be some kind of record for spectacular failure.”
“Three weeks of what, though?” Bash leaned forward slightly. His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the clatter of the espresso machine and the chatter of Julliard students cramming for finals. “Was it good? While it lasted?”
The question landed differently than it should have. Not gossipy. Not intrusive. Genuinely curious, with an edge of something else. Something that made Peck aware of how close Bash was leaning, how his sweater pulled across his shoulders.
“It was…” Peck searched for the right word. “Intense. He’s intense.”
“He is.” Bash took another sip, considering. “Beautiful boy. Knows it, too. That kind of beauty makes people stupid.”
“Yeah, well. Mission accomplished.” Peck tried for self-deprecating humor, but it came out bitter.
“I didn’t mean you.”
Their eyes met. Held. Bash’s were dark brown, almost black, with tiny flecks of gold that caught the afternoon light. Peck had never been this close to him outside the studio, never looked directly at him without the safety of technique and counts and the excuse of correction.
“Jasper’s the one who got stupid,” Bash said quietly. “Anyone with eyes can see you’re worth more than three weeks of attention.”
Peck’s mouth went dry. “I – “
“You’re a beautiful dancer, Peck. Technically strong, emotionally present. You commit.” Bash’s gaze didn’t waver. “That quality – full commitment – it’s rare. Most people hold back. Protect themselves. You don’t.”
“Maybe I should learn to.” Peck tried to sound light, but his voice came out rough. “Considering how it worked out.”
“Or maybe you just gave it to the wrong person.”
The air between them felt suddenly charged, heavy with implication. Peck was acutely aware of every point where Bash’s attention touched him – his face, his hands on the laptop, the hollow of his throat where his pulse was definitely beating too fast.
This was his teacher. Fifty-five years old. This shouldn’t be –
But Bash wasn’t his teacher right now. Wasn’t giving corrections or counting out combinations. Was just a man in a coffee shop, looking at Peck like he mattered. Like he was worth focused attention. Like maybe all of Jasper’s casual cruelty said more about Jasper than it did about Peck’s worth.
“I don’t want to go back to New Jersey,” Peck heard himself admit. “I don’t want to give up. But I don’t know how to stay.”
“What if I told you there are ways to make New York easier?” Bash said. “Communities. Spaces where the regular rules don’t quite apply.”
“Like what?”
“Like Netherlust.”
The word landed strange – Dutch-sounding, archaic. Peck had never heard it before. “What’s that?”
“A club. Private membership, very exclusive. A place where people go to…” Bash paused, choosing words carefully. “…explore what they want without judgment. Without the weight of the outside world pressing down.”
Something in Peck’s stomach fluttered. “That sounds like a sex club.”
“Among other things.” Bash smiled slightly. “Does that bother you?”
It should. Maybe. Peck had grown up in suburban Jersey, gone to public school, come out his junior year of college in the safety of a liberal arts program where everyone’s response had been enthusiastic acceptance. His actual experience with queer spaces beyond the occasional Brooklyn bar was limited. Three boyfriends before Jasper, all of them sweet and nervous and just as inexperienced as he was.
And then Jasper, who’d dragged him to that jazz bar, gotten him drunk on whiskey he couldn’t afford, kissed him hard against the brick wall outside, and proceeded to show him exactly how limited his experience had been.
“I don’t know,” Peck said honestly. “I’ve never – I mean, I’m not – “
“Experienced?” Bash’s tone was gentle, amused. “I know. Jasper made sure everyone knew that, too.”
Peck’s face burned. “Jesus.”
“Hey.” Bash reached across the table, let his fingers rest briefly on Peck’s wrist. The touch was warm, grounding. “There’s no shame in having limits. In being new to things. Netherlust isn’t about pushing people past what they want. It’s about creating space to discover what they want in the first place.”
“And you think I…” Peck couldn’t finish the sentence. Don’t know what I want? Need to discover it? Should discover it with you?
“I think,” Bash said carefully, “that you’ve spent three weeks being treated like you weren’t enough. Like your feelings were inconvenient. Like wanting connection and care made you clingy.” His thumb traced a small circle on the inside of Peck’s wrist, right over his pulse point. “I think maybe you deserve to experience the opposite. To be with someone who knows what they want, and what they want is to focus entirely on you.”
Peck couldn’t breathe properly. The coffee shop felt too warm, too close. Bash’s hand was still on his wrist, and he could feel his own heartbeat against Bash’s fingertips.
“Is that what you want?” The question came out barely above a whisper.
“I want,” Bash said, “to show you that you have options. That New Jersey isn’t your only choice. That giving up isn’t inevitable.” He withdrew his hand slowly, leaving cold air where warmth had been. “Come to Netherlust with me. Tonight. No pressure, no obligations. Just… let me show you something different.”
“I don’t have money for – “
“You’re my guest. Everything’s covered.”
“Bash, I can’t – “
“Peck.” Bash’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “Let someone take care of you for one night. Let yourself receive attention without apologizing for it. Can you do that?”
Every rational voice in Peck’s head was screaming warnings. This is your teacher. This is calculated. This is too much, too fast, too complicated.
But god, he was so tired of being careful. Of being practical. Of being the one who felt too much while everyone else moved through the world with Jasper’s easy carelessness.
And Bash was handsome. Not in Jasper’s pretty-boy way, but with the kind of presence that came from decades of commanding attention, of knowing exactly what his body could do. There was something intoxicating about being the focus of that attention. About being wanted by someone who actually had their shit together, who wasn’t going to ghost him after three weeks because commitment felt scary.
“Okay,” Peck said, before he could talk himself out of it. “Tonight.”
Bash smiled – slow, satisfied, with an edge of something that should have felt predatory but instead felt like promise. “Wear something nice. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
He stood, squeezed Peck’s shoulder once – firm, possessive – and left.
Peck sat alone at his corner table, heart racing, the Google doc about New Jersey teaching jobs still open on his screen. He closed the laptop.
Whatever he’d just agreed to, it wasn’t giving up.
It was something else entirely.
