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The question comes from the guy in the backward cap—jawline sculpted by Instagram filters and emotional avoidance.

“What’s the best way to ask what she wants without sounding, you know... insecure?”

I blink. “You could try... asking.”

Silence.

I wait for the usual laugh. The knowing chuckle. A snort at the back of the room from the dude who thinks negging is still in vogue.

Nothing.

Just twelve men blinking at me like I’m the problem.

Okay.

Not the response I expected.

Usually by now we’re trading “close the deal” war stories and someone’s bragging about optimizing their Hinge opener with ChatGPT. The guy in the corner’s usually already talked about “closing twice on the same girl” like he’s reporting sales figures. This—whatever this is—is not that.

Either I’ve entered a parallel universe... or these guys got a group discount on emotional evolution.

Next guy raises his hand—flannel shirt, neck tattoo, speaks like he just found inner peace through Spotify playlists.

“She said she wants to take things slow,” he says. “And I think I might actually be into that?”

I glance over my shoulder at the whiteboard.

Session Topic: Closing with Confidence .

Cool. So we’re officially off-script.

A few heads nod. The man in the Patagonia vest hums softly, like slow-burn vulnerability is something he’d recommend on Yelp.

Then another voice, from the front row. Skinny jeans. Earnest face. Voted Most Likely to Cry During Pixar Films.

“She invited me to meet her friends next week,” he says. “Is that a relationship move? Or am I overthinking it?”

I blink again.

“Gentlemen,” I say slowly, scanning the room. “What is this, a Nicholas Sparks book club?”

A couple nervous laughs. One guy nods solemnly.

“That was a joke,” I add. And that’s when it hits me.

They’re not asking how to get laid. They’re asking how to matter .

Which would be touching—if it didn’t make me feel like I’m hosting a TED Talk sponsored by therapy TikTok.

I sip my coffee and scan the room again.

There’s that guy who used to argue every week about the value of “options.” He looks contemplative now, like he’s trying to remember if his ex actually did ask for emotional support or just a ride to the airport.

The guy who once asked if “eye contact was beta” is biting his pen.

The spreadsheet bro in the back has taken out an actual notepad.

My guys—my proud, formerly chaotic, usually under-showered tribe—aren’t angling for threesomes.

They’re asking about friends .

Feelings .

Future plans .

This is either adorable or terrifying. I can’t tell yet .

I glance again at the board.

This was a crash course in charm, not couple’s therapy.

When did they stop trying to be heartbreakers and start manifesting soulmates?

I set the coffee down and pace. Arms crossed. Trying to look casual. Cool. Unbothered.

Spoiler: I’m none of those things.

“Okay,” I say. “So, recap. We’ve got a man who wants to ask questions without seeming needy, a man who’s surprisingly chill with emotional pacing, and someone wondering if meeting the friends is a commitment milestone.”

I make a slow circle around the whiteboard. Gesture vaguely like I’m preparing to draw a diagram. I’m not.

“What next? You're gonna ask me if texting her good morning every day is love-bombing or just attentive?”

No one laughs.

Some nod .

“Oh my god,” I mutter. “You people are serious.”

I turn back to them. “Are you listening to yourselves? This is a bootcamp, not a premarital counseling session.”

They wait.

Flannel guy lifts his shoulders. “You said connection is the endgame.”

Wait, they listened to that part?

“Right, sure,” I say. “But there’s sequencing . You don’t start a movie with the post-credits scene.”

Skinny jeans guy tilts his head. “But what if that’s what she wants?”

Tattoo guy leans forward. “Yeah. What if she’s already there, emotionally? ”

I stare at them. For a full beat, I have nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I pivot toward the coffee, like caffeine can fix this.

That throwaway line about connection I added in Week 2 to sound less like a creep and more like a socially acceptable human?

I feel myself spiraling.

I need a reset.

“Be right back,” I say. “Refill.”

I duck into the hallway, head for the bathroom, and lock the door like I’m evading a lie detector test.

The mirror stares back. I stare harder.

“What am I doing,” I mutter. “What the hell am I supposed to say in there—‘Let’s unpack your attachment wounds and draft your wedding vows in Excel’?”

I run my hands over my face. It doesn’t help.

I still schedule my feelings like dentist appointments.

Preferably ones I miss.

This is new terrain.

And I’m wildly underqualified.