For a minute, we just exist in the glow, neither of us willing to risk the first move. My mouth is dry, but my heart is running a full decathlon in my chest.
Aaron glances at me, then away, then back. “You want something to drink? I’ve got water, Gatorade… tequila, I think, but that’s from last semester.”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
He nods, like he’s relieved, then drums his fingers on the bed. “So, uh… you ever been with a guy before?” It’s a whisper, barely louder than the hum of the streetlight outside.
I laugh, because otherwise I’ll start listing every mistake I’ve made since birth. “No,” I say. “Have you?”
He grins, a little sheepish. “Only if you count, like, freshman wrestling.”
We both laugh, the tension splintering a little.
Aaron shifts closer, still not touching. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says. “I mean, we can just hang out. Watch a movie or something.”
I nod, but inside I’m screaming for him to get it over with, to cut through the uncertainty and just tell me what comes next. Instead, I stare at my hands, counting the lines on my knuckles, pretending I’m not shaking.
Aaron sees it. He reaches over, covers my hand with his, and the room narrows to just the contact—the heat, the weight, the fact that he doesn’t pull away. My breath catches, then resets.
He gives my hand a squeeze. “You okay?”
I look up, right into his eyes, and the question answers itself.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m really okay.”
He smiles, then, and it’s the one I remember from the cafe—private, unguarded, just for me.
Aaron shifts, closing the last inch of space between us. He slides his hand up my arm, gentle but certain, and touches myjaw. His thumb rests just under my ear, a counterbalance to the wildness in my pulse.
He waits, giving me time to retreat, but I don’t.
He kisses me.
The first contact is feather-soft, as if he’s afraid I’ll evaporate. His lips brush mine, retreat, then return, more certain the second time. The warmth of his mouth is electric, the kind of heat that blots out thought. I lean in, my whole body pivoting toward him, and he tilts his head, fitting us together like a question and its answer.
We break, gasping, and he runs his thumb over my cheekbone. “Still okay?”
I nod, unable to trust my voice.
He kisses me again, slower, lingering. His other hand finds my waist, fingers spreading just above the beltline, and I shudder—half from anticipation, half from the shock of being wanted.
We tip backward, gravity taking over, and land side by side on the bed. The mattress squeaks, the comforter bunches, but I don’t care. All I can feel is Aaron’s hands, mapping every inch of me, his breath hot against my neck.
He nudges my chin up, kisses a line down my jaw, then stops at the hollow of my throat. “Is this okay?” he whispers, voice ragged.
“Yeah,” I manage, and he smiles against my skin.
His hands are everywhere, never rushed but always searching. He slides my shirt up, exposing skin inch by inch, then runs his palm over my stomach. I’m shaking, but not from fear. Every nerve is tuned to him—every brush, every scratch of his stubble, every pulse of his heartbeat through his chest.
He sits up, peels off his own shirt, and I just stare. The lines of his arms, the fade from tan to pale at his shoulders, the smallscar above his left pec. I want to say something, but he kisses me again and the thought dissolves.
He pulls me upright, tugs at the hem of my shirt. I raise my arms, let him strip it off, and we tumble back onto the bed, bare skin against bare skin. The heat is instant, dizzying. I cling to his shoulders, his muscles flexing under my fingers, and he pushes me down, gentle but insistent.
“Let me know if you want to stop,” he says, breath coming fast.
I shake my head. “I won’t.”
He grins, then kisses his way down my chest, stopping to nip at the bone just above my heart. I dig my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to keep the contact alive.
