When we turned onto the side street that led to our building, Tanner’s hand found mine.
“No one’s around,” he said. “I checked.”
His palm was warm against the cold. I held on.
We walked half a block before he spoke.
"I'm nervous," he said quietly. Not looking at me.
"About?"
"What happens when we get inside." His grip tightened on my hand. "I want it. I just—I've never—" He shook his head. "What if I'm bad at it?"
"You won't be."
"You don't know that."
"I know I don't care." I squeezed his hand. "We'll figure it out."
Our building came into view. Tanner’s pace quickened—just enough that I noticed. Just enough that my heart rate kicked up in response.
In the stairwell, between the second and third floors, he stopped.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting everything in pale yellow. Harsh light, ugly light. But Tanner turned to face me, and all I could see was the want written across his features—parted lips, rapid breathing, the way his hands were already reaching for me.
“I can’t wait anymore,” he said.
Then he backed me against the wall and kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for hours. Because he had. He’d told me so.
I pulled him closer, hands gripping his hips through his jacket. He made a sound against my mouth—low, needy—and I felt it everywhere.
“Inside,” he said. “Now.”
We barely made it through the door.
His hands were under my shirt before the lock clicked, shoving fabric up, palms flat against my stomach. I walked him backward toward the couch, but he shook his head.
“Bedroom.”
The word hit me low. We’d been sleeping in the same bed for weeks—tangled together, waking up hard, pulling back before it went further. This was different. His eyes were dark, certain.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He kissed me again, slower, his fingers working at my buttons. “I want this. I want you.”
We left a trail of clothes down the hallway. His jacket by the door. My shirt halfway to the bedroom. His belt clattering against the hardwood. By the time we reached my room, he was down to boxers and I was fumbling with my jeans, both of us breathing too hard.
“Wait.” Tanner caught my wrists. “I need to—” He laughed, shaky. “I’ve never done this before. Any of it. And I want it to be— I don’t want to screw it up.”
I cupped his face, made him look at me. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
“That sounds like a line.”
“It’s not.” I kissed his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Tell me what you want. Tell me if something doesn’t feel good. We go at your pace.”
He searched my face. Whatever he found made his shoulders drop.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I can do that.”
