Nick rolls onto his back immediately, pulling me with him. “God, yes. I want to see you too.”
I settle between his legs, hovering over him, and for a moment, we look at each other. His hair is a disaster. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are so soft that it makes my chest ache.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi,” I whisper back.
Then I push back into him.
“You’re right. This is even better,” Nick breathes, hooking his ankles behind my back.
I have to kiss him before I can continue. Have to feel his smile against my lips.
And I start to move, and it’s so much better. Now I can watch every reaction cross his face. Can see exactly what I’m doing to him. Can let him see what he’s doing to me.
His hands roam my back, my shoulders, my arms—like he can’t decide where to touch but needs to touch everywhere. I change the angle slightly, and his eyes go wide.
“There,” he gasps. “Right there, don’t stop?—”
I don’t stop. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. We’re moving together in a way that feels almost choreographed, like our bodies figured out something our minds are still catching up to.
Nick’s hand finds my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, and the tenderness of the gesture contrasts so sharply with what we’re doing that something in my chest cracks open.
Everything seems to go quiet except for our breathing. It has stopped being about technique or even pleasure and has become something else entirely. Nick’s forehead pressed against mine. Our eyes locked. Moving together.
And I think:Oh. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
When we finally come undone—him first, then me following moments later—it’s messy and imperfect and absolutely nothing like the polished, performative encounters I’ve had before.
It’s better. It’s so much better.
“For the record,” Nick says afterward, both of us sprawled across his tiny bed, “the posters definitely improved your performance.”
“I’ll make sure to mention that in my next interview. ‘Anthony Devine recommends narcissistic décor for optimal bedroom performance.’”
“I guess you could include that in your nextArchitectural Livingfeature,” he says, and I laugh.
God. ThatArchitectural Livingfeature. I’d cringed so much when I’d first watched it.
But now…now it’s what brought me Nick, so I’ll never regret it.
We lie there for a while, just enjoying the afterglow. I trace lazy patterns on his shoulder while he plays with my hair.
“I should probably make you breakfast,” Nick says eventually. “Fair warning: I can offer you cereal, questionably dated yogurt, or toast if we have bread.”
“A gourmet selection.”
“Only the finest for my… What are we calling you?”
I swallow. Boyfriend feels like the right word, but saying it aloud feels like too much. We only met in person last night, even though we’ve been talking for over a month. I’m not sure how the math works on that. Whether the messaging counts toward something.
“I believe the technical term is ‘guy you met on the internet who turned out to be exactly who he said he was.’” I chicken out of any discussion about the term boyfriend.
Nick’s face is expressionless. “That might be a bit wordy for everyday use.”
His face gives me nothing, and I can’t tell if the joke landed or fell flat. That’s the thing about real life—no time to edit, no backspace key. You just say something and hope it doesn’t ruin everything.
We head into the kitchen, me wearing one of Nick’s T-shirts that’s slightly too small, him in sweatpants that have seen better days. The apartment is quiet—his roommate’s door is still closed.
