20
Hannah
By Thursday afternoon, I have discovered a new form of academic suffering.
Trying to study while knowing Nate Wilder has seen your "panic list."
Not just seen it. Discussed it. Calmly. Thoroughly. With devastatingly intense eye contact. There should be a university policy against that. It feels like a violation of the student code of conduct.
I sit on a stone bench outside Langford Hall with my anatomy notebook open on my lap, pretending to care about cranial nerves.
My brain, however, keeps circling back to Nate’s apartment.
Nate sitting across from me in that soft black T-shirt.
Nate saying words like *green* and *yellow* and *red* as if he were building a bridge instead of dismantling my entire nervous system one careful sentence at a time.
I haven’t seen him since. Not in private, anyway.
We’ve texted, but only about normal things. He sent a photo of a truly tragic omelet Carter apparently made after practice. I told him it looked like a crime scene. He replied, *Carter says it’s protein-forward.* Me telling him that phrase should be illegal.
Nothing about the list. Nothing about the lesson.
The not-talking about it somehow makes it louder.
My phone buzzes beside my thigh. Ella.
**Ella:** *Did you survive psych or did Hale harvest your soul?*
**Hannah:** *Soul gone. Body remains.*
**Ella:** *RIP. Also Nate sighting at quad. Fake girlfriend duty incoming?*
My stomach flips. I look up too fast. And there he is.
Nate is crossing the quad with Carter and Mason, all three of them in Northwood gear, looking like a walking recruitment poster for the athletic department. Nate is in the middle, backpack slung over one shoulder, dark hair messy under a backward cap.
He sees me. I know the second he does because his pace shifts. Not much. Just enough. Carter notices and follows his gaze, his grin turning nuclear.
“Be normal,” I whisper to myself.
Unfortunately, "normal" has left the premises and taken my dignity with it.
The trio approaches. Carter reaches me first, beaming. “Hannah Reed. Fancy seeing you in the wild.”
“It’s a college campus, Carter. I’m not sure ‘wild’ applies.”
“It does when there are freshmen on motorized scooters,” Nate says, stopping in front of me. He has his hands in his hoodie pocket, his mouth already curving into a smirk. “You studying?”
“Trying.”
“Looks painful.”
“It is.”
“Need me to quiz you?”
I stare at him. His eyes are steady, and there’s a flicker of something in them—a memory of the couch, the notebook, the rules. He isn't teasing me about the list, but he’s acknowledging the secret we now share.
“You don’t know anatomy,” I say, attempting to be sharp.
His smile gets worse. “I know some.”
Mason makes a choking sound. Carter turns away, his shoulders shaking. Heat crawls up my neck as I realize exactly how that sounded.
“No,” I say quickly. “Not like that.”
Nate lifts both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I think many things, baby.”
The word hits like a spark. *Baby.* Not at his apartment. Not during the list. Here. Publicly. It’s for the performance—for the girls from my anatomy class walking past, for the guys watching from the steps. But my stomach doesn't care about the "fake" label.
Carter and Mason eventually drift off toward the athletic center for "lift," but Nate lingers. He stays standing in front of me, one hand hooked around the strap of his backpack.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave now that we’re relatively alone.
“I’m okay.” I hesitate. “A little embarrassed.”
“About what?”
“All of it. The notebook. The apartment.”
His gaze softens. “Still? You didn't scare me off, Hannah.”
I look down at my lap. “I wasn’t worried about scaring you off.”
“No?”
“No.” I sigh. “Maybe a little.”
He steps closer, his shoes shifting in the grass. “You didn't. Tonight?”
My heart stops. “Tonight what?”
“We can start. If you want. Private. No audience.” He tilts his head. “Just us.”
The sane thing would be to ask for more time. But I know if I wait, I’ll overthink myself out of wanting anything at all.
“Yes,” I say, the word surprisingly clear. “I’m sure.”
“Seven o’clock,” he says. “My place.”
At seven o’clock, I am standing outside Nate’s door, smelling like vanilla lip gloss and pure anxiety.
When the door opens, Nate is there in dark sweatpants and a gray T-shirt, looking fresh from a shower. He leads me into the living room, but he doesn't crowd me. He gives me the space I need to breathe.
“Run me through the plan,” he says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Saying it helps.”
I exhale, my hands shaking slightly. “Kissing. Touching over clothes. Waist, back, hair. Maybe thigh if I say green. Nothing under clothes. No chest yet.”
“Good,” he says.
I look at him. “You can say that.”
“What?”
“Good. You asked if it was green. It is.”
Nate’s eyes darken. The air in the room suddenly feels thicker. He moves to the couch, sitting a respectful distance away, and gestures for me to join him. I shift closer, until our knees almost touch.
“Can I touch your face?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His fingers are warm, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with agonizing slowness. “Green?”
“Green.”
He kisses me. It’s soft at first—a gentle, exploratory brush of lips that makes me feel like I’m finally anchored to the earth. I lift my hand and rest it on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the cotton of his shirt.
Nate makes a low sound in his throat and deepens the kiss.
It feels less like a lesson and more like a conversation. If I lean in, he meets me. If I pull back an inch to catch my breath, he pauses. He’s listening to me with his mouth.
He pulls back, his forehead resting against mine. “How are you doing?”
“Good,” I whisper. “Warm. Curiously... not panicked.”
“Good girl.”
The words hit me low and hard. I melt into him, my hand sliding to the back of his neck, my fingers tangling in the damp curls at his nape.
“Green?” he asks again, his breath hot against my lips.
“Green.”
His hand moves to my thigh, over my jeans. It’s a firm, grounding weight. He doesn't move it high; he just keeps it there, his thumb moving slowly over the denim. My thoughts scatter like dropped papers. This is the part I couldn't write down. The feeling of being touched exactly where I said yes.
We stay like that for a long time—kissing, touching, learning the map of each other’s reactions. He is unbelievably patient, never pushing for more, always checking the color of my comfort.
Eventually, he’s the one who pulls back.
“That’s enough for tonight,” he says, his breathing heavy.
“But we barely—”
He raises a brow. “We barely what?”
I blush and look away. “Never mind.”
“I’m stopping because the point is to leave you feeling good, not overwhelmed,” he says, his voice anchored. “You did good tonight, Hannah.”
I stand up, my knees feeling a little like jelly. I grab my bag, smoothing my sweater. I feel embarrassed, yes, but I also feel... proud. I didn't freeze. I used my words. I wanted things, and I wasn't ashamed.
At the door, I turn back to him. “Thank you, Nate.”
“You’re welcome.”
I walk down the hallway with my lips tingling and my heart racing. I had not been wrong. Nate Wilder could teach me how not to be afraid.
The terrifying part is that I’m starting to think fear isn’t the only thing I want him to take away.