21
Hannah
By the time I get back to my dorm, I have learned two very important things.
One: walking across campus after making out with Nate Wilder on his couch requires more motor skills than I currently possess. My legs feel like they’re made of poorly set gelatin.
Two: vanilla lip gloss is not built for that kind of high-intensity academic environment.
I catch my reflection in the glass door of my dorm lobby and nearly trip over my own feet.
My hair is not ruined, exactly, but it is definitely no longer innocent.
The strands around my face are loose from where Nate’s fingers slid through them, and my mouth looks pinker than it did when I left—not swollen in an obvious way, but enough that *I* notice.
Which means Ella will absolutely notice.
The elevator dings. A senior from my floor steps out in pajama pants and a Northwood sweatshirt. She takes one look at me, then smiles slowly.
“Good night?” she asks, her voice dripping with knowing.
My face catches fire. “Study session,” I manage.
Her smile widens. “Sure. Looks like you learned a lot.”
The elevator doors slide shut, and I spend the ride to the second floor mentally adding *improve lying skills* to my list of personal development goals.
I unlock my door and step inside. Ella is sitting at my desk, spinning around in my chair with a bag of popcorn in her lap. She has one sock on and one off, because apparently chaos affects her feet unevenly.
“Well?” she says.
I lean back against the door. “Why are you always in my room?”
“Because your room is where the plot lives.” Her eyes sweep over me, widening with every passing second. “Oh. *Oh*, Hannah.”
“Don’t.”
“Your hair!” She stands so fast the chair rolls back and bumps the wall. “It has been handled. It is wearing the invisible fingerprints of a hockey player.”
I head for the mirror, touching my hair defensively. “You’re making that up.”
Ella appears behind me in the reflection, grinning like a menace. “You look like you survived a very respectful tornado.”
I stare at myself. Okay, fine. Maybe my hair has been handled. A little. I turn away, tugging off my boots. “It was just kissing, Ella.”
“She says, glowing like a Victorian lamp.” She sits beside me on the bed, bouncing with contained energy. “Tell me everything. Not everything-everything, but enough that I don't die.”
I take a breath. The weird thing is, I actually want to talk about it. If I keep this inside, I’ll explode into a cloud of vanilla and unresolved tension.
“We talked first,” I say, picking at the hem of my sweater. “He made me go through the rules again. It helped—saying it out loud made the physical stuff feel less like a cliff I was about to fall off.”
“And did you use the colors?”
“I said maybe yellow at the end. It was getting... intense. Not scary intense, just more than I expected. I think I surprised myself.”
“How?”
I think about Nate’s couch. His hand in my hair. The weight of his palm on my thigh over my jeans. “I got bolder. I touched his stomach. Over his shirt.”
Ella gasps as if I’ve announced a royal engagement. “Historic.”
“It was not historic. But... I liked knowing I could make him react. He tensed up under my hand, and it made me feel powerful. Not in a 'mean' way. Just... wanted.”
The word slips beneath my skin, warm and restless. Ella’s smile gets soft. “Good.”
“He said that word a lot,” I whisper, covering my face with a pillow. “My list says praise is green, so he used it.”
Ella collapses backward onto the bed, laughing. “Hannah, you are literally getting a private education in your own desires. It’s glorious.”
My phone buzzes on the bed between us. We both freeze.
**Nate:** *You get back okay?*
Ella mimes zipping her lips. I pick up the phone, my mouth curving before I can stop it.
**Hannah:** *Yes. Ella is currently conducting a forensic interrogation.*
**Nate:** *Expected. You okay? Real okay?*
**Hannah:** *A little embarrassed, but good.*
**Nate:** *Don’t be. You did good tonight, Hannah Reed.*
I press the phone against my chest. It’s not just a flirty text; it feels like a grade. A passing one. Ella watches me, her head tilted. “He’s practicing the 'no apologizing' rule with you, isn't he?”
“Yeah.” I look back at the screen. I feel brave—or maybe just possessed by a version of myself that doesn’t want to shrink anymore.
**Hannah:** *Can we talk about next time?*
**Nate:** *Yeah. What do you want?*
**Hannah:** *More kissing. Hair again. The thigh thing—maybe inner, but slow. And I want to touch you again. Chest, shoulders, stomach.*
I hit send and immediately drop the phone like it’s radioactive.
**Nate:** *That’s a good list. Tomorrow? My place. Seven.*
I stare at the message. Seven. Tomorrow. Second lesson.
I should be terrified. I am. But under that, there is a bright, undeniable spark of anticipation.
“You know,” Ella says, staring at the ceiling beside me, “for someone who claims this is all fake, you are having a very real awakening.”
I press the pillow over my face to hide my grin. “Goodnight, Ella.”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Wilder-to-be.”
I kick her, but beneath the embarrassment and the heat still lingering on my skin, I’m smiling. Because tomorrow, at seven, I’m going back. And this time, I’m not bringing a notebook.