22
Nate
By six-thirty, my apartment is too clean.
That’s how I know I’ve lost my mind. I’ve wiped down the counters twice.
I’ve fluffed the couch pillows, realized that was insane, then shoved them back into looking less staged.
I’ve folded the charcoal blanket over the arm of the couch like some kind of emotionally competent host.
I put two bottles of water on the coffee table, took one away because it looked too eager, then put it back because hydration is a neutral necessity.
I stand in my kitchen and wonder if this much thought over mineral water means I need professional help. Probably.
I check the time. 6:42.
Hannah Reed is coming over for the second lesson. Not a hookup. Not a date. A lesson. A carefully discussed, boundary-heavy session involving kissing, touching over clothes, and—if she asks in the moment—her chest over her shirt. I’ve read her texts so many times I could recite them under oath.
This shouldn’t be complicated. I know how to kiss a girl. I know how to read a body. The problem isn’t the mechanics; the problem is Hannah. It’s the way she says *green* like she’s terrified but trying anyway. It’s the way she touched my stomach last night and looked proud when I reacted.
She should be proud.
I don’t just want her turned on; I want her confident. Which is a first. Usually, the goal is simpler. Attraction, chemistry, clothes off, no confusion. There are no notebooks. No traffic-light colors. With Hannah, every line matters, and for some reason, that makes me want more of her, not less.
The knock comes at 6:58. Punctual to a nervous breakdown.
I open the door. And there she is. Jeans, boots, and a soft black sweater that slips just a little off one shoulder. Her blonde hair is down, and her lips have that faint glossy look I’ve learned is dangerous for my blood pressure.
“Hi,” she says, clutching her tote bag.
“Hey.” I step aside. “Come in.”
She walks past me, bringing the scent of vanilla and rain. I close the door but don’t lock it yet. I let the choice be hers.
“You can lock it,” she says softly.
I do. The click lands heavier than it should.
We sit on the couch, leaving a respectful, almost ridiculous amount of space between us. I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Run me through tonight, Hannah. I want to hear the plan again.”
She exhales, counting it out on her fingers. “Kissing. Hair. Waist. Thigh over clothes—if I say green. Maybe inner thigh. Slow.” She pauses, her cheeks pinking. “And maybe my chest over my shirt, but only if I clearly ask.”
“Good,” I say. “That’s the foundation. Everything stops on a red, we check in on a yellow. If you don't know, we pause. Deal?”
“Deal.”
She shifts closer until our knees brush. “Green,” she whispers.
I lift my hand slowly, cupping her cheek. Her eyes flutter shut, and that tiny reaction punches through my ribs. I lean in and kiss her. It’s soft at first, exploratory. She relaxes quicker tonight, her hand sliding almost immediately to my shoulder, her fingers curling into my T-shirt.
I pull back after a few seconds. “Checking.”
“I’m green,” she says, her eyes already looking a little dazed.
I kiss her again, letting it deepen. Her hand moves from my shoulder to the back of my neck, her fingers slipping into the hair at my nape. My hand slides to her waist, the soft wool of her sweater beneath my palm.
“Thigh?” I murmur against her lips.
She breathes out a shaky, “Green.”
I place my hand on the outside of her thigh. She holds still for a second, then nods. I let my thumb move in small, easy circles over the denim. No rush.
Then, her hand moves over my stomach. My muscles snap tight beneath her palm, and she smiles into the kiss. *Smiles.* The little menace likes the power she has.
“Inner,” she says softly.
I pull back. “You asking?”
She meets my eyes. “Yes. Slow. Over clothes.”
I move my hand inward, inch by agonizing inch, giving her every second to change her mind. She doesn't. Her lashes lower, and she makes a soft sound that makes my control fray at the edges.
“Nate?” her voice is a whisper now.
“Yeah?”
“I think I want to try... the chest thing.”
I move my hand from her thigh immediately, resting both hands on my own knees. I need to be a decent person right now. “Ask me. Clearly.”
She swallows hard. “Can you touch my chest over my shirt?”
“Yes. If you’re sure. Color?”
“Green.”
I lift my hand, touching her shoulder first, then sliding it down the front of her sweater. I settle my palm over her, a careful, steady pressure.
And holy hell.
My brain blanks for one brutal second. Hannah is fuller than I expected—not that I’d been letting myself imagine it, but the reality of her shape filling my palm hits me like a blindside hit on the ice.
She’s soft. Warm. Devastatingly real. The shy sweaters and the nervous lists had hidden the fact that she’s all curves beneath that shyness.
My control takes a vicious hit. Every reckless part of me wants to know more, to feel the heat of her skin without the barrier of the wool.
*No. Stay in the lines.*
Hannah’s eyes are closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly under my hand. I feel every heartbeat, every shallow breath, through my palm. It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever done, which is insane considering how much further I’ve gone with girls I didn't even know.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, opening her eyes.
“I’m okay,” I say, my voice sounding like it was dragged over gravel. “I’m just... being careful.”
“Because of me?”
“Because I’m trying to remember I’m a decent person, Hannah.”
Her eyes widen, and that spark of pride returns.
She likes knowing she can wreck me. I kiss her again, harder this time, and her hand comes up to cover mine, holding me against her chest instead of pushing me away.
Her fingers press over my knuckles, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from crossing the line myself.
I’m the one who pulls back this time. I need air. I need a reset.
“Check-in,” I say, my breathing heavy.
She looks dazed, her lips pink and swollen. “I’m green. Still green.”
“I’m stopping,” I say firmly. “Because we hit the plan, and I want to leave you feeling good, not overwhelmed.”
She sits back, smoothing her sweater. “I feel... proud. I didn't freeze.”
I reach over and tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You did good, Hannah. Really good.”
I drive her back to her dorm in a silence that feels charged but safe. When I pull up to the curb, she unbuckles but doesn't get out immediately.
“Nate?”
“Yeah?”
“I think next time... I might want to talk about the orgasm thing.”
The words punch the air out of my lungs. I keep my face a mask of neutral calm through sheer force of will.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll talk about it. No pressure.”
She leans over and kisses my cheek—a quick, soft touch that lingers longer than the make-out session on the couch. Then she’s gone, disappearing into the lobby of her dorm.
I sit there with both hands on the wheel, staring at nothing. My cheek burns where her lips touched it.
The second lesson was a success. Boundaries held. Hannah feels less scared. That was the point.
But as I drive away, I realize that while I’m getting very good at not crossing Hannah Reed’s lines, I’m starting to worry about my own.