23
Hannah
The morning after lesson two, I wake up with one very clear, very horrifying thought.
Nate Wilder touched my chest.
Over my shirt. With permission. After a verbal consent process so thorough it would have made a legal department weep with pride. And somehow, despite the laws of physics and my own cardiac history, I am still alive.
I lie flat on my back, staring at the ceiling of my dorm room while sunlight sneaks through the gap in my curtains.
It lands across my face like an accusation.
My blanket is twisted around one leg, and my phone is buried somewhere beneath my hip because I fell asleep with it in my hand after reading Nate’s last text approximately six hundred times.
Not romantic. Not obsessive. Just... educationally thorough.
I shift slightly, and my body remembers before my brain can stop it. The heat of his hand on my thigh. The weight of his palm over my sweater. The way he paused before touching me there, like the entire room had narrowed down to a single question.
*Ask me.*
My face heats so fast I pull the duvet over my head.
Nope. Absolutely not. I am not awake enough for this.
Unfortunately, my body has decided it is a historian now, preserving primary-source evidence with alarming accuracy.
I remember how careful he was. That’s what keeps looping back.
Not just the heat of it—though there was plenty of that—but the fact that he noticed I was fuller there than he expected.
He’d tried to hide the reaction, but Nate Wilder has a terrible poker face when he’s trying very hard to be a "decent person" while touching a girl’s chest over her knitwear.
It’s a wild sentence to have in my head before nine in the morning.
I’d seen the way his jaw tightened. The way his breath hitched. And for one impossible second, I hadn’t felt embarrassed about my body. I’d felt powerful. Not in a polished, movie-girl way, but like a baby deer realizing it has legs and might eventually be capable of running.
Small power. New power. Mine.
I press both hands over my face and groan into the fabric of my pillow.
From the other side of the room, Ella says, “That sounded suspiciously like a sexual epiphany.”
I go completely still. I slowly pull the blanket down. Ella is sitting at my desk in my pink robe, eating dry cereal from a mug and staring at me like she has been awake for hours specifically to ruin my life.
“Why are you in here?” I blink at her.
“You gave me a key for emergencies.” She crunches a flake. “And you texted me last night saying, ‘I need to tell you everything or I’ll explode.’ I’m just here to prevent the structural damage of a Hannah-based explosion.”
I sit up, dragging the blanket to my chest. “It was... good.”
Ella’s whole face lights up. “Good like 'last time' good, or good like we need a new vocabulary because 'good' has become medically insufficient?”
I look down at my hands. Ella gasps, cereal mug frozen mid-air.
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t.”
“It was better.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.” She turns fully in the chair, tucking one leg beneath her. “Was he still being Mr. Boundaries?”
“Yes.” I drop my head back against the wall. “He was almost too careful. He kept checking in. He made me go through the rules first. Kissing, waist, back, thigh. And the chest thing.”
“And did you?”
I bury my face in my knees. “Yes. I asked him to touch me. Over my shirt.”
Ella doesn’t laugh. Her voice goes earnest in a way that makes me stop hiding. “I’m proud of you, Han. Because you wanted something and you actually asked for it.”
I look at her, my throat tight. There it is again. That warm, unsettling feeling from last night. Not just because of Nate’s hand, but because I didn't hint. I didn't apologize my way backward until the moment disappeared. I asked. And he listened.
“I was scared,” I admit. “Of wanting it.”
“That makes sense. Wanting something makes it real.” Ella sets the mug down. “But he was good about it?”
“He said he was trying to remember he was a decent person.”
Ella freezes. Then she slowly sets the mug on the desk. “Oh.”
“I know.”
“Oh, Hannah. That man is in trouble.”
“No, he’s not. He’s experienced. He’s probably said things like that a thousand times.”
Ella gives me a flat, unimpressed look. “You know the difference between a line and the truth, Hannah. You saw his face.”
I hate that my stomach flips. Because I do. Nate flirts with everyone—it’s his default setting. But last night hadn't felt like a performance. He hadn't said it with a wink. He’d said it like he was struggling.
*Because I wanted more than I’m going to take.*
I reach for my phone, needing to focus on anything else. There’s a text from him from last night after he dropped me off.
**Nate:** *Still green?*
**Hannah:** *Still green. Still embarrassed.*
**Nate:** *We’ll keep working on the second one.*
In the morning light, the text feels less like a joke and more like a promise.
“Is praise still green this morning?” Ella asks, reading over my shoulder.
I bury my face in the blanket. “Unfortunately.”
The phone buzzes again.
**Nate:** *Progress. Proud of you.*
**Nate:** *You okay physically too? No soreness, no weirdness?*
My body goes hot. I type carefully: *I’m okay. No weirdness. Except emotional weirdness, but I think that’s standard.*
**Nate:** *Very standard with you. Still want to talk next time? About the... other thing?*
My breath catches. The orgasm thing. My stomach knots. It feels more private than the touching. More like admitting I want something unlocked in me.
**Hannah:** *Yes. Just talking. We’ll go slow.*
**Nate:** *Just talking. And Hannah? Nothing embarrassing about wanting to understand your own body. That’s why we practice.*
I close my eyes. He’s doing it again—taking the shame out of the equation before I can even let it settle.
**Hannah:** *Tomorrow works. Same rules?*
**Nate:** *Same rules. Talking only unless you decide otherwise. Goodnight, Hannah Reed.*
I set the phone down and flop backward. Ella lies beside me, staring at the ceiling.
“You know,” she says, “for someone who claims this is all fake, you are having a very real awakening.”
I press a pillow over my face, but I’m smiling. Because she’s right. And tomorrow, we’re talking about the big stuff.