30
Hannah
Coffee with Ethan Cross was supposed to be the finish line.
It was the specific, shiny goal I’d been working toward since the first day of the semester—the moment the guy I had built a shrine to in my head finally looked at me and saw something worth pursuing.
The first problem was that the coffee was exactly what I wanted.
The second problem was that it was *nice*.
Not bad. Not awkward. Not a disaster that makes it easy to write him off and move on.
No, it was a perfectly pleasant, textbook-correct afternoon.
Ethan was punctual, securing a small table near the window at Briarwood before I even arrived.
When I walked in, he looked up and smiled with the kind of genuine warmth that usually makes my brain short-circuit.
“Hey,” he said, standing as I reached the table. He gestured to the counter. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I didn’t order for you. I thought about guessing, but then I realized guessing wrong on a coffee order feels like a major red flag.”
I laughed, and the sound felt light. “Probably safer not to risk it.”
We ordered—a black coffee for him, an iced vanilla latte for me.
Back at the table, the conversation flowed with the kind of effortless ease I used to dream about.
We talked about Professor Hale’s latest anatomy quiz and the general absurdity of pre-med life.
It was familiar territory. It was safe. I could talk about cranial nerves without wondering if my hands were shaking or if I was breathing too loud.
Ethan paid attention. He asked follow-up questions. He remembered that I mentioned being nervous about the last lab. He tells me he thought my answer in class yesterday was smart. Every time he looked at me, there was a quiet focus in his eyes that should have made me glow like a lamp.
I *wanted* to glow. I felt like I owed it to the version of myself that sat three rows behind him for months.
"You always seem so calm in there," he said, leaning back and watching me over the rim of his cup. "Like you have everything color-coded in your head."
I almost choked on my straw. "That is... unfortunately accurate."
He laughed, a warm, resonant sound. "I figured. It's a good look on you."
He was charming. He was kind. But the third problem—the big, looming, elephant-in-the-coffee-shop problem—was that I kept waiting for *more*.
I expected to feel like the whole world was blurring at the edges.
Instead, I was sitting across from him thinking, *This is a very pleasant way to spend an hour. * Nice was not Nate.
I took a sip of my latte too quickly, the ice clinking against my teeth. Ethan’s brows pull together in concern. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I said, perhaps a bit too fast. “Just... brain freeze.”
He smiled, and for a while, it worked. We compared notes and talk about the carnival. He asked about Gerald, which made me laugh despite myself, and then he asked if Nate still thinks the duck is a liability.
My fingers tightened slightly around the plastic cup. The mention of Nate’s name felt like a sudden drop in temperature.
"He thinks Gerald is a threat to his reputation," I said.
"He might be right," Ethan grins. "But you’re different than I thought, Hannah. You always seemed quieter. Less... sharp."
Once, I would have taken that as the ultimate compliment. Now, I wondered who exactly helped me find that edge. I wondered who sat me on a couch and told me I didn't have to apologize for wanting things.
Ethan’s gaze dipped to my mouth for a fraction of a second. A month ago, I would have dissolved. Today, I just noticed the data point.
“I had a good time,” he said as we finished our drinks. “Maybe we could do this again.”
The plan was working. “Yeah,” I said, rising to my feet. “Maybe. Text me.”
He walked me outside. The air was cool and damp. He stood close—close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his jacket. His hand brushed my arm, a light, testing touch. I felt it, but my body doesn't ignite.
“You heading back to the dorm?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said, the words out before I can stop them. “I have to meet someone.”
Ethan nodded, and a flicker of something passed over his face. “Wilder?”
I paused. “Yes.”
His jaw shifted, but he kept the polite smile in place. “Right. Well, I’ll text you.”
He walked away, and I stood on the sidewalk, my heart doing a frantic, jagged rhythm. I should have gone to my dorm. Instead, I pulled out my phone and opened Nate’s thread on instinct.
**Hannah:** *Coffee is over.*
**Nate:** *How was it?*
**Hannah:** *Nice.*
**Nate:** *Nice?*
**Hannah:** *Yes. He asked to hang out again.*
**Nate:** *That’s good.*
I could practically see the "smooth face" he was making. The distance in those two words made my chest feel tight.
**Hannah:** *Can I come over?*
Ten seconds passed.
**Nate:** *Yeah. You okay?*
**Hannah:** *Real yes. Just need to talk.*
**Nate:** *Come over.*
Nate opened the door before I could even finish the second knock. He was barefoot, wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, his hair damp. His eyes swept over me once, taking a silent inventory.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
He stepped aside. The apartment smelled like soap and Nate. He locked the door after I nod. *Green.*
“Coffee was nice?” he asked, leaning back against the door.
“You said 'nice' like it had quotation marks,” I said, setting my bag down.
“You said it like it was an obligation.”
I turned to him, my pulse thrumming. “I don't want to talk about big things, Nate. No labels. No feelings talk. I just... I’m a disaster right now.”
“Then we don't label,” he said, his voice losing the distance.
He moved to the armchair, leaving the couch for me. He was giving me space, but the air in the apartment felt like it was vibrating.
“What do you want tonight, Hannah?”
I swallowed hard. My body was already answering for me. “Kissing,” I said. “And touching. More than last time. I want to be naked. Completely. But I want you to stay dressed.”
Nate’s jaw flexes, his knuckles whitening where he gripped the arms of the chair.
“You’re sure?”
“I want to.”
“Okay.” He looked like he’s holding back a tidal wave. “Anything else?”
I gripped my water bottle until the plastic crackles. “I want your mouth. On me.”
Nate closed his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opens them, the heat was so intense I felt it in my toes.
“Say it.”
“I want you to go down on me.”
He stood up slowly. We moved to the couch. He helped me out of my sweater, then my jeans. When it came to the bra, I froze. The vulnerability of being fully exposed hit me all at once. Nate stopped immediately, his hands falling away.
“Yellow?”
“Maybe.”
He backed up, giving me the handle to the door. Seeing him wait—seeing him value my "no" as much as my "yes"—is what gave me the strength to let the blue lace fall.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice a rough, low rasp.
He joined me on the couch, kneeling between my legs. His expression was grave, focused entirely on me. He spread my knees wide, his eyes roaming over every inch of me.
“Color?”
“Green.”
Then his mouth touched me. And the world simply vanished.
I gasped, my hands finding his hair, my hips jerking upward.
He held my thighs steady, his touch firm and grounding.
He used his tongue with a rhythm that made my vision blur, swirling and pressing until I was a sobbing mess.
I make sounds I didn't know I was capable of—high, sharp whimpers that echoed in the quiet room.
“Nate.”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against my skin, his hot breath sending fresh shivers through me. “Don't think. Just feel it, baby.”
His fingers moved inside me, adding a new layer of pressure that made my back arch off the cushions.
He buried two fingers deep, stretching me as his thumb worked in tandem with his tongue.
I was lost. There was no Ethan, no anatomy quiz, no plan.
There was only Nate and the way he knew exactly how to break me.
I came so hard I lost the room, my internal muscles clenching down on his fingers in desperate, rhythmic pulses.
When I finally drifted back to earth, I’m boneless. Nate covered me with a blanket, sitting back on his heels, his own breathing ragged. He looked wrecked.
“Can I touch you?” I whispered, clutching the blanket to my chest. “Over your sweatpants. I want to.”
He closed his eyes. “You don't owe me anything, Hannah.”
“I know. I want to make you react.”
He let me. I reached out, my palm cupping the heavy, rigid length of him through the gray fabric.
He let out a low, helpless groan that filled me with a bright, terrifying sense of power.
I moved my hand, squeezing and sliding. I could feel the thick, pulsing heat of him underneath the cotton, straining against the seam.
He was so hard it felt like he might snap, and the more I rubbed, the more his breath hitched into jagged, broken gasps. His head fell back against the couch, his eyes squeezed shut as his jaw locked tight.
"Hannah," he choked out, his voice cracking. "I'm—fuck, I'm close."
I didn't stop. I liked the power of it too much. I gripped him firmer, my thumb dragging over the head of him through the fabric, and that’s what did it.
His whole body went rigid, his back arching off the floor as he let out a guttural, strangled sound.
I felt the hot, heavy pulses beneath my palm, a frantic series of jerks that didn't stop for several long seconds.
He groaned, a deep, vibrating sound that rumbled in his chest, as the front of his sweatpants darkened, the fabric soaking through with the sheer force of his release.
For a long minute, neither of us moved. He just stayed there, slumped against the couch, chest heaving, a dark, damp patch spreading across the gray cotton of his fly. The room smelled of sex and laundry detergent, and the heat coming off him was enough to bake the air.
He finally opened his eyes, and they were dazed, bloodshot, and fixed entirely on me. He looked down at the dark, wet stain on his crotch—a visible mark of exactly what I’d done to him—and then back up at me with a look of pure, unadulterated awe.
“Fuck, Hannah,” he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been shredded. He reached out, his hand trembling as he brushed a stray lock of hair from my face. “You have no idea what you just did.”
I looked at the stain, my face burning with a mix of embarrassment and a strange, heady pride. I had done that. Nate Wilder, the guy who always seemed to have everything under control, was currently a shivering, spent mess because of my hand.
I reached out, my fingers grazing the edge of the damp fabric. It was warm—almost hot—and the weight of his spent desire felt heavy under my touch. He shivered again, a long, rolling tremor that started in his shoulders and disappeared into his hips.
“Don’t,” he whispered, though he didn't pull away. “If you keep touching me, I might actually lose my mind.”
He let out a shaky breath, finally sitting back and trying to regain some semblance of the smooth, cocky Nate I knew. But the stain was still there, a dark evidence of the truth. He looked at me, and for a second, the distance was gone.
Later, he drove me back to the dorm. I was wearing his T-shirt under my sweater, the scent of him wrapped around me like a shield.
“Text me when you’re inside,” he said at the curb.
“I will.”
I leaned over and kissed his cheek. It wasn't strategic. It wasn't for Ethan. It was just us.
**Nate:** *Inside?*
**Hannah:** *Almost. Still green.*
**Nate:** *Good. Proud of you.*
**Hannah:** *Proud of me or proud of yourself?*
**Nate:** *Both. But mostly you. Goodnight.*
I climbed the stairs, my head a chaotic mess. Ethan asked for a second date. That should have been the headline. But tonight, the only thing that felt real was the way Nate looked at me when I finally stopped being afraid.
Whatever Nate Wilder is teaching me, I am learning way too fast.