47
Hannah
I last exactly forty-three minutes.
Forty-three minutes of lying in the suffocating dark of my dorm room, staring at the ceiling and trying to convince myself that I am the kind of girl who can accept a sweet text from a sweet boy and go to sleep with a clean conscience.
I try to be the girl who appreciates stability, who values the "no rush, no pressure" world Ethan offers.
But my conscience isn't clean; it’s covered in the fingerprints of a boy who isn't my boyfriend. And my body? My body is a traitor. It’s still buzzing from all the places it didn't go in that truck tonight. It’s humming with a frustration so localized and specific that it feels like a physical ache.
Ethan's voice echoes in the quiet. *Always.*
He meant it kindly. Of course he did. That is the problem with Ethan—his kindness is a soft, heavy blanket that he keeps placing over a fire I’m not brave enough to admit is already burning.
I turn onto my side, then my back, the sheets tangling around my legs like a trap. My phone is face down beside my pillow. I don't touch it. Touching it would be a surrender. It would mean opening Nate’s thread and seeing that he is backing off, exactly like I told him to.
Instead, I think about the truck. I think about straddling Ethan, about the friction and the heat and the way I tried so hard to feed that spark until it became a flame.
But it wouldn't catch. It flickered and died.
And the whole time, my brain was committing a crime.
It was replaying the couch. It was replaying the first time I climbed into Nate’s lap and felt him hard beneath me.
It was replaying the way pleasure sparked so sharply that I had to bury my face in his neck to keep from screaming.
*Green?*
I sit up, my heart banging against my ribs. I can’t do this. I can’t live in this "almost" state. I am tired of not knowing if I’m broken, or if I’m just... spoken for.
I slide out of bed. The floor is ice under my feet. I don't text Nate. I don't give him a chance to be the responsible one, the one who tells me to stay home and be "clear." I don't want to be clear. I want to be certain.
I shove my feet into sneakers, grab my coat, and leave before my common sense can find its shoes.
The walk to Nate’s is a blur of cold wind and silent sidewalks. Every step feels like a reckless descent. By the time I reach his building, my hands are numb, but my resolve is a hot coal in my chest.
I buzz his apartment. The intercom crackles.
“Nate?” his voice is thick with sleep, then instantly sharp. “Hannah?”
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Can I come up?”
The door buzzes. I don't wait.
He’s at the door before I can even reach for the handle. He looks wrecked—sweatpants low on his hips, a rumpled black T-shirt, hair a chaotic mess. His eyes scan me for damage, looking for tears or bruises or some sign of the "medium scary" disaster he likely expects.
“Hannah,” he says, his voice a low vibration in the hallway.
“I know,” I say, stepping into the apartment. “I know I shouldn't be here. I know you're backing off.”
He closes the door, but he doesn't lock it until I give the silent nod of our routine. *Lock. Secure. Green.* He turns to me, his hands loose at his sides as if he’s afraid that touching me will shatter the distance he’s worked so hard to build.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Nothing bad.” I wrap my arms around myself, the warmth of the apartment hitting my cold skin. “Ethan and I went out. It was good. He was sweet.”
Nate’s expression shutters. “Okay.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t act like that doesn't hurt.”
His eyes sharpen, dark and intense in the dim gold light of the lamp. “It’s not my job to make you manage that for me, Hannah.”
The distance in his voice is a physical blow. He’s being noble. He’s being the version of Nate that protects me from himself, and I hate it. I step closer, closing the gap until I can smell the clean, warm scent of his skin.
“I climbed into his lap, Nate.”
The room goes silent. I see the hit register in the tightening of his jaw, the way his knuckles turn white as he curls his hands into fists.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asks, his voice sounding like it’s being dragged over gravel.
“Because I tried to do what I did with you. I moved against him. And it felt... fine. But I couldn't get there. I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't stop *comparing*.”
I feel the tears starting, hot and humiliating.
“And I hate it. I hate that I’m here because I need to know if it’s just me... or if it’s you.”
Nate takes a step back, a look of pure agony crossing his face. “No. Hannah, no. You can’t come here and ask me to be the measuring stick for another guy. I want you too much to be your test.”
“I didn't mean it like that,” I sob. “Please.”
He closes his eyes, that one word acting like a lever on his restraint. He looks wrecked, his control fractured.
“Color,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.
“Yellow. Nervous yellow.”
“Yellow means slow. Yellow means I stop the second this becomes about you hurting yourself.”
“Real,” I say. “Real.”
He takes the two steps necessary to close the distance. He doesn't touch me yet; he just stands there, his heat radiating off him, making my skin prickle with an anticipation I never felt in the truck tonight.
“Green?” he asks, his hand finally reaching out to cup my jaw.
“Green.”
He kisses me. It’s a question at first—soft, hesitant—but I pull him closer, my fingers digging into the cotton of his shirt. I don't want a question. I want the answer.
I break the kiss just enough to look up at him. “Don’t kiss me like you’re trying not to prove anything, Nate. Please.”
His eyes go black. He backs me into the wall, his weight pinning me there, his mouth returning to mine with a hunger that is the opposite of "backing off." My body reacts instantly. A violent, deep rush of heat that makes my knees buckle.
“You got your answer,” he rasps against my lips.
“Not yet. Nate, not yet.”
We move to the couch. The memory of the first lesson sits between us, heavy and gold. He sits first, and I climb into his lap, my knees bracketing his thighs. The contact is electric—a shock of pure, unadulterated *yes* that ripples through my entire nervous system.
“Green?” he asks, his hands firm on my hips.
“Green. Real.”
“Then move,” he says, his voice strained with the effort of letting me lead. “Your choice.”
I move. A slow, agonizing shift of my hips against his. The pleasure hits so fast I gasp, my forehead dropping to his shoulder. It’s not like chasing a match in the rain; it’s like stepping into the center of a lightning strike.
“Slow,” he warns, his fingers digging into my hips.
“I can’t.”
“Stay with me, Hannah. Look at me.”
I lift my head. His eyes are fixed on mine, intense and unguarded. I move again, watching him, and the pleasure doubles. My breath breaks into jagged pieces. Nate's hands flex at my waist, guiding me now, meeting my rhythm as his own control starts to disintegrate.
I kiss him, messy and hot, my hands tangling in his hair. He groans—a deep, guttural sound of surrender—and moves his mouth to my neck. He knows exactly where to touch. He remembers every lesson.
“God, Nate,” I gasp, the pressure building with a speed that is both terrifying and perfect.
I move harder, the friction hitting exactly where I need it. The pleasure isn't shallow anymore; it’s pulling me under. With Ethan, I was aware of his want. With Nate, I am consumed by my own.
“There you go,” he murmurs against my skin. “Let yourself have the answer.”
I make a broken sound and move one last time. The orgasm hits with a violent, undeniable force, rolling through me until I’m trembling and clinging to his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing in a world made of water.
Nate holds me. He doesn't move. He doesn't take. He just lets me shake in his arms, his hand spread across my back, his own breathing ragged.
The silence that follows is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
“There’s your answer,” he says eventually, his voice hollow.
I bury my face in his neck, a single tear slipping out. I know. I know the truth now. I know why I froze in the truck. I know why "simple" isn't enough.
I know that Nate Wilder has ruined me for anyone else. And as he holds me, his face grave and sad, I realize that the truth hasn't made things easier. It’s just made the lie impossible to live in.