19
Hannah
Nate Wilder’s apartment is annoyingly clean.
Not spotless in a serial-killer way. Not aggressively staged or sterile.
But clean enough that I’m immediately suspicious.
His shoes are lined up by the door, his kitchen counters are wiped down, and there are exactly two mugs drying beside the sink.
A charcoal gray blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch.
The coffee table holds one remote, one coaster, and a stack of hockey magazines arranged with a precision that suggests either he has hidden depths or Carter was recently here and Nate rage-cleaned in the aftermath.
I stand just inside the door, clutching my tote bag like it contains state secrets. Nate closes the door behind me and leans back against it, arms crossed. He’s wearing dark joggers and a soft black T-shirt, his hair damp like he showered recently.
It is deeply unfair that he looks this comfortable in his own space while I am actively trying not to spontaneously combust.
“You’re judging my apartment,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m surprised,” I admit.
“That it isn't a biohazard?”
“Kind of. You have a reputation, Nate.”
“I also have a vacuum. Revolutionary, I know.” His mouth curves into a smirk. He pushes off the door and walks past me into the living room. “Want water?”
“Yes, please.”
He pauses and glances over his shoulder. “You sound like you’re about to meet my parents. Or testify in court.”
“I’m nervous.” The confession slips out before I can stop it.
Nate’s teasing expression fades—not dramatically, but enough to let the air settle. “Okay,” he says softly. “That’s allowed.”
He grabs two bottles of water from the fridge and hands me one. His fingers don't brush mine this time, and I can tell it’s intentional. He’s being careful. I sit on one end of his couch, knees together, my tote bag tucked beside me. Nate sits in the armchair across from me instead of on the couch.
My nerves loosen by a fraction. Not because I don't want him near me, but because I do—and that is exactly the problem.
He twists the cap off his water. “You bring homework?”
“Sort of.” I reach into my tote and pull out my notebook.
It is ridiculous that this feels more intimate than the kiss at the field party. But sitting here with my color-coded notes, preparing to discuss sex like it’s a syllabus, feels dangerously revealing.
Nate looks from the notebook to me. A slow, amused smile starts to spread.
“No,” I say.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to. I know that look.”
“You brought a notebook to sex lessons, Hannah Reed. I’m impressed by the commitment to the bit.”
I close my eyes. “I hate myself.”
“I don’t.” His voice is gentler now. “Honestly? It makes sense for you. You like structure. You like knowing where the boundaries are.”
I open one eye. “Notes help me process.”
“Then let’s process.” He leans back, one ankle resting over his knee. “We’re just talking tonight. Nothing physical unless you ask, and even then, I’m probably going to say we should sit on it. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I open the notebook to the page I prepared after an hour of spiraling and Ella’s helpful suggestions—most of which I ignored because they were "too advanced." At the top, in my neatest handwriting, I’ve written: **Boundaries / Curiosity / Panic List.**
Nate sees the title. “I like ‘Panic List.’ Very descriptive.”
“It felt accurate.” I take a breath, my heart drumming. “Hard no’s first. Easiest foundation.”
“Good. Tell me.”
I look down at the page. My handwriting suddenly looks too personal. I clear my throat. “Hard no. Anal.”
Nate’s expression doesn't change. Not a flicker of judgment. “Okay. That’s off the table.”
“That’s it? You don't think it’s... boring?”
“Hannah.” His voice firms. “A hard no doesn't need to be exciting or impressive. It just is. You don't have to explain it. Ever.”
I nod slowly, a weight lifting from my chest. I move down the list. “No rough stuff. At least not right now. No choking, slapping, being held down in a way that feels scary.”
“Consider them gone,” Nate says. “Next?”
“Being pressured,” I say quietly. “If I say stop, or wait, or even if I just look like I’m not into it... I need it to actually stop.”
Nate leans forward, forearms resting on his knees.
He meets my eyes, and the playful Nate is nowhere to be found.
“If you say stop, everything stops. Instantly. If you say wait, we wait. You don't have to make it sound nice, and you don't have to worry about my feelings. You’re the one in the driver's seat here. Always.”
My throat feels tight. I nod, unable to speak for a moment. He waits, giving me the silence I need to regroup.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Nervous about: All of it. Mostly, not knowing what to do with my hands.”
Nate’s mouth twitches, but he keeps his promise not to laugh. “Hands are easy. Shoulders, hair, my chest. You can hold onto my hoodie again. You were good at that.”
“I’m nervous about being bad at kissing,” I add, looking at my notes.
“You’re not bad at kissing, Hannah. You’re just new. There’s a difference.”
“I’m nervous about my chest,” I say, my voice dropping. “Being touched there. Under clothes... not yet.”
“Okay. Over clothes?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Then we put that in the ‘Ask First’ category.” Nate gestures to the notebook. “Specifics are good. They keep the ghosts away.”
We spend the next hour going through the rest. I tell him I’m curious about being touched, about what I might like, and—in a moment of sheer bravery—that I’ve never had an orgasm.
The silence that follows isn't heavy, but it's significant.
“It’s common,” Nate says, his voice anchored. “Especially if you’re always in your head. It’s not a test you’re failing, Hannah. It’s just... getting there. We’ll figure out what works for you.”
By the time I reach the ‘Curious About’ section, the room feels ten degrees warmer.
I tell him I’m curious about kissing that isn't for an audience.
I tell him I’m curious about giving—touching his shoulders, his chest.
I tell him I’m curious about oral sex, but I’m terrified of the performance of it.
“You don't have to perform,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, rough register that makes my skin tingle. “You just have to tell me what feels good. That’s the only rule.”
I write down his suggestion of a color-coded signal system: Green for keep going, Yellow for slow down/check in, Red for stop. It makes the terrifying prospect of intimacy feel like something I can manage. Like a map.
When the notebook is finally closed, I feel exhausted but lighter.
“How do you feel?” Nate asks.
“Like I just turned in the most humiliating homework assignment of my life.”
Nate laughs, a warm, genuine sound. He stands up and walks me to the door. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't try to "seal the deal" with a kiss. He just stands there, one hand on the doorframe.
“I want you to sit with this,” he says. “Think about the list when I’m not right in front of you. Make sure you’re still okay with everything.”
“I will.”
“And Hannah?” He catches my gaze. “You did good tonight. That took a lot of guts.”
I nod, my face heating. “Goodnight, Nate.”
“Goodnight, Hannah Reed.”
I walk down the hall, the cool air of the corridor hitting my face. I still have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m still terrified. But for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m standing outside a locked room.
I feel like I’m finally learning the language.