36
Nate
Saturday is clean.
That is the word I keep using, which is probably a sign I need to talk to fewer coaches and more normal people. *Clean.* No Ethan date, no coffee, no movie night on the lawn where I have to imagine him trying to figure out if she’ll let him kiss her again.
Clean means that, according to the rules Hannah and I wrote at my kitchen table, today is eligible. Eligible—Jesus. We have turned sexual tension into a zoning permit.
I’m standing in my kitchen staring at a bowl of cereal that has gone soggy enough to qualify as soup when my phone buzzes.
**Hannah:** *Can I come over tonight?*
No explanation. No joke. Just the sentence. I stared at it for a full minute before my brain resumed functioning.
**Nate:** *Did you see Cross today?*
**Hannah:** *No. I’m asking because I want to.*
That last part has been sitting in my chest like a live wire ever since. Not because she needed a distraction or because a date left her confused. Because she *wants* to. I should be comforted by that, but instead, I’m lit up like a faulty scoreboard.
**Nate:** *Yeah. Seven?*
**Hannah:** *Seven. Talking first.*
**Nate:** *Always.*
I dump the cereal and stare at the couch. The couch has been through enough. If tonight goes where my body hopes it might and my brain keeps blowing whistles about, it cannot be on that couch. The couch is "lesson" territory. It’s for first kisses and learning boundaries.
If tonight gets close to sex, it needs to be different. Because Hannah has turned every "first" into something that matters. If she looks at me with those nervous, brave eyes and says she wants me to be her first, I don’t know how to make that fit inside the word *lesson* anymore.
By seven, the apartment is "normally" clean. I’ve left a sweatshirt on the armchair so she doesn't accuse me of hosting a responsible hostage situation again.
The knock comes at exactly seven. Punctual to the apocalypse. I open the door to find her in a soft gray sweater, her hair down, and her cheeks pink from the cold. No tote bag tonight. No notebook. No academic armor.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.“
I step aside, smiling. She walks past me and I look at her before locking the door.
“Green,” she says softly.
One word, and the room feels like it’s lost its oxygen. We bypass the couch and sit at the kitchen table. It’s neutral ground.
“What do you want tonight?” I ask, leaning back.
“I want another lesson,” she says, her voice steady but her fingers twisting the cap of her water bottle. “But I think I want to be in your bed.”
My heart hits my ribs. “My bed?”
“The couch feels like where we practice,” she whispers. “The bed feels... different.”
I flex my jaw. No feelings talk, but the shadow is there. “If we go to my bed, we need to be clear. I think you’re saying you want to talk about sex.”
She nods, her eyes searching mine. “I don't want to decide this second.”
“Good. You shouldn't decide sex like you’re picking an appetizer.” I sober up, leaning forward.
I stand and hold out my hand. She takes it, her fingers sliding into mine. “Green?”
“Green.”
My bedroom is soft with lamplight. I close the door after she confirms it's okay. We stand at the foot of the bed, and for the first time in years, I feel like I don't know what to do with my hands. This isn't just another girl in my room. It's her.
“Can you kiss me?” she asks.
I touch her face, my thumb brushing her cheek. “Green.”
I kiss her, and the sound she makes—a tiny sigh into my mouth—ruins me. It starts soft, then deepens as her hands find my hair. We move with more urgency than before, a choice we’re both standing inside.
She pulls back, breathless. “Can I take this off?”
“Yeah.”
The sweater hits the floor. Pale pink lace tonight. I have to remind myself to breathe.
“You planned that too?” I rasp.
“Maybe.”
“Good girl.”
She helps me out of my shirt, and the second her bare palms hit my chest, the "lesson" is officially over. I kneel to take off her shoes, my hands lingering on her ankles before moving up to her knees.
“Jeans?”
“Yes. Green.”
I draw them down, and then she is sitting on my bed in her bra and underwear. I sit behind her to unhook the lace, my fingers trembling slightly. The clasp releases. She lets it fall.
I have seen her naked before, but memory joining sight makes it devastating. I guide her back onto the mattress, settling between her legs.
“What do you need?” I ask, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel.
“I want your mouth again. Between my legs. Underwear off.”
I move down the bed, kissing the inside of her thigh, making her collapse into the pillows. I want her out of her head. I want her body expecting good things.
I use my mouth on her, and the first sound she makes turns my spine to liquid. She is louder here, in my bed, her hands clutching the sheets.
“Inside,” she gasps. “Two fingers. Please. Green.”
I give her what she asks for, stretching her open as my tongue finds her rhythm. She shatters hard, her back arching, her voice raw as she cries out my name. Not a thought I should have, but I’m glad it’s mine. I hold her through the tremors, easing her down until she’s soft and dazed.
I pull the blanket over her and climb in beside her.
“Green?”
“Very green. Weapon.”
She turns to me, her eyes dark with that new, dangerous curiosity. “Can I touch you? More than before. Without the sweatpants.”
I close my eyes. “Color?”
“Green.”
“Green for me.”
Her hand finds me. Skin to skin. No fabric. I go rigid, my knuckles whitening as I grip the mattress. I’ve performed a lot of restraint in my life, but this is a different sport.
“Like this?” she whispers.
“Yeah. Just like that.” I catch her wrist, not stopping her, just anchoring myself. Her eyes stay on me the whole time, watching me lose every scrap of the "smooth" Nate she knows.
I come apart with her name on my lips, my body bowing toward hers as I lose the battle I’ve been fighting since I met her. I drop my forehead to her shoulder, my breathing ragged.
“I did that?” she whispers, sounding awed.
“You very much did that, baby. Weapon.”
Later, she’s curled in my bed wearing one of my T-shirts. I hand her a water bottle and sit on the edge.
“If I had asked for sex tonight,” she says quietly, “would you have said yes?”
I look at her for a long time. “No.”
I see the flash of rejection in her eyes and reach for her hand. “Not because I don’t want you. But because I don’t want your first time to be a box we checked because the lesson got hot. I want you to want it before my hands are on you.”
She blinks, her eyes bright. “That came close to a big scary talk.”
“Dangerously close.”
Before she goes, she kisses the corner of my mouth—soft, intentional, and wrecking.