He’s too big for your bed.

Not in the metaphorical way—not just. His feet hang off the edge, knees knocked up a little, trying to make himself smaller when the truth is he’s never looked bigger. Or stronger. Or hungrier. Not in the way that makes your stomach twist—but in the way that makes your thighs clench.

Ever since he was twelve, when the boys his age stopped growing and he started, he’d learned how to be small. To take up as little space as possible, leave room where the width of his shoulders and the span of his back couldn’t.

Until he’d met you. Soft and sweet, so fragile, it was the little things, like how his hand swallowed up the small of your back every time he passed you in the break room, or in the way he just..lifted you up and set you down again whenever you were in the way.

But he won’t touch you.

Not the way you want.

His mouth feels like heaven and his fingers take you there everytime—but it’s not enough. You see the way he holds back, despite the way he strains against his boxers, tents the fabric on the verge of tearing it—he never goes past that.

Your fingers are splayed across his bare chest, and you can feel the effort it takes for him to stay still. Not tense. Not rigid. He’s relaxed, in that careful Kent way—like he’s playing at softness, as if his body doesn’t hum with a power he still doesn’t trust himself with. Not around you. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Not when your lips are kiss-bruised and your breathing is still uneven and you keep whispering his name like it’s safe in your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he says—again—with that low, trembling patience that sits too heavy in his throat. His hand runs over your bare hip, slow and reverent, like you’re something holy. Like he has to relearn the weight of you every time he touches skin.

His voice is strained. “We don’t have to—”

You whimper, softly, and his jaw flexes so tight it’s a miracle it doesn’t crack. He presses a kiss to your collarbone instead, a desperate thing—grateful just to have this. To have you under him at all.

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs, like it’s his breath that’s been stolen and not yours.

“I can’t stop once I start. And if I hurt you, I—”

His eyes squeeze shut. He swallows, lets a shuddering breath warm the space between your jaw and collarbone.

“I think about it,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “Every time I look at you. What it would feel like. How warm you’d be. How soft.”

You arch into him. His hand slides down your back, feather-light, trembling with restraint.

“I just—, I don’t wanna mess it up,” he confesses, breath ghosting your lips.