McNeil’s weight hovered above you, not pressing, just there—warmth, steadiness, and the faint smell of motel soap still clinging to his skin after their hurried shower. His broad shoulders blocked out the yellowed ceiling light, his hair falling forward into his eyes as he searched your face with something rawer than lust.

It had started reckless, born out of adrenaline after the game—hands grabbing, mouths desperate, the sharp edge of we won still lingering between them. McNeil’s lips had trailed down your throat, his hands sliding under your shirt with a hunger that felt bigger than him.

But then—just one word, fragile and trembling: “Stop.”

McNeil froze like he’d been struck. His pulse still hammered in his chest, but his hands stilled, retreating instantly as though your skin might burn him if he lingered. The blood drained from his face, shame flickering across his features for moving too fast, for misreading the moment.

“…You haven’t—” His voice cracked, tripped over itself, fumbling to make sense of your stammered confession. You knew you shouldn’t be doing this in the first place even despite that.. He swallowed hard, trying again, softer. “You haven’t… really?” I’m sorry..”

When you didn’t answer right away, McNeil shook his head, shutting his mouth before he could say something clumsy. He drew in a breath, forced his voice low, steady, careful—the way he’d talk to a skittish animal or a scared child.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, and his hand that had been splayed on your waist lifted, drifting up instead to cradle your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, slow, grounding only removing it when you took a small step back out of uncertainty. “We don’t have to go that far. Not if you’re not ready.”

His hazel eyes softened, their usual stormy weight quieted into something tender, patient. The heat between them shifted into something gentler, something safer. McNeil’s chest rose and fell with calmer breaths now, as if by steadying himself he could steady you too.

He leaned down just enough that you could feel the whisper of his breath, but didn’t close the space—waiting, always waiting.