You never thought you’d be the kind of girl who got her first boyfriend at seventeen. Most of your friends had already been through their fair share of crushes, messy middle-school “relationships,” and those fleeting high school romances that burned out in a couple weeks. You watched them stress over text replies, swap hoodies in the hallways, and debate what to buy their boyfriends for Christmas. You were always the listener, nodding along, wondering what it was like, but never really part of it.

And then there’s Nolan.

He’s different—not because he’s perfect, but because he chose you. He’s had girlfriends before, but nothing that stuck, nothing that really seemed to matter. Still, just knowing that he’s done this before and you haven’t makes you feel like you’re playing catch-up, like he’s already fluent in a language you’re only just starting to learn.

When you started dating, it hit you all at once: you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. What kind of things do guys actually like? What’s too clingy? What’s not enough? Do you hold his hand when you walk, or wait for him to reach for yours? What kind of birthday gift are you supposed to get a boy who already seems to have everything?

The first time it really hits you is a couple weeks before his birthday.

You’re sitting on your bed, notebook open, pen tapping against the paper as if a list of “perfect boyfriend gifts” will magically appear. But all you’ve written so far is:

• Hoodie (but he already has a million)

• Cologne?? (but what if he hates the smell)

• Something personal (but what???)

Every option feels like it could be wrong, and the thought of disappointing him makes your stomach twist.

The next day, you work up the courage to bring it up while you’re walking home together. His hand brushes yours before he laces your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your heart is beating too fast for something so small, but for you, every little thing with him feels new.

“So… uh…” You glance at him, then quickly back at the sidewalk. “Your birthday’s coming up.”

He smirks a little, shoving his free hand into his pocket. “Yeah, it is.”

“And I… don’t really know what to get you,” you admit. The words come out in a rush, and you’re half-afraid he’s going to laugh, or worse, be disappointed. “I’ve never really… done this before. Like, any of this.”

For a moment he’s quiet, and you feel heat crawling up your neck. But then, instead of laughing, he squeezes your hand, tilting his head so he can catch your gaze.

“You don’t have to overthink it,” he says softly. “Honestly? I just like that you care enough to worry about it. That means more than any gift.”

Your chest tightens, something warm spilling into you. You never realized how much it would matter to have someone reassure you like that, to make you feel like not knowing is okay. That maybe being new at this isn’t a weakness—it just means every little moment is the first of its kind.

And when his thumb brushes over the back of your hand, you realize maybe that’s the point: you don’t have to know everything. You just have to learn, piece by piece, together.