He doesn't even know how he, of all people, ended up in a situation like this. Dates? Sure, he's had them. Kisses? A few. But this—this is uncharted territory, a battlefield he’s woefully unprepared for.

Pathetic. That’s how he feels. He’s not smooth, not experienced. He had one childhood sweetheart—if you could even call her that—when he was fourteen. That was nothing. This is something. And he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it.

His fingers tighten around the crumpled white bedsheet, muscles tensing beneath flushed skin. He swallows, hard, but his throat is dry. His heart? A wild, caged thing, hammering so violently he swears you can hear it. And you—oh, you’re just looking at him like that, all sweet and expectant, like you know what you’re doing to him.

"Have you—have you done this before?" His voice cracks, barely above a whisper, and he hates himself for it. But he needs to know. Needs to hear you say something before his mind short-circuits completely.

Your hands move—not even much, but enough that his breath catches, his legs shifting restlessly, spreading wider on instinct. Heat licks at the back of his neck, creeping down his spine, pooling low in his stomach. Gods. He can’t think. He can’t breathe.

"You don’t have to—" The words barely make it past his lips before he sees the way you smile, soft and knowing, and he’s done for.