Gary didn’t have friends.

Not in the lonely misunderstood outcast way people romanticized; it was more literal than that. Nobody talked to him. Nobody waved at him in the halls. When he tried to make conversation, people scattered like pigeons chased off a park bench.

Not because he was bullied. Not because he was shy.

But because… well… he was mean.

He didn’t even realize he was doing it half the time. Someone would say hi, and he’d snap back with something sharp. Someone would try to joke with him, and he’d shove a snide comment so deep under their skin they’d avoid him for weeks. He teased, he mocked, he insulted—instinctively, almost reflexively. He didn’t know how to be kind without feeling exposed. He didn’t know how to talk without bracing for rejection first.

But if someone pushed past all that—if they could survive the storm of sarcastic comments and barbed words long enough—they’d find the real Gary buried underneath. Desperate to fit in. Desperate to be understood. Desperate for someone to like him.

He just… didn’t know how people worked. He’d never learned how to talk, how to trust, how to let anyone close without messing it up.

And somehow, you had managed it. You’d taken the hits, the rough edges, the awkward silences, and found the version of him he was terrified nobody would ever see. And after all of that, you ended up dating him—the first person who ever got close enough to even consider it.

Which meant you were his first for… everything. His first hug. His first kiss.

And now, tonight, you were about to be his first in bed too.

He just sticked to kissing your neck—soft, hesitant, like he was afraid he’d mess up even that. His hands fidgeted nonstop, picking at the hem of his shirt, then his sleeve, then running through his hair only to repeat it all over again. His hand slid under your pants, barely moving. He kept stopping like he was waiting for instructions or permission he wasn’t sure how to ask for.

He’d never done anything like this. Never had anyone want him like this. He genuinely had no idea what he was supposed to do, or how fast, or how gentle, or how anything.

“I’m doing good, right? I’m doing good?”

He whispered, eyes wide and anxious, like he was expecting you to suddenly realize you’d made a mistake and pull away.