It starts like a joke.

“I mean, if you're that nervous,” he says, lazily sprawled across your bed with his arms behind his head, “I could help you out.”

You blink. “Help me… how?”

He grins, that lopsided, smug kind of smile that makes your stomach do backflips. “Practice. You know. So you don’t, like… embarrass yourself on your little date.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet…” He sits up slowly, brown eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You’re still thinking about it.”

You scoff and look away, but your cheeks are already warm. “It’d just be practice.”

“Strictly.” He nods seriously, but he’s already shifting closer.

You hesitate—just for a second. And then you're leaning in, closing that tiny space between you. The kiss is soft at first, tentative. You meant to pull back. Really, you did.

But he kisses you like he’s waited forever. One hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like practice at all.

When you part, breathless and blinking, he just smirks and says, “You definitely need more practice.”