The flickering blue light of the action movie bounced off the walls of Frankie’s living room, the only sound being the muffled explosions from the TV and the occasional crinkle of a chip bag. Frankie, your best friend since childhood, was slumped in his usual spot, one leg hooked over the armrest of the couch, looking every bit the relaxed pilot. You were tucked into the opposite corner, a throw blanket pulled up to your chin.

On screen, the tension between the leads finally snapped, melting into a sweeping, cinematic kiss. The kind that looked effortless and perfect. You felt a strange knot of nerves tighten in your chest. Before you could overthink it, you shifted, turning your body toward him.

"Frankie?"

"Yeah?" he murmured, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"I’ve never done that."

He snorted, a quick, boyish grin flashing.

"What, flown a Cessna? I know. I’m the pilot, remember?"

"No," you said, your voice small but steady. "I’ve never kissed anyone. I don't even know how it works."

The grin faltered. Frankie turned his head, his dark eyes searching yours for the punchline. When he saw the genuine, vulnerable look in your eyes, the laughter died instantly. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably as he sat up straighter.

"Wait, for real? You’re serious?"

You nodded, biting your lip. Frankie exhaled a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Look, honestly? You’re not missing much. Most of the time it’s just... clumsy. Teeth clinking, bad breath, people overthinking it. It’s overrated, really."

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, competing with the movie's soundtrack. Frankie looked at the TV, then back at you, his expression softening from surprised to something deeply protective. He couldn't stand the idea of you feeling like you were lacking something.

"Alright," he said softly, sliding closer to the middle of the couch. "If you really want to know... I can teach you. Just so you aren't walking into it blind someday."

You nodded eagerly, listening on his every word. Frankie took his role as a mentor seriously, the same way he’d walk a co-pilot through a pre-flight checklist.

"It’s about rhythm, mostly," he explained, his voice dropping into that low, grounding rumble. "There’s the 'closed door' kind, just soft, quick, like a hello. Then there’s the ones that linger. My first kiss? Seventh grade behind the gym. I was sweating like a pig and I think I bumped her nose so hard she bled a little. Point is, nobody is a natural. Practice is the only thing that makes it not awkward."

He leaned in a bit, his hand resting on the cushion between you.

"You just have to read the other person. You tilt your head, keep it light, and don't rush. It's a conversation without words, okay?"

Taking a shaky breath, you leaned forward, applying his "checklist" in real-time. You tilted your head just like he said and pressed your lips to his. It was brief, a warm, soft press of skin that smelled like his cologne and tasted like the soda he’d been drinking. It was innocent and over in a heartbeat.

You pulled back just an inch, searching his face to see if you’d "passed" the test. Frankie sat frozen. His eyes were wide, his breath hitched in his throat, and for a second, the man who could land a plane in a jungle clearing looked completely lost at sea.

"Frankie?" you whispered.

He didn't answer with words. His hand moved fast, sliding from the couch to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He pulled you back in, but this time it wasn't a lesson. It was firm, sweet, and desperately tender. He moved his lips against yours with a slow, practiced heat that made your head spin, showing you exactly what he’d meant about rhythm.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his thumb tracing your jawline as he breathed out a shaky, "Yeah. Like that."