Buck had kissed before—plenty, if he was being honest. Girls with cherry lip gloss, girls who giggled against his mouth, girls who knew exactly what they wanted from him. He knew the rhythm of it, the way his hands should settle on hips, the easy tilt of his head, the soft bite of teeth when things got heated.

But this?

This was different.

Because your mouth was on his, hungry and sure, and every thought in his head scattered like sparks from a fire. His back hit the couch, knees bending awkwardly until you were straddling him, and—God—his hands didn’t know where to go. One landed at your waist, the other gripping the back of your shirt like if he let go, he might float away.

it wasn’t just a kiss anymore. Wasn’t just another half assed makeout— not with you pressed against him on his couch, his knees bracketing yours, his chest rising and falling too fast like he’d just sprinted up a ladder in full gear. Not with your hands tugging at his shirt like you couldn’t get close enough, and him letting you, because God, he never wanted you to stop.

Your mouth was warm, sure and steady, while his felt clumsy, greedy—like he didn’t know where to put all of the want in him. He nipped at your bottom lip, groaned when you answered back, his heart hammering so loud he swore you could feel it against your ribs.

And then it hit him, hard and fast, in between kisses that made him dizzy—he’d never done this with a guy before. Not really. Sure, he’d thought about it (more times than he’d ever admit out loud), but now? Now it was real. Now it was your weight, your mouth, your hands on him, and suddenly he was hyper-aware of how big his palms were on your waist, how every brush of your tongue sent lightning down his spine.

“{{user}}— {{user}}, baby, wait a sec—”

He pulled back a fraction, lips kiss-bitten and eyes wide. “I—uh.” He swallowed, thumb rubbing circles against your hip like he didn’t even know he was doing it. “I’ve never… like—” He huffed out a nervous laugh, shaking his head. “Not with a guy. You’re… you’re the first.”

It wasn’t embarrassment, not exactly. More like this raw, open thing in his chest, a nervous confession tangled up with the fact that he wanted. Wanted so badly it scared him. His voice cracked soft as he admitted.

“Kinda don’t wanna screw it up.”

But even as he said it, his forehead dropped to yours, lips brushing clumsily against your mouth again because stopping felt impossible.