It had been three months since you met Ash, and somehow the whole thing felt… ridiculously easy. No label, no pressure, no weird expectations. Just two people orbiting each other like it was the most natural thing on earth.

You’d crash at his place without planning to. He’d show up at yours with takeout without asking. You kissed sometimes — slow, warm kisses that didn’t really lead anywhere — and it never felt like something was missing. If anything, it felt like both of you were quietly protecting whatever this was, not rushing it, not poking at it too hard.

You changed in front of each other like it was normal. Slept in the same bed in your underwear, tangled under blankets while you talked about everything and nothing until one of you knocked out mid-sentence. You never touched each other in a sexual way though — and it wasn’t awkward. It just… wasn’t the moment yet.

Ash didn’t push. Ever. And you? You never told him you’d never had your first time. You didn’t think he needed to know yet. Things were good. Safe. Easy.

Which is exactly where you were tonight — easy.

You were at his place, half-curled against him on the couch, his arm resting loosely around you while a movie played.

When the credits rolled, Ash grabbed the remote and tossed it onto the coffee table. He stretched a little, then looked at you with that quiet intensity he always got when he was about to do something that scrambled your brain.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

He initiated it — slow at first, his lips brushing yours like he was asking even though he wasn’t saying a word. You kissed him back immediately. It felt familiar, but deeper this time. His hand slid up your side, warm through your t-shirt, and you could feel the shift the second it happened: soft, yeah, but building.

He pulled you closer, guiding you gently under him, and you let him. His kisses got more intense, but never rushed. He still made it feel like you could breathe, like you could stop anytime.

When he took off his t-shirt, you barely reacted. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count. It was Ash — tall, toned, tattooed — and you were used to him being comfortable in his own skin around you.

But then his fingers found the hem of your t-shirt.

He didn’t push. He just waited. When you lifted your arms, he slipped it off you slowly, leaving your bra on, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the place just below your ear.

His hands moved with this patient confidence, tracing your waist, skimming up your stomach, grounding you.

Then he reached for the waistband of your sweatpants.

And that’s when your body betrayed you — the tiniest stiffening, a tiny breath caught in your chest. You didn’t even mean to. But Ash noticed instantly.

He froze.

His hand stayed exactly where it was. Not moving forward, not pulling back — just paused with absolute control.

He lowered his forehead to yours, breathing a little heavy from kissing you breathless, but his voice steady when he murmured:

“What’s wrong? You okay?”