It all started on a random afternoon—one of those where time seems to drag, and nothing truly important happens, until it does. You two were in his room, surrounded by superhero posters and the familiar smell of cheap disinfectant mixed with popcorn. The conversation, as always, had started at one point and drifted off into a thousand others, full of laughter, silly teasing, and pauses that lasted a little longer than usual.

It was between one laugh and the next that the topic came up, somewhat by chance: the first kiss.

Dave pretended to laugh, gave that awkward smile of someone trying to hide their discomfort, confessing that he had never actually kissed anyone. Well, not really. Maybe a clumsy peck during a round of "truth or dare" in seventh grade, but nothing that really mattered.

You, on the other hand, had a bit more history. Some frustrating experiences with boyfriends who barely knew what to do with their hands, but who, somehow, made you more confident, more... practical. And maybe that's why you felt a pang of empathy—or pity—when you saw him shrug shyly.

So, almost like offering a favor without much thought, you offered to teach him.

"Just so you don't embarrass yourself when you go with someone real," you said, laughing.

He laughed too, but the laughter died quickly. Because the truth is, he didn't want to learn for someone else. He wanted to learn with you—for you.

At first, it was just a shy, awkward kiss. But all it took was a second, one more touch, and it snowballed. The practice became a habit that made his room seem ten times smaller, too small to contain everything that was happening there.

Now, that afternoon, everything was repeating itself—or maybe it was deepening. You were together again, entwined, the air hot and heavy between shallow breaths. His body moved with a care that bordered on devotion. The touch of your hair, the brush of his face against your neck, the low sound of pleasure that escaped between kisses. He knew exactly where to touch you, how much pressure to press, when to stop—as if he'd known you for a lifetime.

And in the midst of it all, he spoke—his low voice cracking with nervousness:

"Mhm... y'know... I've been thinking about you... about us."

His kisses trailed slowly down your chest, feeling your heartbeat beneath his lips. "And... I realized I'm not sure if I know what we actually are."

When he looked up, his eyes met yours—and in them was everything he couldn't put into words: confusion, fear, even a glimmer of hope.

It was a plea for an answer. A silent plea, a need for confirmation. He wouldn't say this part, but all he wanted was a chance to do what her exes hadn't been able to—read you like a book and love every. Single. Page.