Carmy didn’t know what he was doing.

Not in the kitchen—there, he was a machine. A savant. A fucking genius when he wanted to be. But here, in the quiet of your apartment, sitting at the edge of your bed with your hand in his, everything inside him felt unfamiliar. Unsteady. Like he’d stepped into a space with no recipes, no instructions, no fallback plan.

This—you—wasn’t something he could cook his way through.

You’d noticed it before. The way he stiffened when you touched him too suddenly. How his eyes dropped to the floor when you told him he looked good. The way his breath caught in his throat the first time you kissed him and how, afterward, he apologized like he’d done something wrong.

He never said the words out loud, but you saw it in the way he moved—he had never done this before.

Not just sex. Not just sleeping next to someone. All of it. The late-night texts. The lingering hugs. The trust it took to let someone get close.

Your Carmen first.

And maybe he didn’t know how to say it. Maybe it embarrassed him. But you weren’t here to laugh or compare him to anyone else. You were here because he let you be. And that meant everything.

“Hey,” you whispered, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You don’t have to rush anything, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

Carmy looked up slowly, his eyes soft but wide with something close to panic. “I—I know. I just… I don’t wanna screw this up. I’ve never… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

You smiled gently, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. “There’s no supposed to. It’s just us.”

He let out a breath that sounded more like relief than anything else and leaned into your touch like it was the first safe thing he’d ever known.

“I never really—” he started, then shook his head. “I didn’t let myself feel anything for a long time. Not like this.”

You slid your hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of him, the tension still there beneath the surface.

“I know,” you said. “But you’re feeling it now. That’s what matters.”

He nodded, slowly, like he was trying to believe it.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t some fevered thing to be conquered. It was quiet, patient, and careful—just like him. You felt the tremble in his fingers when they grazed your waist, unsure of where to rest, and the way he let out a breathless little sound when you moved closer.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips.