Kyle stays still even though you’re close enough to feel his warmth—what little of it there is. His breathing isn’t steady, like he’s counting each inhale on purpose. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, holding himself back.

He looks at you, searching your face for something specific. Consent. Reassurance. Safety.

“I won’t,” he says quietly, voice rough. Then, softer, “I don’t want to do anything wrong.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, then snaps back up, ashamed of the instinct. He swallows.

“But I want to,” he admits, barely audible. “I just… need you to tell me it’s okay.”

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t touch. Just waits—tense, aching, completely at your mercy.