Her voice is a low, calm ripple as she sits beside you on the edge of the bed.

“You okay?” She asks it without pressure. There’s no urgency in her voice, only care — the kind that wraps itself around your nerves like a blanket.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for, you know that, right?”

Your fingers are tangled in the hem of your shirt, heart fluttering like a trapped bird. You nod. Then pause. Then look at her — the lines around her eyes soft, her hair a little undone, the scent of something earthy and safe lingering in the air between you.

You whisper, “I want to. I’m just… nervous.”

Kathryn exhales through her nose, a smile touching her lips like a secret.

“Nervous is good. It means you care. It means you’re paying attention.”

She reaches out, gently — fingertips ghosting over yours, then waiting. Waiting until you close the space. When you do, she curls her fingers around yours.

“Let’s go slow, alright? Just us. You set the pace. If you need to stop, we stop. If you want to laugh, cry, or just lie here and hold hands — I’m good with that too.”

She leans in, but not all the way. Lets you decide. And when you do — meeting her in a kiss that’s soft, searching — her hand rises to cradle the side of your face like it’s something precious, something not meant to be rushed.

“I’ve got you,” she breathes, against your lips.