POV Caleb

Every pathetic dream I’ve tortured myself with dissolves into nothing compared to the weight of her body pressed against mine.

The heat radiating through her thin shirt, the soft sounds she makes when I grip her thighs harder, the way she gasps into my mouth when I roll my hips forward—it’s everything I’ve wanted and everything I don’t deserve, all tangled together in a knot I can’t untie.

Somehow we migrate to my room.

I don’t remember the bathroom or the doors or the ten feet between her bedroom and mine. One moment she’s pinned against plaster, and the next I’m laying her on my bed with something approaching reverence.

Then I ruin it completely by stripping my shirt off with hands that won’t stop trembling.

Real smooth, Thornton.

I’m shaking like it’s my first time.

She watches me with eyes that hold equal parts desire and uncertainty, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches my own ragged breathing.

“You’re shaking.” Her voice is quiet, almost tender, and I hate how much I want to hear it again.

“No, I’m not.”

“Caleb.” She props herself up on her elbows, honey-blonde hair spilling across my pillow like she belongs there. “Your hands are literally trembling.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying—”

The nerd in her is probably cataloging everything right now—analyzing my reactions, calculating outcomes, running whatever equations her overworked brain computes during moments like this.

The thought makes me want to destroy her capacity for rational thinking entirely.

“And I’m just saying shut up.” The words come out rough, defensive, exactly like the asshole I’ve always been to her. I drag a hand through my hair. “You want to analyze this? Write a thesis about my physiological responses? Or do you want me to put my mouth on you until you forget how to form sentences?”

Her lips part. No sound comes out.

“That’s what I thought.”

But I don’t close the distance between us. I stand there like an idiot, shirtless and exposed in ways that have nothing to do with skin, while she studies me with those grey-green eyes that see too much.

“I’m not a virgin anymore,” she says, lifting her chin with that familiar stubbornness.

Like hell it helps.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t hurt the second time.”

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, that I’m thinking of her comfort at all.

I wonder how badly she expects to be treated right now.

I wonder if that expectation is my fault too.

“We don’t have to do this,” she says, and her voice wavers on the last word. “If you’ve changed your mind—”

“I haven’t changed my fucking mind.” The words come out harsher than I intended. I force myself to breathe. “I just… I need you to be sure.”

Her brow furrows. “Why?”

Because if we do this and you regret it, I’ll rip my own heart out.

“Because I’m not a complete bastard,” I say instead. “Despite popular opinion.”

She sits up fully, and her shirt rides up, revealing a strip of pale stomach that makes my mouth go dry. “Caleb, I want this. I want you.”

Three words. I want you. They shouldn’t have the power to unmake me completely, but they do.

I close the distance between us in two strides, my hands finding her face, tilting it up so she has nowhere to look but at me. “Tell me if it hurts. I mean it, Serena. One word and I stop.”

She doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head.

The breath leaves my body entirely.

“Your turn,” she says, and her voice shakes, but her hands don’t as they reach for my belt.

I catch her wrists. “Slow down.”

“You’ve been telling me to shut up and take what I want for years.” Her eyes flash with challenge. “Now you want me to be patient?”

“Now I want to take my time.” I release her wrists and trace my fingers down her arms, watching goosebumps rise in their wake. “I want to learn every inch of you. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to remember this when I’m old and broken and you’ve moved on to someone who deserves you.”

Her breath catches. “Caleb…”

“Lie back.”

She obeys, and the sight of her stretched across my sheets—half-dressed, flushed, waiting—makes my heart slam against my ribs so hard I’m sure she can hear it.

I undress her slowly, learning every curve I’ve only imagined in the dark. My fingers trace the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the soft swell of her breasts as I peel away each layer.

“You’re staring,” she whispers, arms moving to cover herself.

I catch her wrists again, pin them gently above her head. “Don’t hide from me. Not now.”

“It’s embarrassing—”

“You’re perfect.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “You’ve always been perfect, and I’ve hated you for it. Hated how much I wanted you. Hated that you made me feel things I couldn’t control.”

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