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Something in my chest softens.

I lean forward and kiss him.

He smiles against my mouth, and when I pull back, I’m still nervous.

But now there’s something else mixed in with it.

Curiosity.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Okay?”

“I want to try.”

He brushes his thumb over my cheek.

“Then we'll figure it out together, Quinn. No pressure.”

I glance at the television, where the main character is apparently being arrested.

“Can we at least turn the movie off first?”

Wyatt laughs and reaches for the remote.

“Yeah, baby. I think that's probably a good idea.”

The screen goes black and he tosses the remote onto the coffee table with a muted clutter.

My heart pounds against my ribs so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.

“Alright,” he says softly, turning his attention entirely back to me. The playful edge in his voice softens into something steady and grounding. “Step one: get comfortable.”

He shifts on the couch, leaning back against the armrest and patting the space in front of him.

I hesitate for half a second before adjusting my position, pulling my knees up and settling between his legs so my back rests against his chest. His arms wrap comfortably around my waist, his chin hooking over my shoulder. His heat is an immediate anchor, coaxing the tight coil in my stomach to loosen just a fraction.

“Better?” he whispers against my ear, sending a pleasant shiver straight down my spine.

“A little,” I admit, staring at my own hands folded nervously in my lap. “Still feel like I’m about to take a final exam I didn't study for.”

Wyatt lets out a low chuckle, his breath warm against my neck. “No grades here, Peachy. No time limit, either.”

He takes my right hand, gently uncurling my fingers, and guides it down toward the hem of my shirt. “You’re in complete control. I’m just here for moral support—and the view.”

I take a slow, deep breath, trying to flush the lingering embarrassment out of my head. He’s right. It’s just us. He isn’t judging me; he’s giving me permission to take my time.

My fingers tremble slightly as I slip my hand under the fabric of my top, resting my palm flat against my stomach. The skin there is warm, my pulse fluttering just beneath it.

I close my eyes, leaning back heavier against Wyatt’s chest, and focus entirely on the sensation of my own touch.

“That’s it,” Wyatt murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, thick and low. His hand remains lightly on my hip, anchoring me. “Just see what feels good”

I let my hand drift lower, slowly, feeling the shift in my own breath as my heart takes off again—this time, not from fear, but from a growing, quiet heat.

I let out a long breath and consciously drop my shoulders away from my ears, sink deeper into the cushions, and look up at him. "What do I do?"

"Put your hand on your stomach," he says, watching me closely. "Just feel your breath for a second. Get back into your body."