All characters are and stay 18 or older

The theater was half-empty, but of course, the guy had to sit right next to you.

You barely registered him at first, lost in the glow of the giant screen as the previews rolled, nursing your overpriced soda. You’d come to the movies alone, a rare indulgence, just to get out of the house, away from work, from responsibilities. A simple escape.

And then *he* arrived.

A tall, lean young man—college age, maybe twenty-two—slid into the seat beside you. He moved with an easy grace, radiating the kind of confidence you vaguely remembered having in your own twenties but had long since lost.

You didn’t even know why you noticed him so much.

Maybe it was how he smelled—something fresh and clean, cologne but not too much. Maybe it was the way he sprawled comfortably, like he belonged there, his toned arm brushing against yours in a way that made your skin tingle.

You swallowed hard and stared straight ahead.

*"Damn, barely made it,"* he muttered, breathless but grinning as he looked over at you. *"Man, I hate cutting it close. You been here long?"*

You hesitated. Why was he talking to you? You weren’t *with* him. He didn’t *know* you.

*"Uh… nah, just a few minutes,"* you said, voice rough.

*"Good. Would’ve sucked if I missed the beginning. This movie’s supposed to be awesome."*

He smiled, white teeth flashing, and your chest tightened unexpectedly.

It was a friendly smile. That was it. That was *all* it was.

And yet, you found yourself smiling back.

*"Yeah. Should be good,"* you muttered, shifting in your seat.

Why were you suddenly so *aware* of yourself? The way you were sitting? The way you sounded? Like your voice was suddenly… too deep?

The movie started. You tried to focus, but your brain wouldn’t shut up.

His presence pressed against you. Every movement he made sent a spark of awareness down your spine. The way he stretched his arm casually over the seat behind you, almost—but *not quite*—touching. The way he shifted, thigh brushing yours, and didn’t pull away.

Was that on purpose?

You swallowed, eyes flicking toward him, studying his profile. Strong jawline. Tousled dark hair. He looked like the kind of guy who had no trouble getting a date.

Wait.

Was this a date?

Your heart stuttered. That was stupid. He didn’t even *know* you.

But… what if he thought this *was* a date?

Would that be… bad?

You felt hot all of a sudden, pulse quickening.

Would he think you were attractive?

You licked your lips, shifting in your seat again, suddenly feeling self-conscious. You weren’t in bad shape, but you weren’t twenty-two anymore. Maybe if you had a better body, like—

Wait.

Where had your gut gone?

Your breathing hitched. Your clothes felt… *off*. The way they draped on you. The way your sleeves suddenly felt too big, your pants loose around your waist.

You lifted a hand.

It was smaller.

Slimmer.

Delicate fingers flexed in front of your face, nails neatly manicured with a soft pink polish.

You inhaled sharply.

Your chest—

You froze.

There was… weight there. Not a lot, but *enough*.

And then—

*"Hey, Riley, you okay?"*

The voice beside you made you jerk, heart hammering.

Riley.

Your lips parted.

Who was Riley?

Why had he called you that?

But the moment you thought about it, the name settled over you like a blanket.

It *was* your name.

Wasn’t it?

*"Y-yeah,"* you whispered, voice *different*. Lighter. Softer.

The heat in your cheeks deepened.

Had your voice just cracked?

He chuckled, shaking his head. *"You're so cute when you get flustered."*

Your breath caught.

He thought you were *cute*.

Oh god.

You felt dizzy, your mind spinning in a hundred different directions.

Your thoughts raced, spiraling into panic.

You were just a freshman. A *freshman*.

Ben was twenty-two. A senior. Practically an *adult*.

Oh god.

What if he thought you were too *young*?

Too *inexperienced*?

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of just how much smaller you were compared to him. He was confident, effortlessly charming, with that easy smile and those strong hands. He probably had *tons* of experience. Girls must throw themselves at him all the time.

And then there was *you*.

Barely out of high school. Timid. Nervous. Probably way too awkward for someone like him.

Your stomach twisted.

What if he wanted someone more… mature? Someone sophisticated and self-assured, not some blushing, inexperienced freshman who barely knew how to act on a *date*?

What if you messed everything up?

What if you weren’t sexy *enough*?

You tugged at your shirt, biting your lip. The fabric stretched tight across your chest, showing just enough cleavage to be noticeable—but what if it wasn’t *enough*? What if he liked girls with bigger boobs? What if he thought you were *too short*?

And what if—*oh god*—he could *tell* you were inexperienced?

Would he laugh? Would he think you were some silly, naive little girl who didn’t know what she was doing?

Your breath hitched.

And yet…

When you glanced at him, heart pounding, you saw the way he was looking at you.

Like he *wanted* you.

Like he *liked* you.

Oh god.

Ben was so *cool*. So effortless. Every little thing he said made your heart race, made you hang on to every word. He was funny and smart and ridiculously handsome, and for some *insane* reason, he was paying attention to *you*.

And suddenly, more than anything in the world—

You wanted to be *his*.

Did he like redheads?

Your heart pounded harder.

Wait.

Were you—?

A shaky hand reached up, trembling fingers grasping the strands that now spilled over your shoulders, brushing against your collarbone.

Vivid.

Soft.

Red.

Your lips parted in a silent gasp.

Your hair was *red*.

Oh god, what if he didn’t *like* redheads?

Panic fluttered in your chest.

*"You know,"* he said, shifting closer, *"I love girls with red hair. There's something kinda wild about it."*

Heat flooded your face.

He *liked* red hair.

Your stomach flipped.

*"I-I mean,"* you stammered, trying to play it cool, *"I guess it's nice?"*

*"Nice? Riley, c’mon. It’s sexy as hell."*

Your breath hitched.

Sexy.

You.

Oh god.

You squirmed in your seat, hyper-aware of every inch of your body now.

Were you sexy?

Your gaze flickered downward, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Your shirt.

It was tight.

Stretching across curves that *hadn’t been there before*.

Breasts.

Oh god, they weren’t *big*—not huge or anything—but they were *there*, soft and perky beneath the snug fabric.

You swallowed hard, pressing your arms against your sides.

Would he like them?

Did he like big boobs?

Would he think yours were too small?

*"You always get this nervous on a date?"* he teased, nudging your shoulder.

You nearly jumped.

*"I-I don’t know,"* you whispered.

Wait.

Date.

This *was* a date.

Oh god.

Your legs pressed together, a slow warmth pooling in your stomach.

You shouldn’t feel this way.

Should you?

Your breathing shallowed.

You wanted him to *touch* you.

You wanted him to slide an arm around you, to pull you in close, to—

*"Hey,"* he murmured, leaning in. His breath was warm against your ear. *"Relax. I got you."*

Your heart nearly stopped.

Your breath hitched, and suddenly, you were *aware*.

Not just of him—his warmth, his scent, his effortless confidence—but of *yourself*.

Your body.

The way your thighs pressed together, a slow, spreading heat pooling between them.

Oh god.

Your underwear felt damp, the soft material clinging against you, and you squeezed your legs tighter, as if that could stop the flood of sensation. It didn’t.

And then—

Your nipples.

Tight, aching.

You weren’t even cold, but they were stiff beneath the thin fabric of your snug top, *so* sensitive, every tiny movement sending electric sparks through you.

Could he *see*?

Could he *tell*?

The thought made your stomach flip, a dizzy mix of embarrassment and desperate *want*.

You glanced at him, breath shallow.

His arm was still draped casually behind your seat, his fingers tracing absent-minded patterns against the fabric. Not touching you. *Not yet.*

But god, you *wanted* him to.

Your skin burned with anticipation, your body humming with need.

You shouldn’t feel this way.

Should you?

But the moment his fingers brushed the bare skin of your shoulder—just the *lightest* touch—your entire body tensed, lips parting on a sharp inhale.

He *had* to know.

And yet, he just smirked, eyes flicking toward you with something dark and amused and *hungry*.

Oh god.

You were completely at his mercy.

The lights from the screen flickered over his face, his gaze locked onto yours, intense and smoldering.

And then—

His hand.

On your thigh.

Your breath stuttered.

Every nerve in your body ignited.

It was innocent. Just a light touch. But it sent a jolt of electricity through you, straight to your core.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. *"B-Ben—"*

He smirked. *"See? You do remember my name."*

You had never *forgotten* it.

You had been thinking about him the *whole time*.

You had been *obsessing* over him.

Every glance. Every word. Every touch.

*"I really like you, Riley,"* he murmured, fingers tracing slow circles on your skin. *"You’re adorable when you blush."*

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god.

Your whole body trembled.

You had never wanted anything more in your entire life.

*"B-Ben—"*

His lips were on yours.

Soft.

Firm.

Your world tilted, breath catching as he deepened the kiss, pulling you into his warmth, his touch.

His hand moved.

Palmed your breast.

Squeezed.

A whimper escaped your throat, heat flooding between your thighs.

He was strong. Confident. He knew exactly what he wanted.

And you—

You wanted him.

All of him.

Now.

Tonight.

Forever.