Ashlyn had not slept much in four days.
Not because she was anxious.
Because she was talking.
Hours on the phone. Whispered conversations that stretched past midnight. Laughter that caught her off guard. Silences that did not feel heavy.
"You still there?" Toby would murmur.
"Yeah."
"Good."
That word had started to mean something. Good meant steady. Good meant no countdown hiding under affection.
Exactly eleven days after they decided they were exclusive, Toby texted her just before noon.
Parents gone. House empty.
Come over?
Ashlyn stared at the message longer than she needed to.
Her pulse quickened. Not with dread.
With anticipation.
She checked herself in the mirror twice before leaving. Then a third time.
One. Two. Three.
She drove to his house with the windows down, summer air warm against her skin. July felt wide. Less contained.
Toby opened the door before she knocked.
He looked nervous.
Actually nervous.
"Hey," he said, and his voice cracked just slightly.
Ashlyn smiled. "Hey."
The house was quiet. No television hum. No footsteps upstairs. Just the low rush of air conditioning and her own heartbeat.
"You're sure they're gone?" she asked.
"Very gone," he said. "My mom left a chore list like she thinks I'm running a hotel."
She stepped inside.
The door clicked shut.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Toby took a breath.
"You don't have to," he said.
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know," she repeated.
That mattered.
He stepped closer slowly, leaving space between them. Space she could widen if she wanted to.
She didn't.
His fingers brushed hers first. Not gripping. Not pulling. Just resting there, waiting.
Ashlyn laced her fingers through his.
Heat traveled up her arm, quick and bright.
"You're shaking," Toby murmured.
"So are you."
A small, crooked smile. "Good."
She laughed under her breath, and the tension loosened.
He lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair from her face. Slow. Careful.
"Still okay?" he asked.
There was no edge in it. No impatience.
"I'm okay," she said.
He kissed her lightly at first, like he was asking instead of assuming.
Ashlyn felt the difference immediately.
No rush. No proving.
They stayed there longer than she expected — just kissing. Mouths soft. Breathing syncing. His hands resting at her waist, thumbs brushing lightly against her sides as if every movement required permission.
When she leaned into him, the kiss deepened slowly. Heat built in increments, not leaps. His fingers slid beneath the edge of her shirt, warm against her skin, and she felt the spark travel through her.
By the time her hoodie slipped off and his shirt followed, her pulse was pounding hard enough she could hear it in her ears.
He stopped before moving further.
"Wait," he said quietly. "If we keep going like this, we're going to have sex. Are you sure you're ready for that?"
She blinked. "What?"
"My clothes wouldn't be off and my panties soaked if I wasn't ready."
He swallowed, looking almost shy. "One more question then," "Can I keep my eyes closed?"
Her brow furrowed. "Why?"
"I don't want to rush the first image," he said. "I want to remember it right. I want to cherish this. All of it."
The words hit deeper than any touch had.
She nodded. "Okay."
He closed his eyes deliberately.
Not consuming.
Not devouring.
Trusting.
She guided his hands instead. Let him discover instead of claim. When they eased out of the rest of their clothes, it was slow and deliberate, fabric sliding away piece by piece while he kept his eyes shut like a promise.
Her breath turned uneven. Anticipation pooled low and heavy in her stomach, warmth spreading through her body until standing still felt impossible.
When he finally opened his eyes, it was gradual.
Careful.
The way he looked at her made her knees feel weak.
Not hunger.
Not possession.
Reverence.
"You're…" He exhaled shakily. "You're unreal."
She laughed softly, nerves and fire colliding.
"Next time," he murmured, brushing his thumb gently along her hip, "maybe I won't close them."
"Next time?" she teased.
"If you'll have me."
She kissed him instead of answering.
The pace shifted then, not faster, but deeper. What had been cautious became intense.
Their bodies fit together with a kind of inevitability that stole her breath. Every brush of skin felt amplified. Every inhale sounded louder in the quiet house.
When he kissed down her neck, memory tried to intrude.
Hands that didn't pause.
Words that cornered.
Ashlyn pressed her palm flat against his chest.
Toby froze instantly.
"Too much?"
"No," she breathed. "Just slower."
"Okay."
No frustration. No impatience.
He adjusted immediately.
Slower.
Intentional.
The difference was overwhelming in the best way.
This wasn't something being taken.
It was something building.
She moved first this time, pulling him closer, guiding him with certainty instead of hesitation. The fire between them sharpened, bright and consuming. For him, everything felt new and explosive — breath catching, control slipping in waves he didn't try to hide. For her, it was release. Not escape. Not surrender.
Choice.
When they finally reached his bedroom, it felt less like escalation and more like gravity.
Afternoon light cut across the walls in narrow stripes. The ordinary setting made the intensity feel even sharper.
"You're sure?" he asked one last time.
"Yes."
No ticking clock. No pressure disguised as romance.
Just two nineteen-year-olds in July, burning for each other without fear.
It wasn't polished.
It wasn't graceful.
It was heat and laughter and the way he said her name like it mattered more than anything else in the room.
And when everything peaked — bright, overwhelming, undeniable — it was because they were both there.
Both choosing.
Both wanting.
The knock at the front door shattered it.
They froze.
Another knock. Louder.
"Yo, Toby!"
His eyes widened.
Ashlyn burst out laughing before she could stop herself.
"Is that—"
"My neighbor," Toby groaned. "My mom probably told him to check if I'm alive."
The knocking turned into rattling.
"Dude! Your car's here!"
Ashlyn collapsed back against the pillows, half horrified, half hysterical.
Toby scrambled for his shorts. "This is not how I imagined this going."
"You imagined it?" she teased.
"Yes," he shot back. "Without an audience."
Another knock.
"Coming!" Toby yelled.
He turned back to her for a second, hair messy, grin crooked, breath still uneven.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
She nodded.
More than okay.
"Go deal with your spy," she said.
He leaned down and kissed her once more. Quick. Smiling.
"Stay," he murmured.
Ashlyn lay back and stared at the ceiling as he jogged down the hall.
Her heart was still racing.
But not from fear.
From joy.
Exactly eleven days.
And for the first time, giving herself didn't feel like something being taken.
It felt like something shared.
When Toby's voice drifted down the hallway arguing about minding his own business, she laughed again.
The world hadn't snapped back.
It hadn't punished her.
It had opened.
And this time, she had stepped into it because she wanted to.