Work Text:
The highlighter in your hand hasn’t moved in at least five minutes.
Its tip sits idly against the smooth paper of your notebook, bright yellow ink bleeding into the next page. Your hand smudges the pen beneath it, ink staining the heel of your palm as it rests over the same sentence you’d abandoned moments ago, before your attention drifted somewhere else entirely.
To someone else.
Sam is sprawled sideways across the plush covers of his bed, one knee bent awkwardly to the side, the other long leg of his hanging half off the edge. He twirls his pencil loosely between two fingers, The Stanford Daily crossword spread open across his thighs, covered in partially finished answers and soft graphite smudges. His fingers tap absentmindedly to the beat of some catchy rock song humming from the radio, his foot bouncing right along with it.
You’d shown up to his dorm to study. And, to be fair, you had been studying. It’s not out of the ordinary for you to swing by his room when the library gets a little too loud—the calm, warm sanctuary of your best friend’s space becoming one of your own. It’s cozy. Comfortable. Watching him do little mundane tasks while you fry your brain with chemical reactions and nuclear physics equations has become, funny enough, one of your most savoured pastimes.
And usually, it works. Keeps you grounded from the mental cyclone that is university. Especially when the pressure of finals is weighing on your shoulders so physically, that you’re pretty sure you’re developing a bit of a hunch. Your chemistry exam certainly isn’t about to write itself, no matter how much time you spend in the lab, and if you don’t get your head wrapped around the concept of chemoselectivity within the next fourty-eight hours, you can practically kiss your entire degree goodbye.
Metaphorically, of course.
But it’s hard to keep your brain focused on chemical reagents when Sam’s right there, worrying his lip between his teeth, wearing the world’s sweetest thinking face, and blissfully oblivious to the chaos silently unfolding in your head. A chaos that currently consists 40% of organic chemistry, and 60% oh my God, his mouth.
“Hey.” His eyes shift to yours, pencil pausing mid-spin. “What’s an eight letter word for ‘emphasized’?”
The question, breaking the silence, makes you raise your brows. Your highlighter finally slips from your loose grasp, rolling between the pages of your open notebook, leaving behind a wobbly, bright yellow line behind that you’ll probably complain about later.
“Uh,” you buffer, blinking at him. “Asserted?”
He makes an affirming sound, one that makes your heart flutter far more than it probably should, before he shakes his head.
“Mmm… should start with an S.” He scribbles it out quickly, his eraser moving in slow, lazy strokes. The radio crackles on the mellow chord of a guitar intro, the beginnings of something by Nirvana, but it only catches your attention for a second before your focus drifts back to Sam. Sam, twirling that pencil that looks so tiny in his unfairly large hands, staring intensely at the crossword like solving it will reveal the secrets of the universe.
He chews on the inside of his lip as he thinks, pulling the corner on sharp canines, and for a second too long, you can’t tug your gaze away. You trace the moles dotting his face, the shape of his mouth, the soft bow of his lips, the pink hue highlighted by the warm lamp light…
And by the time you snap out of it, he’s already looking back at you. Not just glancing this time, but holding the contact. His messy hair falls over his forehead, casting a soft shadow over his sweet face, while the lamp’s glow catches in his dark pupils. He blinks slowly, tilting his head slightly, the same way a dog might when they hear something strange, before he speaks gently.
“…You okay?”
Caught.
You freeze for a suspiciously long beat, staring at him with an, admittedly, pretty dumb expression; but he doesn’t press. You purse your lips, debating, before you’re shifting your notebook off your lap, and crossing the small room in two short strides.
You sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing him, both of your hands falling into your lap, threading your fingers together as you give them a small, reassuring squeeze.
“Actually, I… there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” you say quickly. “You heard of that party tomorrow night after the football game, yeah? Tom’s frat?”
Sam’s brows furrow for a blink, before he softens. He lowers the newspaper slowly, setting it to the blanket beside him without looking away. His eyes turn full on attentive, damn him, the same look he wears when you ramble about something stupid, or ask him a million questions after lectures. The one that really means I’m listening, even though you’re definitely distracting me.
“Yeah?” he says simply, voice low and steady.
You swallow, gaze dropping to your hands as you squeeze them together, Sam’s eyes following suit. He saw that. He always does.
“Well… Chris from physics asked me to go,” you tell him quietly. “With him.”
Sam doesn’t move. Not a muscle. Not even that little crease between his brows that always forms when he’s processing something tough, or that tick in his jaw that always shows when he’s frustrated. Just… nothing.
“And… I dunno, I’m just—nervous? I guess?”
For the first time since Sam’s met you, the girl who borrows his hoodies without asking, who falls asleep against his shoulder during late night study sessions, whose laugh makes him stupidly giddy—he feels something cold and unfamiliar coil in his chest. Your words play on repeat in his head like a scratched record, one that’s too loud, too wrong, but is too out of control to shut off.
But he doesn’t say that. He never would.
Instead, he swallows, nods, and schools his expression into something carefully neutral.
“Okay, and… you’re going?” His voice comes out impossibly softer than usual, but in an almost manufactured, forced way. Careful-soft, the kind of tone people only use when they’re hiding something. You try not to dwell on it.
“I mean, I think so? Maybe?” you explain, an uncomfortable frown pulling at your lips. One of his own follows.
“You don’t have to. Don’t let him pressure you.”
Your jaw tightens as you shake your head, and your fingers tense hard enough to ache. Squeeze.
“No, no he’s not—that’s not what this is.” You laugh awkwardly, but it dies as quickly as it slips out. “He’s nice enough for… y’know. A frat boy. He’s just, bold, and I…”
You trail off, teeth pinching down on the inside of your cheek. Because God, why was this so damn embarrassing? It really shouldn’t be, because Christ, this is Sam. But it feels a little like beginning a presentation in front of an entire lecture hall, then realizing you forgot your notecards at your seat.
Your eyes flick back up to Sam’s, and something flashes across his face. Something too quick for you to decipher, gone far too fast for you to name. But if there’s one thing it does well, it’s make your words tumble out before you can catch them.
“Sam, I’ve never even kissed anyone.” Heat rushes to your face instantly. “What if I’m, like, awful?”
The room goes strangely quiet.
The radio keeps playing somewhere in the background, guitar humming softly through the speakers, but you become hyper-aware of everything else. Like the sound your palms make when they slide against each other. The slow exhale of Sam’s breath. The warm scent of his shampoo lingering in the room. The way he’s looking at you.
Or, the way he’s staring at you.
Because of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t even in the top ten. Nope—wasn’t even in the ballpark. Completely left field. Not about the party, or Chris, or his boldness. He knows all about that. But the sinking, twisting feeling in his gut was bracing for something else. For you to tell him that you liked Chris. Really liked Chris. That this conversation would shift to how excited you are. That he’d have to smile and nod as you gush, pretending that it doesn’t feel like a knife was jammed between his ribs.
But instead, you say that, staring at him like he’s the only person who can ease your nerves, and that? That just makes his chest ache in a whole new way. Because oh, oh fuck, he just hates how much the selfish, guilty part of him likes it.
His gaze softens, just a fraction. Not into something you can pick apart, not yet anyway, but some of that tension leaves his shoulders. Slowly, carefully, he turns to face you more fully, reaching his hand out to nudge your clenched fingers with his own, forcing them to relax.
“Oh, c’mon,” he tries, voice coming out lighter than his chest feels. “You won’t be awful.”
At that, your face does something a little stupid. Your nose scrunches up like you’ve just smelt something terrible, your hands lifting to scrape dramatically over your face, a whiny, pathetic sound slipping from your lips. Peering through the spaces between your fingers, you catch Sam’s expression cracking. Something like warm, fond amusement breaking through the mask in a dimpled grin.
“Everyone I know has said their first kiss sucked,” you deadpan. “I mean, you told me yours was barely a peck, and then you spilled soda everywhere!”
He cringes at the memory, before leaning forward slightly. Not enough to invade your space, not without asking, but enough to rest his elbow on his knee, cheeks slightly pink from mild embarrassment creeping up his neck.
“Okay, maybe mine sucked,” he admits with a shrug, and a sweet laugh. “But, y’know. Just keep your elbows away from soda cans, and you’ll be just fine—”
“Shut up, Sam.”
You roll your eyes, raising two hands to plant firmly on his shoulders. Those broad, muscled shoulders, that you have to pretend not to stare (read: ogle) at. His eyes widen at the contact, his body going a little stiff, before relaxing into the touch. “This is serious,” you complain, giving him a shake, and he sways like the jostling does anything. It doesn’t, not really. He just lets you believe it does.
He’s holding back a laugh, and you can tell. To his credit, he does an alright job, but there’s really no denying the way he’s biting the hell out of his tongue.
“I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to not freak out, okay? Just, think about it. Please.” His face sobers up immediately, shifting into something almost concerned, which really, really doesn’t help the nerves licking up your spine. “I wanted to, um. Ask if you’d, uh… teach me.”
You swallow.
“Y’know. How to kiss.”
You’re almost sure Sam stops breathing for a second.
His eyes don’t widen. His lips don’t part. In fact, absolutely nothing happens to that usually very expressive face of his, which is infinitely more terrifying. It’s like every neuron in his genius brain fired at once, sent a thousand signals in every direction, before crapping out entirely.
“Sam.” You shake his shoulders again, and this time, he forgets to sway. Your fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, leaving dimples in the soft cotton of his tee shirt. “Say something.”
He blinks, once, twice, before coming back to it. Mostly.
“…What?”
Your stomach drops like a rock in water.
“Please don’t make me say it again,” you croak, words catching in your throat like you’ve swallowed thick, sticky syrup. Your brain spirals—he’s too stiff. Too silent. What if you ruined things? What if he kicks you out? Oh God, what if he never speaks to you again? “I… I’m sorry. I know that’s—you don’t have to, I mean, I’d never—”
“Okay.”
You pause, choking on your words. “…Okay?”
Sam nods slowly, his face still really not giving you a whole lot to work with, and that only makes you spiral.
“Just—just okay?” you sputter, your hands dropping from his thick shoulders to grip the fabric of your pants. Squeeze. Your heart picks up a frantic, erratic drum solo against your ribs. “Nothing else? Y’just blank, and then ‘okay’?”
He blinks, the neutral mask finally shattering into something else, something almost defensive. But it’s the Sam-version of defensive, which as it turns out, is a whole lot cuter than it is intimidating. His brows pinch together, forming a sharp crease between them, his nose scrunching as he pulls up his hands in mock-surrender. “Well, y’know, I… you told me to think about it!”
“Yeah, well, not like that!” you shoot back, the strange mix of nerves, frustration, and sticky-sweet affection making your pitch pick up a fraction.
He winces, something like guilt painting his features. “Okay, okay, sorry. Uh.” He lets out a long, shaky exhale, and you feel it fan over your cheeks. When did he get so close? His shoulders drop with some sort of forced-calm, as his eyes search yours with a sudden, almost startling vulnerability.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs, the word soft, barely above a breath. “Yeah, of course. I mean, if that’s what you want. Really want.” He pauses. “I mean. It’s just… practice, right?”
You nod, but your throat feels too tight to speak. Right. What you really want. Practice. The words spin and dance around in your head for a moment, echoing on repeat, and there’s something about the smooth, comforting rumble of his voice that settles your spiraling anxiety into something shallower. Calmer.
“…Yeah. Practice.”
Sam shifts, closing just a bit of remaining distance between you. His movements are agonizingly slow, giving you every opportunity to pull away, to laugh it off, to change your mind. When you don’t, his hand comes up. Those long, warm, graphite-tinted fingers gently take your hand, flipping it over to brush a soothing circle over your whitened knuckles. The touch sends a fresh, electric wave of heat rushing to your face. Damn him.
“We can stop whenever you want,” he whispers, his gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to your eyes. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you breathe out, your voice coming out far quieter than you’d intended, and he smiles. It’s small, a subtle tug of his lips, but dimples dent his pink-tinted cheeks in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“Relax for me,” he instructs. “Just a peck first, yeah? Test the waters. Then tell me how you feel.”
He waits for you to nod, then leans in, and nothing could pull you away from him then, not even your pulse threatening to pound straight out your chest. His eyes flutter closed, and it takes you a moment to realize that oh yeah, yours probably should too, and then they do, and then he’s kissing you.
It’s just a peck. Barely there, exactly like he said.
It’s not like the movies, where there’s a dramatic swell of music, or fireworks exploding somewhere in the distance. It’s just Sam. It’s the familiar, comforting scent of his laundry detergent and the faint, sweet trace of the coffee he’d abandoned on his desk earlier. It’s the soft, hesitant press of his lips against yours.
But it’s enough to make your entire world feel like it’s tilted on its axis.
His lips are softer than you’d imagined. And that only makes you think holy shit, have I imagined this before?, and that’s a whole new can of worms you’re not quite willing to open up yet. Not when he pulls away, far sooner than you’d like, and you find yourself wishing he’d lingered.
He doesn’t go far. Your eyes take a second too long to blink back open, and when they do, he’s already looking at you. Those soft, hazel depths swirling with something so warm that you have to fight the urge to squirm.
“See? Not awful,” he teases, his big hand squeezing yours where his fingers are still cradling your wrist. “…Feelin’ okay?”
“Uh-huh, yes. Okay.” You nod, a too-fast, jerky movement, and his eyebrow raises, a laugh huffing from his chest.
“Right,” he snickers, and then his other hand is moving. Still slow, still careful, but when it lands on your cheek, you have to fight every urge to lean right into it. But that sounds very non-platonic, and this is normal, friends-teaching-friends, thank you very much, so you resist. “…I’m gonna do it again. Just a little more. And you tell me if it’s too much, too fast.”
You nod, and then he’s closing the space again—but your palm lands flat on his chest, and he pauses. Confusion clouds his face, then concern, a question forming on his tongue, but you’re faster. “What—what do I do with my hands?”
The brief flash of worry melts, puddles into warmth right along with your heart, as his expression fades back into fond amusement. A faint dusting of pink blooms across his cheeks, across the gorgeous slope of his nose, and he lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, dipping his head.
“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice a low, raspy hum that vibrates straight through your palm still resting on his chest. He glances at your hand, then back to your eyes, tilting his head. “Or stay right there. I don’t mind.”
When you don’t say anything right away, a shuddering breath flowing from your parted lips, he softens. Completely.
“Hey,” he whispers, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “How about… you just keep ‘em where they are. Just like that. And then… just follow whatever feels right. Yeah?”
A smile tugs at your lips. “Okay. Yeah.”
This time, when he closes the distance, it’s not as hesitant. He tilts his head slightly, his warm palm gently guiding yours to do the same, and when his lips brush yours, the kiss is different entirely. It’s no longer a testing, fleeting peck.
His lips part slightly against yours, soft and yielding, and for one terrifying, wonderful second, the world narrows down to nothing but the heat of his mouth and the gentle, grounding pressure of his hand cupping your jaw. He has to duck his head to reach you, so you let yours fall back just slightly—it should be awkward, cramped, but God, it’s really not. He hums, a sound that feels a little like approval (and Christ you hope it was), and then his hand in yours slides away.
Not quickly, or harshly, only the opposite. It never leaves you completely, trailing warm, teddy-bear soft fingertips along your forearm until they dip, circling your waist. Now it’s your turn to hum, and he responds by adding just a little more pressure against your lips. Tilting your face a little further to align with his. Your body sings with the touch, head going all airy, mouth tingling, pulse fluttering, and holy shit, you’re really kissing someone.
You’re really kissing Sam.
Inevitably, your mind starts to reel. How do you breathe? Do you pull back? Is that rude?—but Sam must feel it in the way a shaky exhale warms his cheek, because his lips part from yours just long enough to drag a breath into your abused lungs. Then he’s right back on you all over again.
Yes, your body soars, a dumb, happy sound tumbling into his parted lips, high-pitched and giddy. His thumb dimples into the plush flesh of your hip, his lips popping off of yours. He chuckles, sneaking one more kiss to your cheek.
“Awh,” he coos, heat climbing up your neck. “That was cute.”
You don’t quite have the capacity to tell him to shut his trap, considering that you’re pretty sure your brain tapped out two Sam-kisses ago, but your body moves of its own accord. The arm that isn’t smushed between your chests slings around his neck, fingers threading into the messy hair at his nape, and then you’re pulling him in.
The enthusiasm at which he reciprocates pushes your body back, but oh, he catches you, strong arm still circling your waist, fingers pressing into your skin. He feels impossibly bigger that way, half-looming over you, broad and steady, never imposing. His neck is fever-hot beneath your fingertips, and you can feel the rapid, fluttering pulse pattering a frantic rhythm at his throat.
He’s feeling it too.
And that, that alone, has a fresh wave of electricity buzzing through your veins. Your mouth parts, instinct taking over, as he swipes his hot tongue along your lower lip. He doesn’t push through the seam, not even if your body was begging for it—not yet, anyway—but that little taste has your fingers tugging softly in his hair. Your body screams closer, closer, closer, your chest pushing against his, all that Sam-warmth of his a very welcome comfort.
“Don’t know what you were s’worried about,” he hums, breath hot against your lips. “You’re a natural, sweetheart.”
The words do something to your stomach, something gooey, something gratifying, a strange mix of heated flush and goosebumps rising on your skin.
“Yeah?” you purr, Sam responding by pulling you in further, shifting you up-right, letting both hands settle at your waist. Your body smushes so close to his, that you may as well be straddling those tree trunk-thick thighs of his.
In an utterly, completely platonic way, of course.
As it turns out, once you begin kissing Sam, it’s just about impossible to stop. You alternate between pecks and deep, long kisses. It’s not as sloppy as you imagined, and maybe less… wet, but that could just be him. Sam kisses with a force that could be mistaken for passion, or even reverence, sweet and gentle and fuck, the back of your mind just keeps rattling about how right it feels.
“You taste so good,” he breathes, and you mmm-hmm your agreement, unwilling to part too long, just as his tongue swipes across your lip again. Fucking-fuck.
“You planned this, didn’t you? Taste—tastin’ like heaven.” You don’t have time to fluster, not with how he mouths at you. All you can do is whine. “S’that strawberry, honey?”
You don’t have the breath to deny it, not when his mouth continues moving against yours with just devastating, sweet enthusiasm. He kisses you like he’s been waiting months, years to do it, and maybe, just maybe, he has. One hand slides up your back, slipping into your hair, tangling with the locks and holding you flush against him as the kiss deepens. It turns heavy, all consuming as you melt into him, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips. And oh, Sam’s done.
His tongue finally, finally slips past your lips, tasting of black coffee and the sweet berry chapstick that’s smudged against his own mouth. It’s intoxicating.
Your brain croons, because this, this is it, you realize. It settles that Sam’s kisses are the best you’ll ever have, and you’ll just have to live with that forever.
Screw Chris.
The grip on your waist tightens as he angles his head, deepening the kiss until your mind goes entirely, blissfully blank. You can forget forming thoughts, your brain all gooey and useless in such a perfect way, something you weren’t even sure was possible. It’s heated, slightly messy in the best way, and you’re pretty sure he’s stolen your ability to breathe entirely.
It’s right in the middle of one of those searing, mind-numbing kisses when your brain, the torturous, unorganized organ that it is, suddenly misfires entirely. A synaptic impulse jumps the gap, and your eyes fly open.
You pull back abruptly, your hands falling to grip his shoulders again as if to steady yourself. You’re panting, lips tingling, face so hot you feel as though you could melt like ice cream in the middle of summer.
Sam blinks, dazed, those sweet, hazel puppy eyes blown wide. “What? What is it? Did I—”
“Stressed,” you blurt, breathless, voice carrying just a little too loud through the heavy air of the dorm room.
Sam freezes. His face falls. Hazy warmth clears the way for sharp, genuine concern. Both hands drop from your waist as though he was burned, cupping your cheeks instead, his thumbs brushing below your eyes as he scans your face for any sign of a spiral. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he soothes. His voice drops into that protective, heart-breaking register he uses when you’re on the verge of a panic attack, or sobbing over some organic chemistry lab. “Breathe f’me, okay? I’m sorry, we can stop, I shouldn’t have pushed—”
“No, no, Sam, listen,” you interrupt, grabbing his wrists to still his frantic, stupidly-comforting motions. “The crossword. Eight letters. Starts with S.”
He stares at you. Pauses. Then, slowly, the pieces click into place.
The concern in his eyes dissolves completely, into something so profoundly fond, so overwhelmingly soft, that it almost hurts your chest to see. A slow, dimpled grin spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, as a disbelieving laugh tumbles from his lips, and his forehead drops against yours.
“Oh my God,” he whispers, the vibration of his chuckle buzzing against your skin. “You, Jesus, I have my tongue in your mouth, and you’re thinking ‘bout the crossword?”
“It—it was bugging me!” you defend weakly, though a smile is already beginning to tug at your own lips. You can still feel the tingle of his. “And, y’know, it fits!”
“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping back to your mouth. The fondness in his eyes darkens, slow and languid, slipping into something more heated. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw one last time. “Yeah. It does, sweetheart.”
Before you can say another word, long before you can register his big man-paws sliding back down to cradle your waist, he closes the distance. He shuts you up completely, mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that doesn’t feel platonic—and sure as hell doesn’t feel like practice.
Not at all.