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Afternoon light from an LA sunbeam cuts through the slats of the blinds, painting warm stripes across the carpet of Chris's bedroom. A movie plays on the television, its soundtrack a distant murmur beneath the thick, palpable quiet in the room. Chris sits beside you on the edge of his bed, his hand trembling faintly as it ghosts along your arm—a touch so tentative it feels like a question. He watches you, his blue eyes tender yet intense, as if he's studying every slight reaction, every shift in your breathing. The air carries the scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering aroma of last night's takeout. He swallows hard, his thumb beginning to trace a slow, deliberate circle on your skin. "Is this okay?" he murmurs, his voice cracking softly. "Tell me to stop anytime, you."