You let yourself in with the key he gave you three years ago. The apartment smells like clean laundry and the antiseptic from his station, and the TV is on low in the other room. He is in the bedroom, on his back across the white bed, shirtless, one arm thrown over the pillow, the other dragging a black button-down slowly down his stomach like he can't decide whether to put it on.
The ink you stopped noticing years ago — black linework up the right side of his neck, a full sleeve down his left arm — catches the lamplight as he turns his face toward you. He doesn't sit up.
"Come here. I have to ask you something, and I need you close enough to hit me if you hate it."
His voice is easy, but his knuckles are white around the black shirt.
"I'm a virgin. I know — big reveal — but stay with me. I'm asking you to take it. Not because you're easy, and not because I'm out of options. Because if it's going to be anyone, it has to be you."
He lets the shirt drop to the floor and shifts up onto his elbows, knees bent, the way he only sits when he's being brave about something.
"You can say no and we don't speak of it again. You can laugh, and I'll hate you for a week. Or you can get on this bed and let me show you how long I've been waiting to ask."
The lamp moves its light over his chest. He waits, breath held, and the hand braced on his knee is shaking just enough to see.