Page 59 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

SOPHIE

Each step stretches like taffy, and I’m hyperaware of the space between our bodies. We’re close enough that I catch whiffs of his soap (something cedar-sharp that probably has a ridiculous name like “Forest Blast”), but far enough that we’re clearly not together -together.

My pulse hammers, and the nursing student in me catalogues symptoms: tachycardia, peripheral vasodilation, and heightened proprioception. Basically, my autonomic nervous system has decided to throw a party without inviting my rational brain—and next to a guy like this, I can’t blame it.

“So, nurse, huh?” Mike’s voice cuts through my self-diagnosis. “Do you have, like, the uniform and everything?”

“A uniform?” I arch an eyebrow. “Let me guess, you’re expecting a crisp white number, strategic button shortage, and a hemline that would violate OSHA regulations?”

“Maybe?” His grin spreads without apology. “Look, my mom’s a doctor, but she mostly just complains about insurance companies and brings home horror stories about kids sticking those little colored Lego lights up their noses. Fashion wasn’t really covered, although I’ve had my share of?—”

“Nurses?”

He almost chokes with laughter. “Fantasies about nurses…” He pauses. “The first nurse I sleep with will be the first…”

“Good thing you’re into new things…” I say, and then suddenly flush beet red, because this isn’t me at all .

He just grins.

“As for the fashion…” I backtrack. “I hate to disappoint, but it’s mostly baggy scrubs and clogs that could double as flotation devices.”

“I don’t know.” His gaze tracks over me with an appreciation that prickles along my spine. “Bet you make flotation devices work.”

The traffic light ahead burns red, and I’ve never been more grateful for civic infrastructure. Maybe he’ll think the flush on my cheeks is just its reflection.

“Left here,” I manage, nodding toward my street. “Second building, the one with the fire escape that’s definitely not up to code.”

We navigate the remaining block, all broken streetlights and shadows, the shady ‘I’m not on a scholarship and my parents aren’t rich’ section of Pine Barren student housing.

And, as we walk, Mike moves beside me with the easy ownership of someone who’s never questioned his right to space, all six-foot-three of male confidence.

But he’s careful, too, maintaining distance like he’s decoded some signal in my body language.

Which he probably has, because my body language right now is broadcasting “conflicted” in neon.

And, as if to prove it, at my building’s entrance I fumble with my keys while acutely aware of Mike behind me, patient and radiating a warmth that tempts me to imagine what would happen if I leaned back.

Bad idea, Sophie , my mind helpfully chimes in. Thoughts like that will complicate your nice, uncomplicated one-night stand plan.

Three flights of stairs have never felt longer—why couldn’t I afford a place with an elevator?

—and by the time we reach my door, my heart races for reasons unrelated to the climb and everything to do with what comes next.

Inside, I drop my keys in the ceramic dish Hazel made me in art class, which is lopsided and painted in violent purples.

“Nice place,” Mike says, taking in my salvaged furniture and the wall of pharmacology flashcards I really should take down.

“Thanks. It’s got all the essentials—roof, walls, and neighbors who blast EDM on weekends and on weekdays.

Drink?” I head to the fridge, needing something to occupy my hands.

“I have water, wine that might have achieved sentience, and…” I sniff the milk carton.

“Yeah, no. Just the water and the questionable wine.”

“I’m good.”

When I turn, he’s migrated closer, just beyond arm’s reach. The air between us thickens with possibility. This is the part I know—where the guy makes his move, navigates us toward the bedroom, and kicks off the naked portion of the evening. But Mike just stands there, watching me.

“So,” I say.

“So.”

Fine. I can do this. I close the gap. “Bedroom’s that way.”

He doesn’t move. “Is that where you want to go?”

The question catches in my chest. “Yes.”

He nods slowly, then surprises me by framing my face with his hands. His palms are rough, but impossibly gentle. “Can I kiss you first, Sophie?”

My brain stalls.

Who asks?

In my limited post-Jimmy experience, guys just… take.

They assume.

They steer, and I follow because that’s easier than choosing.

“I—yes.”

His thumb traces my cheekbone as he leans in, and when his mouth finds mine, it’s exploratory rather than conquering.

The kiss is deliberate, almost reverent, like I’m something worth studying instead of skimming.

But as his tongue slides against mine, thorough and unhurried, I decide this is nice .

Still, anxiety needles at me. He should be fumbling with my bra by now.

That’s how this works, and I get distracted wondering why he isn’t escalating.

I let the kiss go on for a short while, then I press closer, my chest meeting his.

But instead of taking the hint, he just huffs a laugh against my mouth and eases back.

“What’s the rush?” His breath ghosts warm across my lips.

“No rush.” The lie tastes medicinal. “Just… usually we’re at the main event by now…”

Curiosity kindles in his expression. “How do you usually do this?”

“Efficiently.” The word escapes before I can edit it.

“Efficiently,” he repeats, like I’ve just admitted I organize hookups with Gantt charts. “That’s not exactly the adjective most people aim for.”

My face ignites. “I didn’t mean?—”

“I know.” He caresses my cheek. “Efficient doesn’t mean good.”

“It’s quieter,” I admit, surprising myself with honesty. “In my head, I mean. When things move fast and someone else directs, I don’t have to…” I gesture vaguely at my temple, already regretting this long and completely unnecessary detour into Oversharing Avenue. “Process so much.”

His expression softens a little. “That’s what you need, Sophie? To stop thinking?”

“That’s always what I need.” I shrug, aiming for casual and missing by miles. “One-night stands are simple. No complications, no expectations. Just… relief.”

Mike studies me with a focus that makes me want to check if my thoughts are leaking.

I don’t know exactly why this guy gives a damn, or seems to, but when he takes my hand, that simple contact sends electricity branching up my arm and jumpstarts my brain.

No more too-much-information tonight, strictly physic?—

“Let me ask you something,” he interrupts my thoughts with a statement, not a question. “Do you actually like them? These efficient encounters?”

My mouth opens to offer an automatic yes. Of course I like them. Why else would I keep having them, right? That’s basic behavioral conditioning—we repeat rewarding activities—right? Everyone needs to have sex once in a while, and college kids are meant to be like horny rabbits, right?

“They …” I pause, genuinely considering. “They address a need.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Then—”

“Do you find them good?” He rephrases with the patience of someone prepared to wait. “Not just… functional. But actually good for you ?”

The word sits between us.

Good?

I think about my handful of post-Jimmy encounters. Brief, mechanical transactions where I went through the motions and they went through theirs. Where I got what I came for—respite from the constant static in my head, the worry-roster about Mom, the scheduling Tetris, the pressure—and walked away.

Physical checkbox marked, back to real life.

But good? The sort of sex that’s supposed to make your neurons light up like Christmas and your body sing hosannas? Is that something I’ve ever experienced? With Jimmy? With anyone ? Hell, do I even know what that would feel like if I did experience it?

“I don’t…” My voice cracks slightly. I stare at his hand holding mine, at the careful way his thumb traces my knuckles. The word comes slowly. “No.”

I expect to see disappointment on his face, or confusion, followed by a polite excuse as he walks toward the door.

Instead, Mike’s face transforms with a smile that crinkles around his eyes.

The same smile he’d given me from across the room in the bar and a dozen times during our conversation. And it’s a nice smile.

“Then let’s figure it out.”

Five words. That’s all. But they totally rearrange something fundamental in my understanding of how tonight is going to go. And, suddenly, walking up to a guy in a bar seems like the easiest thing in the world compared to what we’re about to do.

“That’s not—people don’t—” My laugh comes out high and nervous. “People don’t usually give a shit about that…”

“Says who?” He shrugs like he’s suggesting Thai instead of pizza, not proposing to reconfigure my entire one-night-stand framework.

“What about you?” The question tumbles out, driven by genuine concern matched with suspicion. “Won’t you feel… cheated if we’re focusing on… me?”

A shadow flickers across his features—there and gone.

“For years, everything was about me taking whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it.” His voice drops, weighted with something that looks like regret.

“It meant I could be pretty terrible to people I cared about, so this year, I’m trying something new. ”

There’s a story there, buried under careful words. We all have them—the befores that shape our afters—but I’m not sure that I’ve earned the right to his yet. But his led him here, to my apartment, offering something I didn’t know was possible to want… well, I’m not sure if I can say no.

“So what—” I swallow, like he’s told me he’s going to be performing some sort of complex brain surgery on me. “What happens now?”

“Now?” He lifts my hand, presses his lips to my whitened knuckles. “Now you show me your room, and we take our time figuring out exactly what makes you feel good.”

“Ambitious project for one night.”

“I’ve been told I excel at time management.”

“That might be the least sexy thing anyone’s ever?—”

He steps closer, crowding me. “I’ll make you forget what efficient even means.”

As I lead him down the hallway, something fundamental shifts—not just the physical transition, but a complete reorientation—and for the first time in more than a year, I’m not chasing oblivion.

Instead, I’m stepping toward something that demands presence, attention, and the very awareness I usually try to escape.

It’s fucking terrifying.

It might also be exactly what I need.

At my bedroom door, I hesitate with my fingers on the doorknob. I know that once we cross this threshold, there’s no returning to simple. No Ctrl+Z back to uncomplicated. Mike waits behind me, patient as always, his presence both steadying and charged with promise.

I push the door open and turn to face him. “Fair warning, if this pleasure-seeking expedition of yours fails, I’m holding you entirely responsible.”

“I’ll risk it.” He steps inside, closing the distance between us. His hands find my hips, warm through fabric. “Though I’m pretty confident in my methodology.”

“Methodology?” I scoff. “And you said ‘efficient’ was unsexy, so where does that rank?—”

He cuts me off with a kiss that’s nothing like the careful exploration from before. This is intent made physical, promise given texture. It’s all tongue and teeth and roaming hands, and when he pulls back, I’m breathing like I’ve run sprints.

“Sophie.” My name in his mouth sounds like discovery. “We’re going to find what makes you melt. What makes you gasp. What makes you forget your own name.” His thumb traces the jut of my hipbone. “And then we’re going to do it again and again until pleasure is something you know in your bones.”

The words streak heat through my bloodstream. This man—this stranger who lured me in at a bar—is suddenly looking at me like I’m a puzzle worth solving. And, for the first time with a guy, it feels like I’m not just a piece of flesh to be used and discarded.

“You barely know me,” I whisper, the protest tissue-thin.

“I know enough.” His fingers span my waist. “I know you’re brilliant, because those flashcards aren’t for amateurs.

I know you’re funny when you let yourself be.

I know you care for others until there’s nothing left for yourself.

” He leans closer. “And I know I’ve never wanted to make someone come more than you. ”

The raw honesty of it steals my breath.

As he kisses me again—slower this time, deeper, like we have decades instead of hours—something inside me finally stops fighting. Maybe it’s exhaustion from perpetually trying to maintain control. Maybe it’s the way he sees me like I’m worth the effort.

Or maybe I’m just tired of settling for functional when extraordinary is standing right here, offering to show me the difference.

Whatever the reason, when his hands slip under my shirt, rough against my skin, I don’t think about efficiency or checking boxes or who needs me to do what today.

Instead, I sink into pure sensation—the callused ridges of his palms, the cascade of nerve endings lighting like struck matches—and relax .

“That’s it,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice gone gravelly. “Just feel.”

And, for once in my goddamn life, I’m going to try.