Page 23 of Knights Like These
I asked him one afternoon after school.
We were in his truck, parked in my driveway with the engine running. I don’t remember what we had been talking about—homework, probably, or the hockey game that weekend—and I just said it. Blurted it out like it had been sitting in my throat for months, which it had.
“I want you to be my first.”
He went still. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he stared straight ahead through the windshield at my mom’s garage door, not saying anything for what felt like an hour but was probably just seconds.
“Syd.”
“I’m serious. I’ve thought about it. I don’t want it to be some random guy at a party. I want it to be someone I trust, and I trust you more than anyone.”
He said no. Gently, carefully—he said he didn’t think it was a good idea, that it could mess things up between us, that he didn’t want to hurt me. I told him it was fine, no big deal, to forget I mentioned it. I got out of the truck, walked inside, and went straight to my room, pressed my face into my pillow and tried not to cry.
Two days later, he showed up at my door. My mom was at book club. He stood on the porch with his hands in his pockets and said, “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay. If you still want to. I’ll, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll do it. If you still want me to.”
It happened a couple of days later. His parents were out, so he invited me over. The house was quiet in a way that made every sound louder—the click of the lock, the creak of his bed frame, the rustle of his sheets when he pulled them back.
We stood there looking at each other for a long time. He was so tall, even then—six-two at eighteen, all limbs and broad shoulders he hadn’t grown into yet. I remember thinking he looked terrified, and that made me feel braver, because if he was scared too, then at least we were scared together.
He kissed me first. Slow and careful, his hand on my jaw, tilting my face up. I’d kissed boys before, but not like this—not with my whole body leaning into it, not with my hands sliding up his chest and feeling his heart hammering under my palm.
We lay down. He was above me, his weight new and warm, and everywhere. I remember the exact moment I stopped being nervous—when he pushed my hair back from my face, looked at me—really looked at me—and said, “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
He was careful. So careful it almost broke me. When he pushed inside me, there was a pinch—sharp and brief—and I sucked in a breath, causing his whole body to lock up. He froze, hovering over me, his arms shaking.
“Syd. Are you—”
“I’m okay. Keep going.”
“Are you sure?”
“Archer. Keep going.”
He did. Slowly. Watching my face the entire time, adjusting every time my expression changed, reading me the way he reads the ice—every detail, every shift. The pinch faded, replaced by heat and closeness, his mouth on my neck and his breath against my ear. I wrapped my arms around his back and pulled him closer because I’d dreamed about this—literally dreamed about it, lying in my bed across town and imagining what it would feel like to have him this close—and the reality was better.
The reality was his skin hot against mine, his hands in my hair, and the quiet sounds he made. Soon, he couldn’t seem to be careful anymore. He swore, apologized, and asked if I was okay as he moved faster. I told him I was.
Afterward, he pulled me against his chest. His heart was still racing, and I pressed my face into his shoulder, breathed him in, and thought:he feels it too. He has to feel this too.
The next morning, he picked me up for school and asked if I wanted to stop for coffee. His voice was normal, his smile was normal, and everything felt normal as I sat in the passenger seat. It was then that I understood with perfect, devastating clarity that everything had changed for me and nothing had changed for him.
“Sydney?”
I blinked. Winnie was watching me across the table, her glass halfway to her lips.
“Sorry. Zoned out.” My face was on fire. My whole body was on fire. “Can you excuse me for a second? I need to use the restroom.”
“Of course.”
I grab my bag and walk to the bathroom with the focused calm of a woman who is absolutely not falling apart. The bathroom is small—one stall, a mirror, a sink with fancy soap. I lock the door, press my hands on the counter, and look at my reflection.
My cheeks are flushed. I turn on the cold water and press my wet fingers to the back of my neck.
