PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT
ONE-SHOT
pairing: owen brompton x fem!reader summary: after one disastrous date too many, Owen decides he needs honest feedback—and somehow convinces you, his closest friend, to take him on a practice date. What begins as an awkward evening of supermarket pasta, handwritten assessments, and painfully earnest flirting quickly turns into a kissing lesson neither of you is prepared to treat as pretend.
wc: 8.4k
a/n: i sailed the seven seas last week to watch finding emily since it doesn’t release in the us until august 28th, but i’ll still be catching it in theaters when it does. i missed writing for spike so much—he’s literally why i made this blog, hence the username—and i’m so glad his beautiful, kissable face will be back on the big screen next month. owen was awkward, earnest, hopelessly romantic, and painfully lovable, and spike was easily the best part of the film. i’m usually not a rom-com girlie because they can be too cheesy, but this one balanced the comedy and heart pretty well. i def plan on writing a few fics for my pathetic wet cat bf <333 now i just have to hold out until 4 Kids Walk Into a Bank, where he plays a bottle blonde bank robber, which is going to make me lose my mind. not beta read.
warnings: explicit sexual content, piv, oral (f!receiving), fingering, handjob (sorta), multiple orgasms, condom use, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple play, messy kissing, light biting, marking, risk of getting caught, first time together, eager to please!Owen, alcohol consumption, friends to lovers, mutual pining, practice date, love confession, getting together, fluff
MASTERLIST
Owen Brompton had been back from his date for exactly eleven minutes before deciding it’d been a catastrophe.
This was impressive, considering he’d spent the first six of those minutes insisting it had gone “reasonably well, actually” while pacing the narrow stretch of carpet between the sofa and the telly with his coat still on. The remaining five had been dedicated to tearing that claim apart in such painful detail that you suspected he’d started preparing the postmortem before the woman had even finished saying goodnight.
“She didn’t laugh.”
You looked up from your corner of the sofa, where you’d been waiting with two cans of cider and an increasingly cold box of chips balanced across your knees. Matt had let you in twenty minutes ago, taken one look at the food in your lap, and announced that Owen had apparently arranged his own emergency response team. He and Freya had disappeared upstairs not long after that, though you’d heard Matt laughing through the ceiling when Owen came stumbling through the front door with the expression of a man returning from war.
“At anything?” you asked.
“She laughed twice.”
“Then she did laugh.”
“Not properly.” Owen stopped pacing long enough to look genuinely offended that you couldn’t understand the distinction. His hair had caught the rain on the walk home, leaving the ends damp and curling around his forehead. “One of them was more of an exhale.”
“That still counts.”
“It absolutely doesn’t. People exhale all the time.”
“They’d die otherwise.”
“That’s not the point.”
He started pacing again.
The front room was small enough that three strides took him from the secondhand sofa to the cluttered shelf where Freya kept framed photos, candles and a ceramic dish full of loose change. Owen’s guitar leaned against the radiator beside one of the speakers he’d spent an entire Sunday repositioning, despite Matt repeatedly threatening to throw both of them into the street. Sheet music and unopened post had spread across the coffee table, and a single sock had somehow ended up on top of Owen’s battered amp.
The ceiling light was off, leaving the room lit by the amber lamp beside you and the blue standby glow from his equipment. Rain ticked faintly against the front window. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, followed by Matt’s muffled voice and Freya telling him to leave Owen alone.
Owen pushed both hands through his hair.
“I asked too many questions.”
“You were on a date. Questions are usually encouraged.”
“Not in the manner of a police interview.”
“What did you ask her?”
“What sort of childhood she had.”
You stared at him.
Owen’s shoulders dropped. “It were relevant at the time.”
“To what?”
“We were talking about crisps.”
A laugh escaped before you could swallow it.
His expression sharpened with vindication rather than embarrassment. “See? You’re laughing now. That’s what’s meant to happen.”
“I’m laughing because you somehow interrogated a woman about her formative years over a packet of salt and vinegar.”
“She said she didn’t like them.”
“And that concerned you?”
“It suggested a sheltered upbringing.”
You moved the chips before you spilled them. “Owen.”
“I panicked.”
“I can tell.”
He finally shrugged out of his wet coat and tossed it toward the armchair. It hit the back, slid off and landed in a heap beside the leg. Owen looked at it, seemed to consider picking it up, then apparently decided his romantic failures needed his attention more urgently.
“She was lovely,” he said. “That’s the worst part.”
“How’s that the worst part?”
“Because if she’d been horrible, I could blame her.”
“You can still blame her. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I’m trying to grow.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Owen dropped onto the sofa beside you. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, nudging your thigh against his, and the damp chill clinging to him came with the smell of rain, lager and whatever cologne he’d put far too much of on before leaving. You’d taken the piss out of him for it when he’d come downstairs earlier, and Freya had agreed with you while Matt stood behind Owen pretending to choke.
Now it had faded into something softer beneath the warmth of his skin.
He reached for one of the ciders and pressed the cold can to his forehead.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“You decide you’re in love before the starters arrive.”
“I didn’t decide I was in love.”
“You sent me a message from the toilet saying she had soulful eyes.”
“That was an observation.”
“You’d known her forty minutes.”
“Some things are immediately apparent.”
You pulled the can away from his face before he could freeze his brain and cracked it open for him. Owen accepted it with a mumbled thanks, still looking personally wounded by the entire concept of dating.
The problem was that you knew he meant it. Owen might dramatize every awkward silence and attach ridiculous significance to minor details, but he never treated affection carelessly. Every crush became a possibility. Every possibility became a whole story he could already hear playing beneath the rest of his life, complete with swelling strings, a key change and the perfect final chorus.
Then reality failed to follow the arrangement, and he came home confused.
“You need practice,” you said.
Owen looked at you over the rim of the can. “I’ve been on dates.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“I know how dates work.”
“You asked a woman what emotional damage led to her crisp preferences.”
“I didn’t phrase it like that.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
He nudged your knee with his. “All right, then. Dating expert. What do you suggest?”
“You need someone to tell you when you’re being weird.”
“You already do that constantly.”
“Someone who can do it during the date.”
Owen lowered the cider.
His attention sharpened in a way that made you suddenly aware of how closely you were sitting, your legs still touching because neither of you had bothered to move.
You’d known him long enough to recognize the exact second an idea took hold. It appeared first in his eyes, then gathered behind his mouth while he tested the wording. Usually, this process ended with him suggesting something unnecessarily complicated and insisting it was the obvious solution.
“You could,” he said.
You blinked. “I could what?”
“Go on a date with me.”
The words settled between you.
Owen immediately started waving one hand, trying to physically rearrange them into something less dangerous.
“Not a real date.”
“Obviously.”
“A practice one.”
“Right.”
“So you can observe.”
“You make it sound like a wildlife documentary.”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, you did.
The suggestion should’ve been ridiculous. It should’ve joined the long list of Owen’s ideas that only sounded reasonable after midnight, alongside buying a smoke machine for his bedroom and trying to write an entire song using nothing but things he found in Matt and Freya’s kitchen.
Instead, your stomach tightened.
You covered it with a laugh. “You want me to grade you?”
“Not grade. Just offer constructive feedback.”
“I’m giving you a failing mark already.”
“We haven’t started.”
“You’re arguing with your instructor.”
“I thought you were my date.”
“You can’t afford my rates.”
Owen’s smile appeared slowly, crooked at one corner and far more charming than anything he’d probably attempted across the table that evening. “Come on. It’ll help.”
The ease of his expression didn’t quite hide the way his thumb kept rubbing against the side of the can. Owen was nervous. He was trying not to look it, but you’d spent too many evenings beside him not to notice the little signs: the restless fingers, the slight tilt of his head, the way he filled every silence before it got the chance to reject him first.
You should’ve said no.
Instead, you leaned back against the cushions and pretended to think about it.
“We’d need rules.”
“Course.”
“We pretend we’ve never met.”
“Fine.”
“I’m allowed to stop you whenever you say something embarrassing.”
“That seems unnecessarily broad.”
“You asked for my help.”
“Carry on.”
“You don’t argue with the feedback.”
Owen opened his mouth.
You pointed at him.
He shut it again.
“And nothing that happens during the date counts.”
Something unreadable moved across his face before he nodded. “Because it’s practice.”
“Exactly.”
“Right.”
You held out your hand. “Deal?”
Owen looked at it, then at you.
His palm was warm when he took yours. His fingers closed firmly, lingering a beat longer than a handshake needed to.
“Deal.”
For a man who claimed to need emergency romantic intervention, Owen took the practice date alarmingly seriously.
Matt and Freya were going out on Saturday, which meant Owen had the house to himself for most of the evening. This information arrived in a string of messages that began with Matt and Freya won’t be here and was followed, less than thirty seconds later, by Not that I arranged that and Don’t make it weird.
You arrived just after seven to find the usual clutter from the front room stacked in precarious towers beside the stairs. Owen’s guitar had been moved into the corner. The sock had disappeared from the amp, though you suspected he’d hidden it rather than washed it, and two candles burned inside mismatched glass holders beside plates of supermarket pasta.
Owen had put on a clean shirt.
It was dark green, slightly wrinkled and buttoned incorrectly.
You stood on the front step staring at the uneven collar.
He followed your gaze and looked down.
“Fuck.”
“That’s our first note.”
“The date hasn’t started.”
“You opened the door.”
“Wait there.”
“Owen.”
He shut it in your face.
Movement thudded through the hall, followed by a muffled curse and the unmistakable sound of something being knocked off the little table by the stairs. Less than a minute later, the door opened again.
His shirt was fixed. His cheeks were pink.
“Hello,” he said with painful formality. “You must be…”
“You know my name.”
“We’re pretending.”
“You’re terrible at pretending.”
“Can we start again?”
“You’ve already used your restart.”
“You never said there was only one.”
“This is why people need contracts.”
Owen glanced past you towards the empty pavement before stepping aside. “D’you want to come in?”
You crossed the threshold, and he closed the door behind you.
The candles were excessive for a practice date. So was the bottle of wine waiting in a metal bowl full of rapidly melting ice. A tiny vase stood between the plates with a single flower inside it.
You touched one of the petals.
It was made of fabric.
“Did you buy this?”
Owen pulled out your chair. “It was already here.”
“Why did you own one fake flower?”
“I don’t. Freya does.”
“Does Freya know you stole her fake flower?”
“She said I could borrow it.”
“Did she know what for?”
Owen looked away. “Eventually.”
You could already imagine that conversation.
You sat down, mostly because the tips of his ears had turned red. Owen pushed your chair in with more force than necessary, nearly trapping you against the table, then hurried around to the opposite side. He paused before sitting, apparently trying to remember what people who’d just met were meant to say.
You waited.
He waited.
The candle flame leaned in the draft.
“So,” Owen began, “what sort of childhood did you have?”
You burst out laughing.
His composure broke with a grin. “All right. Had to get it out of the way.”
“That would’ve ended the date immediately.”
“You’re still here.”
“Only because I know where Matt keeps the wine.”
“That’s my wine.”
“Then why did he tell me not to let you open the expensive bottle?”
Owen’s eyes shifted towards the kitchen. “He’s a liar.”
He poured you a glass, briefly missing the rim and splashing a little across the table. You watched him blot it with a tea towel while muttering that this part would be edited out of the official assessment.
Once the initial performance wore off, the evening became surprisingly convincing.
Owen asked normal questions.
Mostly.
He wanted to know which place you’d return to for a single afternoon if distance didn’t matter, what album you wished you could hear for the first time again and whether you thought people were more honest in the dark. The questions were still unmistakably his, too earnest and specific for polite conversation, but they pulled answers from you that he hadn’t heard before.
You’d known Owen for nearly a year. You’d watched him fall asleep against your shoulder during a film and wake up with the seam of your shirt imprinted across his cheek. You’d sat on the floor of his bedroom while he played half-finished melodies and watched your expression before deciding whether he liked them. You knew he hated mushrooms, loved the hum of old amplifiers warming up and pretended not to care when people forgot his birthday.
You also knew he never talked about his mum for long. Her absence still sat quietly throughout the house, in the photographs Freya dusted and the way Matt’s jokes sometimes stopped too suddenly. Owen could turn almost anything into a love story, but grief was one of the few things he couldn’t arrange into music and make sense of.
Still, he surprised you.
Owen listened differently when he imagined he only had one evening to learn you.
His gaze stayed on your face, soft but steady. He didn’t interrupt unless excitement got the better of him, and even then, he always remembered where you’d stopped. He brought up details you’d mentioned months ago and disguised them as guesses, smiling whenever he got one right.
“You’re cheating,” you said eventually.
Owen paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “How?”
“You already know me.”
“You know me too.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Seems relevant.”
“You’re using prior knowledge to impress your date.”
“That’s called preparation.”
“No, it’s called fraud.”
He leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. Candlelight caught in his eyes and warmed the damp curls near his forehead.
“Are you impressed?”
You took a drink instead of answering.
Owen’s smile deepened.
“That’s not a no.”
“Your pasta’s overcooked.”
“I didn’t ask about the pasta.”
“You should. It’s the main issue currently facing us.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“You’re getting cocky.”
“Is that bad?”
“It can be.”
Owen rested his forearms on the table. “D’you like it?”
Your pulse stumbled.
He asked it lightly, but his attention had changed. The room felt smaller than it had a second ago. Rain whispered against the window, quieter than the other night, and the music playing through Owen’s speakers had reached the space between songs.
You looked down at your wine.
“Your date shouldn’t have to reassure you constantly.”
“That wasn’t feedback.”
“It is now.”
“I think you’re abusing your authority.”
“You asked me to evaluate you.”
“And you’ve been very thorough.”
His voice had lowered.
You lifted your eyes again.
Owen was still smiling, but the nervousness had returned beneath it. You could see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his fingers curled against the table. For all the ridiculous confidence he could find when he was performing, he was waiting for you to decide whether he’d crossed a line.
You could’ve backpedaled.
Instead, you said, “You’re leaning.”
“So are you.”
You realized with some irritation that he was right.
You sat back.
Owen laughed under his breath.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m receiving mixed feedback.”
“You were doing better before you started congratulating yourself.”
He took another drink, but the glass didn’t hide his smile.
After dinner, Owen cleared the plates while you inspected the handwritten card he’d left beside your place setting.
PRACTICE DATE ASSESSMENT, it read across the top.
Beneath it, he’d drawn several categories with boxes ranging from poor to exceptional.
Conversation.
Table manners.
Emotional availability.
General romantic intrigue.
Kissing.
You held up the card when he came back from the kitchen.
“Kissing?”
Owen nearly dropped the plates.
“It’s a standard category.”
“According to who?”
“Everyone.”
“You made this.”
“Based on accepted criteria.”
“You left all the boxes blank.”
“I assumed you’d fill it in afterwards.”
“You assumed a lot.”
He set the plates down and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You said it was meant to be a full assessment.”
“I don’t remember promising practical demonstrations.”
“Then how can the results be accurate?”
The question came too quickly.
Owen had rehearsed it.
You narrowed your eyes. “Was this your plan?”
“What plan?”
“Dinner. Wine. Candles. Luring me into some elaborate kissing evaluation.”
“I haven’t lured anyone.”
“You shut the door behind me.”
“That’s generally what doors are for.”
“Owen.”
He lowered himself onto the sofa, leaving a very deliberate stretch of cushion between you.
His knee started bouncing.
“It was just a category,” he said.
“You could cross it out.”
“I could.”
Neither of you moved.
The music continued at a low volume. A guitar line drifted through the room, soft enough that you could hear the faint electrical hum beneath it. The candles had burned lower, wax spilling unevenly down the glass holders.
Owen stared at the assessment card in your hand.
Then he said, “I do think it’s relevant.”
“Of course you do.”
“What if that’s what’s going wrong?”
“You think women are rejecting you because of your kissing?”
“I don’t know. No one sends a detailed exit survey.”
“Maybe you should add a link after the next date.”
“I’m being serious.”
That softened you despite your better judgment.
Owen turned towards you, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa. “You said I think too much.”
“You do.”
“So I’m asking.”
“Asking what?”
“Whether you’d let me kiss you.”
The humor left the room so quietly that you almost didn’t notice until it was gone.
Owen’s face had gone very still. His knee had stopped bouncing. Whatever answer he expected, he’d committed himself to hearing it.
You looked at his mouth.
That was your first mistake.
The second was imagining it.
You’d done that before, though never anywhere Owen might see it happening. You’d wondered during late nights when his shoulder pressed against yours, during gigs when the stage lights sharpened every line of him, during conversations that drifted dangerously close to confession before one of you ruined them with a joke.
Wondering had always felt safe because it belonged to you alone.
This didn’t.
“One kiss,” you said.
Owen swallowed.
“For practice.”
“For practice,” he repeated.
“You’re not allowed to make it weird afterwards.”
“I never make things weird.”
“You once apologized to a chair after walking into it.”
“It were someone else’s chair.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
He moved closer.
Not much. Barely the width of your hand. Still, you felt the shift through the sofa before his thigh touched yours.
Owen looked at you as though he was waiting for another rule.
You should’ve given him one.
Instead, you said, “Well?”
His hand rose towards your face, hesitated for a second, then settled lightly beside your jaw. His fingers were warm. The careful touch sent a far stronger reaction through you than it had any right to.
He leaned in slowly enough for you to stop him.
You didn’t.
Owen kissed you.
It was soft. Almost painfully so.
His mouth brushed yours with cautious pressure, lingering for only a few seconds before he pulled away. His fingertips stayed against your skin. He was close enough that his breath warmed your lips, but his eyes had already opened, searching your expression.
“Well?” he whispered.
You hated how unsteady your voice sounded.
“You were too careful.”
Owen blinked. “Too careful?”
“You asked for feedback.”
“I know. I just…” His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “Wasn’t expecting that.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. More technical language.”
“You barely kissed me.”
“I was being respectful.”
“You looked like you were defusing a bomb.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That bad?”
“I didn’t say bad.”
Owen’s thumb moved once along the edge of your jaw.
“No,” he said quietly. “You didn’t.”
The second kiss was different.
He closed the distance before you could make another joke, one hand sliding behind your neck as his mouth found yours with enough certainty to steal the breath you’d drawn. The caution hadn’t disappeared, but it’d changed into control, his attention sharpened by permission.
Your fingers caught in the front of his shirt.
Owen made a low sound against your mouth.
It broke whatever was left of the exercise.
He kissed you again before the last one had properly ended, mouth still warm and damp against yours as he tilted his head and pulled you in until your knees pressed hard against his thigh. His hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading against the small of your back to hold you there while his tongue traced slowly across your lower lip, teasing once before slipping into your mouth the second you opened for him. The taste of wine lingered on him, sharp and sweet beneath the heat of his breath, and the low sound that caught in his throat seemed to vibrate straight through you when your tongue met his. After that, whatever restraint he’d been clinging to disappeared. He kissed you deeper, wetter, his tongue stroking against yours with a hungry, almost desperate rhythm while his grip tightened at your waist and dragged you closer until there wasn’t any space left between your body and his.
You’d expected awkwardness. Teeth knocking. Nervous laughter.
Instead, Owen kissed the same way he listened to music: completely, intensely, with his whole attention fixed on every tiny change in rhythm.
By the time you pulled back, your grip had wrinkled his shirt.
Owen’s lips were flushed. His eyes stayed on yours.
“Better?”
The hint of smugness should’ve irritated you.
It didn’t.
“You need more practice.”
He laughed once, breathless, and kissed you again.
The assessment card slipped from your lap and disappeared beneath the coffee table.
Owen shifted closer, following the pull of your body until his chest brushed yours. His hand moved along your side, stopping whenever your breathing changed, learning the response before continuing.
“Is this part of the lesson?” he murmured.
“You wanted practical feedback.”
“I’m committed to improving.”
“You’re talking too much.”
“That’s never been one of the categories.”
“It is now.”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “And how am I doing?”
You pulled him back by his collar.
“Still under review.”
Owen’s smile disappeared into another kiss.
The worn fabric sofa creaks under the weight of him half-covering you, his mouth hot and wet against your neck. Too hot. Too wet. Too fast. He's kissing you like he's trying to win something, like there's a timer counting down somewhere, and the soft scrape of his barely-there stubble against your skin is the only part of this that actually lands—rough, alive, real.
His breath comes in quick, uneven bursts against your throat, and the hand that had been moving so carefully along your side is suddenly fisted in the cushion beside your hip, knuckles white beneath the thin skin stretched over them, like he’s pulled it away before it could reach for something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for. No longer on your waist. No longer following the line of your thigh. Not touching you at all.
You let him have a few seconds. Enough to register what’s wrong. The way his lips move too fast, skipping over the skin just below your ear where he could’ve stayed for an hour. The way his body hovers instead of settling, all that earlier confidence tightening into restraint as he braces for you to stop him.
Then you do.
“You’re rushing.”
Your voice comes out steady, almost bored, and the effect is immediate. His mouth freezes against your neck. His whole body goes still, arrested and caught mid-motion, like a record needle lifted mid-track.
He pulls back, and the shift in his breathing is sharp. A caught breath. A recalibration.
"What?" He blinks down at you, blue eyes wide and dark in the dim lamp glow, hair falling across his forehead in that shaggy mess that makes him look younger than twenty-three. "I'm—I thought—"
"You thought faster was better." You hold his gaze. "It's not."
His mouth opens. Closes. A flush crawls up his neck, visible even in the low light, and he lets out a breathless laugh that's half-embarrassment, half-relief. "Right. Yeah. No, you're—you're right. I'm just—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "I've been thinking about this all night. All week, actually. Since the pasta."
"I know."
"And I got ahead of myself."
"I know that too."
He laughs again, quieter this time, and the sound is warmer now, less frantic. His hand finally moves, uncurling from the cushion and settling on your hip, palm flat, fingers pressing just enough to feel the heat of you through your shirt.
“Okay. Okay, I hear you. Slower.”
“Slower,” you repeat. “Let it build.”
“Build.” He parrots, saying it like he was testing the word's weight on his tongue. “Right. Build-up. I can do build-up.”
You don't smile, but something in your posture shifts—a softening, a permission. "Show me."
His jaw tightens. Not in frustration. In focus. He drops his gaze to your mouth, then to your throat, then back to your eyes, and this time when he leans in, it's different. Slower. Deliberate. His mouth brushes the corner of yours first—barely a kiss, more a question—then drags down your jaw, lips parted, breath warm against your skin.
He pauses at your pulse point. Breathes there. Lets you feel the weight of him waiting. Then his mouth closes over the spot just below your ear—the one he missed before—and stays. No frantic movement. No rushing. Just the wet heat of his lips, the gentle suction, the soft scrape of teeth that makes your breath catch before you can stop it.
"Better?" he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is lower now, rougher, the nervous edge blunted into something almost cocky.
"Getting there."
He huffs a laugh against your throat, and the vibration of it travels down your spine. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, fingers splayed, palm pressing heat through the denim of your jeans. He takes his time—one agonizing inch at a time, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the inside seam, feeling the curve of muscle beneath.
The dust motes float in the lamplight, suspended and golden, and the faint smell of rain on pavement drifts through the cracked window—wet asphalt, ozone, the memory of a storm that passed hours ago. His cologne mixes with it, something clean and slightly sweet, and the combination is so specifically him that it makes your chest ache.
His thumb presses higher. Deliberate. Finding the spot where pressure turns into something else, where the seam of your jeans meets the heat of you. Your hips shift before you can think about it. A small movement. Involuntary. He notices. Of course he notices. His thumb stills, then presses harder, exactly where you need it, the pressure of denim against sensitive flesh making your breath stutter. He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark now, focused, the boyish softness sharpened into something hungrier. "Yeah? Is this better?"
You don’t answer with words, you answer him with a kiss.
Not a gentle one, but not rushed either. Your hand finds the back of his neck and pulls him down, and your mouth meets his with a hunger that surprises you both, all teeth and tongue and the wet slide of lips finally taking the time to feel each other. He makes a sharp, startled sound against your mouth that melts into a groan as the hand on your hip slides down to your thigh, fingers digging into the denim like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.
You don’t.
His tongue meets yours, and it’s messy, sloppy in the best way, all heat and spit and the taste of the wine from dinner still lingering at the edges. He kisses like he talks when he’s nervous: too much, everything spilling out at once. But there’s something else underneath it now. Something focused. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheekbone as he angles your head and kisses you deeper.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, the word half-lost between kisses. “That’s—you’re—”
He breaks off and kisses you again, harder this time. His tongue slides against yours, wet and insistent, and you feel it everywhere: in the ache between your thighs, in the way your toes curl inside your socks, in the heat spreading steadily through your chest.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? The talking thing. When I get nervous, I just—I talk, and I know I should stop, but the words keep coming and—”
You kiss him quiet.
His laugh vibrates against your lips, and this time, when his hand slides from your jaw down your throat, it’s deliberate. Slow. His fingers trace your collarbone, feather-light, and you shiver.
“Better?” he asks, that hint of cockiness slipping through the nerves again.
“Getting there.”
His grin flashes sharp and bright before he dips his head to your neck.
His mouth finds the spot below your ear again, the one he rushed past the first time, and he works it with a patience that makes your hips lift beneath him. Open-mouthed kisses, the wet heat of his tongue, the careful scrape of teeth that pulls a gasp from you. His hand trails lower, palm gliding down your chest, and when his thumb brushes over your nipple through your shirt, you arch into him.
“Yeah?” He breathes the word against your skin as his fingers find the button of your jeans. “Can I—?”
“Yes.”
The word comes out rough, almost a command, and he doesn't waste time. He has your jeans unbuttoned and unzipped in seconds, his hand sliding inside, palm flat against your belly, then lower. His fingers find the heat of you through your underwear, and he groans—a low, desperate sound that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core.
"You're so wet," he murmurs, and there's wonder in his voice, like he can't quite believe this is happening. "I can feel it through—you're soaking, and I've barely even—"
He presses harder, his middle finger finding your clit through the damp fabric, and you bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
"Don't do that," he says, looking up at you, and his eyes are dark and serious. "I want to hear you."
He pushes your underwear aside and slides a finger inside you—slow, deliberate, watching your face the whole time. The stretch of it, the wet slide, the way your breath catches and your head falls back against the sofa cushion—he takes it all in, pupils dilating, mouth falling open.
"Christ," he whispers, and his voice is wrecked. "You feel—you're so tight, and so wet, and I haven't even—" He pushes a second finger in, and you gasp, your hips rolling against his hand. "Is that good? Tell me that's good."
"It's good." The words come out strangled. "Owen—"
He groans at the sound of his name, and his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. He works you slowly, deliberately, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers, and you can feel yourself getting closer, the heat building in your belly like a coil winding tight.
"Not yet," you manage, and your hand closes around his wrist, stopping him. "If you make me come like this, I'm going to be useless for the rest of the night."
He laughs, breathless and bright. "That's the goal, though. Isn't it?"
"The goal is mutual."
Something shifts in his expression—a softening, a warmth that cuts through the heat. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He pulls his hand out of your jeans, and you feel the loss of it like a physical ache. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and you watch, transfixed, as he licks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.
"You taste incredible," he says, and there's no shyness in it. No nervous chatter. Just fact. "I want to taste you properly. I want my face between your legs until you can't remember your own name."
The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you're already reaching for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head. He helps you, tossing it aside, and then his hands are on your shirt, tugging it off, and the cool air hits your skin as he unclips your bra and slides the straps down your shoulders.
He stops. Stares.
"Jesus," he breathes, and his voice is reverent. "Your tits are—" He swallows, hard. "Can I—?"
You nod, and his mouth is on you before you finish the movement. He takes your nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, sucking gently, and the sensation arcs through you like electricity. His hand finds your other breast, thumb rolling over the peak, and you moan—a real sound, raw and unguarded.
He groans against your skin, the vibration making you arch into him, and his hand slides down your stomach, back into your jeans. He finds you wet and ready, and he pushes a finger inside you again, then two, fucking you slowly as his mouth works your nipple.
"Owen." His name comes out broken, desperate. "I need—"
He pulls back, looks at you with dark, hungry eyes. "What do you need?"
"I need you to fuck me."
The words hang in the air between them, raw and honest, and something in his expression shifts—a crack in the confidence, a flash of the earnest boy underneath. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He looks around the living room, at the sofa, the lamp, the dust motes still floating in the golden light. Then he looks back at you, and there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth—nervous and hopeful and so fucking endearing it makes your chest ache.
"We should—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "My room. Upstairs. Because if Matt and Freya come home and find us going at it on the sofa, I will actually die. And not in a sexy way. In a 'my brother will never let me live this down' way."
You laugh, and it breaks something open between you, the tension easing into something warmer. "Lead the way."
He stands, offers you his hand, and you take it. He pulls you up, and you're both half-undressed, flushed and breathing hard, and the absurdity of it hits you—standing in his living room, jeans unbuttoned, bra discarded, about to follow him up the stairs like this is the most natural thing in the world.
His hand stays wrapped around yours as he leads you up the narrow staircase, his bare back warm in the dim light. His room is at the end of the hall—small, cluttered, an acoustic guitar propped in the corner and sheets tangled on the bed. He kicks the door shut behind you, and the click of the latch feels like a seal.
He turns to face you, and for a moment, he just looks at you. Takes you in. The flush on your chest, the way your jeans hang loose on your hips, the mark he left on your neck.
"This isn't practice anymore," he says quietly. "I need you to know that. Whatever this is—it's not a lesson. It's not feedback. It's me wanting you so badly I can barely think straight."
Your heart hammers against your ribs. "I know."
"Good." He steps closer, his hands finding your waist, sliding under the waistband of your jeans. "Because I don't think I could fake it if I tried."
He kisses you again, deep and slow, and his hands push your jeans down over your hips. They fall to the floor, and you step out of them, standing in just your underwear as he pulls back to look at you.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so beautiful."
You reach for his belt, unbuckling it with clumsy fingers, and he helps you push his jeans down. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, and you wrap your hand around it without thinking. He gasps, his head falling back, and you feel the weight of him in your palm, the heat, the throb of his pulse.
"Assessment," you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "You're very hard. That's a good sign."
He laughs, breathless, and his hand covers yours on his cock. "Yeah? What else?"
"Good size." You stroke him slowly, watching his face. "Nice shape. Looks like it would feel good inside me."
He groans, his hips thrusting into your hand. "Fuck. You can't just—say things like that. I'll—"
"You'll what?"
He doesn't answer. He pulls you onto the bed, your bodies tangling in the sheets, and his mouth finds yours again, hungry and desperate. His hand slides between your legs, pushing your underwear aside, and he groans when he feels how wet you still are.
"I need to taste you," he says, and it's not a request. "I need my mouth on your pussy. Right now."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He slides down the bed, his mouth trailing down your stomach, and when his tongue finally touches you, you cry out. He eats you like he's starving, like he's been thinking about this for weeks, his tongue finding every sensitive spot, his fingers curling inside you as his mouth works your clit.
You're close again, the heat building, and you feel yourself tightening around his fingers. "Owen—I'm going to—"
He doubles down, his tongue flat against you, his fingers fucking you faster, and you come with a gasp that turns into a moan, your hips bucking against his face as the orgasm rips through you. He works you through it, licking gently as you shudder, and when he finally surfaces, his mouth is slick and his eyes are dark and satisfied.
"Assessment," he says, grinning. "You taste incredible. Ten out of ten. Would enthusiastically eat again."
You laugh, breathless, and pull him up for a kiss. You taste yourself on his lips, and it's intimate in a way that makes your chest tight. Your hand finds his cock again, stroking him slowly, and he groans against your mouth.
"Condom," you murmur. "Do you have—"
"Nightstand. Top drawer."
You reach over, fumbling blindly, and your fingers close around the box. You pull one out, tear it open with your teeth, and he watches you roll it down his length with an intensity that makes you shiver.
He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against you, and he pauses. Looks at you.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He pushes in, slow, and the stretch of it makes you gasp. He's bigger than you expected, filling you completely, and he pauses when he's fully inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel—I can't—"
He starts to move, slow at first, his hips finding a rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. He kisses you as he fucks you, deep and messy, his tongue sliding against yours in time with his thrusts.
"Harder," you breathe, and he obliges, his pace quickening, the sound of skin slapping skin punctuating the air. His hand finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you feel yourself climbing toward another orgasm.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough and desperate. "I want to feel you come on my cock."
The words undo you. You shatter, your cunt clenching around him, and he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering as he comes inside you.
He collapses onto you, his weight a warm pressure, his face buried in your neck. You feel his breath, hot and uneven, and your hands find his back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades.
After a long moment, he pulls out, disposes of the condom, and returns to the bed, pulling you against him. The sheets are tangled, the room smells like sex, the rain having stopped by the time the room went quiet again.
The rain had stopped by the time the room went quiet again, leaving you with the soft whir of Owen’s laptop on the desk and the occasional car moving through the wet street outside. The candles downstairs had probably burned themselves out, the abandoned pasta plates were still beside the sink, and somewhere beneath the coffee table was an assessment card neither of you had finished.
Owen lay on his back with one arm beneath your shoulders, his other hand moving absently along your arm and tracing the same path over and over, as though he needed the reassurance of finding you there each time. His hair was a mess against the pillow, and he looked exhausted, pleased and increasingly troubled.
You watched the concern gather across his face.
“You’re thinking,” you said.
Owen looked at you. “I do that sometimes.”
“You’re doing it loudly.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You don’t need to.”
He stared up at the ceiling again. For the first several minutes after he’d pulled you against him, he hadn’t been able to stop smiling, but then you’d made the mistake of mentioning the date. Not what had happened afterward, but the date itself. Owen’s arm had tightened around you when you jokingly announced that he’d passed and was officially ready to try the real thing with someone else.
You hadn’t expected him to go quiet.
“So,” you said, trying to drag the mood back toward something safer, “final assessment.”
“Right.”
“Conversation was good once you stopped behaving like you’d memorized a list of interview questions.”
“Generous.”
“Table manners need work.”
“That wine glass was unstable.”
“You elbowed it.”
“The table’s too small.”
“General romantic intrigue…”
Owen turned his head toward you, and you stretched the pause out until his mouth twitched.
“Acceptable,” you said.
“Acceptable?”
“You shouldn’t argue with the feedback.”
“After everything I’ve done for this course?”
“You’re getting marked down for attitude.”
“I cooked.”
“You boiled pasta until it turned to mush.”
“I bought a flower.”
“You stole Freya’s.”
“I had permission.”
“It was fake.”
“It’ll last longer.”
The reply was so painfully Owen that something tightened beneath your ribs, and you looked away before he could see it.
“And kissing?” he asked.
“You’re very invested in that category.”
“I value comprehensive results.”
“You passed.”
“Just passed?”
“Owen.”
He smiled, but it faded before it had the chance to settle.
“And that’s it?”
The question was quiet enough to change the air between you.
You pushed yourself onto one elbow. “What d’you mean?”
“We finish the assessment. I’m apparently ready to be inflicted on the general public, and you go home.”
“That was the arrangement.”
“I know.”
Owen’s fingers stopped moving against your arm. It should’ve been easy to tease him after he’d given you enough material to last for weeks, from the handwritten evaluation card to Freya’s immortal fabric flower downstairs, but instead, you studied his face.
“You’re upset.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ve already admitted that means you’re upset.”
“I admitted nothing of the sort.”
“Owen.”
He let out a long breath and rubbed one hand over his face.
“This was a stupid idea.”
Your stomach dropped. “You’re the one who suggested it.”
“Exactly. Historically, that should’ve warned us.”
“You didn’t seem to think it was stupid an hour ago.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
He gave you a look, and heat climbed into your face, but you refused to back away from the question.
“Owen, it was your rule too. Nothing counted.”
“I never said that.”
“You agreed.”
“I repeated what you said.”
“That’s usually how agreeing works.”
“I didn’t want to argue.”
“You always want to argue.”
“Not when you were offering to go on a date with me.”
The words came out sharper than everything else, and Owen closed his eyes beneath your stare, seeming to realize there was no way to drag the admission back. His hand dropped onto the duvet, fingers curling into the fabric.
“What does that mean?” you asked.
Owen opened his eyes again but didn’t look at you. “It means I wanted the date.”
“You needed practice.”
“No, I didn’t.”
A startled laugh escaped you. “You spent an entire evening listing everything you did wrong.”
“Yeah, well, there’s no shortage of material.”
“So you invented the practice date?”
“I didn’t invent the concept.”
“You tricked me.”
“I didn’t trick you.”
“You made a form.”
“That was for structure.”
“You put kissing on it.”
He finally looked at you, frustration and embarrassment fighting across his face. “Because I wanted to kiss you.”
The room went still.
Owen swallowed, but once the confession had started, it seemed to pull the rest out with it.
“I wanted to take you out,” he said. “I wanted to buy you dinner and sit across from you while you laughed at me. I wanted to know what’d happen if I asked you to kiss me. But I couldn’t ask you on a real date, because if you said no, I’d still have to see you all the time and pretend it didn’t bother me.”
“Owen…”
“And this seemed safer.”
“You thought sleeping with me on a fake date would be safer?”
“I didn’t plan that far ahead.”
“You made an assessment card.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I planned the date. I didn’t plan…” He gestured vaguely between you, the duvet slipping lower across his chest. “Everything.”
You sat up farther, pulling the sheet with you.
“So you didn’t need dating help.”
“I probably do need dating help. Just not for the reason I said.”
“What reason, then?”
Owen’s expression softened into something almost apologetic.
“Because when I like someone, I become a complete nightmare.”
Your irritation cracked. “A nightmare?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.”
“I get ahead of myself. I think about everything all at once, then I try to act normal, but in my head I’m already imagining how they’ll fit into my life, and apparently that’s considered intense.”
“Generally, yeah.”
“You’re doing a terrible job of reassuring me.”
“You lied to me about why we were doing this.”
“I created a controlled romantic environment.”
“You manipulated me with supermarket wine.”
“It wasn’t cheap.”
“The label was peeling off.”
“It tasted fine.”
You tried to stay annoyed, but Owen watched your mouth betray you.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m considering suffocating you with this pillow.”
“That’s still emotional investment.”
You shoved his shoulder, and Owen caught your wrist before you could do it again. His grip was gentle, but he didn’t let go.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the humor disappearing from his voice. “I should’ve just asked you.”
“Yes.”
“I was scared you’d say no.”
“You had no reason to think I’d say yes.”
His face fell so quickly that you nearly laughed again.
“That’s not the same as saying I wouldn’t have,” you clarified.
“Oh.”
Owen’s ears turned red. Despite everything that had happened, despite the confidence he’d found once you touched him, that single syllable contained the same awkward man who’d buttoned his shirt wrong before opening the front door.
You lowered yourself beside him again.
“This was still a terrible plan.”
“I know.”
“The fake flower was unsettling.”
“I’ll give it back to Freya.”
“The pasta was awful.”
“You had two portions.”
“I was hungry.”
“The kissing category was obvious.”
“I panicked while making the form.”
“And you could’ve saved yourself a ridiculous amount of trouble by asking me on a real date.”
Owen’s thumb brushed across the inside of your wrist.
“Would you have said yes?”
You let him wait.
It was cruel, maybe, but after a year of watching Owen build entire romances out of glances and coincidences, it felt fair to leave him without the ending for a few seconds.
“Yes,” you said.
His face changed, relief appearing first, then disbelief, followed by the beginning of a smile so open and boyish that you suddenly understood why he kept risking humiliation for the possibility of feeling exactly this.
“You would?”
“You’re ruining it.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Right. Calm.”
Owen visibly tried to rearrange his expression into something more restrained, but he failed, and you laughed as you leaned down to kiss him. His hand immediately settled behind your neck, keeping you there when you tried to pull back; the kiss stayed soft, but there wasn’t any uncertainty left in it, and Owen smiled against your mouth before following you in for one more quick kiss when you finally drew away.
“Tomorrow,” you said.
“What about it?”
“You can take me on a real date.”
Owen’s eyebrows lifted. “Thought we just had one.”
“This one didn’t count.”
“It counted to me.”
The simple certainty behind it left you quiet for a second, and Owen looked far too pleased with himself, so you recovered by pulling the pillow from behind him and pressing it into his face until his laughter came muffled through the fabric.
“Tomorrow,” you repeated. “Start over. No forms, no false pretenses and preferably edible food.”
He dragged the pillow down far enough to look at you.
“Can there still be kissing?”
“We’ll see how you behave.”
“I think my previous assessment should carry over.”
“You’re assuming you passed.”
“You said I passed.”
“I’ve reconsidered.”
“That’s completely unethical."
“You slept with your dating coach.”
Owen tossed the pillow aside and pulled you against him again. “You let your student kiss you.”
“You asked if you could.”
“And you said yes.”
“Only for educational purposes.”
“Course.”
His grin had become unbearable.
You placed one hand over his mouth, but Owen kissed your palm, then your wrist, his expression softening as he looked at you.
“For the record,” he said, “I’m glad you’re a terrible teacher.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I haven’t learned a thing.”
You narrowed your eyes, and Owen tightened his arm around your waist before you could reach for the pillow again.
“Except,” he added quickly, “that you’ll go out with me tomorrow.”
You settled back against his chest, listening to the quick beat beneath your ear.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re planning to interrogate me about crisps.”
He pressed a kiss into your hair.
“No promises.”
