Daniel's back is pressed against the door, one leg bent awkwardly against the seat, the other stretched under yours. The vinyl is warm beneath you both, but he's sweating anyway—palms damp, breathing shallow, like your lips are made of fire and he's about to touch them again.

"You know," he says, voice a little too loud, a little too cocky, "if someone walked by right now, they'd think I was real smooth."

He tries to smirk. It almost works—until your thigh shifts across his lap and he lets out a broken little sound in the back of his throat. His hands are splayed awkwardly on your hips, like he doesn't know whether to pull you closer or apologize. But he doesn't move them. He can't.

"Jesus," he breathes, "I—okay. Okay. You're on top of me. This is happening. I can handle this. Totally."

He can't.

You lean down. Your lips ghost over his, barely touching. He flinches like you slapped him, then laughs nervously—his hand sliding up your spine like it's got a mind of its own. His other hand cups the back of your knee, pulling your leg tighter around his hip, letting you straddle him completely.

"Is this... okay?" he whispers, voice raw, almost reverent.

When you nod, he swallows so hard you can hear it. His mouth crashes into yours like a wave hitting sand—wet, open, messy. All tongue and teeth, his hands gripping tighter like he's scared you'll disappear mid-kiss. His hips twitch up without meaning to, and you feel him—hard, already, embarrassingly so—and he jerks like he wants to hide it.