lover girl ✧.*

𑣲 some things are worth it pt2 I @thyme-in-a-bubble

𑣲 death wish love I @fireinmoonshot

As members of rival storm chasing groups, you and Tyler Owens have hated each other since the start – well, you were supposed to. Little do you know, Tyler has been head over heels for you for months, and it's only when he nearly loses you that he realises he's done with pretending to hate you.

𑣲 unpredictable I @/fireinmoonshot

When you meet Tyler Owens, you have no intention of getting to know him – you know what kind of reputation he has in town. Tyler, on the other hand, has only one plan: win you over in any way he possibly can.

𑣲 the hard way I @/fireinmoonshot

You and Tyler Owens have a bad habit of butting heads, but all it takes is one hint of jealousy and things change in the blink of an eye.

𑣲 so much love in oklahoma I @sehnsuchts-trunken

Tyler saves you from a tornado one day. The next, he shows up at your doorstep.

𑣲 scared half to death I @the-sunflower-room

tyler owens is not easily angered, but when the love of his life runs into an incoming tornado without a second thought, his emotions get the better of him.

𑣲 tornados aren’t more important than you I @cassidyandonlycassidy

𑣲 fearless I @bright-molina

tyler comes home to find you not pleased whatsoever with his latest tornado wrangling trip

𑣲 death wish love I @ahsokaismyqueen

You wake up in a hospital with no recollection of how you got there, only that you are now in pain. Thankfully, the presence of your boyfriend makes it a little better.

𑣲 orange juice I @/ahsokaismyqueen

When it's time to interview a group of storm chasers for your new book, you get sent back to your hometown. You never would have guessed one of the people you'd be interviewing would be your ex boyfriend. And you might still be a little in love with him.

𑣲 where you belong I @briefinquiries

you're caught in the middle of a tornado, tyler's there in the aftermath.

𑣲 no hesitation I @/briefinquiries

Tyler would be the type of guy that if a girl came up to him and said ‘this guy is creepy, pls pretend to be my bf’ he would be like ‘hell ya’

𑣲 say don’t go I @/briefinquiries

𑣲 chase your fears I @/briefinquiries

You and your younger brother are roadtripping across the US when you encounter a tornado. Luckily, the tornado wrangler himself shows up to help.

𑣲 jealous!tyler I @cowboybeepboop

𑣲 playing pretend I @alisonsfics

you’ve had a crush on javi for a while, so it stings when he invites you on a chase and is flirting with other girls. tyler offers to help you make javi jealous, helping you realize maybe the cowboy isn’t so bad after all.

𑣲 heartbeat I @ddejavvu

𑣲 mayberry I @bartxnhood

𑣲 about time I @seresinhangmanjake

You’ve been Tyler’s best friend since childhood, but a near-death experience makes him realize he feels much more for you than friendship and he shouldn’t have allowed himself to deny it for so long. 

𑣲 a little lie I @roanofarcc

when a storm tyler is chasing changes course, putting you and your daughter in the direct line of danger, tyler drops everything to reach you. 

𑣲 through the wreckage I @rootedinrevisions

When a devastating tornado tears through town, Tyler Owens faces his worst nightmare: the woman he loves is missing. Tyler is thrust into a desperate search through the wreckage to find her. As the storm's aftermath unfolds, it forces him to confront his fears, regrets, and hopes for the future.

𑣲 you’re losing me I @mickandmusings

when tyler, yet again, forgets an important date while he's caught up in chasing, y/n is at her wits end. their relationship feels like it's dying, and he just might have dealt the final blow. after a series of rather unfortunate happenings, it's up to the rest of the wranglers to set them free from the disaster they created.

𑣲 tiny tornado I @marvelwitchergilmore

When a tornado rips through a rodeo, you save a life you weren't expecting to have to save. Upon taking them home, Tyler comes to find out they're a Tiny Tornado.

𑣲 sweetheart I @/marvelwitchergilmore

Times when you told Tyler to not call you 'Sweetheart' and the one time you did.

𑣲 tornado shelter I @/marvelwitchergilmore

Whilst you're staying at a motel, you meet Tyler Owens. His work just so happens to chase him.

You glanced out the window at the setting sun and sighed. You were 22, freshly free for the summer, thousands of miles away from your posh London flat, and still you couldn’t shake the nerves curling in your chest.

You opened Tinder.

It had been Lucy’s idea. “San Diego’s full of hot people, babe. At least talk to someone who’s not me for once.”

You’d only swiped a few times when a match popped up.

“Blake.” 28. Works in finance. Cute smile. Tattoos.

Hey, wanna grab a drink? I know a place right around the corner. Pub-style. Casual.

You hesitated for maybe ten seconds.

Sure, you typed.

Send me the location.

The pub was low-lit and buzzing — wood-paneled walls, soccer on the TVs, a dartboard in the back. You stood awkwardly by the bar, still clutching your phone like a lifeline, eyes scanning for anyone who looked like a “Blake.”

He wasn’t there.

You ordered a drink anyway. Gin and tonic, your comfort zone.

Twenty minutes passed. Your phone stayed blank. You gave yourself another five before you'd call it quits and walk out.

But that’s when he walked in.

Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired — he had that kind of posture that said military even before the uniform came into view. He wore jeans and a dark Henley instead, but the aura stuck. Confident. Casual. Like he knew the room would shift when he entered, and he didn’t mind at all.

He caught your eye as he approached the bar.

And then he smiled — slow and lazy, like he wasn’t in any rush — and said, “You waiting for someone, or just looking like you are?”

You looked up from your drink, caught off guard.

The man in front of you wasn’t Blake. He was… older. Late thirties? No — early forties, probably. The fine lines around his eyes gave him away, but they only added to his appeal. Sun-kissed skin, square jaw, hair a little tousled like he’d run a hand through it before walking in. His shirt stretched just enough over his chest and arms that you knew he looked good without trying.

He was the kind of man people stared at. And, judging by the glint in his eye, he knew it.

“I was,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “But I don’t think he’s coming.”

The man hummed, low and sympathetic. “Let me guess — Tinder date?”

You blinked. “Was it that obvious?”

He grinned. “Well, you don’t look like a local, and you’ve been nursing that drink like it’s your only friend.”

You blushed instantly, your cheeks heating in a way that made you look away. “Rude.”

“Not wrong, though.”

You bit back a smile and glanced up at him again. His eyes were green, bright even in the dim lighting. There was a bit of stubble along his jaw — not messy, just enough to make him look like he didn’t care too much, which somehow made it worse.

He leaned one forearm on the bar beside you. Not too close. But close enough that your heart stuttered a little.

“Can I buy you another?” he asked. “Unless you’re waiting on a better offer.”

“I doubt there’s a better one coming,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.

That made him laugh — a real laugh, low and smooth. It did something to your chest.

“What are you drinking?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Classic,” he said, motioning to the bartender. “You don’t look old enough for gin and tonic.”

You raised a brow. “I’m twenty-two.”

That made him blink — just for a second. It wasn’t judgmental, just mildly surprised. Then he smirked. “Dangerously young.”

“And you?” you asked, before nerves could make you chicken out. “You don’t look old enough to make me feel like I’m breaking the law.”

He chuckled again, this time slower. “I’m forty-three.”

You blinked. Forty-three. You’d never in your life been into older men — they reminded you too much of professors, or your dad’s friends. But this man? He was tall, sharp, magnetic. Confident without being gross about it. Like he knew who he was, and he’d stopped apologizing for it years ago.

“Still want that drink?” he asked, holding your gaze.

You nodded, cheeks still warm. “Yeah. Please.”

He handed you the drink himself when it arrived, letting his fingers brush yours — warm, steady, intentional.

“To your tragic Tinder date,” he said, lifting his whiskey. “May he forever regret standing you up.”

You laughed softly, clinking your glass against his. “That’s dramatic.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, smirking. “But I meant it.”

You took a sip — cold, sharp, familiar — and tried to ignore the way your heart picked up when he shifted a little closer on the barstool. His knee bumped yours. He didn’t move it.

“So,” he said, turning his body more toward you. “What brings a pretty Brit all the way to San Diego?”

Your blush came instantly — not from the compliment, but the ease with which he gave it. Like it was a fact, not something he expected a reaction to.

“I’m here visiting a friend. Her family lives here.”

He gave a low, thoughtful hum. “And how long are you in town?”

“The whole summer.”

That got his attention. His brow lifted just slightly, his smile edging toward a smirk.

“Well,” he said, “lucky us.”

You hid your face behind your glass. “You’re relentless.”

“Not my fault you’re easy to fluster.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, even as your cheeks burned.

His grin widened. “Sure you’re not.”

There was something electric between you now — an unspoken awareness. Your thighs were still pressed together, the contact so warm you could feel it right to your core. Every time he shifted, even a little, your breath hitched. And he noticed. God, of course he noticed.

“Your accent’s gonna be a problem,” he said suddenly, almost conversationally.

You blinked. “My… what?”

He leaned in, just slightly, voice dropping.

“That accent. I’m not gonna lie — it’s sexy as hell.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came out. Just a high, breathless sound that barely passed for a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” you said, covering your face with one hand. “I swear I’m usually more—more composed than this.”

“Oh, don’t be composed on my account,” he murmured. “This is much more fun.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Do you flirt like this with everyone you meet?”

“Only the ones I want to see again.”

Your stomach flipped.

You tried to hold his gaze, but it was hard — his eyes were too direct, too calm, like he already knew what you'd say before you did.

“You still don’t even know my name,” you mumbled.

He tilted his head. “Neither do you.”

You smiled, soft and nervous. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, voice low. “Or maybe it just makes things more interesting.”

It didn’t take him too long to have you pinned against the wall of the women’s bathroom.

You weren’t sure how it happened, not exactly. One minute he was making you blush over a second drink, and the next — after a comment too smooth to be innocent, a look too heavy to be polite — he was following you down the narrow hallway at the back of the bar, hand warm and certain on the small of your back.

And now here you were.

Your spine pressed against cold tile. His palm flat against the wall beside your head. His other hand gripped your waist firmly, thumb brushing under the hem of your shirt like he had every right to be there.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “and I will.”

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He was too close. Too intentional. Every movement had weight. Every glance, a purpose.

Your breath caught as he leaned in, mouth ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“You’ve been blushing all night,” he murmured. “But you didn’t stop me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you admitted softly, barely a whisper.

His hand slid up, fingers curling gently around your jaw to tilt your face toward him.

“Good girl,” he said — low, approving, possessive — and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and hunger and control, his mouth claiming yours without hesitation, his body pinning you so firmly that your knees nearly buckled. His hands roamed without rush — confident, exploratory, like he was mapping you by feel and taking mental notes of everywhere you shivered.

And you were shivering — overwhelmed and burning up all at once, one hand clutching the front of his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

His thigh wedged between yours, dragging a desperate sound from your throat that he swallowed with a growl of satisfaction.

“Look at you,” he muttered against your mouth, hips rolling just enough to make you gasp. “Sweet little thing, letting a stranger have you like this.”

“I’m not usually—” you started, breathless.

“I know you’re not,” he cut in. “You don’t have to say it.”

His mouth found the side of your throat, sucking gently before dragging his teeth along your skin, just enough to make you tremble.

“Yet you don’t seem scared of me.” He whispered.

“I’m not.”

He smiled against your skin. “No. You’re not. You like it.”

Your head tipped back against the wall with a soft thud. He slid one hand down, down, skimming along the waistband of your skirt like a promise, like he’d go further if you asked. But he didn’t rush it.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me,” he said, voice rough now, one hand pressed flat against your belly. “And if we keep going like this, I’m not gonna stop.”

You bit your lip. Heart hammering. Eyes wide.

And then you said it.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

The second you said the words, his expression shifted — something darker flickered in his eyes, something possessive. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, and his thigh pressed more firmly between yours.

You gasped, not from surprise but from the sudden, delicious pressure.

“Didn’t think so,” Jake said lowly, dragging his nose along your jaw. “You’ve been soaking this in all night. Every blush, every little gasp — you’ve been begging me to take control.”

His hands were everywhere now — one sliding up the back of your thigh, fingers finding the edge of your skirt, tugging it up with slow, deliberate purpose.

You whimpered when he pressed his thigh up again between your legs, this time angled just right. His hands returned to your hips, holding you still for a moment — just long enough to make you ache — before he spoke again.

“Come on, sweetheart. Show me how much you want it.”

Your breath hitched. And then you moved — hesitant at first, rocking your hips just slightly, grinding down onto the muscle of his thigh.

The noise that left his throat was primal.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice hot against your ear. “Look at you. Fucking gorgeous like this — needy, desperate, rubbing yourself all over me.”

Your hands curled in the fabric of his shirt. You couldn’t think — you could barely breathe.

He kissed you again, rougher this time, his tongue claiming your mouth while your hips rolled helplessly against his leg. You were trembling, thighs tight around him, chasing every bit of friction you could get.

Jake broke the kiss, panting, and then his hand slid up — across your ribs, your chest, until it curled around your throat.

Not tight. Not dangerous. But firm.

Controlling.

Your eyes widened, and his gaze pinned you in place.

“You okay?” he asked, voice husky but steady.

You nodded — too fast — and whispered, “Yes.”

He smiled. Not sweet. Smug.

“You like this,” he said. “You like being handled.”

Your hips jerked against him in answer.

“You gonna come just like this?” he murmured. “Grinding on my thigh, letting a man you just met ruin you in a bar bathroom like a fucking slut?”

You moaned softly — and he didn’t even give you time to answer. His hands slid back down to your hips, guiding you with purpose now, moving you against him just right, just rough enough to pull another whimper from your lips.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, breath hot against your cheek. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You were unraveling, breath catching in short gasps, toes curling in your boots as the pressure built and built until it felt like it would snap — sharp and sudden and all-consuming.

Jake pressed his mouth to your ear, voice low and commanding.

“Come for me.”

And you did — thighs clenching, body trembling, face buried in his neck as the wave of pleasure crashed over you.

He held you through it, solid and unshakable, hands soothing now, stroking your back as you caught your breath. His hand left your throat only to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangled gently in your hair.

You were still panting when he murmured, “There she is.”

You blinked up at him, flushed and dazed.

You were still catching your breath, blinking up at him in the dim light, when Jake’s hand shifted from the back of your head to your cheek, fingers tilting your face up.

He looked calm. Too calm for what he’d just done to you — but there was fire behind his eyes. Heat he hadn’t spent yet.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he said simply. Like it was fact. Like there was no question.

Your mouth parted — not in protest, just disbelief at how easily those words wrecked you.

“I—” you started, voice catching.

But he was already kissing you again — deeper, rougher. Possession written in every movement. His hand slid under your skirt again, hooking your underwear down in one smooth motion, letting them fall to your ankles as he growled against your lips, “Step out.”

You did.

He barely broke contact as he undid his jeans, breath hot against your mouth.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

You hesitated only a second. Then turned, palms braced flat against the cool tile wall. You could see his reflection behind you in the streaked bathroom mirror — broad shoulders, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on you like he was starving.

He stepped in close. One hand slapped your left ass-cheek before gripping your hip while the other slid back around your throat — firmer this time, applying just enough pressure to make your thoughts blur at the edges.

“You okay?” he asked again — low, tight, still in control.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please.”

That’s all it took.

He pushed into you in one smooth thrust, stretching you open with a deep, guttural groan against your ear.

You gasped, nails scraping against the wall, and he didn’t stop — just rolled his hips again, deeper, harder, filling you until you couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Could only feel him.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he muttered, voice ragged. “Tight little body. Letting me take you like this — use you like this.”

You whimpered, head falling forward, and his hand around your throat tightened — just slightly — grounding you, controlling your rhythm with his grip on your hip.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Bent over in a bathroom, dripping down your thighs, letting a stranger fuck you dumb. That what you needed, sweetheart?”

You moaned in answer. Couldn’t have formed words if you tried.

He kept up the pace — relentless, punishing — his breath ragged now too, teeth scraping your shoulder as he slammed into you again.

“Not gonna last,” he warned, voice rough. “You’re too fucking perfect.”

Your knees were giving out again, legs shaking. The only thing holding you up was his grip — one hand at your throat, the other digging into your hip like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

“Come with me,” he growled. “Now. Want to feel you squeeze me.”

And somehow, somehow, your body listened. Your second orgasm hit harder — raw and overwhelming — as he cursed against your neck and followed you over the edge, hips jerking deep as he spilled inside you with a broken, desperate sound.

For a moment, there was only breath — his harsh and uneven, yours trembling.

Then Jake eased his hand from your throat and pulled you gently back against his chest, holding you upright.

“Still okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, dazed.

He smiled against your temple. “Fuckin’ incredible.”

You stayed like that for a few seconds — your back pressed to Jake’s chest, both of you catching your breath, skin still warm and tingling. His hand lingered low on your waist, thumb stroking lazily over your hip, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

You weren’t either.

But your phone buzzed from somewhere in your bag — three short pulses.

You sighed and reluctantly reached for it, muscles aching.

Lucy: Come meet us!! We’re at LUME downtown. You’ll love the DJ. Drinks on meee 🎉💋

You read the text once. Then again. Then remembered — right, you were supposed to meet her tonight. You were supposed to be sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending you weren’t terminally shy.

Not letting a total stranger wreck you in a bathroom stall.

Jake caught the look on your face. “You leaving?”

You nodded, pulling your skirt back down and smoothing it over your hips with trembling fingers. “Yeah. Friend stuff.”

He stepped back to give you space, reaching for his belt. “No number?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. “No name.”

His smile widened, slow and crooked. “That’s how you want to play it?”

You blushed. Again.

“I—It just feels like… if we say names, it makes this real.”

He stepped close again, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Sweetheart, that was real.”

You swallowed hard. “Still. Let’s leave it.”

He gave you a once-over, gaze dark and amused. “Fine. Have it your way.”

You turned to leave. Then paused at the door, glancing back.

He was standing in the middle of the bathroom, shirt half-buttoned, hair messy, watching you like he could devour you all over again.

You slipped out without another word.

The music pulsed through the floor and into your ribs, a deep bass that buzzed in your blood. Colored lights swept the dancefloor in ribbons of gold and violet. The whole place smelled like citrus and perfume and sweat — and, unfortunately, you were still wearing all the evidence of your earlier… activities.

Your hair was messy. Your lips were kiss-swollen. Your skirt had definitely seen better days.

Lucy found you within seconds.

“Oh my God,” she shouted over the music, grabbing your hand and dragging you into the glow of the bar. “There you are! Come meet everyone—wait—wait.” She stepped back and really looked at you. “What the hell happened to you?”

You flushed. “What?”

She narrowed her eyes like a predator. “You’re… flushed. And glowing. And your lipstick is halfway to your chin. And your skirt’s wrinkled to hell. What—oh my God. Did you hook up with someone?!”

You covered your face, laughing into your hands. “I—maybe.”

“Maybe? Babe, you look like you got wrecked.” Lucy grabbed both your arms, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. “Tell me everything. Right now.”

You leaned in, voice low. “It was… intense.”

She gasped. “Bathroom hookup?”

You nodded.

“Yesss,” she hissed, practically vibrating. “How old?”

“I don’t know. Early forties?”

“WHAT.” Her mouth dropped open. “You—you fucked a DILF?”

You choked on your drink, laughing. “Don’t say that.”

“I will absolutely say that.” She grabbed your arm again. “Was he hot?”

You blinked at her. “Lucy. He was ridiculous. Like—tall, tan, probably ex-military, hands the size of dinner plates—”

“Oh my God.”

“—and he was so confident. Like he owned the fucking room. And dominant. Like—bossy bossy.”

Lucy screamed, grabbing her drink and yours. “We are celebrating this. You finally let loose. And with a hot older guy in a public bathroom? You’re officially a legend.”

You shook your head, but you were grinning, cheeks warm. “I didn’t even get his name.”

She clinked her glass against yours. “Honestly? That just makes it hotter.”

You laughed and sipped your drink, heart still fluttering somewhere in your chest — half from the memory, half from knowing you might never see him again.

Or so you thought.

You woke slowly, tangled in too-soft sheets in a room that wasn’t yours, blinking against the golden morning light pouring through the window. Your body ached in the most telling ways — thighs sore, hips tender, lips a little too sensitive.

Oh.

Right.

That happened.

You covered your face with a groan, the memory of his voice still echoing in your head. Come for me. Look at you. Good girl.

It didn’t even feel real. It felt like some fantasy — one you definitely shouldn't still be thinking about with your best friend’s dad sleeping somewhere in this house.

You stretched, rolling out of bed in the tank top and shorts you’d passed out in last night, the waistband of your cotton sleep shorts twisted and riding low on your hips. Your tank was thin — too thin, probably, but it was warm out and it was just Lucy’s dad, right?

You padded down the hallway barefoot, still half-asleep, hair a mess, expecting silence and coffee.

Instead, you heard voices.

Laughter.

Sizzling.

You stepped into the kitchen and froze.

There, standing in front of the stove in grey sweatpants and a navy t-shirt that clung to his back, was him.

Jake. The stranger. The man who had you coming undone against a bathroom wall just twelve hours ago.

And he was flipping pancakes.

Flipping. Pancakes.

“Morning, sunshine!” Lucy called, perched on the kitchen island in pajama pants and a hoodie, swinging her legs lazily. “We were just talking about waking you up.”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Jake turned his head — casually, over his shoulder — and froze the second he saw you.

Your eyes locked.

You were still in your tiny tank top. No bra. The cool air-conditioning was not helping the situation. His eyes flicked lower, then immediately back up, jaw tightening like he was biting back something.

Then his lips twitched. Barely. Controlled.

“Morning,” he said smoothly. Voice deeper than last night, but still just as devastating. “Sleep okay?”

You blinked.

Swallowed.

Nodded.

Lucy laughed. “We came in super late last night.” She sipped her juice.

Jake’s hand slipped on the spatula. The edge of the pancake started to burn, smoke curling up from the pan.

“Shit,” he muttered, turning quickly and adjusting the flame, jaw tight as he scraped it off. “One casualty.”

You were still frozen in the doorway, face flushed, heart in your throat. You couldn't even look at Lucy.

Jake didn’t look at you again.

Not really.

He handed Lucy her pancake with a calm, practiced air. “Eat up.” he said, his voice smoother now — Admiral Cool.

You finally shuffled in on stiff legs, pretending you hadn’t just relived every filthy detail in your head while watching him pour syrup like nothing happened.

Jake reached for another plate.

“Hungry?” he asked, glancing at you once — just once — under lashes and with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You nodded quickly. “Starving.”

“Yeah,” he said, low, under his breath. “Bet you are.”

You nearly dropped dead on the spot.

You sat stiffly at the kitchen island, legs crossed under you, hands tight around the fork like it might anchor you to the present. The pancake on your plate was golden and fluffy, perfectly cooked — no sign of the earlier mishap — and Jake had even set a tiny pitcher of warm syrup next to it like this was some kind of cozy bed-and-breakfast and not an actual fever dream.

You weren’t blushing.

You weren’t blushing.

Except you definitely were.

“Okay, so,” Lucy said, mid-chew, “we’ve gotta do La Jolla Cove — it’s super pretty, you can swim with seals, and then maybe Coronado, because that beach is actually magical. Oh, and I have to take you to Balboa Park, there’s this little tea shop—”

You nodded quickly, stuffing a bite of pancake in your mouth to give yourself a reason not to respond. Across the island, Jake leaned back in his chair, coffee in hand, watching the two of you like this was just any normal morning.

Like he hadn’t had you trembling and breathless hours earlier.

You caught the flick of his gaze when your knees brushed together. When your hand shook slightly lifting your mug. When you bit your lip just a little too hard.

He said nothing.

But he was smirking.

“You okay?” Lucy asked, glancing over.

You blinked. “What?”

She laughed. “You look totally out of it. Hungover?”

You smiled quickly. “No, just still waking up.”

Jake hummed behind his coffee. “Had a good dream?” he asked lightly, his voice low and amused.

You kicked him under the island.

Hard.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, the corner of his mouth quirked higher.

“Anyway,” Lucy continued, oblivious, “I’ll give you the full tour of the house once we finish eating. It’s massive, but you’ll get used to it. Two floors, four bedrooms, five bathrooms. Dad turned the basement into a gym—”

Jake took another sip of coffee. “You’re welcome to use it.”

Your face burned.

“—and there’s a pool out back,” Lucy added. “And my dad’s office is upstairs at the end of the hall. Just don’t touch anything in there or he’ll have a meltdown.”

Jake gave a dramatic sigh. “One time someone moved a classified file—”

“I was ten!” Lucy argued.

You laughed, finally relaxing for half a second, and dared a glance at him.

Jake caught your eye.

And winked.

You nearly choked on your orange juice.

Lucy didn’t notice.

But he did. And he was enjoying every second of it.

“Alright,” Jake said, setting his mug in the sink. “I’ve got to head to base for a few hours. Meetings all day.”

Lucy groaned. “You’re always in meetings.”

“Comes with the title,” he said, reaching for his keys and aviators from the counter. “Don’t let her redecorate the house while I’m gone.”

You looked up just in time to catch his eyes on you — calm, unreadable, just a flicker of heat beneath the surface — before he slid on his sunglasses and turned toward the door.

“Be good,” he added over his shoulder.

“I’m a delight,” Lucy called.

But you… you stayed quiet.

Because you could still feel his fingers on your throat.

By early afternoon, the San Diego sun was blazing.

You and Lucy had changed into swimsuits — hers a sporty black bikini, yours a pale blue two-piece that suddenly felt a little too revealing after spending breakfast pretending you hadn’t been railed by her father.

The pool glistened behind the house, surrounded by stone tiles and tall hedges for privacy. A couple of lounge chairs were parked near the edge, complete with an umbrella and a tiny table that Lucy had already loaded with drinks and sunscreen.

She stretched her arms overhead with a sigh. “God, I missed this.”

You dipped your feet into the water. “You’re living in a resort.”

She grinned. “I know. But don't tell him that — he'll say he earned it or whatever.”

You smiled, settling onto the edge with your legs in the water.

“So,” she said, turning toward you, legs criss-crossed, “now that we’re alone—spill.”

You blinked. “Spill what?”

“The DILF. The mystery man. The bathroom hookup that left you looking like you'd just survived a very sexy natural disaster.”

You laughed, hiding your face. “Stop.”

“No. I need details. Was it a ‘he kissed me and it just happened’ situation or more like he told you what to do and you liked it way too much?”

You blushed instantly. “I—I mean… the second one.”

She squealed, nearly sliding off her towel. “Oh my God. So he was bossy?”

You nodded, reluctantly. “Very.”

“Tall?”

“So tall.”

She fanned herself. “This just keeps getting better.”

You sank back against your hands. “I didn’t think I was into older guys…”

“But?”

“But—he just knew what he was doing. Like, there was no second-guessing. He touched me like he owned me.”

Lucy made a choked noise. “I’m going to need you to write this down and send it to me like erotica.”

You threw a towel at her. She dodged it.

“Would you do it again?” she asked, leaning in like this was the most important question in the world. “With an older guy?”

You hesitated — and she saw it.

Her mouth dropped open. “You totally would!”

“I didn’t say that,” you muttered.

“You didn’t have to.”

You smiled to yourself, legs swishing through the cool water, heart still racing with the memory of Jake’s hand on your throat and the way he’d said good girl like it meant something.

“I mean,” you admitted softly, “if it was him? Yeah. I would.”

The sun was dipping low, casting long golden shadows across the kitchen as Jake moved around like he’d never left — sleeves pushed up, wristwatch glinting, a dish towel slung casually over one shoulder. He was making dinner.

Not grabbing takeout. Not ordering pizza.

Making it.

From scratch.

You weren’t sure why that made everything worse.

He had the sleeves of his navy button-down rolled to his forearms, exposing strong, tanned arms that should’ve been illegal. The man looked like an ad for luxury bourbon, or some dangerously flirty Williams-Sonoma campaign. He had an apron on, for God’s sake. An apron.

Lucy leaned on the counter, stealing slices of tomato off the cutting board while he chopped garlic like a professional.

“You really didn’t have to cook,” you said, sliding into one of the chairs at the island.

Jake didn’t look up. “If I left dinner up to Lucy, you’d both be eating frozen waffles and jelly beans.”

“It happened once,” Lucy argued.

“Three times.”

“I was experimenting with textures!”

You smiled as Jake shook his head, dropping pasta into a pot. He moved with effortless confidence — the same kind he’d had in the bar. The same kind he’d had with you.

And you were hyper-aware of it.

He turned slightly as he stirred the sauce, glancing at you. “So,” he said casually, “you’re from London?”

You blinked. “Um. Yes. West London, technically.”

“Fancy,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You laughed softly. “Not that fancy.”

Lucy scoffed. “Her parents live in a townhouse near Kensington Palace and her mum wears actual tweed.”

Jake raised a brow. “So, very fancy.”

You flushed. “It’s not like I grew up in a castle.”

“No,” Jake said, watching you too closely, “but I’m guessing the silver spoon came standard.”

The way he said it wasn’t unkind. More amused than anything. He was teasing you — gently, but deliberately — and you could feel the tension humming just under his voice.

“I turned out alright,” you said, sitting up straighter.

He shrugged. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

Lucy chimed in, oblivious. “Her dad’s in finance or something ridiculous. She’s the only person I know who went to a boarding school that had a wine cellar.”

“That is not true,” you protested, laughing. “It was a wine vault. It belonged to the headmaster.”

Jake chuckled, low and rough. “See, now you’re just making it worse for yourself.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting back a smile. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Just a little,” he said, stirring the sauce again. “You’re easy to fluster.”

Your cheeks went hot instantly. You looked down at your lap, trying not to picture his hand wrapped around your throat again. Trying not to remember how easily he’d pulled those same reactions from you when you weren’t fully dressed and sitting across the table from his daughter.

He was still watching you. You could feel it.

“Dinner’ll be ready in ten,” he said, finally turning back to the stove — but there was that twitch at the corner of his mouth again. The faintest smirk.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Dinner had gone surprisingly smoothly.

Lucy did most of the talking — rattling off beach plans, introducing you to San Diego slang you absolutely would not be using, and insisting you had to try a California burrito “even if it looked like a heart attack.”

Jake mostly listened, sipping from a glass of red wine, chiming in here and there with dry commentary. You’d mostly kept your eyes on your plate — trying not to stare too long at his hands or his forearms or his mouth. Trying not to wonder if Lucy would notice you blushing again.

You felt his gaze a few times — quiet, measured, knowing — but he didn’t say anything. Not really.

He just smirked when you stumbled over your words talking about uni.

And raised a brow when you very deliberately avoided looking at him.

By the time the dishes were cleared, Lucy yawned and declared she was “crashing hard,” disappearing upstairs with a sleepy wave and a promise to wake you up for yoga “probably.”

You lingered for a moment. Jake glanced your way once, a ghost of something like amusement behind his eyes.

“Goodnight,” you said, too soft.

“Night, sweetheart,” he replied.

And there it was again — that damn voice, low and casual and dripping with something that made your knees feel unreliable.

You turned and made it halfway up the stairs before exhaling for the first time in twenty minutes.

The house was dark and still, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floor under your bare feet. You’d tossed and turned for an hour before giving up, padding downstairs in an old oversized tee with no shorts underneath, just underwear. The shirt covered enough, you reasoned — and it was just to grab a glass of water. Everyone was asleep.

Or so you thought.

The faint clink of ice broke the silence just as you flicked on the kitchen light — and froze.

Jake stood barefoot at the counter in dark joggers and a plain black t-shirt, a glass of whiskey in his hand, eyes already on you like he’d been expecting you.

You stared at him.

He took a sip and tilted his head. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You moved toward the sink slowly. “I—yeah. Just needed some water.”

“Figured.”

You turned on the tap, filling your glass slowly. Your fingers trembled slightly, betraying you, and you could feel the heat in the air — subtle but there.

You sipped. And then, before you could stop yourself, blurted:

“Why aren’t you freaking out?”

Jake raised a brow. “Freaking out?”

“Over… over this.” You gestured vaguely between you. “Over what happened.”

He smiled — slow and lazy and devastating. “Because it’s funnier watching you freak out.”

You blinked. “You’re the worst.”

He took another drink, leaning casually against the counter. “That bad, huh?”

“No, it’s not—” You sighed. “I just… I didn’t know you were her dad. If I’d known—”

“Would you still have kissed me?” he asked, cutting you off gently. Not judging. Just… curious.

You stared at him.

And then whispered, “I don't know.”

His eyes warmed. Something flickered there. Not cockiness — something quieter.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” you added softly. “And then you were just… making pancakes like it never happened.”

He chuckled. “Well, I was hungry.”

You stared at your glass. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

Jake stepped closer — not too close, but enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to meet his eyes.

“I know,” he said quietly.

And somehow, that made it worse. Better. Both.

He watched you for a moment longer — and then nodded toward the stairs.

“You should get some sleep.”

You nodded, heart doing something complicated in your chest.

As you moved past him to leave, he added, “And sweetheart?”

You paused, glancing back.

“That oversized shirt’s not hiding anything.”

You flushed violently and fled.

His soft laugh followed you up the stairs.

The next several days in San Diego passed in a blur of sunshine, ocean breeze, and strategic avoidance.

You and Lucy went everywhere.

Morning yoga at Balboa Park. Beach days in La Jolla. Sunset drinks in Pacific Beach. You even pretended to like surfing for exactly forty-three minutes before bailing and claiming your British skin wasn’t built for board rash.

You were never home before dinner. And when you were home, you stuck to Lucy like glue.

All to avoid him.

Jake didn’t make it easy.

Every time you crossed paths — in the hallway, on the stairs, in the kitchen grabbing coffee — he was there. Leaning casually in a doorway, towel slung over his shoulder post-workout, t-shirt clinging to his chest like it had no right to.

And every time, he wore that same infuriating smirk. The one that said I remember every sound you made for me.

He didn’t say anything too bold — not with Lucy around — but he didn’t have to. The way his gaze lingered, the way his fingers brushed yours when handing off a plate, the way he always seemed to look like he was one second away from whispering something that would destroy you…

It was exhausting.

You were doing so well avoiding the tension. So well pretending that what happened in that bar was just a weird, impulsive blip you could bury under beach days and brunches.

Until Thursday night.

You were in your room half-dressed for bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, when Lucy appeared in the doorway wearing a sundress and a guilty smile.

“Hey, quick question,” she said.

You looked up.

“So Ryan kind of surprised me with a weekend getaway thing. Just two nights. His parents have a beach house a few hours north.”

You raised a brow. “Romantic.”

“I know.” She grinned, then hesitated. “I was gonna say no because I didn’t want to leave you alone, but Dad said he’d be around, so…”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh. You want me to stay?”

“Only if you’re cool with it,” she said quickly. “You can totally say no. I just didn’t want to bail on you.”

You hesitated.

Jake was already under your skin. Already in your head.

But saying no would just make it more obvious. And Lucy didn’t suspect a thing.

So you smiled. “Of course I don’t mind. Go. Have fun.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’ll hang out here. Work on my tan. Raid your snack drawer.”

Lucy lit up and launched herself at you with a grateful hug. “You’re the best. I owe you. I’ll bring you back something slutty and overpriced.”

You laughed weakly. “Looking forward to it.”

She darted back down the hall to call Ryan, and you sat there for a moment in silence, staring at the wall.

Alone.

In a house with Jake Seresin.

For an entire weekend.

You buried your face in your hands and groaned.

This was definitely not going to end well.

You spent the first hour after Lucy left convincing yourself you could hide in your room for the entire weekend.

Blanket burrito. Door locked. Streaming rom-coms, answering the occasional “you good?” text with a cheerful yep! and pretending you weren’t slowly spiraling into madness.

That plan lasted until about 3:15 p.m.

By then, the silence was too loud. The house too big. The mental image of Jake, shirtless and sweaty post-run, way too vivid.

So, like a rational adult, you decided to take the edge off with endorphins. Maybe if your body was tired, your brain would shut up.

You dug out your workout set — tight black shorts that hugged you far more snugly than you remembered, and a matching sports bra that pushed your boobs up like they were auditioning for a role. You considered changing.

You didn’t.

Hair up. Water bottle filled. Earbuds in.

The basement gym was cooler than expected — all clean lines, polished equipment, mirrors, and one of those expensive weight racks that looked like it belonged in an Avengers training montage.

You got to work.

Music up. Heart rate climbing. Glutes burning.

You were halfway through a squat set, wiping sweat from your collarbone with the hem of your sports bra, when you felt it.

That… prickle.

Like you were being watched.

You paused. Straightened. Glanced toward the stairs.

Jake stood at the bottom step, barefoot, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised like you were the plot twist in his otherwise average Friday.

You pulled out one earbud, chest still rising and falling. “How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugged, casual. “Long enough to be impressed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Staring isn’t very polite.”

He smiled — slow, deliberate, eyes dragging down your frame and then back up. “Neither is walking around in shorts that should come with a warning label.”

You felt your entire body flush — part from the workout, part from him.

“Well,” you said, clearing your throat, “it’s a gym, not a church.”

Jake stepped off the stairs, padding across the mat with all the quiet confidence of someone very aware of what he looked like in grey sweatpants and a black tank.

“You always work out like that?” he asked, voice lower now. “Or is this part of your plan to drive me insane?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not a plan.”

“Shame,” he said, stopping just a little too close. “It’s working.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.

He smiled — not smug exactly, but knowing. “Don’t stop on my account,” he added, gesturing to the weights.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you lied.

But when you turned back toward the rack, cheeks burning, you could feel him still watching — leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, like you were his favorite show and he wasn’t planning to change the channel anytime soon.

You picked up your dumbbells with shaking hands.

This weekend was going to kill you.

You’d been out of the shower for ten minutes — still wrapped in the towel, hair damp and skin flushed from the steam — when the knock came.

Three sharp raps against your door.

You froze.

Jake’s voice followed, easy and casual. “What do you want for dinner?”

You scrambled to answer, trying to sound normal. “I—I’m not picky. Whatever’s easiest.”

“Steak okay?”

You exhaled. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

A pause. Then: “You can come down if you want.”

Your heart kicked up. Of course he’d heard the shower. Of course he knew exactly what state you were in.

“Sure,” you called, voice higher than usual.

You dressed slowly — loose cotton shorts and a white tank, no bra. You told yourself it was just for comfort, but the thrum under your skin told a different story.

The kitchen was golden with late sun, the counters already set with ingredients.

Jake stood at the stove, barefoot again, sleeves rolled, a dish towel over his shoulder — and somehow he looked even better than before. Relaxed. In control. Like this was his space.

Like you were just another thing in it.

He glanced at you once, then looked back to the cutting board.

“Cut the peppers,” he said. “And the onion.”

You swallowed and stepped up beside him, fingers brushing his for half a second when you reached for the knife.

The tension was immediate.

His heat radiated next to you, his cologne a slow burn in your nose. You could feel him there — not touching, but near. The kind of near that makes your breath shallow.

You chopped. Silently. Carefully.

He was quiet too.

Until—

“You always this quiet when you’re turned on?”

The knife froze under your hand.

You turned to look at him, but he was still at the stove, flipping the steak like he’d asked about the weather.

“I—” You swallowed. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he said simply.

He turned to you fully then, one hand braced against the counter, watching you like he was letting you pretend you had any power here.

“You’ve been trying not to look at me all week,” he said. “You’ve been walking around in tiny shorts like that’s not a choice. You don’t have to want this.”

He stepped closer. “But you do.”

You stared at him, pulse hammering.

And then?

You kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It was messy, urgent, all tongue and teeth and hands.

Jake groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your waist, spinning you around and lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. Your thighs parted around him automatically.

He kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone — leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses like he was mapping you out again, tasting skin he hadn’t touched in over a week.

You tugged at his hair, breath coming in short gasps.

“Say it,” he murmured against your throat.

“Say what?” you whispered, trembling.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Tell me what you want.”

You flushed. “Jake, I—”

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You licked your lips, chest rising. “I want your mouth on me.”

He smirked — all slow-burning satisfaction. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Well, beg for it.”

Your cheeks couldn't get any redder as you let out little whimpers mixed with Please, Jake, please, and I'll be so good, please.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Right there in the kitchen.

He pushed your shorts down, gripped your thighs, and buried his face between them like he’d been starving. Like he’d missed this. Missed you. Like nothing else mattered.

You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “Oh my God—Jake—”

He didn’t let up. Didn’t stop. Stayed locked there like he was built for it, murmuring filthy praise against your skin that made you shake. His tongue savoured every inch of you, making sure to collect all the wetness from your cunt as if he was afraid he'd miss any.

When your legs started trembling around him, he finally slowed — just enough for you to catch your breath.

You stared down at him, dazed. “That was the first time someone’s…” His eyes snapped up.

“You’re joking.”

You shook your head, still breathless. “Never.”

He didn’t speak for a beat. Just stared — and then leaned in again.

“Then you’re not done.”

You barely had time to exhale before his mouth was on you again, his hands keeping you right where he wanted you.

And all you could do was say his name.

Over. And over. And over.

Your breathing was ragged.

The countertop cool beneath your thighs, the air heavy with heat and something even more dangerous — the slow, steady realization that this wasn’t just lust anymore.

Jake rose slowly, mouth still damp, jaw tight with something like restraint. His hair was a mess from your fingers, his chest rising and falling with each breath, like even he was struggling to keep himself together.

He leaned over you, bracing one hand on the counter beside your hip, the other sliding up your thigh, firm and steady.

You were still shaking.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did.

Your eyes met — and this time, it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug or playful. It was real. Raw. A flash of something deeper in the way he studied you, like he was memorizing everything: your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the stunned way you looked at him like he’d cracked something open inside you.

Jake reached for your face and brushed your hair behind your ear, his fingers surprisingly gentle.

“First time?” he said, quieter now.

You nodded, breath still catching. “Yeah.”

He held your gaze. “That’s a fucking crime.”

You let out a soft laugh, your fingers still curled around his wrist like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Jake leaned in, kissed the corner of your mouth — once, then again. Slow. Soft. The kind of kiss that made you forget anyone had ever kissed you before.

Then his lips moved to your jaw, your cheek, the hollow beneath your ear.

“You taste like sin,” he murmured, and you shivered.

“Jake—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”

He pulled back just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now — just for you.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Just…”

“Overwhelmed,” he finished for you.

You nodded again.

His hands slid around your waist, easing you down off the counter like you weighed nothing. You felt soft and unsteady, like your knees hadn’t gotten the memo that it was over.

Jake didn’t let go.

He held you there, hands firm at your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles into your sides. His eyes were still locked on yours.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said.

“About what?”

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re gonna kill me if you keep walking around like that.”

You smiled, cheeks still pink.

He kissed your temple.

“Come here,” he murmured, stepping back just enough to slip his arms around your thighs.

Before you could answer, you were lifted clean off the ground.

You gasped, instinctively clutching his shoulders. “Jake—”

He didn’t break stride, didn’t flinch. “Let me take care of you.”

His voice was low. Steady. Like a promise.

You buried your face against his shoulder as he carried you upstairs — strong arms holding you close, slow, deliberate footsteps echoing in the quiet house. His scent wrapped around you again, warm and clean and maddening.

The door to his room creaked open.

You barely had time to glance around — dark wood, clean lines, the faint scent of cedar and something distinctly him — before he laid you gently on the bed, like you were something he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

You stared up at him, chest still rising and falling, heart pounding like a drum beneath your ribs.

Jake stood at the edge of the bed, eyes raking over you slowly, devouring every inch of exposed skin, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he was tasting you all over again.

“You drive me crazy,” he said, voice thick.

You whispered, “Then do something about it.”

His smile turned dangerous.

“Oh, I plan to.”

He climbed over you, hands planting on either side of your head as he hovered — tall, broad, body thrumming with tension he hadn’t unleashed yet.

His mouth descended on yours, not gentle this time — desperate, needy. You arched into him, fingers sliding up the hard planes of his back, pulling him down as close as he’d let you.

“Need you to beg for it,” he muttered against your lips.

“What?”

His teeth grazed your neck. “You heard me.”

You whimpered, breath catching.

“Say it,” he growled, one hand sliding under your tank, up your ribs, stopping just before your breast. “Tell me what you want.”

Your cheeks burned. “I—I want you.”

“Not enough.”

His mouth ghosted over your chest, warm breath teasing your skin. “You want me to fuck you, sweetheart? Want me to wreck you properly this time?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes. God, yes. Please.”

His groan was low and rough. “That’s better.”

He tugged your top over your head, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping a gift he already knew was his. Then he kissed you — hard, possessive — and moved lower.

And lower.

And lower.

You gasped when his mouth found you again, this time with no interruptions, no teasing, no distractions.

Just Jake. Starved. Locked in.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. His mouth moved like he’d studied you, like he knew exactly how to pull you apart. His hands pinned your thighs open as your back arched off the sheets, whimpers pouring out of you like prayers.

“Say my name,” he murmured against you. Ordering.

“Jake—Jake—”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he deepened, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough. Your hands fisted in his hair, hips bucking — and he held you there, firm and unrelenting.

When your orgasm hit, it tore through you like lightning.

But Jake didn’t stop.

Not even close.

You gasped, trembling. “Jake, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, voice wrecked. “I’m not done with you.”

He kissed your thigh, then your stomach, then your ribs, dragging his mouth all the way back up your body like a man possessed.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he growled, lining himself over you now, breath rough in your ear. “And again. Until you can’t remember your own name.”

Your nails dug into his back.

And you whispered, “Then take me.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t hold back.

You barely remembered how your tank top ended up across the room.

One second you were gasping his name, and the next, Jake was kneeling between your thighs, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t just fit — he was sculpted.

Tanned skin stretched over thick muscle, every line of his torso defined like something carved from stone. Wide chest. Shoulders that could carry the weight of the world. A six-pack that looked like it had its own six-pack.

He looked like he worked out seven days a week because, clearly, he did.

Your pussy clenched around nothing. Jake caught it and smirked, voice low and obscene as he climbed back over you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his hand trailing up your side. “So damn tiny underneath me.”

You whimpered as he leaned down, pressing you into the mattress with the weight of his chest.

“Could fold you in half if I wanted to,” he growled into your ear. “Hold your wrists in one hand. Pin you anywhere. You want that, baby?”

You nodded, already dizzy from his voice alone.

“Use your words.”

“Y-yes. I want that, please.”

He chuckled darkly, hand sliding up your throat again — not squeezing, not yet, just there, a reminder.

“So polite,” he murmured. “You gonna be good for me?”

You bit your lip. “If you let me.”

His eyes flashed.

Jake kissed you hard — tongue, teeth, everything. His hand stayed on your throat, not applying pressure, just letting you feel it. His thumb brushed slowly over your pulse, like he was reminding you who had control of your breath.

Then he kissed down your neck again. Lower. Across your chest. Your stomach. Saying things between kisses that made your spine arch and your fingers clutch the sheets.

“Can’t believe no one’s touched you like this,” he muttered, dragging his mouth along your skin. “All this time. Wasted.”

He rocked against you — and you felt him, hard and heavy between your thighs, making you cry out softly just from the friction.

You felt tiny underneath him. And he loved it.

“Feel that?” he rasped, grinding against your core with slow, maddening pressure. “You’re gonna take it, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Jake—please—”

“Tell me how badly you want it.”

“I want it so bad, I—God, I need it—”

That was all it took.

He slid his hand beneath your thigh and hitched your leg up high on his waist, lining himself up with practiced precision. When he pushed into you, it was slow, deliberate — like he wanted you to feel everything.

And you did.

Every. Inch. Of him.

He stretched you so wide, you saw stars.

Jake groaned, low and broken, one hand squeezing your hip as the other returned to your throat — more pressure this time, just enough to send your head spinning in the best possible way.

“You’re so small,” he rasped, burying himself deeper. “So tight around me. Can barely fucking move.”

You gasped, legs trembling.

He moved then — slow at first, then deeper, harder, rhythm building like a thunderstorm you couldn’t outrun. Each thrust knocked the breath out of you, every drag of his body sending fire through your limbs.

Your nails left red marks on his shoulders, his back. You moaned his name again and again, and he owned every sound you made.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Let me hear you.”

“Jake—!”

“You’re mine now, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes—yes—yes—”

He kissed you again — hard, possessive, hands roaming like he couldn’t get enough. Then he shifted just slightly, angling his hips, and the next thrust had you screaming.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even think about it.

“You gonna come again?” he whispered against your lips. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Want every damn part of you ruined for anyone else.”

You shattered.

And this time, he followed — groaning low in your ear, body tensing as he came with you, both of you tangled in sheets and sweat and something dangerous.

Something that wasn’t just heat anymore.

When it finally slowed — when your body stopped trembling and your breath came back in broken gasps — Jake brushed your hair from your face, kissed your forehead, and whispered:

“Still think hiding in your room all weekend was the plan?”

You laughed, exhausted.

And he kissed you again.

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of two hearts slowing down.

Your limbs were tangled in his. The sheets were kicked low around your hips, his skin warm against your back, one arm slung heavy around your waist.

You could still feel the echo of him everywhere — the weight of his hands, the press of his mouth, the sound of your name spilling from his lips like he owned it.

Jake didn’t say much as you drifted closer to sleep, but you felt his hand smoothing up and down your side, his thumb brushing your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you.

And eventually — wrapped in his warmth, breathing in his scent — your body went still.

His followed.

You woke first.

The light was soft and golden, filtering through the half-closed blinds. Jake was flat on his back beside you, one arm flung above his head, the other resting on his chest. Hair tousled. Lips parted just slightly.

Even asleep, he looked smug.

The blanket had slipped down to his hips, and you could see the defined curve of his abdomen — those unfair lines and ridges, the way his chest rose and fell slowly, the deep grooves of his lower stomach disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers.

You bit your lip, heart pounding for a different reason now.

Carefully, slowly, you shifted beneath the sheet, leaning over him, pressing a kiss to the curve of his jaw.

He stirred — but didn’t open his eyes.

Another kiss. Lower, just beneath his collarbone.

You felt him exhale.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep, “if you’re doing what I think you’re doing…”

You kissed down his chest.

Jake’s eyes opened — slow, lazy — and the look he gave you made your cheeks burn instantly.

“Well, good morning to me,” he murmured, folding his hands behind his head like he was watching the sunrise. “Didn’t know you were the type to repay favors so early.”

You didn’t answer. You just smiled — innocent and wicked all at once — and kept going.

Jake’s breath hitched. You saw it in the way his chest rose.

“Look at you,” he groaned, tilting his head back against the pillows. “So polite. So eager. That mouth’s gonna ruin me, isn’t it?”

You hummed, lips trailing over the sharp line of his lower abs.

Jake looked down at you, his smirk filthy.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” he said, voice hoarse and slow. “Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”

You did.

And Jake?

Jake watched the whole time — eyes heavy, lips parted, muscles twitching under your touch. His praise came low and rough, muttered between sharp breaths and bitten-off groans.

“God, you look so good down there.”

“Those hands barely fit around me, don’t they?”

"Look at you, choking around my cock."

“Fuck—keep going, just like that—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

You let him fall apart in your hands, your mouth, your name on his tongue like it was the only thing he knew how to say.

When it was over, his chest was heaving, his hands finally pulling you back up toward him. You curled beside him, flushed and warm and grinning like you’d stolen something.

Jake looked at you, dazed.

“Well,” he said, still catching his breath, “you just made this weekend very hard to survive.”

You raised a brow. “Hard to survive, or just hard?”

He laughed — that deep, low laugh that went straight through you — and pulled you into his chest.

“I’m keeping you,” he murmured into your hair.

And you didn’t argue.

You didn’t leave the house again.

You barely left each other.

From the moment Jake pulled you back into his bed Saturday morning, nothing existed outside the walls of his home. Time blurred, clothes vanished, the rest of the world faded to white noise.

He was insatiable.

And you?

You let him ruin you, over and over.

The kitchen counter was the first casualty.

It started with a kiss, casual, teasing — until he lifted you up and spread you out like he owned the place. The marble was cool beneath your thighs, but Jake was nothing but heat: between your legs, on your tongue, in your lungs.

You lost track of how long you stayed there. All you remembered was the ache between your hips and the sound of his voice in your ear, telling you exactly how beautiful you looked falling apart.

Then it was the living room.

You made it halfway to the couch before he tackled you to the floor.

The rug left marks on your knees. Jake left them everywhere else.

He liked you there — beneath him, pinned, breathless. His size dwarfing yours, his hands braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on your face as he made you cry his name like it was your only language.

And then there was the pool.

The sun was high, the water shimmering, and you had just barely dipped your feet in when he came up behind you — all slow smirks and wet hands on your hips.

“Thought you were hiding from me again,” he murmured against your neck.

You turned, heart pounding. “Does it look like I’m hiding?”

“No,” he said, tugging the tie of your bikini bottom loose with one knuckle. “But you should.”

The water was warm. Jake’s body, slick and strong beneath the sun, was hotter. He kept you afloat with nothing but the strength of his arms, one hand guiding your hips while the other silenced every protest you tried to make.

You were gasping before you even left the shallow end.

That night, it happened on the floor of his office.

Then again in the shower.

Then again in the bed — twice.

You lost count of how many times he made you come. You lost words.

By Sunday afternoon, your thighs ached, your lips were swollen, and you couldn’t sit properly without wincing — but the way Jake looked at you every time you winced? Like he was proud of it?

That made you melt all over again.

He was still vocal. Still teasing.

He loved how small you were beneath him. How easy it was to lift you, fold you, move you. How your body reacted like it was made just for his hands.

“Look at you,” he muttered sometime Sunday evening, dragging his mouth along the inside of your thigh. “Spent. Shaking. Wrecked.”

You moaned, head thrown back.

“I should feel bad,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “But I really, really don’t.”

And you didn’t want him to.

Because even with the soreness, the bruises, the muscles you hadn’t felt in years now screaming — you’d never felt more alive. Never felt more wanted.

Never felt more you. You were a tangle of limbs and sheets in his bed again, your skin pressed to his chest, his fingers tracing slow, idle lines along your spine.

You were half-asleep, head on his shoulder, when he murmured, “You okay?”

You nodded, lips brushing his skin. “I can’t walk. But I’m happy.”

He chuckled — low, smug, and entirely too satisfied. “Good.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’ll make you dinner in a bit,” he added. “You’ll need the calories.”

You groaned, laughing softly. “You’re going to kill me.”

Jake kissed your hair and pulled you closer.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting everything in a soft, golden haze. The sheets beneath you were warm, wrinkled, and familiar now — scented with sweat, and skin, and the traces of everything you and Jake had done that weekend.

But right now, he was different.

Slower. Gentler. Focused.

He was stretched out beside you, half-propped on one elbow, fingers tracing idle shapes against your bare stomach. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, eyes drinking you in like he was trying to memorize the way you looked in this light.

Quiet. Flushed. Wrecked.

But his.

He leaned in and kissed you — not greedy this time, not rushed. It was warm. Lingering. Like he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to kiss you just once more.

Then again.

And again.

“You’re trouble, sweetheart,” he murmured against your lips.

You smiled, shyly, your fingers sliding along his forearm. “You started it.”

He chuckled, the sound low and fond. “And I’d do it again.”

His hand drifted lower, along your ribs, brushing the outer curve of your hip, trailing slow, reverent lines along your skin like he was learning you all over again.

You leaned into his touch, breath hitching slightly.

“I want to try something,” you whispered.

Jake stilled — not in alarm, but in the way a predator does when it hears something interesting.

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heat already creeping into your cheeks. “I—I’ve never…” Your voice faded.

He watched you carefully. “Never what?”

You glanced down, words barely above a whisper. “Been on top.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

And then?

He smiled.

Not teasing. Not cocky.

Just slow-burning, stunned pleasure.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “you don’t know what that kind of information does to a man like me.”

You bit your lip.

“You want to try?” he asked softly. “You sure?”

You nodded, voice still small. “Only if… only if you want me to.”

He sat up a little, hands moving to your hips as he gently guided you up and over him, settling you across his lap.

“Oh, I want you to,” he said, gaze fixed on where your bodies met, his voice husky and dark. “I want to watch you take it. Watch you fall apart on top of me.”

You gasped, hands finding his chest — solid, warm, so much. He made you feel small, even from above.

He reached up, cupped your jaw again, and kissed you — deeper now, with purpose. One hand gripped your hip, the other slid along your lower back, guiding you without forcing, leading you.

“You go as slow as you need,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “I’ll be right here. I’ve got you.”

You braced yourself, heart racing, nerves fluttering in your belly.

But as you sank down — slow, careful, guided by his hands and his voice and the dark heat in his eyes — Jake let out a groan so raw it nearly undid you.

“Fuck, look at that,” he muttered, head tilting back. “You’re even tighter like this. Taking me so deep, baby—Jesus.”

You moaned softly, breath shaking. His hands steadied you, thumbs brushing the soft skin of your thighs.

“You feel so good,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “So small on top of me. Look at you. Look how pretty you are like this.”

You moved — tentative at first, adjusting to the new angle, the pressure — but Jake met you with patience and quiet encouragement, his hands trailing over your waist, your breasts, your thighs, everywhere.

“Ride me, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice thick. “Nice and slow. Let me feel all of you.”

And you did.

You moved for him. Shy at first, uncertain — but the way he moaned? The way he gripped your hips, watched you with worship in his eyes?

It gave you confidence. Power.

You rocked your hips again — deeper this time — and Jake groaned, both hands flying to your waist.

“Oh, hell, that’s it,” he breathed. “You’re learning so fast. You gonna come like this for me? On top of me?”

You whimpered, nodding.

He pulled you down into a kiss, one hand sliding up to your throat again — just resting there this time, his thumb stroking your jaw like a promise.

“That’s my girl.”

The tension built slowly this time — not frantic, not greedy. Just long, drawn-out bliss. Every grind of your hips lit another spark. Every sound from his mouth made your body sing.

And when you did fall apart — right there in his lap, shaking and moaning and clinging to him like you’d never been touched before — Jake held you through it, kissed your temple, groaned your name like it tasted good.

You collapsed against his chest, panting.

He stroked your back, murmured praise, pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“Think that’s my new favorite view,” he said against your skin, voice like warm honey. “You. On top of me. Falling apart.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “I liked it.”

“You were perfect,” he said.

He shifted, still cradling you in his lap, hands warm and wide across your back. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

You tilted your head, dazed. “No?”

Jake smiled against your neck.

Natasha, perched at the edge of the conference table with her phone in hand, arched a brow. “Another intern? I swear to God if he calls her sweetheart even once—”

“No,” Maverick cut in dryly. “Not an intern. Not a PR guy. He’s security. Second bodyguard.”

Bradley, who was halfway through unwrapping a protein bar, glanced up from the corner. “We already have security,” he said with a pointed glance at himself.

“And you’re doing a damn good job. But it’s a world tour. Bigger venues. Bigger crowds. Higher risks.” Maverick stepped to the side and motioned to the doorway. “Which is why I’m bringing in someone I trust.”

Jake Seresin walked into the room like he already owned it. Tall, broad-shouldered, sun-tanned with that kind of Southern confidence that felt somewhere between charming and infuriating. His eyes scanned the room quickly, assessing. Calculating. He offered a small smirk, hands in his pockets.

“Jake Seresin,” Maverick said. “Ex-military, worked private detail for high-profile clients in LA. He's here to keep your girl alive while she dances through pyrotechnics.”

Javy let out a low whistle. “Looks like Ken doll and G.I. Joe had a baby.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “Fantastic. Another man with biceps and an ego.”

Jake didn’t rise to it. Just tilted his head toward her with an easy drawl. “Pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”

“Oh, you’re gonna hate him,” Mickey muttered under his breath, grinning.

Bob, ever polite, stepped forward and offered a handshake. “I’m Robert, but you can call me Bob. Assistant-slash-wrangler of chaos. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Jake’s grip was firm but not overcompensating. His eyes flicked to Bradley last. The other man stood, silently sizing him up like two predators in the same jungle.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” Rooster finally said. “Her bodyguard. Been with her five years.”

Jake nodded once. “Not looking to step on your toes.”

“Good,” The brunette said, then sat back down.

The silence stretched for a beat too long before Maverick clapped his hands once. “Alright. You’ll all get plenty of time to get acquainted. But first, I’m taking Jake to meet her.”

Javy groaned. “Please warn her. She hates surprises.”

“She’s getting a bodyguard, not a puppy,” Maverick shot back, but with the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jake’s expression barely changed, but the pulse of anticipation was there behind his eyes.

Jake followed Maverick down a long corridor, the buzz of conversation fading behind them as the distant thump of bass grew louder. The hallway widened into a high-ceilinged rehearsal space — sleek, industrial, with mirrored walls and scuffed floors. Lights were rigged from above, casting a soft glow across the room where half a dozen dancers moved in time with the music.

And in the center of it all, you moved like you belonged there. Effortless and electric, mid-twirl with a laugh on your lips and sweat glinting at your temples. You weren’t lip-syncing — no, you were singing, even during choreography, your voice strong, practiced. Alive. Jake recognized you from photos, sure — no one could walk past a magazine stand or scroll through a feed without seeing your face — but this was different. This was real.

“She always this casual about a six-week countdown to opening night?” Jake asked, hands in his pockets as he watched you from the threshold.

Maverick gave him a side glance. “You’d be surprised. She thrives under pressure.”

“Popstar prodigy with three platinum albums before twenty-six. Yeah, I’ve read the resume.”

“She’s more than a resume,” Maverick said, his tone edging toward warning. “You’ll see.”

Jake didn’t respond. He already had.

The music cut abruptly, and you bent over, catching your breath, then straightened and turned — eyes landing on Maverick first, then shifting to the tall stranger beside him.

“New choreo already?” you teased, tugging out your in-ear monitor and walking toward them with a bright smile.

“Nope,” Maverick said. “Just bringing you a surprise.”

“Oh no,” you laughed. “You know how I feel about those.”

Jake stepped forward. “Jake Seresin,” he said simply. His voice was even, polite, with the faintest trace of Texas in it. “New security detail.”

You looked him up and down with an amused tilt of your head — not checking him out, not exactly, but taking his measure. “Security? What happened to Bradley?”

Maverick cleared his throat. “Still here. Bradley’s not going anywhere. But this tour’s gonna be big. Multiple countries, multiple cities, late nights, long travel days. I want another set of eyes. Jake’s got experience. He’s ex-military, ran detail for big names in LA. Knows what he’s doing.”

You offered Jake your hand. “Well, welcome to the circus.”

His grip was firm but not too tight, and his smile was faint, careful. “Looking forward to it.”

“You're always this serious?” you asked lightly.

“Only when someone’s paying me to be.”

Maverick huffed a quiet laugh beside you, and you glanced at him with a grin.

“I’ll make sure he loosens up,” you said, turning back toward your dancers. “Jake, right? We’ll chat more after rehearsal.”

Jake nodded, stepping back. “I’ll be around.”

As you walked away, Maverick looked at Jake, his expression unreadable.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said lowly. “She’s not just a paycheck.”

Jake’s jaw ticked once. “Understood.”

But even as Maverick turned away, Jake couldn’t help the way his eyes followed you across the room — that magnetic pull of someone who didn’t even know she had it.

He was here to protect you.

That was all.

Right?

As Maverick’s footsteps faded down the hall, the room settled into quiet except for the distant echoes of music from rehearsal. Jake’s gaze was steady, taking in the setup — the scattered sheet music, the mic stand, the faint scent of sweat and determination lingering in the air.

He didn’t offer a smile. Instead, his eyes met yours directly, his expression unreadable but firm.

“So,” he said, voice calm and measured, “this is where you do your work.”

You met his tone with a steady one of your own. “Yeah. It’s where everything gets put to the test.”

Jake nodded once. “I’ve been briefed. My job’s to keep you safe and make sure nothing interferes with the show.”

You folded your arms, weighing him up. “And what else?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m here to be professional. No distractions.”

You gave a small nod. “Good. Because I don’t have time for distractions either.”

The silence stretched between you, a quiet acknowledgment of the kind of focus you both demanded — yours on the stage, his on the job.

Finally, Jake’s voice broke the tension, low and controlled. “If you need anything, you let me know. Otherwise, I’ll stay out of your way.”

You glanced at him, the seriousness in his eyes giving you a flicker of reassurance you hadn’t expected.

“Deal,” you said.

No smiles. No wasted words. Just a mutual understanding that, for now, this was business.

The city lights blurred past as Maverick gripped the steering wheel, his jaw set in that same steady, no-nonsense line you’d seen all day. Bradley lounged next to you, half-focused on the road ahead, half on the conversation bubbling in the car. Natasha was perched in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you two like a hawk.

“Okay, seriously,” Natasha started, voice sharp but amused. “What do you think of the new guy? Jake, right?”

You smirked, stealing a glance at the quiet man in the passenger seat. “Hot,” you said without hesitation, causing Bradley to raise an eyebrow and Natasha to chuckle.

“Hot, huh? Keep it in your pants, superstar,” Natasha teased, nudging Bradley. “Don’t make Maverick have to pull this car over.”

Bradley laughed, shaking his head. “Man’s a hardass, but I like that.”

Maverick grunted, eyes still locked on the road. “Jake’s solid. Doesn’t mess around.”

“Yeah,” you added, feeling a little thrill just thinking about him. “Serious as hell, but I respect that.”

Natasha smirked. “Just don’t fall too hard. We don’t need another workplace soap opera.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back into your seat with a grin. “No promises.”

The banter rolled on as the city stretched around you, all talk and laughter — but your mind kept drifting back to Jake, the serious new bodyguard with the unreadable eyes and a presence that was impossible to ignore.

The weeks leading up to the tour’s opening night felt like a slow-building storm. Every day was a whirlwind of rehearsals, meetings, and last-minute tweaks, the tension thick enough to slice through the air. Everyone—your team, your friends, your bodyguards—were running on caffeine and sheer willpower, pushing themselves harder with each passing hour. Yet despite the chaos, you knew that tonight, you needed a break. Just one evening away from the stage lights, the cameras, the endless grind.

So when you announced you were heading out to dinner, it wasn’t entirely a surprise when Maverick, Bradley, and Jake insisted on coming along. Three bodyguards to a casual dinner felt a little excessive, and you weren’t shy about pointing that out as you climbed into the car.

“You do realize this is just dinner, right?” you said with a teasing smirk. “Three bodyguards for one girl—I think I’m more protected than the President.”

Bradley grinned from the passenger seat, a playful warning in his voice. “Keep it in your pants, please.”

Jake said nothing, but the sharp glance he shot you from the back seat suggested he’d heard every word. His expression was stoic, the kind that told you he wasn’t about to take any nonsense, but the slight crinkle near his eyes hinted at a dry amusement underneath.

The city streets passed by in a blur as Maverick drove steadily toward the restaurant. The familiar hum of city noise wrapped around you, but a quiet excitement buzzed in your chest. Maybe it was the freedom of a night out, or the subtle thrill of having Jake there—his presence something steady and new.

But the moment you stepped inside, the illusion of a low-key night shattered.

The restaurant, small but chic, was already humming with energy. And then, unmistakably, it became clear you weren’t just any other diners. Whispers filled the air, heads turned, and phones quietly raised. Like moths drawn to a flame, a handful of fans began to gather discreetly but eagerly near your table.

Jake’s gaze snapped to the room, sharp and alert. You could see the shift in him—the way his posture straightened, how his eyes swept over the crowd with a protective intensity that was new, almost fierce. Maverick and Bradley exchanged quick looks, immediately tightening the security perimeter as they subtly moved to shield you.

Despite the growing buzz, you stayed calm, leaning back in your chair with a soft smile. The dim candlelight flickered over your face, highlighting the ease that came from knowing your team had your back.

“Welcome to my world,” you murmured quietly, meeting Jake’s steady eyes across the table.

There was something in his gaze—a mix of respect, admiration, and maybe a little disbelief. He was seeing firsthand what it meant to be in your orbit: adored, scrutinized, and never truly alone.

The chatter from the fans mingled with the clink of glasses and soft jazz playing through the speakers, but for a moment, you found peace in the small bubble of quiet connection across the table.

Dinner had settled into a comfortable rhythm, despite the fluttering attention from across the room. Maverick had taken a seat nearest to the door, his eyes occasionally flicking toward the restaurant’s entrance like a human security camera. Bradley, still relaxed from the drive over, sat opposite you with a half-finished beer and a smirk that rarely left his face.

And Jake—Jake was quiet, seated beside you, watchful and unreadable, but you felt the awareness radiating off him like heat. He didn’t make small talk, didn’t ask too many questions. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

You leaned back, swirling the stem of your wine glass between your fingers, the soft clink of cutlery and murmuring voices surrounding you like a low tide. “So,” you said, glancing between the three of them. “First show is in London. Wembley Stadium. No pressure, right?”

Bradley raised his glass. “No pressure at all. Just you, a hundred thousand screaming fans, and a stage the size of a small country.”

You smiled wryly. “Exactly. A walk in the park.”

“Speaking of parks…” you began, casting a not-so-subtle look at Jake, “I was thinking… once we land in London, I kind of want to explore. Take a little walk, maybe sneak into a pub. Do normal people things. With coffee. And pastries. Maybe a crêpe?”

The shift in energy was immediate.

Maverick’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Bradley groaned audibly. And Jake—Jake straightened in his chair.

“No,” Maverick said simply.

“No,” Bradley echoed. “Hard no.”

Jake, with his arms crossed, added dryly, “Not happening.”

You blinked at them in mock offense. “Excuse me? Did I just get triple vetoed?”

“You want to sneak out in one of the most crowded cities on Earth, days before opening night, when the press is already foaming at the mouth and your face is on every billboard?” Bradley asked, leaning forward like you’d just confessed to robbing a bank.

“I wouldn’t sneak,” you insisted, stabbing a piece of arugula with unnecessary force. “I’d just… stroll. Casually. Like a mysterious local.”

Maverick gave you a flat look. “You haven’t been casual since you were twelve.”

Jake smirked, and for a brief second, you thought you caught the edge of a dimple. “Look, if you want pastries, we’ll have them brought in. Hell, we’ll fly in a French chef for the crêpe.”

“That’s not the same,” you groaned, pushing your plate away and dramatically slumping back in your chair. “I just want to feel normal.”

Jake glanced over at you, quieter now, his voice softer. “This is your normal. Whether you like it or not.”

The words shouldn’t have settled in your chest the way they did—but they did. He wasn’t being cruel. Just honest. And in some strange way, it made you like him a little more.

Maverick, trying to soften the mood, leaned in. “You’ll have time to see London—just not alone, and not before the biggest show of your life.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So what I’m hearing is... hostage until Wembley.”

“Exactly,” Bradley said, grinning. “But a very well-fed hostage.”

Jake didn’t say much after that, but when the check came and Maverick reached for it, Jake was faster. He paid with a quiet efficiency, ignoring your protests.

“I’m more than capable of paying for my own dinner,” you said as you exited into the night air, your voice a mix of irritation and flattery.

“I know,” Jake said, not looking at you. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”

And for the rest of the night, as fans loitered outside and the flashing of cell phone cameras filled the sidewalk, all you could think about was that simple reply—and the way his hand brushed yours, just barely, when he opened the car door for you.

The hum of the jet was low and steady beneath the banter, like a heartbeat under laughter.

You were stretched out across a plush, cream leather bench seat with your legs dangling over Bob’s lap, his laptop balancing precariously on one knee as he tried to finish up the master itinerary for your first tour stop. Natasha sat across from you both, one brow arched, her phone in hand as she scrolled through what looked like a thousand unread emails.

“Tell me again why you packed five carry-ons,” she asked, not even looking up.

You tilted your head dramatically against the headrest. “I’m an artist, Natasha. I feel my outfits. You can’t put expression in a checked bag.”

“You packed six different pairs of sunglasses,” Bob muttered.

You held up a finger. “Seven. One’s in my purse. And each one serves a specific mood. Don’t question my system.”

At the back of the plane, Mickey and Javy were deep in a very intense game of Uno, throwing down cards like it was a matter of national security. Maverick was near them, leaning back with his arms crossed and a proud little smirk on his face as he watched his team be exactly who they were—rowdy, sharp, loyal.

And then there was Jake.

He was seated toward the middle of the jet, directly across from Penny, your manager, his back straight, arms folded. Watching. Always watching.

He hadn’t said much since takeoff, only nodding politely when Penny had handed him the tour packet and muttering a “thanks” when Bradley passed him a bottle of water. But you could see him now out of the corner of your eye—taking in the dynamic, the teasing, the chaos, the warmth—and it was clear something was shifting. Not externally, not in anything he’d say out loud. But in the way his eyes softened when you threw your head back and laughed at something Bob said. In the way he clocked every person’s placement like he was memorizing how your found family worked.

Penny caught his gaze and gave him a half-smile. “They’re not like any team you’ve worked with before, are they?”

Jake shrugged, but there was the faintest twitch of his mouth. “That obvious?”

She leaned in a bit, her tone light but steady. “It’s more of a circus, really. But the good kind.”

“She’s the ringleader,” Bradley said, walking down the aisle with two protein bars in hand, passing one to you. “And the lion. And the flying trapeze.”

“I’m multi-faceted,” you said with a smile, unwrapping the bar. “Tell him, Mickey.”

From the back, Mickey called out, “She once fired me and proposed to me in the same hour.”

“Twice!” Javy added.

Penny shook her head, trying not to laugh. “And somehow, this machine still works.”

Jake just nodded once. “You all really care about her.”

There was a pause. Subtle. Brief. But heavy.

Penny looked at him, eyes serious now. “She’s earned it. Through fire.”

The moment passed quickly, swallowed by a new burst of laughter when Bob finally gave up and dropped his laptop in defeat after you elbowed him in the ribs.

You caught Jake’s eye across the cabin—just for a second. You didn’t smile, didn’t wink, didn’t tease.

But he held your gaze.

And you knew that, for all the distance he tried to keep, he wasn’t made of stone. Not entirely.

The wheels touched down in London just after sunrise. Gray clouds hung low over the tarmac, the kind that promised rain even if it never quite delivered. The jet taxied smoothly to a private terminal already swarming with black SUVs and an ominous energy you could feel in your chest.

From your seat, you could see Maverick and Bradley standing near the open aircraft door, both of them still as stone, scanning the horizon.

You yawned and stretched, tousling your hair with both hands as Bob handed you a coffee he’d begged off the flight attendant twenty minutes ago. “How bad is it?” you asked around the lid, voice still a little sleep-worn.

Bradley answered without looking back. “Paps clocked the tail number before we landed. They’re out there. Maybe fifty, give or take.”

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Of course they are.”

“Standard plan,” Maverick said. “You come out last. Jake’s with you, I’ll lead. Bradley’s covering your right side.”

Jake had been silent through most of the landing. He stood now by the exit stairs, his posture straight, already sliding on his dark coat as Maverick turned to him.

“Here,” Maverick said, tossing him a massive black umbrella that looked more like a weapon than a weather shield. “Keep her dry. And keep her close. They’ll scream, but don’t flinch.”

Jake caught it with ease, unfurled it once to check the mechanism, then nodded. “Got it.”

You met him by the door a minute later, coat already on, dark sunglasses pulled over your eyes even though the clouds were thick enough to smother the sun. “You ready to be my shadow?” you asked, voice light, almost teasing, though your nerves were beginning to stir. The chaos outside was familiar—but it never got easier.

Jake didn’t smile. He just stepped forward, raised the umbrella over both of you, and held it steady. “Stay close,” he said quietly. His voice was deep and calm, a perfect contrast to the building storm outside.

The doors opened. Maverick went first, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times. His presence alone was enough to make a path.

Then Bradley stepped down, shoulders squared, ignoring the shouting as flashes began popping like fireworks. He didn’t have an umbrella, didn’t need one—his job was to spot, to block, to warn.

Your turn.

Jake moved with you. Not behind. Not in front. Beside. One hand on the umbrella, the other gently guiding you at the elbow.

It was like being in a bubble, your little pocket of quiet under the umbrella while the world outside screamed your name. You could hear the frenzy: the yelling of your name from strangers, camera shutters, people asking who Jake was, speculation already starting to swirl before the tour had even begun.

Jake didn’t flinch. Not once.

He kept his body angled slightly in front of yours, tall and unmovable, shielding you like he’d been doing this for years. You barely noticed the short walk from the stairs to the SUV until you were ducking inside, safe behind tinted glass.

He followed behind you, folding the umbrella with one smooth motion and tossing it to Bradley, who jumped into the front passenger seat.

You took a breath.

Jake glanced over at you once you were settled, face unreadable, but his voice was lower now, a little softer than before. “You okay?”

You nodded, cheeks slightly flushed. Not from fear. But from the strange, electric awareness of how close he’d been. How calm. How careful.

“I’ve done this a hundred times,” you murmured. “Still feels like the first.”

The hotel was a modern fortress of glass and stone in the middle of London’s beating heart, flanked by polished security and velvet ropes that barely held back the sea of bodies outside. The rain hadn’t chased them off. If anything, it only made the flashbulbs more dramatic—umbrellas glowing white as camera flashes cut through the morning gloom like lightning.

Inside the SUV, you leaned back in your seat, arms folded across your chest as Maverick’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “Lobby’s clear. They’re letting us up through the side entrance.”

You glanced at Jake beside you. He hadn’t said a word since you’d left the plane. Rain dotted his black coat, the collar turned up just slightly, jaw sharp and unreadable as he watched the entrance through the glass.

“You always this fun before noon?” you asked, just to poke at him.

He didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of something near his mouth. Almost a smile. “Before noon, after noon. It’s all the same when your job is making sure you don’t get body-checked by someone with a camera and a Twitter account.”

You snorted, biting back a laugh. “Okay, fair.”

The car rolled to a stop, and Bradley was the first out. Maverick stood just inside the hotel doors, nodding as Jake stepped out next and opened your door, umbrella ready again like an extension of himself. He offered you his hand, which you didn’t take—but he still subtly adjusted his stance to keep you dry as he walked you into the lobby.

Inside, the marble floors gleamed. Penny was already at the front desk with Nat and Bob, handling the check-in while Mickey and Javy dealt with luggage and logistics. You gave them a wave as Jake guided you to stand near the elevators, Bradley just behind you.

But even inside, you weren’t safe from prying eyes.

A group of guests lingered by the lounge, pretending not to stare but clearly filming from behind handbags and designer sunglasses. A few held their phones low, angled just enough to catch your profile. You lowered your head instinctively.

Jake noticed immediately.

He moved without a word, taking one long step in front of you and casually shifting his shoulders so he blocked their view entirely. His arms crossed, coat still damp from the drizzle. He didn’t say anything to the gawkers—just stood there. A wall of muscle and unimpressed Texan judgment.

“I think they just peed a little,” you whispered, glancing up at him from behind the curtain of his coat.

Jake looked down, one brow arched. “They’re amateurs. You? You’re the real danger. Harder to spot when you’re bite-sized.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He smirked—barely, but enough to break through the stone. “I mean, you’re what—five-one? You could hide behind a ficus and take someone out with a mic stand. I’m just saying, don’t underestimate the compact ones.”

You gave a mock gasp. “That’s rude.”

“That’s accurate.”

Before you could come up with a clever retort, the elevator dinged and Maverick stepped over. “Penthouse is ready. Let’s move.”

Jake gestured for you to go inside first, scanning the other guests one last time. He didn’t relax until the doors closed.

As the elevator hummed upward, you leaned against the mirrored wall and stole a quick glance at him again. He stood tall at the front of the car, eyes straight ahead, still in full protective mode. But that hint of amusement still lingered on his face.

The penthouse suite was more like a high-rise apartment than a hotel room. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a moody London skyline, the gray clouds casting everything in silver-blue light. The walls were decorated in warm neutrals, the furniture sleek and impossibly expensive. A spread of fresh fruit, tea, and bottled water waited on the long table near the window, untouched.

But no one was relaxing.

You were curled up in a corner armchair, hoodie pulled over your head, sipping a green juice like it had personally wronged you. Maverick was at the head of the dining table with a printed itinerary and two open laptops. Bradley sat to his left, fidgeting with his earpiece. Jake stood across from them, arms folded behind his back like he was still on base.

The rest of the team filtered through briefly—Natasha with updated press obligations, Javy with new social posts from the PR team, Bob handing off your final schedule to Penny—but it all passed in a blur for Jake. He wasn’t used to this kind of operation. It wasn’t just security; it was orchestration.

“This isn’t a concert,” Maverick said, pointing to the schedule like it was a mission briefing. “It’s a campaign. Fifty-one shows across Europe. Two days off between here and our next stop. A hundred and two crew members. You’re to know every hallway, exit, and panic point at each venue. I want you to memorize the building layouts by tomorrow morning.”

Jake nodded once. “Understood.”

Maverick continued. “When she’s onstage, your job is to be where she is. You move when she moves. Doesn’t matter if she’s getting a mic change, heading to a quick-change tent, or sprinting through a corridor barefoot in the middle of a bridge—”

“Hey,” you interrupted from the corner. “That happened once.”

Maverick gave you a look. “Once is enough. The point is, you don’t lose her. Ever.”

Jake’s jaw ticked slightly, nodding again. “And Bradshaw?”

“I’ll be on the other side,” Bradley answered, spinning a pen between his fingers. “We flank her. No gaps. If anything feels off, we pull her.” He paused. "You also need to memorize the faces of the people on page ten. All identified stalkers."

Jake tensed for a moment, scanning the pages spread out before him. “What’s the chain of command if we need to evacuate?”

“Me,” Maverick said. “Then Penny. If she’s not reachable, you follow your instincts. But only if you're absolutely sure she’s in danger.”

You watched him from your chair, chin in your palm. It was fascinating, really, watching him try to make sense of it all. This was a man who had probably escorted diplomats through war zones and thought nothing of it. And now he was being told to monitor the path between the main stage and a glittery catwalk with smoke machines and backup dancers.

“Any questions?” Maverick asked.

Jake looked down at the schedule again. “What’s a ‘B-stage quick-change fairy forest’? And why does it have a fog machine?”

Bradley burst out laughing.

You grinned from across the room. “Oh, you’re gonna love Wembley.”

Jake looked up at you, unamused. “Do I need a tactical flashlight and a butterfly net?”

“I mean…” you pretended to consider it. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Maverick sighed. “Welcome to tour life.”

Wembley Stadium looked like it had swallowed the sky whole.

The empty seats stretched into the horizon in every direction, tiers upon tiers glowing in the pale morning light. A small army of crew members moved like clockwork across the floor — taping, lifting, wiring, adjusting — as the skeleton of your show took shape under their boots and gaffer tape.

You stepped onto the stage, hands in your jacket pockets, looking out into the expanse.

“Remind me again whose insane idea it was to play Wembley first?” you muttered.

“Yours,” said Maverick, behind you. “We just nodded along.”

Jake was two steps behind him, dressed in black jeans and a zipped jacket, earpiece already in, scanning every inch of the venue like there was a sniper hidden in row 302.

Bradley walked ahead, radio clipped to his hip, sunglasses already on. “We’ve got two hours before doors, then full lockdown. But don’t worry, Wembley’s security is tight. Your only job is to sing. And maybe try not to leap into the pyrotechnics, yeah?”

“No promises,” you grinned.

From backstage, Mickey popped out like a groundhog, tape measure around his neck and a venti iced coffee in his hand. “Okay, drama queen,” he called out. “Soundcheck now, quick-change fitting after. You’re two hours behind on hydration and fifteen minutes late on glam. If you die on this stage, I swear to God, I’m not refunding anyone’s ticket.”

You rolled your eyes. “Morning to you too, Mick.”

“I am your morning,” he called back, holding the coffee out to you. “Now take this before your blood sugar crashes and you faint in front of a live audience and ruin our careers.”

Jake watched the exchange with curiosity, arms folded across his chest. The tone was chaotic but somehow… efficient. Everyone moved fast, but there was rhythm to the chaos. Controlled madness. A family, functioning on sarcasm and caffeine.

“You always talk to her like that?” he asked Mickey.

Mickey shrugged. “She’d worry if I didn’t.”

Rehearsals began in full force — lights flashing, stagehands running around the catwalks, dancers stretching and joking behind the curtains. You stepped into your mic position while your sound engineer gave the go. The house audio system roared to life, your voice echoing off empty seats as you ran through the first verse of the opener.

Jake and Bradley stood at the far end of the stage, eyes never leaving you.

“She always move around this much?” Jake asked, watching as you spun around a mic stand with unnecessary flair.

Bradley grinned. “This is her standing still.”

“I see,” Jake said, flatly. “So the glitter cannon is necessary?”

“You haven’t lived until you’ve been pelted with biodegradable glitter at eighty miles an hour,” Bradley replied.

From the stage, you blew them both a kiss mid-verse.

Jake blinked.

“She does that a lot?” he asked.

“Only when she’s trying to mess with us,” Bradley replied, arms crossed. “Which is… always.”

By mid-afternoon, the energy backstage had kicked up to eleven. Glam was in full swing. Natasha hovered over the media team, issuing orders about lighting and press. Bob was calmly managing your green room playlist while Javy mediated a fake argument between two crew members about whether or not you should bring back the acoustic bridge in the third song.

“Who’s the opening act again?” Jake asked, as he walked with Maverick near the loading dock.

“That new indie girl. The one with the blue hair and the angry songs about her exes,” Maverick said. “Then the boy band at seven.”

Jake made a face. “And the main act?”

Maverick raised a brow. “You kidding?”

Jake didn’t answer. His eyes were on you — head thrown back in laughter, sneakers kicked off, sitting cross-legged on a crate as Mickey tugged at the hem of your rehearsal outfit, threatening to duct-tape it in place if you didn’t stop fidgeting.

You were the storm and the eye of it, Jake realized. Loud, wild, sweet. Somehow commanding a whole kingdom of chaos and still making it look easy.

And in just a few hours, this entire place would be filled to the brim — 90,000 people screaming your name.

“Yeah,” Jake muttered to himself. “I get it now.”

The roar of ninety thousand voices was more than just sound — it was weight. It pressed against Jake’s chest, vibrated through his ribs, and made the ground hum beneath his boots.

The show was halfway through, and from the floor of Wembley Stadium, it was like standing in the eye of a storm.

He stood just off-stage right, behind the barricade line, eyes scanning every row, every stairwell, every waving sign and wide-eyed fan. The earpiece crackled now and then with updates from Maverick and Bradley. So far, nothing suspicious. Just security calls, crowd flow checks, one idiot trying to sneak in with a fake pass — handled in minutes.

But Jake didn’t ease up. Not even when the lights dipped and the energy of the crowd shifted — not down, but inward. Focused.

“Acoustic set,” Bradley said into the comms from the other side of the stage. “Keep your eyes peeled. Lights are low.”

Jake didn’t need the reminder.

A single spotlight flared, and there you were — seated at a white piano at the tip of the diamond stage that jutted into the crowd. The screens lit up in soft pastels, the roar faded just slightly, and the crowd began to hush, like instinctively holding its breath.

And then you sang.

The first notes were low, honey-dipped, threaded with something fragile and soft.

Jake had seen you at rehearsals. He’d heard the notes. But here — under lights and surrounded by screaming fans who sang every word like it was gospel — it was different.

You weren’t just performing. You were holding their hearts in your hands.

Jake’s jaw tightened. He scanned the audience again, because that was the job, but his eyes kept drifting back. It was impossible not to.

Your voice floated over the stadium, piercing and pure — but it wasn’t just the vocals. It was the way you curled into the piano like it was your confessional. The way you closed your eyes when the chorus hit. The way your fingers trembled ever so slightly on the keys, but your voice never cracked once.

Girls were crying in the crowd. Entire rows of people were swaying in time with your words. And Jake — battle-hardened, stoic Jake Seresin, who had spent years in high-risk jobs with his emotions bolted down tight — felt something shift in his chest like a pin had been pulled loose.

“She’s somethin’ else, huh?” Bradley’s voice came through the comms, but even that sounded distant.

Jake didn’t answer.

Because she was. And not just in the way that made the headlines or sold out stadiums in three seconds. She was something else in the way she gave herself away piece by piece with every lyric — fearless and unfiltered and painfully real.

His fingers curled tighter around the rail. He knew this wasn’t his world. He wasn’t built for stages and sequins and fans who sobbed behind barricades. But right now, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

The song ended.

The crowd erupted like a tidal wave, and you stood, giving a small bow, eyes glimmering with gratitude — and sweat and tears and everything you were too exhausted to name yet.

Your eyes swept the stadium… and for the briefest second, landed on him.

Jake didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Then the moment passed, and you turned to wave to the fans as the next set piece was rolled in.

Jake exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

And for the first time since he took the job, he stopped thinking of it as a job.

The show had gone off without a hitch.

Two hours of flawless vocals, seamless set changes, perfectly timed visuals and an audience that screamed so loud the walls of Wembley shook. Maverick clapped him on the shoulder backstage and told him, “That’s how it’s done,” like Jake had had anything to do with the flawless performance.

Still, he was proud. Proud of the team. Proud of the perimeter work. Proud of the way Bradley handled the crowd surge at the barricades before the second act. Proud of how you never missed a beat, not even when your mic went out for a full six seconds and you sang a cappella without missing a note. The crowd had loved that.

Now the adrenaline was fading, and the whole team was scattered. Somewhere down the hallway there was champagne popping and someone blasting the final track of the show, but the green room was quiet. Dimmed. Empty — save for Jake.

“Hang back for a sec,” Maverick had told him. “She wants to rinse off before heading out. Just stay outside the door until she’s done.”

Jake had nodded. Easy enough.

So now he stood in the middle of the soft-lit green room, next to the door that led to the private bathroom, arms crossed over his chest, earpiece finally removed. The couch still had a slight imprint from where you’d curled up ten minutes ago, giggling and exhausted, kicking off your boots and thanking everyone.

Jake’s eyes were on the floor, but his mind was on you. Again.

He could still see you at the piano. Could hear the warble in your voice as you introduced a song about heartbreak. Could feel that moment when your gaze found his in the middle of a sold-out stadium.

Jake exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

This is just a job.

He’d said it to himself a hundred times since landing in London. He said it again now.

But it didn’t feel like a job when his heart skipped a beat every time your laugh echoed off a hallway wall. Or when you scrunched your nose at a bad joke from Bradley. Or when you met his eyes like you knew what he was thinking.

He was not supposed to be thinking about you in the shower.

And yet—

“Jake?”

Your voice came from the other side of the bathroom door, sweet and a little hoarse from singing for two hours straight.

He startled slightly. “Yeah?”

A beat of silence.

“I, um…” A soft laugh. “This is really embarrassing, but I forgot my clothes. They’re by the couch, I think.”

Jake’s eyes snapped to the rumpled bundle of clothes on the armrest. His throat tightened.

“I would come out and get them myself, but, well… I’d rather not flash my bodyguard.”

Jake swallowed.

“Unless you’re into that sort of thing,” you teased lightly.

He let out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head once, hard. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Please, Seresin?” you added, all innocent. “Won’t you be a gentleman and save me from a very awkward exit?”

He stared at the door.

This was a test. You had to know it. Maybe you didn’t mean to be cruel about it — he didn’t think you were the kind of girl who played games — but God, you were making it hard not to think about how your skin would still be damp, your hair slicked back, your lips pink from the heat.

Jake reached for the clothes.

He didn’t rush. He walked to the door with the calm of a man heading into battle, his knuckles brushing the wood as he knocked once.

“I’m setting them on the floor,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Not stepping in.”

There was a beat of silence, then your soft voice again. “Scared you’ll see something you like?”

He cleared his throat. “No. Scared I’ll like it too much.”

Another silence. A charged one.

Your voice was gentler this time. “You always this noble, Seresin?”

“Trying real hard, sweetheart.”

He opened the door just a sliver, just enough to slide your clothes through without letting himself look. He didn’t even let his eyes drift.

As the door closed again, he heard your quiet voice, half-laughing and half-astonished.

“Thank you, cowboy.”

Jake leaned back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.

Just a job. Just a job.

But his hands were shaking.

And for the first time in his career, he didn’t know if he wanted the assignment… or the girl.

The SUV rumbled softly beneath them, headlights cutting through the slick streets of London. Rain clung to the windows like a film of silver, and the interior of the car was steeped in a kind of late-night hush. The kind that followed adrenaline, exhaustion, and the distant echo of ninety-thousand people screaming your name.

You leaned your temple against the cool glass, still glowing from the high of the show but aching in every muscle. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off, but the craving for something normal was starting to pulse stronger. Something that didn’t involve spotlights and camera flashes and perfectly timed exits.

You sighed. “Can I go out tomorrow?”

Maverick, behind the wheel, didn’t even blink. “No.”

You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “You didn’t even hear where.”

“I don’t need to. It’s a day off for a reason. No press, no fans, no danger. You stay in, you rest.”

“But I don’t want to rest,” you argued softly. “I want to walk around, see the city. Just for a few hours.”

Maverick glanced at you in the rearview mirror. Jake sat beside you in silence, gaze fixed forward, jaw tight. Bradley, riding shotgun, shifted in his seat.

“Mav…” Bradley started.

“No,” Maverick repeated, firmer now. “You’ve got another show in three days and I still have venue checks to finalize before we fly to Portugal. Half the security clearance in Paris hasn’t been signed. I can’t—”

“I’ll go with her,” Bradley said.

The car went quiet.

You blinked. Jake stirred beside you.

Maverick exhaled. “You know that’s not enough. We need—”

“I’ll go too,” Jake said.

His voice was calm, low, professional. But there was something in it—finality, maybe—that made Maverick glance at him in the mirror.

“I don’t mind taking the lead,” Jake added. “I’ll plan the route. We keep it short, quiet, avoid major crowds.”

You glanced up at him. His profile was sharp in the darkness, a shadow outlined by the city lights flashing past. He didn’t look at you, but you saw the faint twitch of his jaw.

Maverick hesitated. The silence was long enough to make you think he’d still say no.

Then: “Fine.”

You smiled. “Really?”

“Two hours, max,” he grunted. “Don’t push your luck.”

The next day, London was gold.

Sunlight poured over cobbled streets and rooftops, warm and rare. You wore a hoodie pulled over your head, a pair of oversized sunglasses, and sneakers you hadn’t worn since last summer. Jake and Bradley flanked you as you made your way through Notting Hill, your pace light, your energy—finally—unfiltered.

Jake had kept his distance at first. His hands in the pockets of his jacket, sunglasses on, face unreadable. He didn’t look at you often, but when he did, it was sharp, focused. Scanning. Calculating. Protecting.

Bradley was easier. Joked about the café menus being too long, bought you a croissant he swore was better than anything in Paris. You laughed with him, smiled like yourself, and for a little while it felt like you were just a girl on vacation with friends.

But then Jake’s entire body shifted.

You saw it happen. You were on a quiet block, browsing the windows of a bookstore, when Jake’s hand lightly touched your elbow.

“Don’t look,” he muttered. “White van across the street. Long lens out the back.”

You froze for a half-second.

Bradley turned, subtly scanning. “They’ve been behind us since the coffee shop.”

Jake’s voice was low, controlled. “It’s one guy, maybe two. Could be paparazzi, could be a scout. We don’t engage, we just move.”

“I thought we were trying to be subtle,” you said, trying not to frown.

“We are. But they’re still professionals. Just a different kind.”

You all began walking again, a little faster now. Jake pulled slightly ahead of you, shoulders tense. He was murmuring something into his comms — not that you could hear much. But you could feel him shift into something else. Something colder, more alert.

That’s when it happened. You turned the corner near Hyde Park, only for a man with a camera to step right up in front of you.

You didn’t see him coming. But Jake did.

Jake was between you and the camera in a second. His forearm came up like a wall, his body taking the brunt of the lunge before it even happened.

“No photos,” he said firmly, voice like steel.

The man laughed nervously. “C’mon, mate, just one shot—”

Jake stepped forward, towering. “Back off. Now.”

The man raised his hands, taking a few steps back. “Jesus, alright, alright—”

Bradley tugged your arm. “Let’s move.”

You walked quickly, Jake falling back in beside you, his body still tense and coiled. You looked up at him as you kept pace.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

But then his voice dropped a little. Quieter now, more personal. “I get it now,” he murmured.

You looked at him again, confused.

“This life. All of it. The noise. The eyes.”

You didn’t say anything. Just walked beside him, your shoulder brushing his every now and then.

And maybe it was the adrenaline, or the way he’d moved without hesitation to protect you, but you felt safer with him in that moment than you had in a very long time.

Jake’s eyes never left the street ahead. But for the first time that day, his hand briefly hovered at the small of your back — not touching, not quite. Just there.

A silent promise.

[...]

Three weeks into tour. Paris.

Jake Seresin had never seen anything like this life.

Not just the fame — though that was blinding enough — but the way it moved through every part of your world. The pressure, the rehearsals, the hours on the road and in the air. The way a single tweet could ignite a wildfire. The way every moment was watched, documented, critiqued.

And you? You carried it like silk draped over steel.

Each city had revealed a new side of you. Dublin, when you fought through the flu and still sang for two hours. Rome, when a fan threw a handmade bracelet on stage and you stopped everything to thank them. Madrid, when your voice cracked during a ballad and you just smiled, wiped your cheek, and kept going.

Jake had seen a lot of hard things in his life — deployments, crashes, people breaking under pressure.

But he’d never seen anyone like you.

And now… Paris.

The Stade de France. Over 80,000 people. A storm warning on the radar and not a single empty seat.

He and Bradley had flanked you from the SUV to the green room, cutting through the backstage swarm like clockwork. He’d noticed you bouncing on your heels, half nerves, half adrenaline. Not fear — no, you’d never shown fear — but energy. That spark you had just before every show, the one that made people think you might levitate.

“You alright?” Bradley had asked once you were in costume, mic pack clipped to your waistband.

“Perfect,” you grinned, slipping your in-ears in. “Paris doesn’t know what’s coming.”

And you were right.

You'd blown through the first set like fire on oil — dancing, laughing, hitting every note like your lungs were made of gold. Jake and Bradley shadowed you from the ground, weaving through security posts, staying close to the barricades, always watching. Always ready.

Even from a dozen feet below, Jake could feel the pull.

The screams of the crowd. The way they roared when you so much as looked in their direction. The rain had started twenty minutes in, light at first, then harder. You hadn’t even blinked — just laughed and threw your head back mid-song like you welcomed it.

Bradley leaned in toward him under the hood of his jacket. “We’re guarding a goddamn superhero.”

Jake didn’t answer. His jaw was tight.

Because it wasn’t just that you were magnetic.

It was that he couldn’t look away. Hadn’t been able to, not for weeks.

And he was trying. God, he was trying.

Because this was a job. You were his client. And he knew what kind of pressure you were under — he saw the cracks when you thought no one was watching. The late-night tension in your shoulders. The way you smiled through exhaustion. The way your fingers trembled when you thought no one was looking.

He’d spent the last few weeks protecting you from the outside world.

What terrified him most now was the way he wanted to protect you from everything else.

The stadium dimmed. The crowd quieted into a low rumble of anticipation.

Then the acoustic piano was rolled out under the white-hot spotlights.

His stomach dropped.

You sat, adjusted your mic, and spoke softly. “This next one’s not on the setlist. But it felt right tonight.”

The first notes of Iris hit the air.

Jake’s breath caught.

Even Bradley blinked. “Holy shit,” he muttered.

The rain came harder.

But you didn’t stop.

And I’d give up forever to touch you…

Your voice wrapped around the lyrics like velvet. The crowd was silent — silent, in a stadium of 80,000 — except for the scattered sounds of people crying.

Jake’s eyes never left you.

You were soaked. Rain clung to your lashes. Your hands moved over the keys with grace, purpose, control. But your face… there was something in your face.

Like the rest of the world had vanished.

Like you weren't singing to the crowd anymore.

You were singing to someone.

And I don’t want the world to see me, ‘cause I don’t think that they’d understand…

Jake’s heart pounded behind the Kevlar vest. He couldn’t look away.

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Bradley nudged him. “See something you like?”

Jake didn’t respond.

He knew it. Knew he was circling a line he had no business crossing. But hearing you like this — raw and real in the pouring rain — it cracked something in him he hadn’t even realized was locked.

He’d been in the business of control all his life.

But right now, watching her give herself to the music in front of a storm and 80,000 strangers… Jake Seresin had never felt so undone.

The stadium was still ringing, even after the lights had gone down. Your skin felt electric, still wet from the rain, adrenaline humming under the surface. Everything had gone right — the sound, the energy, the crowd screaming every lyric like their lives depended on it.

You should’ve been flying high. But as you stepped into the green room, closing the door behind you, your eyes immediately landed on Jake.

He stood near the far wall, arms folded across his chest, drenched from head to toe. Water dripped from the edge of his shirt onto the tile, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were on you.

“You good?” he asked, voice low and steady, the way it always was.

“I’m fine,” you said, toeing off your boots. “That was… a lot.”

Jake nodded once. “You killed it.”

You looked at him then — really looked. The rain had flattened his hair slightly, darkened his shirt so it clung to his chest and shoulders. He looked less like a bodyguard and more like a man standing at the edge of a decision he hadn’t made yet.

“Didn’t know you were a fan of power ballads,” you said, walking slowly toward the counter where your towel was.

His lips twitched. Almost a smile.

“I’m not,” he said. “But you are.”

You blinked. That small answer knocked the wind out of you more than the downpour ever could.

He wasn’t smiling, not really — but something in his face softened, just enough to make you move closer. The green room felt too small. Or maybe it was just how large he seemed standing there, so composed. So close.

You stepped toward him without even thinking. And for the first time, he didn’t step back.

“I don't think I've said it before,” you murmured, searching his face. “But I always feel safe when you're near me.”

Jake’s eyes flickered. He glanced at the door like he was looking for a way out. But he didn’t take it.

You reached for his hand — barely — and he met you halfway.

It was like touching a live wire.

His breath hitched, and yours stopped completely. His fingers curled around yours, slow, careful, like he was afraid to break the moment.

He stepped in, just enough that you had to tilt your chin up to look at him. The air shifted. The space between your mouths closed to a whisper. You saw the change in his eyes — the hesitation, the conflict, the part of him that wanted this just as badly as you did.

But then—

He pulled away.

Fast.

Like the moment had scorched him.

You blinked, startled. “What the hell was that?”

Jake stepped back, hand falling from yours. His whole body had tensed up again.

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

“Why?” you asked, a sharp edge creeping into your voice. “Because you work for me?”

“Because this isn’t just about you,” he shot back, voice suddenly sharper. “This is about everything — your image, your safety, your team, Maverick—”

“Maverick?” You scoffed. “That’s what you’re worried about? What, he’s gonna scold you for kissing me?”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to be professional.”

“No,” you said, heart pounding now for all the wrong reasons, “you’re trying to pretend you don’t feel something, and it’s driving me insane.”

Jake shook his head, running a hand over his face. “You have no idea how complicated this is.”

“Then tell me,” you challenged. “Tell me why you look at me like that, like I’m something you want more than anything, and then walk away.”

“I’m doing my job,” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s all this is.”

And that — that burned.

You stared at him, your chest tight and aching. “Right. Of course it is.”

You grabbed your towel and headed for the shower without another word, your footsteps sharp against the tile. Behind you, Jake didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He was too busy trying not to follow.

The ride back to the hotel was unusually quiet.

You sat in the backseat of the SUV, tucked into the corner with your arms crossed tight over your chest. Jake sat beside you, a careful distance away, his hands flat on his thighs and his jaw clenched like he was biting back a war. Maverick was driving. Bradley rode shotgun, casting the occasional glance at the rearview mirror like he could cut the tension with a knife.

No one said a word. The silence was louder than any conversation.

Your eyes stayed trained on the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass, blurring the glowing Paris lights as they zipped by. The entire city looked romantic and alive — and you felt numb.

Jake hadn't looked at you once since the green room. But you felt his presence like a weight. His regret, his restraint, his stubborn refusal to acknowledge what had almost happened.

And worse — how much you still wanted it.

When you reached the hotel, Maverick walked ahead, speaking with the concierge. Bradley lingered near the elevator, watching your back like the loyal bodyguard he was.

Jake didn’t follow you up.

Not right away.

You were in your suite alone, stripped down to an old t-shirt, hair damp from a shower you barely remembered taking, when you heard the knock. Not sharp or impatient. Just one steady knock. Like someone asking permission to fall apart.

You knew it was him.

You opened the door without a word. Jake stood in the hallway, still in black from head to toe, his hair a little messy now, his eyes locked on yours like they hadn’t looked anywhere else all night.

“I shouldn't have let you leave like that,” he said, voice low, measured. “I should’ve said something.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “But instead you let me go.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I had to. Because if I didn’t, I was going to kiss you.”

“Like that’s a bad thing,” you snapped, the words cutting loose before you could catch them. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me? The way you watch me like I’m gonna disappear if you blink too long?”

“You’re my client,” he growled.

“I’m also a person. One who’s trying to be honest about what she wants.”

“And what is it you want?” he shot back, taking one step into the suite. You didn’t stop him.

You stared up at him, voice soft but unwavering. “You.”

That did it.

Jake reached for you like he’d been holding back for weeks — no finesse, no hesitation. His hands found your waist, pulling you hard into him, and then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was desperate. Pent-up and feral. His kiss was all heat and frustration and reckless need. You gasped against his lips as he backed you into the wall, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair.

You kissed him back just as hard.

Like the last few weeks had been unbearable. Like your body had been waiting for this exact moment to finally breathe.

He kissed you like he was making up for every second he hadn’t.

When he pulled back, breath ragged, his forehead rested against yours. “This is gonna complicate everything.”

You nodded, panting. “I know.”

Jake looked at you for a long beat, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’m so screwed.”

You gave him the smallest smile, your lips swollen, your heart pounding. “Please, don’t go.”

And this time, when he kissed you again — slower, deeper — he didn’t stop.

The morning after Paris didn’t scream change, but it hummed with it quietly beneath the surface.

The crew was already bustling through breakfast in the hotel’s lounge, half-asleep but running on adrenaline and caffeine. Mickey argued with Javy over color palettes for the next show, Natasha was organizing media rounds on her tablet, and Bob was typing furiously on his laptop with a blueberry muffin precariously balanced between his teeth.

And then there was Jake.

He walked in like he always did — early, quiet, composed. But he looked at you a little too long when he thought no one was watching. Not the usual flick of a glance to scan the room. No, this was softer. More curious than assessing. His eyes lingered.

He stood closer than usual too, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he quietly offered you the mug of tea he’d seen you reach for yesterday. “Figured you’d want this,” he murmured, voice still low, still gravelly, but not as clipped as usual.

“Thanks,” you said, surprised but smiling as your fingers brushed his. He didn't pull away like before.

Later, when the schedule started rolling and you were being shuffled to a late-morning soundcheck, Jake moved with you instinctively. No words, no overt gestures — just a hand ghosting behind your back when the hallway got crowded, his gaze constantly scanning ahead and behind like always… but his body was looser, like he wasn’t just on duty. Like he cared. Like last night had cracked something open in him that couldn’t be closed again.

He laughed once — quietly, but genuinely — when Mickey told a story about you trying to smuggle a cat into a photo shoot last year. You turned toward the sound in surprise. Jake Seresin didn’t laugh. But there it was — a glimpse of something warmer, almost private, before it was gone again.

No one else noticed.

But you did. And he knew you did.

And when your eyes met across the corridor, as you were pulled toward wardrobe by Mickey and he toward a perimeter check, the air pulsed between you with something that hadn’t been there before. Not quite spoken. Not yet.

It was almost midnight by the time the team returned to the hotel.

The second Paris show had been everything — soaked in rain and light and noise, an echo of eighty thousand voices still reverberating in your bones. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off, not completely. You’d managed a hot shower, thrown on a soft oversized tee and bike shorts, and were about to crawl into bed when a soft knock came at your door.

You padded over, wary but curious, and peeked through the peephole. Then opened it slowly.

Jake stood there, freshly showered and changed into a plain black t-shirt and jeans. His hair was slightly damp and curling at the ends, and in his hands — of course — was a paper bag from the bakery downstairs.

“I figured you’d be starving,” he said simply, holding it out. “Didn’t see you eat much after the show.”

You blinked. “Is that—”

“An assortment,” he nodded, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “I don’t know what you like, so I got one of everything.”

Your laugh was soft, surprised, delighted. “Wow. That’s dangerously charming of you, Seresin.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

You stepped aside. “Come in.”

The suite was quiet — warm lamplight, blankets thrown haphazardly on the couch, your laptop still open on the coffee table. You both sank onto the couch without much thought, sitting close, knees brushing. You took the bag, pulled out a croissant, then offered him a pain au chocolat. He took it without hesitation.

“What?” he asked, when he caught you staring.

“You’re just… not what I expected,” you murmured, tearing off a flaky piece of pastry. “You’re always so serious. Thought for sure you’d think this”—you gestured at your little post-show bubble—“was beneath you.”

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “Not even a little.”

You chewed for a moment, then set your croissant down. “You want to know a secret?”

His brow arched, intrigued. “Always.”

“In the beginning? Before any of this? I used to sing at bars,” you said, leaning back against the couch cushions. “I was fourteen the first time. They’d sneak me in the back entrance, have me sit in the green room until my set. I’d sing for whoever was there — usually drunk men shouting requests I didn’t know.”

Jake’s expression shifted, quiet and listening.

“I didn’t care,” you continued, smiling faintly at the memory. “It was singing. It was a stage. I would’ve done anything just to be heard.”

Jake stared at you for a long moment, and then his voice came low and certain. “And now you’ve got stadiums singing back to you.”

You laughed under your breath. “It’s crazy, right?”

“No,” he said, eyes soft, voice even softer. “It’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

The air settled between you, thick with warmth. You turned toward him slowly, your bare knee brushing his jeans again, neither of you pulling away.

And this time, when he leaned in — it wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t impulsive.

It was certain.

Your lips met gently, slowly, and then with more weight, more feeling. His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. It wasn’t rushed or frenzied, but deep. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you for a very long time.

You pulled back with a small smile, foreheads touching. “So you do like pastries.”

Jake chuckled, low and warm. “I like you.”

Your breath caught the second time Jake kissed you.

The croissant was forgotten, the city outside the windows silent. All you could feel was his mouth against yours—confident this time, pressing with a purpose that sent heat sliding down your spine. He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks as if memorizing the shape of you.

And then you moved—climbing onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs. Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the firm lines beneath his t-shirt, and you swore you could feel his heartbeat pounding as hard as yours.

Jake didn’t hesitate. One hand trailed down your back, splayed wide, urging you closer, anchoring you against him like he couldn’t stand a single inch of space between your bodies. His lips brushed your jaw, your throat, your collarbone—warm and firm and certain. When he looked up at you, pupils dark, jaw tight, he said, low and rough:

“Tell me what you want.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt. “You.”

He grinned—slow, wolfish. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

The way he handled you was reverent and demanding all at once—like he was staking a claim, like he already knew how to pull the breath from your lungs without even trying. He leaned you back into the cushions, mouth returning to yours as his hands roamed—touching, learning, teasing. Every graze of his fingertips was deliberate, and every low sound you made only seemed to drive him further.

When he slid down your body, his kiss deepened just below your belly button, a wicked glint in his eye. “Let me show you how good it can feel,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a rough promise. “Let me take care of you.”

And when his mouth found its mark, you forgot your own name.

Your legs were still trembling when he kissed his way back up your body, his lips warm and reverent against the slick sheen of your skin. Every inch of you pulsed with the aftershocks of pleasure, but Jake moved slowly, like he didn’t want to break the spell of what had just passed between you. His palms slid up the curve of your waist, his thumbs grazing the underside of your ribs before he settled beside you, one arm draping over your middle as he caught your gaze.

You were both breathless. Not just from what he’d done to you—but from what it meant. From how it felt.

Jake didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you, his green eyes softer than you’d ever seen them, like you were something rare he wasn’t quite sure he deserved to touch. His fingertips brushed your cheek, then moved to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, lips parted, a little dazed. “Yeah. I’m…” You swallowed. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

He smiled—quietly, not cocky—and leaned forward to kiss the hollow of your throat. “That’s the bare minimum of what you deserve.”

Your hand curled into the collar of his shirt, pulling him back to you. “Then don’t stop.”

Jake didn’t need more than that.

His mouth was on yours again, deeper this time, fueled by something warmer than lust. His tongue traced the seam of your lips with slow purpose, one hand anchoring at your hip as you slid a leg over his lap and settled against the hard line of him beneath his jeans. You felt his breath hitch against your mouth when your hips rolled down, just once, teasing—testing.

He groaned into your kiss. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

“You started it,” you murmured, grinning.

“And I’ll finish it,” he replied, voice darker now, more sure. He stood suddenly, gripping you by the waist as if you weighed nothing, and you yelped in surprise as he carried you to the bed.

The moment you hit the mattress, his hands were everywhere again—up your thighs, under your shirt, across your ribs, skimming your breasts like he was trying to memorize your body by touch alone. You arched into him, needy and unguarded, and Jake let out a ragged breath as he peeled off the last of your clothes.

He kissed you again, slow and aching, and then trailed kisses down your chest, worshiping every inch of skin with a reverence that made your stomach flutter. When he reached your thighs again, he paused, looking up at you from between them. “Tell me what you need,” he rasped. “I’ll give you everything.”

“You,” you whispered. “Just you.”

That was all he needed.

When he finally pushed into you, it was slow, patient, his hands holding your hips steady as he filled you completely. He didn’t move at first—just held there, foreheads pressed together, breathing you in. You gasped, adjusting to the stretch, and Jake shushed you gently, lips brushing your temple.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “Fucking perfect.”

Then he started to move.

It wasn’t rushed—it wasn’t rough—but there was intensity behind every thrust, a purpose in the way his hips rolled into yours, the way his hand gripped yours against the pillow, fingers interlocked. You couldn’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the plane of his back. His name left your lips in broken sighs, each one met with a kiss or a quiet word of praise.

“You feel so good.”

“Look at me.”

“I’ve got you.”

You didn’t know how long it lasted, only that you didn’t want it to end. And when the second wave finally rolled over you—sharp and blinding—you came with a cry muffled against his throat, his name on your tongue like a promise. He followed soon after, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself deep, groaning against your neck.

After, you lay tangled in the sheets, your body tucked under his arm, your head on his chest. His heart was still pounding, one hand smoothing lazily up and down your back. The silence stretched, but it was easy, comforting, like the quiet after a storm.

“You okay?” he asked again, murmured into your hair.

You smiled against his skin. “More than okay.”

He kissed your forehead. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You fell asleep to the sound of rain tapping against the windows and Jake’s steady breathing beside you. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t dream about running or hiding.

You dreamed of staying.

Of someone choosing to stay.

[...]

The Europe leg of the tour rolled on like a freight train—city after city, stage after stage. The energy was electric, your performances flawless. Every night, you lit up the stadiums with the kind of magic people would talk about for years. And behind it all, Jake was there. Always there.

He’d become a shadow by your side. A silent protector. A quiet anchor.

Except now… not so quiet.

You and Jake had become masters at sneaking around. A glance across a crowded dressing room, a touch lingering a little too long as he helped you into a car, a brief rendezvous in hotel stairwells between press calls and setlist rehearsals. It was risky, exciting, intimate in ways you never expected. And you weren’t sure how long it could last.

Bradley, for one, had started to notice.

He wasn’t confrontational about it, not at first. But Jake saw the way Rooster’s eyes narrowed every time you laughed too easily at one of Jake’s dry comments. How his gaze lingered just a second longer when Jake reached for your hand to help you out of a van. Bradley wasn’t dumb. He had that protective streak in him—a big brother energy he tried (and often failed) to hide.

It all came to a head in Berlin.

The crew had gathered in the production office behind the venue, winding down after soundcheck. You were off reviewing wardrobe changes with Mickey, Nat and Javy were huddled over the next day’s PR schedule, and Maverick had gone off to triple-check the security team for that night.

Bradley stepped up beside Jake, arms crossed over his chest. His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp.

“You and I need to talk.”

Jake didn’t blink. He followed Bradley out of the room without a word. They ended up on a side stairwell—quiet, concrete, unbothered. The kind of place Jake was starting to associate with you.

Bradley leaned against the rail, eyeing Jake carefully. “You two think you’re subtle, huh?”

Jake exhaled, his jaw tight but not defensive. “Guess not subtle enough.”

“No,” Bradley muttered, pushing his hands through his hair. “Not subtle at all.”

Jake leaned against the wall across from him, arms folded now, mirroring Rooster’s posture. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“But it did,” Bradley said. “And it’s still happening.”

Jake didn’t argue.

There was a long beat. A train of noise filtered through the steel door from backstage—cheers, laughter, footsteps—but the stairwell stayed still, heavy with things unsaid.

“I tried to keep it professional,” Jake finally said, voice lower now. “You think I don’t get how bad this could go? She’s our boss. My job is literally to keep her safe, not… fall for her.”

Bradley didn’t flinch, but his eyes flickered at that last part.

Jake sighed. “But I did. Somewhere along the way I stopped seeing her as just the client, and started seeing her as… everything else. And I don’t know how to turn it off.”

Bradley looked at him for a long moment. “You love her?”

Jake didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

It hung there between them, simple and solid.

Bradley ran a hand over his mouth, like he was trying to figure out what the hell to do with that. Then he laughed—dry, almost pained. “Natasha’s gonna kill you.”

Jake huffed a quiet, tired laugh of his own. “Yeah. I figured.”

Bradley shook his head but there was a glimmer of something softer now—acceptance, maybe. Understanding. “She’s been through a lot, man. Just don’t screw this up.”

“I won’t,” Jake said, eyes steady. “I swear.”

Bradley nodded. “Then keep it quiet a little longer. Let her do her job. Do yours. But eventually, we all know it’s gonna come out.”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

They stood there for a few more seconds in silence before Bradley pushed off the railing.

“I’m not gonna say anything,” he added, opening the stairwell door. “But when Nat finds out? I’m hiding behind Penny.”

Jake grinned. “Deal.”

The Berlin crowd was wild — in the best way. Eighty thousand strong, hands raised, voices louder than the speakers. You could feel the thunder of their energy under your boots, vibrating through the stage and straight into your spine. It should’ve been exhilarating. And it was… until it wasn’t.

You were halfway through your fifth song, hitting the final chorus, when something shifted.

From the ground, Jake felt it first.

He always watched the audience like a hawk, his eyes tracking movement more than faces. Every show had energy — people jumping, waving, dancing. But this was different. A quick flash of chaos in the corner of his vision. A figure breaking the barricade. Then, all at once, everything kicked into motion.

A young guy — early twenties, dressed like every other fan — suddenly bolted through a gap in the front row security, scrambling up toward the stage.

Bradley saw him a second later. “Shit—”

He was already moving, but Jake was faster.

You didn’t even notice at first — the music was too loud, the spotlight too bright. But Jake’s voice crackled over the comms:

“Stage left breach—on it.”

Before the fan could make it past the front edge, two of the venue’s local security guards finally snapped out of it and tackled him hard against the scaffolding. He hit the ground, screaming something you couldn’t make out through your in-ears, and within seconds he was dragged backstage, kicking and yelling.

The band kept playing — they were trained for that. You didn’t stop. You didn’t show fear. You just glanced offstage for a moment, your heart hammering in your chest, and caught Jake standing just beyond the lighting rig, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

The moment the show ended, the lights dipped and they were backstage, you turned toward your team. “What the hell just happened?”

But Jake wasn’t looking at you — he was already storming toward the two local security guards, voice like a growl.

“You were supposed to have eyes on that corner—what the hell were you doing?”

The taller of the two blinked like he hadn’t expected to be yelled at. “We handled it—”

Jake got in his face. “No, we handled it. He was ten seconds from getting on stage. If something had happened—”

Bradley appeared behind him, clamping a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Hey, man—breathe.”

Maverick stepped in too, more calmly. “Jake. He’s gone. She’s fine.”

But Jake didn’t budge at first. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, fury written all over him. You could see it from where you stood — not just the frustration, but something deeper. Fear. His eyes flicked to you, just for a second. Softened. Then he exhaled hard and stepped back, muttering under his breath.

Maverick raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. He gave Jake a look — one that said we’ll talk later — and turned to escort you back to the green room while the team regrouped.

You didn’t say anything until you were inside, door shut behind you, heart still racing.

Jake finally followed, a minute later, visibly trying to calm himself down. He wouldn’t look at you at first.

“You okay?” you asked, voice gentler than before.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just—shouldn’t’ve happened.”

You stepped closer. “But it’s over now. You were incredible.”

He finally met your eyes. And there it was again — that quiet, fierce protectiveness. Like if it had gone any differently, he would’ve burned the whole arena down.

“They don’t get to touch you,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Not on my watch.”

You didn’t reach for him — not here, not now — but your gaze lingered, and for a moment, nothing else existed in the world but you and him and the silence between your breaths.

The post-show wind-down in the hotel suite had become something of a ritual. Maverick sat at the table with his laptop open, skimming through footage from the night’s security feed. Mickey and Coyote were mid-way through a bag of chips, still hyped from the energy of the stadium. Bob typed notes for the report Maverick always expected. Natasha sat cross-legged in an armchair, sipping from a bottle of water, observant and quiet. Bradley leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching them all a little too carefully.

“She’s down for the night,” he finally said. “Jake’s at her door. I offered to take over, but he waved me off.”

Natasha quirked a brow. “Of course he did.”

Mickey popped a chip in his mouth. “Anyone else feel like Jake was… extra tonight?”

“Dude looked like he was about to rip that venue guy’s throat out,” Javy added.

“He reacted fast,” Bob said. “Almost like he knew something was gonna happen before it did.”

“He’s always been intense,” Bradley offered, tone breezy.

“Not this intense,” Natasha shot back. “It’s like he’s got tunnel vision—but only when she’s around.”

Bradley shifted slightly, arms still crossed. “He’s just doing his job. Maybe a little too hard, but—better safe than sorry.”

“Sure,” Javy said slowly, “but when the show ended, and she was off stage? She went to him. Not Penny, not Maverick, not you, Brad. Him.”

Bradley gave a lazy shrug. “They’re both under a lot of pressure. Maybe they’ve just… clicked.”

Bob looked up. “You think something’s going on?”

Bradley’s heart thudded, but he forced a calm laugh. “C’mon. That’s a stretch.”

“I don’t know,” Natasha said, narrowing her eyes. “She lets him get closer than she lets anyone else. And the way he looks at her—Jake doesn’t look at anyone like that.”

Maverick finally looked up from the footage, brow raised. “Looks at her how?”

“Like she hung the damn moon,” Natasha replied without missing a beat.

Javy made a face. “Yeah, and she looks right back at him like she’d rather be in his arms than on stage.”

“Maybe we’re all just tired,” Bradley said, pushing off the wall to walk toward the table. “It’s been a long few weeks. Big stadiums. Long nights. Emotions run high. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Mickey gave him a look. “You trying to convince us, or yourself?”

Bradley smirked. “Just saying. We’re paid to protect her, not to start a tabloid exposé.”

“Still,” Natasha murmured, eyes narrowing in thought. “If something is happening…”

“It’s none of our business,” Bradley said quickly, voice firm.

Everyone turned to him.

Natasha’s brow lifted slightly, curious now. “That defensive, huh?”

Bradley opened his mouth, then caught himself. “Just don’t want to stir up drama that isn’t there.”

Maverick watched him a moment longer, then turned back to his laptop, muttering, “We’ll see.”

Bradley sat down beside Mickey, keeping his expression neutral. But inside, he was already planning how the hell he was going to warn Jake — because it was only a matter of time before the others really figured it out.

And when they did?

There’d be no putting that genie back in the bottle.

The hotel room was quiet when Jake stepped inside.

Dim lamplight spilled across the plush carpet, soft and golden, and you stood by the window, your back to him, still in one of your oversized post-show hoodies. You didn’t turn around at first. Just let your head tilt slightly as you felt him approach — like your body knew he was close before your mind could register it.

Jake shut the door behind him with a soft click. “Hey.”

You turned, slow and tired but smiling, that specific kind of glow only adrenaline and stage lights left behind. “Hey yourself.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, stopping just in front of you, hands slipping into his pockets like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch. “You good?”

You reached for him then, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt. “I don’t want to talk.”

He leaned in, slow and sure, his voice low as he murmured against your lips, “Then don’t.”

The kiss was soft at first, a whisper of mouths, his hands settling on your waist. You breathed him in — clean soap, a trace of rain, and something deeply him. When he deepened the kiss, his grip grew firmer, pulling you flush against his chest, the tension finally giving way to hunger.

You gasped into his mouth when his hands slid beneath your hoodie, skimming over bare skin.

“No stage,” he whispered, voice rough with want. “No crowd. Just me and you.”

You nodded, wordless, and let him lead you toward the bed.

He kissed down your neck, taking his time, every press of his lips reverent. Clothes disappeared piece by piece — your hoodie first, his shirt next, and then nothing but bare skin and quickening heartbeats. You tugged him down with you onto the mattress, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, letting his weight settle over you.

Jake was gentle, even when his desire burned hot. He kissed every inch of your skin like he was memorizing it, learning you. His hands were strong, sure, but never rushed. When he dipped lower and his mouth found its place between your thighs, it wasn’t about showing off. It was about you falling apart under him — your hands tangled in his hair, your breath catching on his name, your body trembling from his touch.

And when he finally moved over you, when he pressed into you slow and deep, you felt everything. The tension, the weeks of wanting, the quiet understanding that this wasn’t just lust. It was something bigger. It meant something.

He moved with you, not against you. Eyes locked. Words whispered into skin. Your fingers dragged down his back, his lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he rasped.

“I’m yours,” you breathed.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rushed. Jake made love to you like he had all the time in the world. And when you came undone beneath him, he held you through it, whispering your name like a promise.

After, he didn’t move. Just held you close, his hand cradling the back of your head, your cheek pressed to his chest where his heart still pounded like a war drum.

You felt safe.

You felt seen.

And for the first time in your chaotic, spotlight-lit life… you let yourself believe this wasn’t just a fantasy.

He was real. And he was yours.

[...]

It happened on a Wednesday.

You’d made it a full month of stolen moments, whispered goodnights behind hotel doors, fingertips brushing under the glare of stadium lights — always just out of view, always careful. But someone was bound to see.

And Maverick wasn’t just anyone.

You were mid-soundcheck at the venue in Barcelona when he asked — no, ordered — both you and Jake to meet him in the green room after.

The room was empty, too quiet when you walked in. Jake stood stiff beside you, arms crossed, jaw tight. You could feel the panic starting to rise, like a fog behind your ribs. Maverick stood by the little kitchenette, sipping from a thermos like he wasn’t about to completely change the course of your day.

He set the thermos down.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

You rushed out before you could stop yourself. “Please don’t fire him.”

Maverick blinked, stunned. “I—what?”

You stepped forward, heart racing. “Or bench him or—whatever it is you’re thinking. Just don’t, okay? I know it’s not ideal, but we didn’t plan this. I swear we were careful and we tried to fight it but—” Your voice cracked. “Jake makes me happy. Really happy. I’ve never felt this—safe. Or seen. Or… me. So if you’re going to break us apart, please, don’t.”

Jake’s hand barely brushed your lower back, a silent anchor. You were trembling.

But Maverick didn’t yell. Didn’t scowl.

He just sighed. Long. Quiet. Ran a hand down his face like a father trying not to lose it in front of his kids.

“I’m not here to break you up,” he said finally.

You stared. “You’re not?”

“No.” His gaze flicked to Jake. “Though I am seriously considering gluing a GPS to your forehead, Seresin.”

Jake coughed once — a soft sound that might’ve been a laugh if the moment wasn’t so thick.

Maverick stepped closer, arms crossed now but not in anger — in careful authority. “You think I didn’t notice how you look at her? Or how she looks at you?” He glanced at you then, eyes gentler. “I’ve known you a long time. Long enough to know when something’s real.”

Your throat was tight.

He looked back at Jake. “I just want her protected. Not just from crowds or fans or threats — from the kind of love that burns too fast and leaves scars.”

Jake nodded, quiet but steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Maverick said. “That’s why I called this meeting.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Because,” he continued, “if you’re going to be in this — really in this — then you need to stop hiding. Not from me. Not from the people who love you.” His voice softened. “I’ve always had your back, kid. I’m not about to stop now.”

Your eyes burned.

Jake reached for your hand.

And Maverick? He just smiled a little.

“You deserve happy,” he said. “Both of you. Don’t screw it up.”

[...]

One year later — Los Angeles, final night of the tour.

The lights at SoFi Stadium were blinding. Seventy thousand people. A sea of phone lights like stars. Screams so loud the stage felt like it pulsed beneath your feet.

You were in your element.

The final notes of your last song rang out into the warm California night, the crowd holding every moment with you like they didn’t want it to end. And truthfully? Neither did you.

The tour had changed everything. Your world. Your heart.

You stood there, hands pressed to your chest, your voice trembling as you whispered a final thank you into the mic. You couldn’t see the front barricade from the lights, but you knew they were out there — Maverick, Bradley, your entire team. Your family.

And Jake.

He was somewhere along the stage edge, hidden in the shadows just as he had been every night. But your eyes always found him.

You slipped off stage to roaring cheers and were immediately pulled into hugs — Mickey, Nat, Javy, Penny. Everyone sticky with sweat, misty-eyed, and glowing.

But you only truly exhaled when you saw him. Jake.

Leaning against the wall in his black-on-black suit, tie loose, security badge clipped to his belt — but all you could see was his smile. That real one. The one just for you.

“Nice show,” he said, voice low.

You stepped into his space without hesitation. “Only cried three times,” you joked, cheeks still flushed from adrenaline.

Jake cupped your cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing beneath your eye, catching a smear of glitter. “You did it, superstar.”

“So did you,” you whispered, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. “Thank you for being there. For all of it.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Steady. Deep enough to silence the noise.

You weren’t hiding anymore. Maverick had known. The rest of the team had figured it out. But no one cared — not when they saw how happy you were. Not when they saw how steady Jake made you. Not when they saw the way you looked at each other, like everything before this had only been a rehearsal.

Jake pulled back just enough to murmur, “So what’s next for us?”

You smiled.