MG

Last looks were trickier. Harder to predict and pin down. There were last looks you were grateful to get - ex-friends and boyfriends who’d long overstayed their welcome in your life. Others were more painful, and left you longing for a ‘what-if’ that was never meant to be. Some, much like firsts, went by totally unnoticed, with neither of you realising that this was the end.

It was a strange understanding, the knowledge shared between two people that they would never see the other again.

You hoped your last look with Bradley wouldn't come for decades.

It’s midnight when he gets the call. You’re curled into him, arm draped over his stomach, his nose nestled in your hair. Only in his late thirties has Bradley been able to admit that often he much prefers quiet nights in with wine and a book to bustling bars and crowds.

You're more than happy to oblige, finding yourself spending more nights than not in his arms. It felt right, and natural, even though you'd only been together for a few months. A couple of your friends were less convinced.

“You’re moving too fast-”

“You’ll be sick of him before the year’s out-”

But things were good. You didn't believe in following a set schedule just because other people thought they knew how your relationship should work. You were happy, and you assumed Bradley felt the same. He’d never given any indication otherwise, even being the one to initiate a lot of the evolution of the relationship.

You’re in that sweet spot of being near enough sleep to be totally and utterly relaxed, while also still being able to enjoy the feeling of Bradley pressed up against you.

The staying over had been a new development, within the last week, when he’d make the excellent point that if you stayed over instead of driving home, you’d be doing your part to save the planet. You'd lower your carbon emissions, his place was closer to your work, and he'd already cleared out some closet space for you. The logic was unflappable.

“Mav? What’s wrong?” His voice is raspy, and he sits up, duvet pooling at his waist. “No, you didn’t wake me, it’s okay.”

The voice on the other end of the line speaks for a couple of seconds, and Bradley’s shoulders tense. It’s bad news. The kind that often precedes last looks. Your heart sinks slightly.

“How is she now?” Bradley replies, glancing over at you.

“Yeah, I can come. No, it's okay, I'll come now - should be there in a couple of hours.” A second. “I will. See you soon.”

“What's wrong?” You sit up, hand resting on his forearm.

“My mom. The cancer's spread. She was in the hospital today, just got home. Dad didn't want to worry me… but Mav thinks I should go home. Be there. He thinks it'll be a few weeks now. If we're lucky.” His voice wavers ever so slightly, but does not break.

“Oh Bradley,” You whisper. “I'm so sorry.” You'd known his mom had cancer, but you hadn't realised how severe it was. How little time she had.

“I-I need to go to San Diego,” He says, getting to his feet unsteadily. His hands are shaking, and he’s three shades paler than usual. “I’ll leave a key for you. Stay as long as you want.”

“Baby, it’s a three hour drive. You can’t do that in this state,” You murmur softly, moving to your knees as you watch him start to throw clothes into a duffel bag. “Let me take you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that-” He begins, but you cut him off.

“You aren’t. I’m offering. Just focus on packing, I'll grab some food and get the car ready.”

You can tell he wants to protest, tell you to go back to bed, but the worry wins out, and he just nods. Wordlessly, you get dressed, and head out to the car. When Bradley emerges ten minutes later, his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. You don’t know what to say, don’t know if there’s anything to say, so you just reach out, hand cupping his cheek gently. He lets out a shaky breath, eyes closing as he leans into your touch.

He’d known this would come eventually. He just hadn’t thought it would be so sudden. At her last check-up the doctors had said she was doing as well as could be expected. They thought she might have a couple of years left, if she continued on like the way she was going.

A couple of years was good. Bradley could make that work. Maybe settle down, give her a grandchild, and show her that he was happy. That it was okay for her to go. That he’d be alright without her.

He couldn’t do any of that in a few weeks.

The drive is made in near silence. Bradley stares out the window, wringing his hands together nervously as he occasionally offers commentary on the places you pass. The roads are desolate, and you’re turning onto Bradley’s parent’s road just before three.

You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Pulling up to your boyfriend’s childhood home in the middle of the night to see his dying mom wasn’t exactly how you imagined the first meeting going. The last thing they need right now is to meet a new girlfriend, a total stranger. Bradley potentially hasn’t even told them about you yet.

“I-I should probably get going-”

“You’re not staying?” His head snaps to yours, deep brown eyes furrowed as he frowns. “It's 3am, you can't drive back on no sleep.”

“I don’t want to impose,” You reply, twisting a ring round your finger. The last thing you want to do is make this about you. “Or add any stress, or anything. Your parents probably only want family around.”

“Honey, if my mom knew I let you drive me all the way here, and then let you turn around and head straight back in the middle of the night, she’d murder me before I even got my coat off.” Despite your nerves, despite everything, you let out a small laugh. “I’d really like you to stay. Please.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Whatever’s waiting for him inside, he’d rather face it with you.

“I didn't bring anything.”

“We can make do. I’ll buy whatever you need. Are you okay for work?”

You wave him off. “I have time off I can use. Don't worry.”

He nods, and grabs his bag from the back as you get out. He laces his fingers through yours, and takes a look up at the house that had been his home for eighteen years. There’s a light on downstairs, someone’s still awake.

Squeezing your hand, he begins the walk up the path, knocking lightly. It takes a second before it swings open, before revealing who you assume is Bradley’s dad.

They look so alike it’s almost uncanny. The man standing before you is like looking at Bradley in twenty-five years. Hair slightly thinner, a few more wrinkles, they could almost be brothers.

“Bradley,” Nick murmurs, pulling him in for a tight hug. “You should’ve waited until the morning.”

“Wanted to be with you guys,” Bradley mumbles, before pulling back slightly. “How is she?”

“Alright, all things considered. It’s spread to her lymph nodes. There’s nothing more they can do, therapy-wise. She’s sleeping now. You can go up in the morning.” He finally registers your presence behind Bradley, and straightens up. “You must be the girlfriend.” His eyes are soft, and he reaches out to pull you in for your own hug.

You tell him your name, as Bradley ushers you both inside, shutting the door behind you. “I’m so sorry about your wife, Mr Bradshaw.”

“Please, call me Nick,” He insists. He leads you both inside to the living room, where another man sits.

“Mav,” Bradley greets, as he stands. He introduces you to his godfather, and the two of you take a seat.

“How was the drive?” Maverick asks you.

“It was fine - roads were quiet.” You fight off a yawn, turning your head to look out the window.

“You’re tired,” Bradley says, voice quiet. “We can go to bed.”

You shake your head. “I’m okay,” You insist. Seeing the unconvinced expression on his face, you smile. “Promise.”

Bradley returns to his conversation with Nick and Maverick, and you try your best to stay awake, offering comments occasionally. You learn that Maverick and his wife live next door, and that Carole’s family all live nearby. Bradley has two cousins, Grace and John, who he grew up with. Grace has a toddler named Sophia, while John is getting married next year. Soon, you find your head leaning against Bradley’s shoulder, and he just feels so warm, and your eyes are so heavy-

“Your girl’s exhausted, Bradley,” Nick says softly. “Get some sleep.”

“I’m fine,” You mumble, but you know you’re not fooling anyone. It’s almost four now. You considered two a late night.

“It might be a little tight, but you can stay in your old room,” Nick says, and Bradley nods as he guides you to your feet. Maverick says his goodbyes, before heading next door.

“You’ll wake me when she’s up?”

Nick nods. “Yeah, of course. Now, go before she passes out.” You send him a tired smile, and follow Bradley down the hall.

Bradley’s childhood bedroom is exactly what you would’ve expected from him. Covered head to toe in plane posters, with sporting trophies lining every surface.

Football, baseball, basketball, track, he was apparently good at everything.

“My god, you were a try-hard,” You murmur, gesturing at the pile of medals hanging from the back of the door.

“I liked to win,” He shrugs, dropping his bag by the wardrobe. “You want a shirt to sleep in?”

You nod, and he tosses you an old Top Gun one. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and you both crawl into bed.

He insists the bed’s a double, but with the way you’re lying chest to chest just to stay on, you’re not convinced. It doesn’t really matter. You could be sleeping on the world’s largest bed, and would still find a way to be as close to Bradley as possible.

Don't stop // Trying to find me here amidst the chaos // Though I know it's blinding // There's a way out // Say out loud // We will not give up on love now

The next morning you meet Maverick's wife Penny, and his stepdaughter Amelia. Bradley and Nick are up in the master bedroom catching up - it had been a while since Bradley had been home.

They’re up for about an hour, while you get to know the Mitchells, before Bradley appears in the living room. “She wants to meet you.”

“Are you- are you sure?”

“Very sure. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.” As if he can sense the nerves, he holds out a hand for you to take. He knows this must be weird for you. Going from meeting no one to his entire family in the span of twenty-four hours. But he’s glad you’re here. He has a feeling he’s going to be with you for a long time, and if now is the only time that he gets to be with you and his mom, he’ll take what he can get.

If you hadn’t known Carole Bradshaw was sick, you’re not sure you would’ve guessed. Yes, she looks tired, and yes, the bags under her eyes are probably bigger than usual, but her smile is wide and her eyes bright.

“You’re even prettier than he said you were.”

You’re positive this isn’t true. You’re wearing the jeans you had on yesterday, with one of Bradley’s shirts, and you must’ve gotten a maximum of five hours sleep last night. Pretty is not the word you’d use. Heat rises to your cheeks, as Bradley guides you to the chair beside her bed.

“It’s really lovely to meet you, Mrs Bradshaw-”

“Carole! Call me Carole, please.”

“Carole,” You repeat. You’re desperate for her to like you. The idea that you could be with Bradley for the rest of your life, and the only impression his mother has of you is when you’re running on little sleep with greasy hair is not appealing. “I really like your son.”

She laughs. “I really like him too. And he likes you. Wouldn’t shut up about you the last time he called.”

You glance at Bradley, who’s begun to look very embarrassed. “That’s an exaggeration-”

“It is not! He’s very enamoured with you, sweetheart.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“So, what do you do? He got so carried away on the phone, he didn’t tell me the basics. Just how pretty you were, and how he can't believe you'd go out with him-”

"Okay, mom, that's enough," Bradley interjects, as Carole grins.

"Just letting the girl know what she's in for!"

“I work in publishing.”

“You’re a reader?”

“As much as I can.”

“You’ll need to give me some recommendations then. I’ve been getting more reading done recently than the rest of my life combined.”

“I think I can do that.”

***

That afternoon, the extended family come round. You take it all in your stride, diligently answering questions and re-filling drinks. Sophia, his cousin’s daughter, takes a particular liking to you, opting to sit on your knee while the grownups chat.

“What do you think?” Bradley asks Nick, eyes trained on you as you crouch down to chat to little Sophia, smiling widely as she shows off her teddy bear.

“I like her more than you already,” Nick quips, throwing him a grin. Seeing Bradley’s obvious relief, he claps a hand on his son’s shoulder. “She’s great. Really. Way out of your league.”

Bradley snorts. “Believe me, I know.”

“Your mom likes her too. Spent more time talking about her to Mary this afternoon than anything else.”

“Yeah?”

Nick drops his voice to a near-whisper. “I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, but you bringing her here has really made your mother so happy. All she’s ever wanted was for you to find someone - and she won’t get to meet her grandkids, but I think meeting their mother will let her go with a bit of clarity.”

Bradley almost chokes on his drink. Sure, these might have been three of the best months of his life. But it was still far too early to even consider marriage and kids. The last thing he wanted to do was scare you off. Not when things had been going so well. “It’s only been three months-”

“So? Who cares if you met her yesterday, or ten years ago? She wouldn't have driven you a hundred and fifty miles in the middle of the night if she wasn't committed to this thing. Your mother and I were engaged by six months, married by eight.”

He looks back at you. In such a short space of time, you'd become his whole life. On the occasions you had to sleep at your own place, due to early meetings or that time you were dog-sitting, he felt your absence like a gaping hole in his chest. You were the last thing he thought about every night, and his first thought in the morning. “I really like her,” He admits finally.

Nick Bradshaw just smiles. “We can tell.”

Don't you turn like Orpheus // Just stay here // Hold me in the dark and when the day appears // We'll say // We did not give up on love today

You manage a couple of hours of downtime before trying to make yourself useful again. You weren’t the world’s best cook - you certainly weren’t better than Bradley, but you could make a mean lasagna. And you figure the last thing the Bradshaws needed to be thinking about right now was food. So, you enlist Penny, and send Maverick out to get the extra ingredients you need.

“We can just order in, it’s no big deal,” Bradley insists, watching as you and Penny bustle about the kitchen.

“That’ll cost an absolute fortune. We’ve got it covered, right Penny?”

Penny nods, and ushers Bradley towards the door. “We’ll be done in an hour. Set the table for us, will you?”

Spirits are cheerful, despite the overhang of dread. Cousins are playing, Bradley’s serving drinks, Carole and Penny are gossiping, and you’ve found yourself beside Nick. He’s easy to talk to, and is like Bradley in so many ways it’s almost scary. He’s already broken into the baby pictures, showing you various embarrassing Bradley phases over the years.

His cowboy phase at three. His emo phase at eleven. His surfer dude phase at sixteen.

“Later on, I may tell you about Bradley's many failings as a man and as a table tennis player. But, firstly I'd like to say the one big thing - that I've only loved three men in my life. My dad was a frosty prick so that only leaves dear Maverick, Elvis Presley- obviously - and that man there.”

Across the room, Bradley’s giving Sophia a piggy-back, while simultaneously juggling four empty glasses that need cleaned up.

“He’s a good guy,” You agree, eyes soft as you watch him. “I’m really lucky.”

“I’m glad you two found each other. He struggles to let people in sometimes.”

You’d never experienced that with Bradley. From the very first meeting, it felt like you both just understood each other, in a way you’d never felt before. You told him things at Bob’s wedding that it would take you months to work up to with other people. Upon seeing your confusion, Nick laughs softly.

“Good to see he isn’t like that with you.”

Eventually, Carole begins to get tired, and everyone starts to filter out, leaving just Nick, Bradley, and you. You try to start cleaning up, but Nick and Bradley manage to distract you with a game of Monopoly at Carole’s bedside. She dominates, getting hotels on Park Lane and Mayfair that bankrup the rest of you, before you and Bradley give her some peace to get some sleep.

When Bradley emerges from his shower, you aren’t in his room. Frowning, he combs the upstairs. Nothing. Then he hears humming from the kitchen. Inside, you’re tackling the mountain of plates from lunch earlier, having barely made a dent.

“Honey, you don’t have to do that,” Bradley says, and you jump at the disturbance.

“You scared me,” You breathe, before turning back to the dishes. “And it’s fine - I just want to help.”

“I can do it in the morning,” He insists, moving behind you to rest his chin on your shoulder and wrap his arms around your waist. “You already made dinner. It’s too much.”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about dishes, or washing, or cooking right now. Let me take care of you.”

“At least let me help.”

You think for a second, before conceding. “Fine. You can dry.”

It takes another hour, but the by the end, you’re giggling like children as you flick suds of soap at him, before trying to duck out of his arms as he tickles you mercilessly.

Upstairs, Carole and Nick smile to themselves when they hear the “Bradley don’t!” mere seconds before another fit of laughter erupts.

"He's going to be okay," Carole murmurs, resting her head on her husband's shoulder, eyes misty.

By the time you’re ready to go to bed, Bradley’s in need of another shower, hair sticking to his forehead as his shorts drip water onto the floor.

***

“I’ll be back tonight,” You promise, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “But I really need my laptop to work from home.”

Bradley understood. He did. You were already doing far too much, arranging your work so that you could stay in San Diego with him for the time being. And yet, the idea of you being gone for even a day created a pit at the very bottom of his stomach. “Drive safe, okay? And call me when you get home. And then call me again before you leave.”

“I will.” In normal circumstances you’d laugh at his over-protectiveness, but you know he’s just worried. It’s been a hard two weeks.

Carole has had a string of bad days - bad days that are slowly beginning to outnumber the good. It won’t be too long now. Carole knows this, you know it, Nick knows it. You’re not sure Bradley’s come to terms with it yet.

You’re sitting with her that night, while the guys make dinner. You’d been covering it, but Carole had insisted they stop letting you do all the work around the house. So you’re cross-legged on a chair beside her bed, looking at some more pictures from Bradley’s childhood.

“You know, he’s never brought a girl home before,” Carole tells you, as soon as the door clicks shut behind Bradley. He’d popped up with drinks. “Not even Taylor. They were together four years, and we met her once at a wedding.”

“It’s just because I drove him here,” You reason, but Carole shakes her head.

“It’s different with you.” She goes to speak again, before breaking off in a coughing fit. You grab the glass on her bedside, passing it over. “Thanks, sweetheart. And thank you for being here.”

“It’s no problem, really. I’d do anything for him.”

“I know. And I’m glad it’s you. I was so worried about leaving him. He’s always been sensitive. I think you’ll make it a little easier on him.”

You don't know what to say, voice catching in your throat. Instead, you reach out and take her hand.

***

“Please Nick, I'm not dead yet. Penny can come. It’ll be fine.” Carole rolls her eyes, and you know Nick isn't winning this one.

It was the latest argument. Nick and Carole had decided to renew their vows at the Hard Deck, just for closest friends and family. The guys had their suits, but you, Carole and Penny didn't have a dress. Carole wanted to go shopping, Nick thought it was a bad idea. The final compromise was going to one shop, and making Carole stay off her feet as much as possible.

You knew despite Carole's insistence that she was happy with whatever, that you didn’t want to make her walk far. So you set up shop in a local store, Carole and Penny each picking their own dress first.

You try a couple on, eventually landing on a pale yellow maxi dress, patterned with flowers. Just as you’re about to get changed back into your clothes, Carole appears in the dressing room.

“If this is weird and inappropriate, please tell me,” Carole insists, as she steps towards you with a dress bag. “But uh- I never got to have a daughter. Nick and I, we tried for a while to give Bradley a sibling, but it never worked out.” She clears her throat, voice thick as she continues. “And I always hoped that I’d be able to go dress-shopping with whoever Bradley chose to marry. I know that the two of you haven’t been together long, but-but…”

She trails off, and you nod, eyes shining. “I would really love to have you as a mother-in-law,” You whisper.

You step out of the dressing room, breath bated as you look in the mirror. The dress is gorgeous, hugging your curves in all the right places, the cut making you look taller than you are. You’ve never worn a wedding dress before. You're not sure if it's bad luck to wear one without being engaged, but this feels right. It's a moment you'll never get to share with Carole, even if you do marry Bradley one day.

She’s wiping her eyes before she even sees you. “Oh honey, you look stunning,” She breathes. "You'll make a beautiful bride someday."

The tears are streaming freely now, and you hug her tightly. "I wish I'd met him earlier."

"Me too," She whispers. "But it's okay. When it happens, it'll be wonderful. Because you both love each other, and that's all that matters."

I'll show you good // Restore your faith // I'll try and somehow make a meaning of the poison in this place // Convince you love, don't breathe it in // You were written in the stars that we are swimming in

The ceremony's beautiful. If you and Bradley can have half the relationship his parents share, you'll be doing a whole lot better than most people.

Maverick officiates, and Bradley is designated ring-bearer, despite his protests.

"Why can't Amelia do it? Or Sophia? The literal child?"

"It's funnier making you do it-"

“Time for pictures!” Penny announces, grabbing her camera from the counter. “Bradshaw family up first!”

You smile as Bradley fakes a dramatic sigh, pressing a kiss to your hairline as he passes. Nick and Bradley stand on either side of Carole, arms wrapped round her waist as they lean in. You zone out slightly, snapping back to reality when you hear Carole calling your name. “Wait! That’s not everyone!”

If you weren’t already close to tears, this'll do it. “Oh, no-” You begin, but she’s already cutting you off.

“You’ll be family soon enough, sweetheart,” She calls, gesturing forwards. You glance at Bradley, nod wanting to overstep, and get to your feet when he nods. You know the rule for partners - unless it’s serious, they don’t get in the family photos.

Bradley reaches out, looping his arm round you to pull you in tightly.

Penny takes pictures of every possible configuration of people. You and Bradley, Nick and Maverick, Carole and Sophia, before getting one of the bartenders to get a group shot.

Nick captures one single photo the whole night. You and Carole in the corner of one of the booths, eyes crinkled as you laugh together. He saves it for later. Figures it could make a good wedding present down the line.

***

“Listen, if what my mom said was too much, I totally get that,” Bradley murmurs into your ear as you sway gently in time to Bruce Springsteen’s I’m On Fire wafting from the jukebox. “She gets ahead of herself at the best of times, nevermind… nevermind now.”

Carole Bradshaw will never get to meet her grandchildren. If you and Bradley get married, she won’t be at the wedding. If, god forbid, you aren’t it for him, she’ll never know his wife. She won’t get to see him turn forty, or celebrate her fortieth wedding anniversary. It’s an awful finality that he can’t allow himself to think about too much.

“It wasn’t too much,” You reply, voice soft. “I love your family.”

“I love you.”

It slips out before he can even register what he's saying. Truthfully, he's known he loved you since you dropped everything to be with him here. But thinking and saying are very different things.

Your reply is instantaneous. “I love you too.” You don't need to think about it. Because you do. You love Bradley Bradshaw in a big and scary way.

You love how he spends his Saturdays giving free lessons to people who can't afford it, simply because he thinks everyone should have a chance to learn.

You love that when the anniversary of your grandma's death had come round last month, he'd turned up on your doorstep with flowers and chocolates before his shift, even though his work was at the opposite end of the city from your house.

You love the fact that he talks in his sleep - mostly about aircrafts and flying, a language you don't understand at all. Mumbling about F-18s and Mach numbers as his arms tighten around you.

You love that underneath the tough exterior, he’s the softest man you've ever met. That even though the idea terrifies him, you know he'll be a wonderful father one day.

You love him. You think that maybe you've loved him since the moment you saw him.

“You don't have to say it just because my mom's dying.”

“I'm not. I'd say it even if your dad was hideous and your mom hated me, and they were all massive Republicans. I love you.”

***

“They look like you guys,” Maverick muses, as you and Bradley move round the dance floor, totally engrossed in each other.

“I hope you mean that as a compliment,” Nick replies, raising an eyebrow as he takes his wife's hand.

“Of course it's a compliment,” Maverick scoffs. “You guys found your person younger than most, and still managed to make it work. Took me fifty years to get my act together.”

“Bradley’s nearly forty, he wasn’t far behind you,” Nick snorts, and Carole swats at him.

“That wasn’t his fault! He was ready to settle down, and Taylor pulled the rug out from under him.”

“It worked out for the best. He looks happier now than he ever did with Taylor.”

"You both better get absolutely hammered at their wedding for me."

"I think we can handle that," Maverick assures her, grinning. "The boys can do Great Balls of Fire in your honour."

"She'll be heading straight for a divorce if you do that," Carole laughs.

That was the last good day. It was like she'd said her goodbyes, made her peace with leaving. She knew that everyone would be okay, eventually. She's admitted to the hospital on Monday with chest pain, and dies on Thursday.

She goes holding Bradley's hand, while Nick sits on her other side. For all intents and purposes, it is a peaceful death.

It has no name // No guarantee // It's just the promise of a day // I know that some may never see // But that's enough // If the bottom drops out // I hope my love was someone else's solid ground

Nick Bradshaw stands alone at the entrance to the church, greeting every single guest by name. Even when they get well into the hundreds, he treats their grief with a delicacy you'd never expect from a new widower.

You don’t think you’d be able to harness that amount of grace if you were in his position. You stand with Bradley, hand clutched tightly in his. His eyes are fixed firmly on the coffin, only pulling them away to acknowledge the mourners who approach him.

It feels like the entire city of San Diego has come out to mourn Carole Bradshaw. The church is filled to the brim, with people spilling onto the street outside. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen such an outpouring of love for one person.

You manage to hold it together until the opening chords of Tom Petty’s I Won’t Back Down ring out. Bradley’s arm snakes round your waist, and a choked sob escapes as he buries his face in your hair.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” You cry, pulling him in tighter.

Nick knew his wife better than anybody in the world - she wouldn't have wanted everyone to be miserable. She wanted her funeral to be a celebration of life, not death.

So his eulogy is full of their best moments - from embarrassing to heartfelt. When she went into labour with Bradley while Nick was in the air, and Maverick had to be sent to get him down. Nick arrived at the hospital as Bradley was crowning. It had taken him a while to make it up to her for that one.

When she almost got them all arrested in Italy by driving on the wrong side of the road.

Their first wedding - when she'd been an hour late to her own reception because she overslept.

Her love for really awful karaoke. Her love for her family, friends, husband, son.

Carole Bradshaw lived a good life. And that was nothing to be sad about.

“How are you handling this so well?” Bradley asks his dad, as the three of you walk towards the car to head to the reception.

“I'm not - not really. I’m fucking furious, and so uninterested in a life without your mother. But I also know she'd punch me for even thinking that.”

For the first time in a long time, Bradley laughs. “She’d tell you to grow up and get on with it.”

“And so that’s what I’m going to do. I’m gonna mope for a couple of weeks, and then I’m getting a dog. And I’m gonna call it Goose.”

“You’re naming the dog after yourself?”

“Hey, your mother was the brains of the relationship, not me.”

***

“Can we- can we go for a drive?” Bradley asks the next day, and you nod.

“Of course.”

The drive doesn’t take long. A couple of miles up the coast, before he’s pulling into a lookout spot. It’s incredible, the view over the ocean. “My mom used to bring me here, to watch my dad fly,” Bradley murmurs, as he leads you over to the railing. He gestures out towards the island in the distance. “He was based there for a while. So was I, when I served.”

There aren’t any planes out today, but the sky is the bluest blue you’ve ever seen, not a cloud in sight. Bradley has to think that somehow, his mom is here, watching over you both.

“I think I've been asleep most of my life,” He admits.

“Me too.”

“I don't want that anymore. Being scared, of not taking any risks. I don't want to have any regrets."

"We've got time," You murmur. "We're still in our thirties. Basically teenagers. Your twenties are just a practice run, anyway. I've heard that being in your forties is where it's at."

"Yeah," He replies softly. "We've got time."

His mom's ring nearly burns a hole in his pocket.

“Not for today, not for tomorrow, but soon, okay?” She'd whispered, slipping it into his hand, smiling softly as her breathing grew laboured.

“Yeah, mom. Soon.”

Now you sit cross-legged on the bed with one of Bobby’s shirts hanging from your frame, sweating in the summer heat. The fan in the corner rattles noisily, doing little to combat the warmth, and the heat of your annoyance at a camcorder being shoved in your face isn’t exactly helping.

You roll your eyes at him, unimpressed. “The camera isn’t a person. I'm not introducing myself.”

“Well—“ He kisses his teeth, ready to argue his case.

“If you’re just using this as an excuse to roleplay, I want no part of it,” you interject, arms folding stubbornly over your chest.

Bobby zooms the camera in on your deadpan face. “Subject displays signs of hostility—“

“Turn that thing off.”

The warning in your voice only seems to amuse him. The viewfinder hides his expression, but you imagine him grinning, which only exasperates you further.

“Hostility increases—“

“Bobby.”

“Fine. Fine,” he relents—not by turning the camera off, obviously, because that would have required him to possess even a shred of self-restraint, and he’s thoroughly enjoying pestering you right now. Instead, he zooms back out and lowers the camera enough for you to see his face. “This image quality is insane.”

Despite yourself, you feel a little endeared by his enthusiasm. “Well, it better be. That thing is worth, like, a month’s rent.”

The number still makes you feel vaguely ill. The conversation where you’d discovered exactly how much his new equipment cost had almost given you a heart attack. Bobby, however, appears completely unbothered. In fact, judging by the distant look in his eyes, he probably hasn’t heard a single word you’ve just said.

He’s more focused on staring at the tiny flip-out screen again, adjusting the focus ring, watching you reluctantly unfold your arms again.

“Though to be fair,” he says, “you make it easy.”

Your frown deepens. “That’s a terrible line.”

“Line?” He replies absently.

“That.” You gesture vaguely towards him. “Whatever that was. You make it easy.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “It wasn’t a line.”

“It absolutely was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You called me pretty.”

“I did not,” he denies.

You sit upright. “So now we’re lying?”

Bobby laughs. “I said the image quality was good.”

“Because of me. Therefore you implied I was pretty.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Liar!”

The grin spreading across his face makes your stomach flip unhelpfully. You considered yourself immune to his charms by now, but his boyish grin and the way he’s admiring you through his camcorder makes you want to swoon. Which is exactly why you immediately scowl at him.

“Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”

“I can’t help it,” Bobby says.

You huff an amused breath despite yourself. The sound seems to encourage him, and he adjusts something on the side of the camcorder and squints through the viewfinder.

“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully to himself.

Naturally, such a sound is immediately enough to warrant suspicion. “What?”

“I need the subject to move around. Test how it picks up motion.”

“So now I’m just ‘the subject?’” You raise a challenging brow at him, and he immediately backtracks.

“I need my hot supermodel girlfriend to move around,” he corrects.

You roll your eyes, but it does make something stir in your chest despite its sheer ridiculousness. Bobby lowers the camera again and you catch the mischievous look on his face.

“Maybe you should model.”

“No,” you deny instantly.

“You’re not even going to think about it?” He says, a whine catching in his voice.

“I don’t need to. I don’t want a video of me stripping, or whatever the hell you want, sitting around our apartment. I babysit my niece here twice a week.”

“Okay, and? It’s not like she knows how to work one of these. She barely knows how to brush her own teeth.”

“It’s— it’s the principle,” you insist, cheeks burning. You wouldn’t consider yourself a shy woman, far from it, but the idea of there being a physical record of you attempting to seduce your boyfriend is offputting. “I’m not a slut.”

He groans and throws his head back. “No, you’re not,” he agrees as patiently as he can. He’s using the same voice he uses to console your aforementioned niece, which isn’t exactly helping his case. “You’re very loyal, in fact. Dedicated, too. It’d be really nice if you could show me that dedication—“

“Gross.” You stick your tongue out. “Don’t make it weirder than it has to be.”

“Fine. Fine.” He raises his free hand in surrender. “I’m not making it weird.”

A silence falls over the both of you, and you worry at your bottom lip in consideration. It just goes to show how much you adore him, because you should be sticking with your gut answer and telling him to fuck off. Alas…

“You promise you won’t show anyone?”

Bobby perks up instantly. “Promise. Scout’s honour.” The boyish salute that follows makes your shoulders ease up a little, and you briefly question why you’d even consider stripping for such a childish individual.

“Fine. But just a little. To… test your motion, or whatever.”

“What?” He blinks stupidly, before realising that’s the excuse he’d used just a moment ago. A sheepish grin tugs at his mouth. “Oh, right. Exactly. Just a little is fine.”

You swallow, shifting slightly on the bed. The frame creaks, and you can’t help but think the moment feels incredibly unsexy. You’re sweating in the sweltering heat, and it’s probably picking up the whirring sound of the fan, and—

Now you’re just psyching yourself out. It’s fine. It’s just Bobby.

“Okay, so… what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t think I’d get this far.”

“Bobby.”

“Just do what feels right.” He waves a vague hand. “Take your shirt off, or something.”

Such a request should make you sputter with indignance, but it’s no surprise coming from the man who seemingly spent upwards of eight hundred dollars on a camcorder just to record his girlfriend in their shitty apartment. You force some more confidence into your posture, shoulders squaring as you look down at your shirt. Slowly, your fingers drift down to the hem, curling around it.

You glance up at him for reassurance, met with an eager nod. Stifling a sigh, you drag it up slowly, revealing inch by inch of warm skin. “Like this?”

“Just like that,” Bobby breathes, voice lower now.

Encouraged by that, you pull it up further, dragging it up past your bra. Bobby wets his lips at the sight—your breasts spilling over the cups, soft and enticing. Up up up it goes until you’re pulling it over your head, letting it fall to the floor in front of you.

You want to shift uncomfortably, clamp your thighs together, cover yourself with your arms. It’s not like he’s never seen it before. It’s just unnerving with the camcorder directed at you. But you force yourself to stare directly at it, spreading your thighs slightly to give him a proper view of your panties.

“Fuck, yeah,” he murmurs. “Touch yourself.”

“What?” You say, alarmed.

“Not—“ He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Not there. Sorry. Just… your tits, or something.”

Your shoulders sag with relief. That’s a little too much for now, but you’re content enough to give him at least some form of show. Your fingers skate back up your stomach, goosebumps prickling beneath them. Then you cup your breasts over your bra, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re so pretty, babe,” he says, and the approval goes straight between your legs. “Doing so well.”

You reward him by hooking your fingers under one of your bra straps, inching it down. His breath catches audibly—selfishly, you hope the camera caught that reaction—and he shifts a little on his feet. The thought of him getting visibly aroused by your display emboldens you further.

The other strap follows, and you palm at yourself over the cups a little more. “I would have worn a better set if I knew we were doing this.”

“I like this bra,” he says, only half hearing you, zeroed in on the sight of you squeezing at yourself.

You release them and he almost groans in disappointment. Before the sound can escape, you reach behind you, unclasping the bra and letting it fall away. His eyes widen cartoonishly, and you bite your lip to mask a smile, trying to remain as sultry as possible.

“Shit, can I touch you?” Bobby takes a step forward. Your eyes flick down to his jeans. They’re tight, but you think you can make out the forming bulge beneath the denim.

“Can’t touch ‘the subject,’” you quip.

Hands skim along your chest again, and he seems enraptured as you grope yourself. You’re surprised he hasn’t caved already, but his restraint is admirable as he nods sagely in agreement. Still, you hear him groan under his breath when you focus on a nipple. It stiffens under the touch, already sensitive enough to make you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Is this enough movement?” You ask, rolling your nipple between your fingers while your other hand palms at the flesh of your other breast. You’re hardly moving, so the answer is definitely no, but he indulges you with another one of those enthusiastic nods. You're certain you could sit entirely still with your bra off and he'd tell you it was enough for his little 'motion test.'

“Yeah. Looks, um—“ His gaze moves to the viewfinder, which he realises he hasn’t actually looked through since you took your shirt off. He can only hope the camera was pointed at you properly. “Looks great.”

“The movement, or me?”

“The movement,” he says, laughing at the indignance that crosses your face. “You look more than great. You look perfect.” Heat crawls up your cheeks, but he’s not done. “Which is exactly why I really can’t keep my hands to myself right now, and I don’t think you should waste your day off sitting in bed alone when we could be having sex.”

You bark out a laugh as he switches it off, setting it on the dresser and advancing towards you. “Well, that’s an improvement from your last line.”

He stands between your parted legs, ducking his head to give you a quick kiss. “For the record, it wasn’t a line,” he insists as you reach for his belt.

“Liar,” you mutter against his mouth.

The smile he gives you when he pulls back is so hopelessly smitten that your own laughter softens with something warmer. He ruins it by breaking the silence with:

You’d be lying if you said, that they weren’t your favorite regulars and having them show up made every shift pass by in a breeze. Especially when a special someone was there too. Hangman. 

Or Jake, his real name you had only learned after a few months of knowing him. 

He was the loudest, the one you couldn’t help but notice even in the thickest of crowds. He was cocky, flirty and funny and more than aware of his good looks and beautiful green eyes. 

You were also pretty sure that he had more than a hint of a god complex, something that was necessary as a fighter pilot, but did not always bode well for a personal life.

All of that was a very deadly combination. A combination you had sworn to resist. 

But that was easier said than done. 

Hangman was like a magnet, drawing you in, dragging your gaze towards him and sometimes even your body, making staying away very, very difficult. 

And today, of course, was no different. 

As soon as the dagger squad poured into the bar, your gaze was locked onto the door, watching as Rooster, Bob, Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback and Coyote swaggered in and for a split second you thought that Hangman wasn’t going to be there. But then there he was, rounding out the troop, last but definitely not least. The golden hour sun illuminating him from behind, making his blonde hair practically glow. 

Rowdy as always, they were laughing and talking as they stepped up to the bar.

“Hey guys,” you said with a broad grin towards the group. “How was the mission?”

“Absolutely crushed it!” Rooster replied. 

“Yeah, if it wasn’t for Hangman flying like crazy, we would all be dead!” Coyote butted in and it involuntarily made you look towards Hangman, who was leaned against the bar, the picture of casualness as he shrugged. His eyes already on you.

“What can I say? I’m very good.” Smirk on his face, his eyes looked you up and down and with an intensity that made your heart race. Trying to slow it down again, you turned back to the others. 

“So what can I get you to celebrate?” 

After taking orders and pouring beer, they moved towards the pool table and crowded around it, only Hangman remained by the bar. 

“Did you miss me?” He asked, taking a sip of his beer, but that cocky smirk never left his face. 

“Those were the longest two weeks of my life,” you said theatrically. “I couldn’t sleep or eat, fearing for your life.” You clutched your chest. 

He laughed, leaning a little further over the bar, closer to you. 

“See I know you’re playing this off as a joke, but I know there’s truth in there.” 

You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t fight off the smile accompanying it.

Okay, yeah, maybe there was a little bit of truth to it. But he didn’t have to know that. Maybe those two weeks really felt a little slow and like they stretched on for an eternity. And maybe you had occasionally thought about him - and the others - and if they were safe, but any normal person would do that. You were somewhat friends after all. It had absolutely nothing to do with him specifically. 

“But don’t worry sweetheart, you won’t get rid of me that easily.” He winked at you before he went to join the others and their lively conversations. 

Time passed and the night went on, the Deck filling up and some of the daggers coming up to the bar periodically to buy more rounds of drinks, but it was so busy, you barely had time to talk to them. Only once Penny relieved you of your shift, taking over for closing, did you have time to pour yourself a beer and walk towards them. 

You did that sometimes, join them when you could, playing a game of pool or darts. 

“There she is!” Phoenix spotted you first and opened her arms to give you a quick hug.

Out of all of them, she was the only one you hung out with outside the bar. Being in such a male dominated field, you knew she was glad to have another woman around as a friend and you felt the same. She was also the only one who knew about your feelings for Hangman. You hadn’t intended on telling her, but she was so perceptive, so sharp, you didn’t even have to. Or maybe you were just so obvious in your ogling, although you’d like to think you weren’t. 

One day she simply asked you “when are you gonna fuck him?” and you almost choked on your drink. Trying vehemently to fight off the allegations but the raised eyebrow she gave you made you give in quickly, spilling the secret you had held on for so long. 

She didn’t exactly approve that he was your choice, but was still supportive nonetheless. And in your logical mind you didn’t really know why your heart decided on him either, when quiet and polite Bob was there, or Rooster who wore his every emotion on his sleeve. No, it had to be Hangman. Hangman, who flirted with every being with a pulse and two legs and had a reputation like no one else. 

That flirting obviously also involved you, pulse and legs meeting the requirements. It was easy at first to shrug it off, thinking he would eventually get bored. You were the shiny, new plaything. However, he never did, in fact the flirting increased. Probably seeing you as a challenge now, which meant that as much as you wanted it - wanted him - you could never give in. 

You wanted more than to be his one night stand, his challenge, his conquest or notch in what must’ve been a very long belt. 

There was only that one time when you almost crossed that line. Closing down the bar, just the two of you, Hangman insisting on helping… but you didn’t like to think about it. Hated how it still made you heart skip a beat and heat curl low in your belly. The way he looked at you as he leaned in. How your lips almost connected. How his hand felt on your hip, warm and heavy and a tad possessive, before Penny came barging in. 

You’d jumped apart, pretending like nothing had happened. Really, nothing did. 

Swearing to never repeat that mistake again, you just had to be content with watching him from across the bar, or the pool table. Just as you did right now, sipping your beer, pretending like his smile didn’t make you weak in the knees. 

“I’ve got a date tomorrow,” you then told Phoenix out of the blue. Her eyebrows shot into her hairline. 

“A date? With… Hangman?” She asked confused. 

“What? No!” You shook your head. “With some guy who came into the bar the other day. At first I was going to say no, but then I figured it might not be such a bad idea.”

“Getting over him by getting under someone else, huh?” She smirked, sipping her drink and you shrugged. 

“Something like that. Or at least take the edge off,” you mumbled the last part. 

“Ohh, so you just wanna get laid!” She laughed at the realization, her voice louder than she intended, drawing Jake’s eyes towards you.

“Shh! I mean, yeah, it’s been so long and I am this close,” you held up your index finger and thumb, practically touching, “to saying yes to Jake. And we both know this can’t happen.”

“Well good luck now, ‘cause he’s coming over.” She snickered as she walked off, leaving you alone and defenseless as Hangman walked up. 

“I couldn’t help but overhear something just now.” He grinned, green eyes bearing a glint of mischief. “Something about you wanting to get laid?”

“No- that was… not at all-“ You stammered, scrambling for an excuse. It only made his grin widen.

“You know, flying and almost dying really gets the adrenaline going.” He leaned down a little, whispering the next words. One hand sliding down your bare arm. 

“It’s one hell of an aphrodisiac.”

You swallowed hard. 

“Yeah, I can imagine.” You managed to whisper back, not fully trusting your voice to speak louder.  

“How about we help each other out, hm?” His gaze was back on your face, taking in your reaction. Watching - and probably enjoying - as your resolve cracked.

Your skin was burning under his touch. Innocent technically, it was just your arm, but it felt like he was setting your skin on fire. 

Raising your chin slightly to look up at him, you took a shaky breath. 

“Maybe next time.” Still whispering, trying to pass it off as a joke. 

“That’s not a no.” He didn’t sound disappointed, just amused. Intrigued. Like he could wait you out. He did stop touching your arm, though. Stepping back a tiny bit and giving you more room to breathe.  

“No, it is definitely a no.” You built up the wall of your resolve again, brick by brick, speaking louder. Desperately trying to ignore the growing ache between your legs that had you ever so slightly clench your thighs together. 

Hangman nodded, that cocky smile never leaving his face. 

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He gave you one more look over his shoulder as he walked away. The only thing you could do in return was take a deep swig of your beer, which was a little warm by now, the bitterness more noticeable, but exactly what you needed. 

“You’ve got it bad.” Phoenix laughed, sliding back up next to you. 

“Shut up,” you replied but couldn’t help laughing with her.

Every time you were close to giving in, you reminded yourself of what Penny had said to you that night after she caught you almost kissing Hangman. 

You thought she would give you a stern talking to about hooking up with customers at work, but instead she pulled you aside and told you to be careful with Navy boys. Especially the pretty ones that looked like Jake. Because a big part of their job was breaking hearts and she didn’t want you to learn the hard way. 

She had known the whole group for a lot longer than you had and you had heard stories about her complicated relationship with their group leader, Maverick. 

Not having been around military before in your life, you took her advice to heart. And it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen Hangman make out with pretty girls in corners before or watched him as he staggered out the bar with his arm around their waists. You knew what he was like and you were grateful to Penny for the reminder. 

On Saturdays, The Hard Deck opened at noon and you took the opening shift again so you had the afternoon off to go on your date. 

It was quiet, but the day still went by pretty quickly. Distracted by first date jitters and what outfit you were gonna put on.  

By the time it got busier, Penny took over for you and sent you on your way. You let out a sigh of relief. Jake or any of the others hadn’t come in yet today, which meant you didn’t have to explain why you were leaving early and where you were going. 

In the parking lot, you were just reaching for the car door handle when you heard Phoenix call your name. 

Shit.

You turned around with a sigh and wave and saw her, together with some of the others coming over, while the rest went inside the bar.

“Off already?” Jake was - of course - at the forefront and before you could even think about lying, Phoenix answered for you. 

“She’s got a hot date.” She grinned, side eyeing Hangman. If your looks could kill, she would be dead right now. You bit your bottom lip, not denying the fact.

Your gaze flashed to Jake next. He clenched his jaw - just for a second - and a look flickered across his face you couldn’t quite identify, before that ever-present, easy smirk of his snapped back into place. 

“Have fun then,” he said easily, but his voice had an edge to it and a tightness in his shoulders as he turned that made you bite down on your lip harder. 

“Dude, really?” You hissed at Phoenix.

“Relax, it’s good.” She replied, looking over her shoulder at Hangman. 

“He didn’t need to know that.”

“He did.” A grin spreading on her lips. “Cause what you just saw, was jealous Hangman.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but then closed it again. Replaying the way he looked as Phoenix told him about your date had you admit: it did seem like jealousy. 

“He’s probably just pissed someone else might get to fuck me before he does.” You tried to reason and not get your hopes up that maybe he wanted more than just sex. 

“Or maybe he’s just Hangman and admitting his feelings is something that he’s never had to do before.” Phoenix countered. 

“Nah,” you simply denied. “I’ll stick to him just wanting to fuck me first.” What Phoenix was saying sounded too good to be true. That Jake might actually have feelings for you but was just too emotionally constipated to say it out loud? Not likely. 

She just rolled her eyes. 

“Suit yourself.” 

After a quick hug goodbye, you got into your car and pulled out of the parking lot, feeling eyes on you. A quick glance proved that Jake was still standing at the entrance of the bar, watching you with an intensity and seriousness in his eyes you rarely saw. 

Your grip on the wheel tightened. Ignoring the urge to stop the car and call off the date. 

Instead you kept driving. All the way home. 

You had put on your favorite short skirt and top that made your boobs look especially great but the date was still just… fine. 

Mike was nice. Polite. Handsome even. But God, was he boring. Only talking about himself and his job, not making you laugh a single time.

Did you still let him take you home? Yeah. You did. And it wasn’t necessarily regret you felt after, but you were disappointed. 

Of course he hadn’t made you come. Part of you expected that before you even started. You had still hoped, however, it would scratch that itch. Somehow it had the opposite effect. Like it had reminded your body what it should feel like to be touched and kissed. How much better it would be with someone who actually cared about your pleasure. 

Leaving his place immediately after, you didn’t bother to sleep over. At home you had to take measures into your own hand, making yourself come at least once, to stop that incessant craving. Trying not to think about Hangman and failing spectacularly. How his hands felt on your body and how much better they would feel between your legs. How he probably had an annoyingly perfect cock that would fill you up just right. And how he would put that smart mouth to good use. You stopped fighting it.

For the first time, you let yourself freely fantasize about Jake while you fucked yourself, resulting in an intense orgasm that had you out of breath and your legs shaking. 

You weren’t sure if you could look him in the eye tomorrow without blushing. 

That turned out not to be a problem, because Jake wasn’t there the next day or the following few. 

Phoenix had been there one Sunday and you told her about the date, how disappointing it was. All of it. She extended her condolences in return. 

“Maybe it’s time to fuck Hangman after all.” She joked and a part of you started to think that maybe she was right. 

How much longer were you going to torture yourself with longing and heartache, when he freely offered himself up at every given moment? Doing it once might actually cure you. 

Or maybe make things so much worse…

It was Thursday when you were closing down the bar, putting chairs on tables when you heard the bar door open. 

“We’re closed.” You said without turning around. 

“Just one drink.” 

You recognized the voice immediately. Jake.

He staggered towards the bar, swaying slightly as he did so and sat down on one of the bar stools. It didn’t take you long to realize that something was wrong. His hair looked disheveled, his clothes wrinkly and as you got closer, you also saw that his eyes were red, as if he had been crying. He was wasted. 

Reaching over the bar, you grabbed a bottle and two glasses. Without asking, you poured him a shot of whiskey and slid it over to him, taking a seat next to him. 

“You okay?” You asked quietly, concern lacing your voice. 

“Peachy.” He knocked back the shot in one go. 

You refilled his glass and also poured one for yourself. 

In almost six months, you had never seen him like this. Not even close to it. Rarely did he get a bit too rowdy and confrontational when he was drunk, but this was a whole other level. 

“You wanna talk about it?” You didn’t really know what to do or what even had him in a state like this. Instead of replying he just shook his head. Without saying a word, he picked up his glass and drained it again and you did the same. Refilling them a third time. 

He was slouched on top of the bar, one hand holding up his head that hung low, the other one playing with the shot glass. 

Not knowing what else to do, you reached out and put your hand on top of his. He didn’t look at you, but you could still see his jaw clench. 

“How was your date?” He asked, and you could hear now that his words were slurred. 

“Not great,” you replied honestly, your thumb now absentmindedly stroking the back of his hand. 

“Did you fuck him?” That question caught you off guard. The words felt like they slapped you. Harsh. Bitter. Almost spat. The moment of hesitation before you could reply was enough answer for him. He moved his hand from underneath yours and picked up the shot glass again and once it was emptied he got up. 

You thought he was going to leave, but instead he turned towards you, getting closer until he stood between your open legs. Your back pressed against the bar. 

“Was it good?” His voice was low now, but it was quiet in the bar with no one else there and he was so close you had no problem hearing him. 

You didn’t dare look at him. Instead your face was turned off to the side, but you still just shook your head to answer him.

“That’s what I thought.” His right hand came up to rest on your jaw, gently turning your head to look at him. Hesitantly you glanced up.

“If you’d let me, I’d make you feel so good.” Those words had your heart skip a beat. Your breath caught in your throat. His other hand now moved to rest on your hip, pulling you ever so slightly closer to him, fingers digging into your flesh. 

“Jake…” You whispered, breath hitched. You wanted this, you did, but not like this. Drunk and sad. 

“Please…” His voice cracked slightly - raw, desperate. “Let me make you feel good, make you come. I promise you won’t regret it.” His hand was now stroking the side of your face, pushing a loose strand of hair back. You tried pushing down the heat that was coiling low in your belly. Tried to resist. It might’ve been the hardest thing you’ve ever done. 

Jake leaned in then, glancing down towards your lips and you couldn’t help your eyelids from fluttering close. When you felt his hot breath fanning over your lips, could smell the whiskey on it knowing that he was just inches away, you pulled back. 

“Don’t.” You whispered, so quietly you weren’t even sure you really said it out loud.

The kiss never came, instead you felt him retreat. Removing his hand from your face and hip and taking a step back. You opened your eyes and saw hurt on his face, clear as day. He gave you one curt nod.

“Jake…” you started again, trying to explain. Apologize. Something. 

“No, it’s fine. I get it.” He said as he turned around and took the few steps to the front door. 

You wanted to stop him or go after him, you really did. But your body felt frozen. Making you sit with it. Feel the damage you’d done. 

His words kept echoing in your head as you sat there a while longer. The blatant want and then his hurt expression after. 

Taking a deep breath, you finally got up from the chair and finished closing up. Once back home you sent Phoenix a text. You knew that she probably wouldn’t see it until morning when she got up but you just had to ask. 

Jake came to the bar absolutely wasted. He seemed upset. Did anything happen?

You were surprised when an answer came back immediately. 

I think it’s the day his best friend died a few years ago… he gets like that sometimes.

You stared at the screen. Heart sinking.

That explained a lot and it made your chest ache for him worse than before. Even more so that you had added on to his agony. 

You barely slept that night, but still turned up to your opening shift, and for the first time you felt dread at the prospect of seeing Hangman. Not knowing where you stood with him now.

Every time the door opened, you anxiously glanced towards it. Relief and sadness filling you with equal measure when you saw that it wasn’t Jake. Until it was. 

He swaggered up towards the bar, Fanboy and Payback in tow, that easy grin on his face.

“Hey,” you breathed. “How are you?”

“I’m great.” He shrugged ever so casually. 

“Really?” Your brows furrowed a little, confused. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He still wore that smirk, but now you could see through it. Hurt, barely hidden. So that’s how he was going to play this. Pretend like last night didn’t happen. You shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow you still were. 

Pouring drinks and handing them to the boys, you got spared from more conversation as Phoenix showed up. They scattered away, only her remaining. 

“What’s going on?” She asked, visibly confused, having picked up on the strange vibe between you and Hangman. 

“Things got… weird last night.” You said vaguely, not knowing how much into detail you should get. Still you continued.

“Weird like he tried to kiss me and I stopped him.”

“Oh.” Her mouth fell open, eyebrows raised. 

“Yeah.” You nodded. 

“I’m sure he’ll get over it. He always does.” She tried to reason, wave it off and make you feel better, but something in her voice sounded uncertain.

You leaned in closer to her above the bar, lowering your voice.

“I don’t know. This time seemed different. He was hurt, Phoenix.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Guess we’ll see,” you said sighing.

For the rest of the night, he was avoiding you, you could tell. He sent Bob to buy him drinks and only looked over to you when he thought you couldn’t see it. 

Eventually you even lost sight of him, not knowing if he had left or was just hiding in a corner somewhere from you. Only once your shift ended and you went over to Phoenix to say goodbye did you spot him again, leaning against a wall, a pretty blonde next to him with her boobs practically in his face. You couldn’t blame her, but you sure as hell could blame him. 

In that moment you realized that it’s been a while since you had seen him flirt with anyone in earnest. Sure he still let out the occasional one-liner, but not like this, right in your face and obvious, not even trying to be subtle or hide it. 

Unfortunately you also had to walk past him to get to the front door. 

You tried not to look, ignore him, but then he leaned closer to push a strand out of the girls face - just like he had done to you last night - and caught your eye with a smirk for a split second. You couldn’t help yourself. You scoffed. 

“Un-fucking-believable.” You bumped his shoulder, trying to push past, but you didn’t stop. 

“What?” You then heard his voice behind you and you knew it was directed at you. There was a challenge in that one syllable. Like he was daring you to turn around.

“Nothing, it’s fine!” You said loudly as you looked over your shoulder. The air felt thick. You knew people were watching now. Didn’t need to look around to see the other daggers glancing back and forth between you two. You simply turned back again and walked out the door. 

You hurried to your car and heard footsteps behind you, quickly approaching, following you. You assumed it was Phoenix so you didn’t look. 

“So you get to go on dates and fuck losers that don’t even make you come, but I don’t get to flirt with other women?” Of course it was Jake. His voice cutting like a whip. Never backing down from a fight or a challenge. You’ve seen him like this before, but it had never been directed at you. 

“No, you don’t!” You turn to him. “Not after almost kissing me and practically begging to fuck me! And now you wanna go around and pretend like nothing happened?” You felt yourself get heated now, too. Voice raising, pulse pumping. 

So this was it. You were finally doing it. Talking about your feelings.

“You rejected me!” He surged forward, making you back up until your spine hit the cold metal of your car. It wasn’t like you were scared of him. You knew he would never hurt you, but his presence still somehow intimidated you. The way he was towering over you. 

“Yes, but only because I didn’t wanna be your sad comfort fuck while you’re out of your mind drunk!” That shut him up. For the first time tonight, he had no comeback.

“I want more, Jake. I need more.” You added quietly. 

Silence. The only thing you could hear was your pulse beating in your ears and the faint music from the deck, but you could feel the tension between you. Thick and heavy. 

You looked up at him and saw his face soften, the anger and frustration that had just been there - gone. 

And that’s when it happened. 

Jake mumbling words that sounded an awful lot like fuck it and then closing that gap. Hands gripping the sides of your face, lips crashing onto yours. 

Any anger that you still held in your body dissipated as your body melted against his. 

His kiss hungry and devouring, mouth open, tongue sliding over yours. Moans swallowed by him. Your hands fisting his shirt, gripping it tight and pulling him closer towards you until his entire length was flush against yours. Jakes hot body a contrast to the cool metal of your car at your back.

The way he kissed you was all-consuming and so, so good. Better than you could’ve imagined. And you imagined it a lot. Where only minutes before there was anger, desire now took its place. Arching more against him, wanting to feel him closer. Jake grabbed one of your thighs and hitched it up and around his waist, holding it there which left your center exposed to him. 

Body shifting just so that his hard bulge was pressing against your clothed clit. 

A whimper escaped your mouth that was greedily swallowed by him and you could feel a smirk forming on his lips as he kissed you. 

His mouth then moved over your jaw, down to your throat, leaving kisses and dragging his tongue all over. With your eyes still closed, you let your head fall back against the car, giving him better access.

“Wanted this for so long,” he muttered against your skin. You couldn’t speak. Just nodded in agreement.

“Do you wanna give the others a show,” he asked, still kissing your neck. “or would you prefer something more private?” At first you didn’t know what he was talking about. Until you opened your eyes and gazed over to the bar, seeing the faces of the entire dagger squad pressed against windows. He didn’t even have to look. He just knew they’d be nosy enough to watch whatever would unfold between you two.

You immediately tried to hide behind Jake, mortified, face flushing with embarrassment. 

“More private,” you whispered but also couldn’t help a laugh despite it all.

“Mhm, I agree,” he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes and there it was again. That glint of mischief in the green. “Wanna take my time with you.” He leaned down to kiss you once more, slower, deeper. And then muttered against your lips:

“And I don’t think they deserve to see you fall apart around my cock for the first time.”

A shiver went down your spine, settling deep in your stomach. A groan accompanying it, slipping out before you could stop it. 

If you hadn’t been wet before, you sure as hell were now.

You genuinely didn’t know how you made it home. The drive back a blur. Definitely going above the speed limit. Jake in the passenger seat, the air around you thick with sexual tension. You shifting in your seat, thighs clenching and of course Jake noticing with a cocky grin. He looked almost unaffected, if not for the giant tent he was pitching in his jeans giving him away. 

But once you were inside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you both, Jake was back on you. His arms wrapping around your body as he kissed you. Yours moving to wrap around his neck, running nails through the short hair at his nape. 

Together you stumbled further into the apartment. His hands eventually sliding down to the back of your thighs and lifting you up with ease as if you weighed nothing. You squealed at how quickly he did it.

“Bedroom?” He asked, having never been to your apartment before and needing instructions. 

“Down the hall, to the right,” you said and now it was your turn to kiss down his neck, nipping at his jaw as he walked you towards your bedroom. Every step made your center push against his hard abs, desperation growing. Grinding yourself down against him a little more. 

“Are you getting off on my abs?” He asked, amusement clear, but so was his breathlessness. 

“So what?” You shrugged, but not stopping your grinding. He hummed in reply.

“You’re fucking perfect.”

He kept one hand on you while the other reached for the doorknob to your bedroom. Once inside, he dropped you on the bed. You laughed as you looked up at him, still standing at the foot of it. His eyes unashamedly roaming your body, heavy lidded and dark with desire and his cock all but bursting through his jeans. 

“Are you just gonna stand there or are you going to fuck me?” Biting your lip to hide a grin, you toed off your shoes. 

“Oh, I’m going to fuck you,” he said, voice dropping an octave, coming to crawl onto the bed, looming above you. “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll never want anyone else again.”

You liked the sound of that. Because you didn’t want anyone else but him. 

“Ruin me, then.”

Kissing you again, Jake let his hands explore your body. The kiss still hungry, but not as frenzied and anger-charged as the first kiss against the car. 

Smoothing his hands over your breasts, down to your belly and pushing his hand under the fabric, slowly, teasingly, before pushing it up completely and making you take it off. Your bra got the same treatment, quickly discarded. Grabbing at his shirt, you reached to pull it off, wanting to feel his skin against yours. Jake kissed down your throat once more, but moving further this time, to your sternum and across your boobs to your nipples. Sucking and flicking them with his tongue. You were so distracted, you barely felt him pop open the button of your jeans and pulling down the zipper agonizingly slow. But he didn’t take them off yet. Just ran his fingers under the waistband every now and again, moving across your belly, then back up to your boobs before finding the waistband once more. 

At this point your core was aching, heat coiling in your stomach. The desire and need to be touched were overwhelming. 

“Jake, please…” you whined, wanting him to undress you completely. Needing more. 

“So needy,” he breathed between kisses, but he did listen. The next time he hooked his fingers into the waistband, they started dragging your jeans and panties down, achingly slow until you couldn’t take it anymore and started kicking them off. That earned a deep chuckle from him. 

Once you were fully exposed, he kissed his way back up your legs, nipping the inside of your thighs on each side until he reached the juncture at the very top. 

He spread your legs further apart, opening you up for him. You felt his breath, cool against your wetness and then he dove in. Like a man starved, he started lapping at your pussy. No testing strokes or hesitant licks, just overwhelming certainty in what he was doing and what he wanted. 

And God, did he know what he was doing. You weren’t sure if it was all the tension from the last six months getting to you or the fact that he really was just that good, but he had you writhing under him in no time. That coil inside of you winding tighter and tighter. 

When he added a finger, gently pushing into your wet heat, and then a second one, curling them both just right and pumping in and out, you knew you were done for. Orgasm building higher and higher until it all crashed. Pleasure rushing through you in waves, arching your back, throwing your head into the pillow. His name and a string of curses falling from your lips. 

He kept going until even your last wave had subsided, leaving you a panting and breathless mess beneath him. 

Jake gave you no time to recover though, you watched him as he got up for a second to take off his own pants and boxers, finally getting to see his cock for the first time. It was thick and long, and curved just enough to promise it would hit all the right spots.

“I knew it,” you mumbled more to yourself, but Jake heard it, making him raise an eyebrow in confusion. 

“Annoyingly perfect cock,” you said as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet. 

“Been thinking about my cock a lot?” 

You opened your mouth to reply but he stopped you, holding up a finger. 

“Don’t even try to deny it. We both know the truth.” The way he said it, with that smug little smirk, was so him it made your heart melt.

It was your turn now to crawl towards him, his cock at the perfect height with him still standing next to your bed.

Reaching a hand up, you wrapped it around his length, fingers barely able to close around it. Giving it a few slow strokes, you looked up at Jake and he looked down, biting his bottom lip. 

You stuck out your tongue and slid it over his head, watching the way his brows twitched, pulling together, before working his cock slowly into your mouth. Lips stretching around it, jaw wide open. Guiding him in and out, tongue swirling in tandem until you found a rhythm that had him moan softly. Hand finding purchase in your hair, tightening slightly. 

“Just like that.” His voice barely more than a groan, which went straight down to between your legs again. Reaching one hand down to start rubbing circles over your clit.

You kept going, speeding up occasionally or taking him so deep until he nudged the back of your throat, fighting back your gag reflex. 

His breathing came quicker, then and you knew that if you didn’t stop soon, he would come into your mouth. You weren’t opposed to the idea, wondering what he would taste like, but it seemed like he had other plans as he pulled you off his cock. 

“As much as I’d love to watch you swallow my cum, I need to bury myself in your pussy first.” And you couldn’t agree more. 

You were still on your knees, looking up at him through your lashes, eagerly awaiting what he had planned for you next.

“Lay back down,” he said. 

“Yes, Sir,” you replied with a cheeky grin, and his cock twitched, and he let out a low growl. 

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” His eyes grew even darker and you filed that information away for another time. But for now you wouldn’t push it further.

Jake moved back between your legs, kissing you deeply once more and you felt the head of his cock nudge your entrance. You were wet, very wet, but knew it would still be quite the stretch to accommodate him. Slowly he pushed forward. Inch by agonizing inch. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. “You can take it.” 

Drawing back slightly before pushing back in, deeper this time. He kept going, mumbling as he continued.

“You’re doing so well.”

“You feel so good.”

“That’s it, baby.”

And then he bottomed out.

He gave you a few seconds to adjust, staying still.

“You alright?” He asked and you nodded. 

“So full,” you breathed out.

He only smirked again in return before starting to thrust slowly. Shallow at first, but as you got more used to it, he went deeper and faster. Pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in. 

It was rare that you could come from penetration alone, but the way things were going and the way he felt inside you, you were sure that it would happen. Pressure already building again. 

Spreading your legs further, he opened you up more, but it seemed like that still wasn’t enough for him. He hooked his arm under your leg and tossed it over his shoulder, hitting even deeper.

“Fuck,” was the only thing you could say as you moved your hips with him. He leaned forward more, your knee practically pressed against your chest now. Hips snapping against yours. At this angle, he perfectly hit your g-spot on every thrust, making your nails dig into his back as you clung to him, your pussy starting to clench around him. 

“I can feel you’re close,” he said, breathing heavy. “Want you to come on my cock.”

“Yes, please,” you whined, so close to your second orgasm now. 

“Just a little longer, ‘m close too.” You could tell by the way his thrusts became more desperate, irregular. And you had to try really hard to hold back your orgasm, wanting to be good for him. It took a little longer than expected and with every passing seconds, tears started to prickle at your eyes. Out of pure desperation and the need to come. You were so close to breaking, when he finally said: 

“Come for me, sweetheart.” 

And the moment he said it, the coil finally snapped, your orgasm released throughout your body, those unshed tears in your eyes now rolling down your cheeks as your pussy clenched around his cock. With one final, deep thrust, he spilled himself inside, cock twitching and Jake all but collapsed on top of you. 

You were both breathing heavy, trying to get your pulse to come down to a normal frequency, before Jake rolled off and flopped down beside you.

“Sufficiently ruined?” he asked, turning to look at you with that familiar grin.

You laughed and nodded. 

“Yeah. Definitely.”

“That was the plan all along, you know. Get you into my bed. Fuck you so thoroughly you never want to leave. Didn’t think you’d be so stubborn, though.” 

He pushed back a strand of hair, fingers lingering against your cheek, as he looked at you with such open adoration. 

Oh. 

“And here I was thinking you just wanted me for a one night stand.” 

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head.

Things suddenly made sense. Why Jake was so relentless. Stopped flirting with other women. You weren’t a challenge. It was all part of his dumb, ridiculous plan. 

“Now why would I want that? When I’ve been crazy about you for months?”

“A normal person would just say that. Not make convoluted, stupid plans.” You couldn’t help but laugh. It was ridiculous. Months spent wondering whether Jake actually liked you or just wanted to fuck you. And now here he was, confessing so easily it almost annoyed you..

“Eh, maybe.” He shrugged. “Still worked out, though.”

“Yeah, I guess it did.” You grinned at him. He smiled back before pulling you close and kissing you again.

And through all of it, Jake was simply part of the backdrop. He drifted in and out of rooms with polite hellos and shy glances, always carrying something: snacks from their mom, a stack of textbooks, whatever excuse he needed to linger for a moment longer. Jannette’s little brother had a gentleness to him, an earnestness that made adults soften and made kids his age roll their eyes.

Contrary to the legend he would later become, Jake Seresin wasn’t always the confident, sharp-jawed, sun-kissed Navy pilot the world seemed to swoon over now. Back then he was lanky, awkward, chronically flustered, and one bad growth spurt away from falling apart like an unbalanced Jenga tower. Even the football team, his hopeful attempt at being “one of the guys,” mostly kept him on the bench.

Most people overlooked him. You never did, though not for the reasons he might have hoped. To you, he was just sweet, awkward Jake— the kid who turned pink from his collarbone to his ears whenever you asked about his day. You had a long-term boyfriend through high school, and Jake occupied a completely different space in your world, one reserved for siblings of friends and harmless crushes you pretended not to notice.

He adored you, quietly and hopelessly, and everyone knew it. You simply smiled and treated him with kindness, the same way you did with anyone who never seemed entirely comfortable in their own skin.

After graduation, life separated you quickly and cleanly. You left for Boston, stepping into a future your teenage self had been desperate for, and Jake finished his senior year without you around to make him stutter in the kitchen. You came home that first winter break, full of stories and certainty, but time began to move faster after that.

Boston turned into London. London morphed into New York. New York shifted back to Boston. Job opportunities, promotions, and restless ambition kept you bouncing between cities, and the years blended into one another before you realized how long it had been since you’d walked the familiar streets of your hometown.

Jake’s life unfolded just as quickly. He went to college and, somewhere between lectures and late nights, grew into himself. The awkward boy sharpened at the edges, found confidence where there had once been nerves, built a body that seemed to belong to someone older, steadier.

The glasses disappeared, the posture straightened, and his laugh became something louder, brighter, unashamed. He joined the Navy, and the constant rotations of training, deployments, and new bases carried him from one end of the country to the other. Holidays became optional. Home turned into a place you visited, not lived.

And so the two of you spent nearly a decade living parallel lives—connected by memories, separated by miles, bonded only through occasional updates from Jannette that always began with, “You’ll never guess what my brother’s doing now…” The world kept spinning, years kept piling up, and Austin slowly shifted from the center of your life to a place you thought of fondly but distantly, like an old photograph kept in a drawer.

When your company offered you a transfer and a promotion, the timing felt right to finally come home. You were older now, grounded in ways you hadn’t been before, ready for warmth and familiarity instead of airports and temporary apartments.

Returning to Austin felt both strange and comfortingly inevitable—the streets familiar beneath the changes, the air softer than you remembered, your family thrilled to have you close again. You slipped back into the rhythm of the city with a mix of nostalgia and quiet relief, as though part of you had been waiting for this without realizing it.

It was your first true holiday season home in years, the first time you had enough time to settle, breathe, and let the past feel close again. You hadn’t thought much about Jannette’s little brother. There was no reason to. Life had moved on, and so had you. This was simply home—nothing more complicated than that.

—

Austin had a way of greeting you with warmth even in December. The air was cool enough for a jacket but still held that familiar softness you used to complain about, the kind that curled the ends of your hair and made everything smell faintly of cedar and car exhaust.

As you made your way toward the restaurant Jannette had chosen — an old converted bungalow tucked between a record store and a tattoo shop — you felt something loosen quietly inside you, something you hadn’t realized had been pulled tight for years.

The windows glowed gold from the outside, condensation blurring the silhouettes of couples and families seated close together. You paused at the entrance, smoothing your coat, more out of habit than nerves. A year wasn’t that long, yet somehow it felt like it had been ages since you last saw Jannette in person.

That memory lived in another country, under warmer light and older buildings — Spain, of all places. Your company had sent you to Madrid for a contract negotiation, and Jannette had hopped on a flight after realizing you’d be staying for the holidays. She claimed she was “morally obligated” to prevent you from spending Christmas alone, but really she’d always been hopelessly impulsive in the best ways.

That trip had been pure serendipity — tiled streets and late dinners, Jannette marveling at every cathedral and museum, the two of you laughing until your cheeks hurt, drinking wine that cost suspiciously little. It felt like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time.

Now, as you stepped inside, warmth wrapped around you in a rush, carrying the scents of roasted vegetables, warm bread, and something citrusy. Your eyes adjusted slowly, skimming over the dining room, and then there she was—sitting at a corner table, waving so energetically you swore the people beside her flinched.

You didn’t bother hiding your smile. She stood as you walked over, and the moment you reached her, the two of you collided in a hug that felt like home.

“Look at you,” she said, pulling back just enough to take you in. “God, you look disgustingly put-together. I hate you.”

You laughed, squeezing her hands. “You look amazing too. Like — you look like someone who drinks green smoothies and has a skincare routine.”

“I do neither,” she said proudly, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sat back down. “That’s just natural beauty.”

You sank into the chair across from her, exhaling in a way you didn’t even realize you needed to. The restaurant was warm, dimly lit, full of low chatter and clinking glasses. It felt intimate, cozy—like a soft landing after months of running.

Jannette flagged down a waiter with the confidence of someone who had eaten here enough to have opinions. “We’ll start with the garlic bread. And the Brussels sprouts. And two glasses of the red blend, please.”

The waiter nodded and walked off.

You raised a brow. “No menu?”

“I know what’s good,” she said with a dismissive flick of her hand. “Austin is my kingdom.”

You snorted. “You moved away for two years.”

“And came crawling back because Dallas is hell on earth.” She said it with the same blunt certainty she used at sixteen when declaring which boys were cute or which teachers were out to get you.

The two of you eased into conversation the way some people slip into warm baths—slow at first, then fully immersed. She told you about her job, about how she’d taken a promotion and then immediately regretted it, about her coworkers who were “performing adulthood like a bad improv routine,” and about the apartment she was leasing that was “small in a charming way, not in a tragic way.”

You told her about the move, your new position, the adjustment of returning to Austin after so many cities. She listened with her chin in her hand, nodding thoughtfully in spots where she used to interrupt, proof that time had smoothed some edges even if most of her remained exactly the same.

When the wine arrived, she lifted her glass. “To you coming home,” she said, eyes warm. “Finally.”

You clinked your glass to hers. “To home. Whatever that means now.”

She smiled at that, but there was a quiet softness in her expression you didn’t miss. “It means you’re here,” she said simply. “And that’s enough.”

Dinner came quickly after that—warm dishes, shared bites, familiar flavors. The conversation flowed naturally, skipping across years as easily as if they’d been days. She told you stories about mutual friends who had gotten married or divorced or both. She updated you on her parents, her neighbors, the dog she was thinking of adopting but wasn’t emotionally stable enough to handle.

Eventually, she leaned back in her chair, swirling the last of her wine. “You know,” she said, “it’s weird having you back. In a good way. I just— I got used to you being in a different time zone. Like you lived in some parallel universe where we texted at odd hours.”

You nodded, understanding more than she knew. “I got used to that too.”

“Well, selfishly,” she said, propping her chin on her hand again, “I’m thrilled to have you back in my gravitational pull. I missed this. I missed you.”

You smiled, a warm, full feeling settling in your chest. “I missed you too.”

Dinner had blurred into laughter and stories and Jannette’s familiar shrieking giggle, and now the two of you wandered down the streets with cups of peppermint hot chocolate in hand, the city glowing in that golden, slightly chaotic way it always did during the holidays.

You hadn’t walked these streets with her in years, not like this. She pointed at new shops that had popped up since your last visit, complained dramatically about the traffic that had somehow gotten even worse, rolled her eyes at the influencer-infested boutiques. The two of you fell into step as if no time had passed at all.

“So,” she said, bumping your shoulder with hers, “what are you doing for Christmas? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because that’s a crime.”

You huffed a laugh, watching your breath plume in the cool air. “Not nothing. Just… solo stuff, I guess.”

She stopped mid-stride, planting herself in front of you like an interrogating mother bird. “Explain.”

You took a sip of your drink, eyes drifting toward the twinkling lights strung between palm trees. “I didn’t tell my parents ahead of time that I was moving back. It all happened really fast, and they’d already booked Cabo months ago. Flights, hotel, everything.” You shrugged. “They tried to cancel when I told them—my mom nearly went to war with their airline miles program—but I told them not to. They were excited. They deserve the vacation.”

Jannette gave you a look that managed to be both deeply fond and profoundly unimpressed. “So you’re telling me your first Christmas home in, what… five years? Six?”

“Seven,” you admitted quietly.

“Seven,” she repeated, staring at you like you had just confessed to a felony. “You’re planning to spend your first Christmas home in seven years alone in your house?”

You opened your mouth to object — gently, diplomatically — but you didn’t get the chance.

“Nope,” she declared, turning on her heel and walking again, her ponytail swishing with purpose. “Absolutely not. Unacceptable. Illegal. I won’t allow it.”

You hurried to catch up. “Jannette, seriously, I’ll be fine. I wasn’t trying to guilt-trip my parents into canceling their trip. I don’t want to crash your family holiday. Really.”

She scoffed, a sharp, dramatic sound. “Girl, you practically grew up in our house. You think my mom won’t cry tears of joy when she sees you? You think my dad won’t start grilling the second you walk in? Please.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You’re spending Christmas with us. End of discussion.”

“Jannette—”

“Nope.” She looped her arm through yours, anchoring you to her as you crossed the street. “I’m not letting you sit at home watching Hallmark movies alone, eating takeout and pretending you don’t care. You’re coming over. You’ll sleep in the yellow guest room — Mom redecorated it, it’s hideous — and you and I will drink eggnog and complain about the same things we’ve complained about since we were seventeen. It’ll be perfect.”

You laughed, helpless against her steamroller certainty. “So it’s already decided?”

“Oh, it was decided the second you said ‘Cabo,’” she said smugly. “This is your home. We’re your people. And you’re not spending the holidays alone when we’re ten minutes away.”

Warmth spread through your chest — unexpected, a little overwhelming. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this, missed her, missed the way the Seresins just claimed you without hesitation.

“Okay,” you murmured. “Christmas at your house. Deal.”

She beamed, looping both arms around yours and squeezing tight as you walked. “Good. And hey— maybe my little brother will be home too.”

You snorted. “Jake?”

“The very one.” She shot you a sly little grin. “He hasn’t been home in ages either. You two keep missing each other like ships passing in the night.”

“Well,” you said lightly, brushing off the odd flutter that stirred in your stomach, “if he’s around, I’ll say hi.”

She nudged you. “You better.”

You smiled into your cup, letting the lights blur softly around you as you walked — warm, full, and for the first time in a long time, home.

—

Jake Seresin stepped off the plane with the easy swagger of a man who owned every inch of ground he walked on, but beneath the crisp uniform and the mirrored sunglasses and the stupidly perfect hair, something in him eased in a way it hadn’t in years. The moment the humid Texas air hit his face — warm, familiar, a little heavy with cedar — his shoulders dropped half an inch, the tightness in his chest loosening like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

Home. Damn, he’d missed it.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel, the movement fluid and controlled, the same practiced confidence he carried into every briefing and every cockpit. Lieutenant Commander Jacob Seresin wasn’t the awkward, wiry kid who used to trip over his own cleats and push his glasses up his nose every five minutes. That version of him felt like someone else entirely, a ghost of a boy who cleared out of his own skin the second he discovered weights, contact lenses, a decent barber, and the revelation that confidence could be carved out of sweat and grit and sheer force of will.

The Navy had done the rest.

Years of deployments, missions classified enough his mother would never sleep again if she knew the details, endless hours in the sky where his world narrowed to g-forces, oxygen flow, and instinct. Hangman was born out of that crucible — sharp, relentless, impossibly sure of himself. The best stick on any base he landed on. The cockiest son of a bitch in any room. And entirely, meticulously unstoppable.

But here — here he was just Jake.

He stepped into the terminal, tugging his sunglasses off as he scanned the crowd. No cameras, no salutes, no clipped orders. Just families holding handmade signs, people hugging as though the world stopped spinning outside these walls, kids bouncing on their toes with excitement. He watched them with a quick, private smile tugging at his mouth.

He’d never admit it — not to the Daggers, not to anyone in uniform, not even if waterboarding came back in style — but being home for Christmas made something warm settle in his chest. Something he’d missed more than he let himself think about.

It had been what — three years since he’d been home? Four? Time blurred when you were always on the move. Holidays came and went, replaced with night flights, briefings, nights at the Hard Deck, and holidays spent at whatever base he landed on. He sent gifts, called whenever deployment allowed, promised he’d be home “next time.”

There was never a next time.

Until now.

Thirty whole days of leave. He’d pretended to groan when command handed him the paperwork —What, sending me home? You sure you can spare me?— but deep down, he’d felt something unclench. The last mission had been rough, even by his standards, and his mother’s voice had wobbled a little the last time he called.

“Just come home when you can, baby.”

Well, he was here. Finally. On Texas soil, breathing Texas air, thirty minutes from the kitchen he grew up in and the woman who would squeeze him half to death as soon as she saw him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar, satisfied smirk curve his lips. Christmas at home wasn’t the worst way to spend a month off. He could help out around the house, eat his weight in pecan pie, charm whichever women in the neighborhood his mother insisted on setting him up with, maybe hit up a few old friends.

A little rest. A little quiet.

He slung his duffel over one shoulder and headed for the exit, boots striking the floor with purposeful strides.

He had no idea —none at all— that someone else had just come home too.

Someone he hadn’t seen since he was seventeen.

Someone who used to smile at him like he wasn’t the awkward Seresin kid with bony elbows and fogged-up glasses.

Someone he’d had a crush on so big, it had swallowed him whole.

But for now, Jake just stepped into the Texas sun with a slow, satisfied breath, completely unaware that this holiday was going to blindside him in ways he’d never expect.

—

Jake stood on the familiar front porch, his duffel slung over his shoulder, the wood beneath his boots creaking in that same old way it had when Jannette was sixteen sneaking in past curfew. The house looked exactly the same — warm light in the windows, wreath on the door, a faded “Merry Christmas Y’all” mat that his mother refused to replace even though it had survived a decade of Texas weather.

He hadn’t told them he was coming today. He’d kept his voice smooth and casual on the phone, Don’t worry, Ma, I’ll be home before Christmas, promise. but he’d left out the part where he’d actually managed to get an earlier flight. Surprises weren’t his thing, usually, but for this? For them? He wanted it.

He knocked twice.

There was shuffling on the other side of the door, the faint murmur of the TV, and then... the door flew open so fast he thought the hinges might snap.

“Jacob Thomas Seresin,” Christina breathed, one hand flying to her mouth, eyes going wide and glassy all at once. “Oh my God. Oh, my God.”

He barely had time to drop his duffel before she launched herself at him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, face buried in his chest as she started crying: loud, messy, unforgiving tears. The Seresin kind.

Jake laughed, the sound thick in his throat as he hugged her back just as tight, lifting her an inch off the ground the way he always did. “Hey, Mama.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming today,” she scolded into his shoulder, voice wobbling through the words. “I thought it’d be another week. I was— Jake, I was worried sick.”

“You saw me six months ago,” he said softly, hand smoothing over her back. “I’m alive. I swear.”

“I know,” she sniffed, pulling back just far enough to cup his face between both hands. “But I needed to see you. To make sure you’re eating. To make sure you’re sleeping. God knows the Navy lets you boys run around like you’re indestructible.”

He smirked, because of course she said that. “I’m fine, Ma.”

“You look too skinny.”

He laughed again. “I weigh more than your fridge.”

“You’re deflecting,” she said, swatting his arm, though her eyes were still wet, still drinking him in like she hadn’t seen her son in years. “Come inside. Oh, your father is going to lose his mind.”

She tugged him inside, fussing over his jacket, his face, his hair, everything. The smell of cedar, cinnamon, and something in the oven wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Carl!” she shouted, voice ringing through the house. “Carl, get in here!”

Jake set his duffel down by the stairs, wiping his boots on the rug as footsteps thumped down the hallway.

His father appeared, bewildered, holding a hammer and half a string of Christmas lights. “Honey, what on earth are you holler—”

He froze.

Jake hadn’t seen his father speechless many times in his life. He was a tall man, solid, steady, always a little gruff–– the kind of man who shook your hand so firmly you felt it in your teeth. But right now his expression cracked wide open, surprise folding into something warm and overflowing.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Jake’s chest tightened in a way that felt thick and oddly young. “Hey, Dad.”

Carl crossed the room in three steps and pulled him into a hug that was all arms and strength and quiet emotion. No tears, but his voice wavered just enough to betray him as he said, “Welcome home, son.”

Jake swallowed hard. “Good to be home.”

Christina clapped her hands together, buzzing around them like a hummingbird. “You should’ve told us! I would’ve made something special for dinner. I would’ve cleaned the guest room better. I would’ve—”

“Ma,” Jake said gently, “everything’s perfect.”

“Well, just wait until your sister gets here,” she huffed affectionately. “She’s coming this afternoon to help me with the decorations before the girls’ night she’s got planned.” She waved a hand. “She’ll scream when she sees you. Mark my words.”

Jake smiled, leaning against the doorway as he took in the house— the lights, the garlands, the slightly crooked stockings on the mantle he knew she’d fuss over later. “Good. I wanna surprise her too.”

Christina softened, stepping closer to run a hand down his cheek like he was still her boy instead of a grown man with medals and scars and a call sign stitched under his heart. “You’re really staying the month?”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. Whole month.”

She pressed her lips together, fighting emotion again. “That’s the best Christmas gift I could’ve asked for.”

He didn’t say it out loud—not yet—but deep in his bones, he felt the same.

Home. Finally home.

Jake set his duffel on the mattress—bigger than the twin he’d once outgrown but still tucked against the same wall, under the same window—and let out a slow breath as he took in the room.

His room.

Frozen in time.

Sure, the bedding was new and the TV was bigger than the one he used to play video games on, but everything else? It was like stepping into a perfectly preserved museum dedicated to the nerdiest years of his life.

His science fair trophies lined the shelves, each one a crooked little relic from a decade he pretended he didn’t remember in vivid detail. Blue ribbons for physics projects. A couple second-place ones he used to obsess over. His collection of model planes—some with fading decals, others still immaculate—were displayed in tight formation on the top shelf, a tiny squadron waiting for takeoff.

He approached them instinctively, fingers ghosting over the sleek edges of a vintage F-14 he’d built when he was fourteen. The paint was chipped in one corner where he’d dropped it the night before presenting it to his freshman science class. He smiled despite himself.

God, he’d been such a dweeb.

His eyes drifted to the framed photos on his dresser—and that’s when the smile faltered.

Because there he was.

All awkward limbs and sharp elbows, swamp-green glasses slipping down a nose dusted with freckles. Hair trimmed into that unfortunate bowl-cut his mother loved and he endured. Oversized Seresin football jersey hanging off his gangly frame. Braces. Braces.

Jake groaned under his breath.

Christina had no business keeping photographic evidence of that era.

He picked up one of the pictures—him at fourteen, wearing goggles perched crookedly on his forehead, grinning like he was about to burst as he held up a blue ribbon. He remembered that day. Remembered how proud he’d been. Remembered how a certain girl—you—had ruffled his hair and told him he was “pretty much a genius.”

He placed the frame back down carefully.

That kid didn’t look anything like the man standing in this room now—and Jake liked that. He liked the man he’d become. The broad shoulders, the sharp jaw, the body honed by thousands of hours in the sky. He liked the way people stared when he walked into a room now, the way women’s eyes lingered, the way everyone seemed to expect something from him. Strength. Confidence. Charm.

He liked being desirable. Liked owning space instead of shrinking in it.

But as he glanced back at the models, at the stacked physics textbooks on the shelf, at the laminated certificates pinned to a corkboard his mother refused to replace, something quiet and familiar tugged at him.

Because that boy—the lanky, eager, overly curious one—was still there. Buried under the uniform and the swagger and the persona of Hangman, but not gone. Not really.

Jake still loved planes with an almost embarrassing ferocity. Still read scientific journals when missions kept him up at night. Still tore through thick engineering books no one would believe he understood. And when he had the rare free weekend, he still sat at his kitchen table in his apartment in California and built tiny aircraft from scratch, paintbrush in hand, tongue between his teeth, exactly the way he used to.

But that part? That part was locked up, hidden. No one in the Navy saw it, none of his squadron knew.

People saw what he let them see, and Hangman was easier than nerdy Jacob Seresin had ever been.

He let out a breath, sinking into the desk chair he’d once spent hours in, going over equations and dissecting flight mechanics before he even had a driver’s license. The seat creaked under his weight, older but still familiar.

He ran a hand through his hair.

Maybe it was this room. Maybe it was being home. Maybe it was exhaustion he’d been ignoring for months. But for the first time in a long time, he felt that kid tugging at him from under the surface, reminding him where he came from.

Reminding him who he used to be.

Jannette’s voice hit the house like a gust of warm wind—loud, chaotic, impossible to miss.

“Mom? Dad? Y’all better not have started without me—”

Her footsteps thundered up the stairs before Jake could sit up straighter. The door flew open without a single knock.

“JACOB?!”

Her scream was so shrill he was sure the glass on his trophy shelf rattled. She launched herself across the room, arms flung wide, and Jake barely had a second to brace before she crashed into him.

He laughed as he caught her, lifting her clean off the floor the way he once never could. She was tiny compared to him now— she’d always been petite, but he’d spent his entire adolescence looking up at her. Not anymore.

“Easy there, Netty,” he said into her hair as she squeezed the breath out of him.

“I can’t believe you’re here! You didn’t tell me, you idiot!” she scolded, smacking his arm before hugging him again. “Why didn’t you text? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you—”

“Wanted to surprise you,” he interrupted, smiling.

“Well, you did,” she said, finally stepping back to take him in. “Jesus, look at you. What do they feed you at that base? Concrete? You’re enormous.” She poked his bicep. “I feel like a hobbit next to you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Good to see you too, sis.”

They settled on the edge of his bed, her legs crossed, his stretched out, the afternoon light warm through the window as she grilled him with all the enthusiasm of someone who had been saving questions for months.

“So tell me everything. And don’t skip over the important parts. Not the flying—I don’t care about the flying.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I want to know about the hot pilots you work with.”

Jake groaned. “Jannette…”

“What? I’m young, I’m single, and the Navy is a buffet I’ve never gotten to sample,” she said with a shrug. “Indulge me.”

He rubbed his face. “Rooster would eat that attention up.”

“Rooster?” she repeated, eyebrows lifting. “Is he the mustache one?”

Jake stared at her. “How do you even know that?”

“I stalked your squadron on Instagram, obviously. Anyway, continue.”

And he did, because saying no to her had been impossible since he was ten and she was eleven and a half and had decided she knew better than everyone. She laughed at all the wrong moments, teased him relentlessly, and somehow made him feel normal in a way most people never did.

She had just begun recounting, with dramatic flair, how Christina had remodeled the kitchen last spring when she paused mid-sentence.

“You okay?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Jake blinked a few times. His vision had gone soft around the edges, dry in that familiar, irritating way.

“Contacts are just a little tired,” he admitted.

Jannette’s expression snapped from curious to exasperated so fast he almost laughed. “Then take them off.”

“Can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Don’t wanna wear my glasses.”

She stared at him. Blinked once. Then snorted so hard she nearly toppled off the bed.

“Oh my God. You are unbelievable.”

“What?”

“What?” she mimicked, reaching over to smack his shoulder. “Ah yes, the new and improved Jake Seresin doesn’t wear glasses. Not even if he’s half-blind. Not even if his retinas are about to fall out. Because God forbid someone realizes Lt. Cmdr. Hangman wears prescription lenses.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” she said, leaning back on her hands with a knowing grin. “You think I don’t know you? I’ve known you since you were a fetus. You’re still that nerd who read physics books at the dinner table, except now you’ve got muscles and cheekbones and a smirk you think fools people.”

Jake scoffed, but he didn’t deny it. Jannette gave him a gentler look then, softening around the edges in that sisterly way she had.

“Wear them,” she said simply. “At least here. I promise the Christmas tree won’t judge you.”

He huffed out a laugh despite himself. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do it,” she corrected.

Jake didn’t answer. He just leaned back beside her, letting the memories of childhood and the warmth of home settle around him.

They stayed upstairs talking until Christina’s voice floated up the staircase, calling them down for dinner. Jannette sprang off the bed immediately and Jake followed, trailing behind her with a small smile tugging at his mouth.

The dining room smelled like home: roasted herbs, butter, something warm and hearty simmering on the stove. Jake helped set the table out of habit, moving plates and silverware with practiced ease, the same way he used to before deployments became his normal and home became something he visited rather than lived in.

Once they sat, they dug in, the quiet clinking of utensils mingling with easy conversation. It felt good to be here again, surrounded by people who loved him without needing anything in return.

Which was exactly when Jannette chose to drop a bomb.

“So,” she said casually, stabbing her fork into a dinner roll, “Guess who’s coming for Christmas.”

Jake froze mid-chew when she said your name.

Just half a second. A tiny pause, barely noticeable— unless you were looking directly at him, which of course both women were. He blinked once, swallowed, and forced his expression into something calm, almost bored.

Christina let out a delighted little gasp. “Oh, I didn’t know she was back in town!”

Jannette grinned, pleased with herself. “She took a promotion, but the transfer was super last-minute. She told me her parents had already booked Christmas in Cabo, so she’d be alone for the holidays. I told her she’s coming here instead.”

Christina nodded immediately, glowing with excitement. “Of course she’s welcome here anytime.”

And then —like a spotlight flicking on— her gaze landed on Jake.

Jake didn’t look up. He cut his dinner with unnecessary precision, jaw tight and posture just a little too controlled. He could probably land an F/A-18 on a pitching carrier deck blindfolded with more ease than he could handle the sudden sound of your name drifting through the dining room.

Jannette noticed immediately. Of course she did.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and eyeing him with a grin so wicked he should’ve seen it coming. She opened her mouth —Jake felt the tease forming like a storm front— but Christina shot her a warning look sharper than a commander’s reprimand.

“Not at the dinner table,” she said, light but firm.

Jannette huffed, kicked Jake under the table anyway, and returned to her plate with a smirk that promised she’d bring it up later.

Jake ignored her. Or he pretended to.

Because his mind was drifting on its own. Not far —not enough that he missed conversation around him— just far enough to stir something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He hadn’t heard your name spoken aloud in years. Not like this. Not at this table.

He saw you occasionally—flashes of you on Jannette’s Instagram stories, snapshots of brunches, birthday dinners, blurry vacation selfies. You always looked bright. Beautiful. Effortlessly yourself in a way that made something in him ache in a place he didn’t visit often.

Maybe it was nostalgia. Or maybe it was the memory of who he used to be when he first knew you; awkward, scrawny, bowl-cut and glasses and tripping over his own feet. The kind of kid who hid behind science books and plane models like they were shields.

You, meanwhile, had always seemed… untouchable. Not intentionally, not in a cruel way— you were just warm, kind, comfortable in your own skin, and Jake… wasn’t.

Not then.

But now?

Now he was different. A man forged under afterburners, molded by years of training and survival and expectation. Confident, sharp, admired.

And yet, somehow, the thought of seeing you again made him feel a little too much like that old version of himself. He cleared his throat softly, tried to focus on the conversation, on the familiar comfort of being home.

But your name lingered in the back of his mind, warm and dangerous. And even if he’d never admit it out loud…

He wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for this.

—

The next day, you’d set out early with a mission: find Christmas presents for the Seresins—plural. You loved them too much to settle for gift cards or generic candles, and that meant hopping from store to store until the bags dug into your forearms and your fingers ached from hauling them.

By midday, downtown Austin buzzed with holiday shoppers, lights strung between lampposts, wreaths hanging from every window. You blended right into the chaos, weaving through clusters of people while balancing far too many bags. If someone had filmed you from afar, you would’ve looked like a festive pack mule.

Eventually, you pushed your way into a store filled wall-to-wall with cowboy boots—every shade, every stitch pattern, every heel. The smell of leather hit you instantly, warm and earthy, comforting in a way that reminded you of Texas summers.

You were making your way toward a display near the back when you turned too quickly and collided with someone. Hard.

Your bags swung, you stumbled, and a deep voice let out a low, surprised “whoa—”

You looked up. And kept looking up.

The man was tall—ridiculously tall—with shoulders built like they could hold up the roof. He wore a burnt-orange long-sleeve with the buttons undone over a plain white tank, the kind of casual layering that shouldn’t have been legal on someone built like that. His hands went out instinctively to steady you, large and warm as they briefly brushed your elbow.

You opened your mouth to apologize, but the words died the moment your eyes really focused on his face.

Sharp jaw. Sun-kissed skin. A hint of stubble. Eyes greener than you remembered eyes being capable of being.

There was something familiar there—too familiar. It hit you like a slow, dawning realization, one that crawled from the back of your mind to the front with stubborn insistence.

No.

It couldn’t be.

“Jake?!”

Your voice came out higher than intended. The man’s lips curved —slowly, softly— into a smile. Not a smirk, not cocky or teasing or arrogant. Just warm, gentle. Something that felt like home stretched its limbs after a long sleep.

He dipped his chin once.

“Hey.”

Three letters, one syllable, and it sent a shock straight through your chest.

Because yes.

Yes, it was him.

Except… not the Jake you knew. Not the skinny boy with a bowl cut and glasses that constantly slid down the bridge of his nose. Not the teenager who used to turn red when someone complimented his school projects or his science fair ribbons.

This Jake was—

God.

He was hot.

Taller by a mile. Broader in a way that suggested years of training and discipline. The haircut actually suited his face, and facial hair did criminal things to his jawline. His shirt clung to muscles he definitely did not have at thirteen. His voice had dropped an octave. Maybe two.

You had to remind yourself to blink.

“It’s been a while,” he said, calm— too calm, given the way his heart was hammering inside his chest so loudly he was convinced you might hear it.

Fourteen years. Fourteen entire years. The number felt unreal.

You swallowed, shifting the bags on your arms, your pulse skittering somewhere between shock and disbelief.

“That’s… wow. That’s really you?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound warm enough to melt the frost from the windows.

“Last time I checked.”

You stared another second—maybe two—because your brain needed proof that this wasn’t some cosmic prank.

Jake Seresin.

The awkward little genius who once helped you build a papier-mâché volcano. The boy who grew into this.

Jake’s gaze dipped to the bags weighing down your arms—three on the left, four on the right, one hooked awkwardly by the crook of your elbow. You hadn’t realized how ridiculous you looked until his brows lifted, amused, and before you could protest, his hands were already reaching.

“Here,” he murmured, taking half the load with effortless strength.

You blinked, startled but grateful, the pressure on your fingers easing instantly. “Thank you. I went a little overboard.”

“A little?” he teased gently, shifting the bags like they weighed nothing. “You’re one pair of mittens away from needing a pack mule.”

You laughed, the sound soft but genuine, the kind that came easily around him—just like it used to. “It’s Christmas. I have no self-control in December.”

“Still the same,” he said, smiling to himself.

You tried not to think too deeply about the warmth in his voice, or the way it tugged at something you thought you’d outgrown years ago.

“So,” you said, adjusting the strap of your purse, “how long have you been in town? Last I heard, you were somewhere on the West Coast.”

Jake’s mouth twitched, something proud and something tired flickering behind his eyes. “Got in yesterday. Straight from San Diego.” Then he looked at you more closely, softer. “What about you? When did you get back?”

“A week ago,” you said. “Still adjusting. It’s weird being home after so long.”

He nodded, slow and understanding. “Jannette told us you were spending Christmas with them.”

You let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head. “She announced it, did she?”

“Oh yeah. Right in the middle of dinner.”

“God,” you groaned playfully, “I’m so sorry I’m crashing your family Christmas.”

“Crashing?” His grin deepened, warm enough to melt the leather-scented air around you. “You’re practically an honorary Seresin. My mama’s be over the moon.”

Your cheeks warmed, an involuntary reaction you hoped he didn’t notice. “She’s always been too sweet to me.”

“That doesn’t stop,” he said. “Trust me.”

You wandered through the aisles together, steps falling into an easy rhythm, like muscle memory. Talking felt natural, unforced, effortless in a way you hadn’t expected after fourteen years.

After a moment, Jake shifted the bags in his hands and asked, “Want me to take these to your car?”

“Oh—I didn’t bring one,” you said, shaking your head. “It’s nice out. I walked.”

He blinked at you like you’d confessed to hitchhiking on the highway. “You walked?”

“It’s not far,” you laughed.

Jake tilted his head, unimpressed. “Where are you parked?”

“At home.”

That earned a full grin, wide and incredulous. “You walked from your place? With all this?”

“I like walking,” you defended, nudging his arm lightly. “And it’s Christmas in Texas, not the Arctic.”

Still, he didn’t budge. “I’ve got my dad’s truck. Let me drive you.”

“It’s really okay, Jake—”

“Darlin’, I’m offering because I’m not letting you haul ten pounds of gifts across the city like Santa on foot.”

Your breath caught at the “darlin’,” spoken casually, naturally, like it wasn’t setting off tiny fireworks in your chest.

He raised a brow, patient but firm.

“Fine,” you relented quietly, smiling. “You can drive me.”

“Thank you,” he said, victorious but gentle.

“But,” you added quickly, pointing a finger at him, “I’m still looking for something for Jannette.”

Jake’s shoulders relaxed, and he followed you deeper into the store with an amused huff. “Boots?”

“Boots.”

He took this mission seriously—far more seriously than you’d expected. He sifted through styles with the concentration of someone choosing a gift for a president. You watched as he narrowed it down, comparing stitching, heel height, leather softness.

“This pair,” he finally said, holding up a beautiful tan set with turquoise embroidery. “These look like her. And she won’t shut up about turquoise lately.”

Your eyes widened. “These are perfect.”

Jake’s smile met yours. “Told you.”

After paying for the boots and gathering the growing mountain of bags, you let Jake take the lead. His hand hovered behind your back — not touching, just guiding — as he steered you out of the store and into the winter-bright parking lot. He walked with an easy confidence, long strides purposeful and relaxed, the picture of a man who knew exactly who he’d grown into.

“There she is,” he said, nodding toward a familiar old truck. His dad’s. The same one you’d ridden in a handful of times growing up.

Jake opened the back door first, loading every bag with an efficiency that made you laugh. Then he rounded to the passenger side, pulled the door open, and offered his hand to help you in— gentle, warm, steady.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His lips tugged into a half-smile. “Mama’d have my head if she heard I let you climb in alone.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach did an uneven little flip anyway.

He shut the door softly, and for the brief moment you were alone inside the truck, you let yourself breathe and silently asked yourself what the actual hell had happened to Jake Seresin.

It wasn’t just that he’d grown into himself. It wasn’t only the height, or the shoulders, or the jawline that could probably cut through drywall. It wasn’t the sun-warmed skin or the messy-styled blond hair or the way he carried himself with that quiet, lethal confidence.

It was that he looked like a man now—built, gorgeous, magnetic in a way that made your brain short-circuit. A Greek god in a burnt-orange shirt and worn denim. And somehow, impossibly, he was still Jake.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, the truck dipping slightly with his weight, and turned on the engine. The cab filled with the low rumble of heat and the faint scent of leather.

“Alright,” he said, turning to you with that warm, polite grin, “where to?”

You gave the cross streets, but he blinked, brow furrowing. “Those new roads by the river? Didn’t even know they built houses over there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you said, amused. “Here, just gimme your phone.”

He handed it over, and you typed the address into the GPS, the little map lighting up between you.

Jake pulled out of the parking lot, navigating the roads with steady hands on the wheel. Conversation began easily, naturally— like some part of you had already remembered how to talk to him.

“So,” you said, eyeing him cautiously, “the navy. You have to tell me everything.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Everything’d take years. But… it’s good. Busy. A lot of deployments. A lot of moving. Not much sleep.”

“You look like you’re doing well,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyes flicked to yours — quick, unreadable — but there was something grateful there. “I’m alright,” he admitted. “It’s exhausting sometimes. But it’s what I always wanted.”

Your chest warmed. You’d known that. Even when he was twelve, building those model planes with ridiculous precision, even when he insisted on watching documentaries no one else understood, even when he talked about physics the way other kids talked about superheroes—Jake had always had that spark.

“And you?” he said, glancing at you with genuine interest. “Last time I heard anything, you were in London.”

You laughed. “God, London feels like forever ago. I worked there after college for a bit. Then New York. Then back to Boston. Then work offered a promotion and a transfer, so… here I am. Full circle, I guess.”

He made a face—soft, teasing. “A Texan in London, huh? Bet you froze your ass off.”

“I did,” you admitted, laughing. “Absolutely. No shame in it.”

“You poor thing,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Those London winters aren’t for the weak.”

“I’ve been away for so long,” you teased, “I’m not sure I even am Texan anymore.”

Jake snapped his head toward you, eyes wide in playful offense. “Excuse me?”

“Might’ve lost my Texan card,” you continued dramatically. “Maybe I’m a Northerner now.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t you dare say that. Once a Texan, always a Texan. Doesn’t matter if you lived on the moon.”

You smiled, warmth curling in your ribs at the earnestness beneath the joke.

Outside, the city moved slowly past the windows—holiday lights strung across storefronts, people bustling with bags and bright scarves, the soft haze of early evening settling over Austin.

Inside the truck, it felt strangely intimate. Like a thread that had frayed with time had knit itself quietly back together. Like fourteen years hadn’t really been so long after all.

Ten minutes after Jake pulled up in front of your house, slowing to a stop as the wrap-around porch came into view. He turned off the engine, unbuckled, and before you could even reach for your door handle, he was already outside, rounding the truck.

“Jake—” you started when he opened your door for you again.

“Don’t fight me on this,” he said lightly, offering his hand.

You rolled your eyes but let him help you down. It wasn’t like you minded.

Then he went straight to the backseat, ignoring every protest you threw at him as he gathered all the bags—every single one—looped over both arms.

“Jake! At least let me grab one—”

“Nope,” he said, adjusting the mountain of gifts with unfair ease. “You’ll throw off my balance.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Been told that once or twice.”

You shook your head, leading him up the walkway and onto the porch, digging out your keys with a sigh. You unlocked the door and pushed it open, flicking on the hallway light.

“Sorry for the mess,” you said quickly. “I’m still unpacking.”

There were a few half-opened boxes near the living room wall, packing paper scattered nearby, and two flat, unopened bookshelves leaning against each other like toppled dominos. A couple of framed photos rested face-down on the couch, waiting to be hung. The space smelled faintly of new paint and pine from the tree you’d decorated last night.

Jake stepped inside and looked around with quiet curiosity, setting the bags down gently near the wall.

“Looks good to me,” he said. “Homey.”

“Homey?” you snorted, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “It looks like a storage closet exploded.”

He just shrugged. “Every new place looks like this at first.”

You walked ahead, kicking a box closed with your foot. “I’ve just been busy at the office. Haven’t had a chance to put the furniture together. Or figure out how to make the bookshelves stand up without killing me.”

Jake glanced at the unassembled pieces, then back at you. “You want help?”

“No, you don’t need to—”

“Darlin’,” he cut in, raising a brow, “I haven’t done a single useful thing today except drive a truck and pick out boots. Let me earn my dinner.”

You huffed out a laugh. “You want to build furniture to feel useful?”

“Exactly.”

You gave in—because it was Jake, and because the idea of sending him home after he’d carried your entire holiday haul felt wrong. “Fine. But don’t blame me if it’s missing pieces. I’m convinced they do that on purpose.”

He clapped once, rubbing his hands together. “Let me at it.”

You left him in the living room while you ran upstairs to change. You wanted to be comfortable—and also maybe to not look like a zipped-up jacket and jeans disaster next to a man who looked like that.

You slipped into soft black leggings and a loose cotton shirt, tied your hair out of your face, and headed back down.

And promptly forgot how to breathe.

Jake had shed his burnt-orange shirt, leaving him in a white tank top that fit like a second skin. His biceps flexed as he tightened something with a screwdriver, the muscles shifting under warm, tan skin. His shoulders were broader than you imagined, wider than seemed fair. His back was a map of lean strength and hours of work.

And then there was his face — head bent, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, brows furrowed, lashes low over his squinting eyes. You wondered if he still wore his glasses; If they were folded neatly in some case, If he still looked impossibly sweet in them.

He must’ve heard your footsteps because he glanced up— smiling the moment he saw you.

“These are a piece of cake,” he said, patting the partially assembled skeleton of a bookshelf. “I’ve built worse things.”

“You look very proud of yourself,” you teased, kneeling beside him and grabbing the bag of screws.

“I am,” he admitted, no shame whatsoever. “Plus, when’s the last time you had me do manual labor for you?”

“Never.”

“Exactly. I’m making history.”

You nudged him with your elbow and passed him the next set of screws. The two of you fell into a quiet, comfortable rhythm—him working, you handing him tools, both of you tucked into the soft glow of the living room light. It felt strangely domestic, strangely easy.

When you finished the first bookshelf, you sat back, admiring your work. Jake cracked his knuckles, pleased.

“Want to start the second?” he asked.

“You hungry?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I could eat.”

“I’ll order something,” you said, grabbing your phone. “Any cravings?”

“Surprise me.”

You placed the order, and twenty minutes later the doorbell rang. Jake immediately started to rise, pulling out his wallet, but you planted your hand on his shoulder—his big, warm, unfairly muscular shoulder—and pushed him gently back down.

“Absolutely not,” you said. “You built my furniture. The food’s on me.”

“I was raised to pay for dinner.”

“Well, I was raised to repay favors.”

He looked up at you, amused, defeated, soft around the edges. “Alright,” he said. “You win.”

Your fingers lingered on his shoulder for half a second too long before you pulled away. And Jake noticed. He didn’t comment— but he noticed. The faint curve of his lips proved it.

You return from the kitchen balancing the two plates carefully in your hands, the warmth of the food rising in soft curls. He’s still crouched by the second bookshelf, tightening the last screw with that quiet concentration he has.

When you tell him it’s ready, he wipes his hands on the side of his jeans and joins you on the floor again, settling opposite you the way he did earlier—one knee bent, the other stretched out, like he’s already decided the floor is the most natural place to be with you.

You hand him his plate and immediately start apologizing again, waving vaguely at the dining table cluttered with half-unpacked boxes and the kitchen island buried under kitchenware you haven’t sorted yet. “I swear it looked worse earlier,” you joke weakly, but you’re still embarrassed.

He glances around, then looks at you with an easy shrug. “I don’t mind,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice softens something in your chest. He nods toward the plate. “Thank you for the food.”

For a moment, the apartment goes quiet except for the occasional distant hum from the street and the soft clink of silverware. You sit a few feet apart, legs folded, plates balanced on your laps, the kind of silence that isn’t awkward—just warm, a breath between two people who aren’t quite sure how close they’re allowed to sit yet.

Eventually, you ask him if he’s staying in town for long. He swallows, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, and leans back on his palms.

“Got about thirty days,” he says. “On leave.”

You nod, letting that sink in. Thirty days feels like a lot and not enough at the same time.

He tells you a bit about being stationed in California—how he likes the squadron, how the flying keeps him grounded in ways nothing else does, how the ocean smell still hits him weird sometimes. You ask if he misses Texas, and his answer comes with a slow exhale.

“Yeah… sometimes. Mostly my folks. And Jannette.” His voice shifts a little on her name, not sad— just honest.

You look down at your plate before meeting his eyes again. There’s a softness threading under your ribs, one you’ve been trying not to acknowledge since he walked through your door. “I’m… happy you’re back,” you say quietly.

For a second he doesn’t move, like the words catch him off guard. Then his mouth curves, small and real, warm enough that you feel it in your stomach.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes lingering on you a beat too long. “I’m happy you’re back home too.”

—

Jake had just finished climbing down from the stepladder, dusting his palms across his jeans, when the doorbell rang. His mom was elbow-deep in some Christmas recipe that Jannette was very obviously sneaking bites from, so Christina called out, “Jake, honey, can you get that?”

He pushed a hand through his hair and headed toward the foyer, still warm from the heater and smelling faintly of cinnamon and whatever Christina was baking. When he opened the door, the cold morning rushed in—and so did you, in a way.

You stood there bundled in a coat almost too big, scarf wrapped twice around your neck, gloves tugged up to your wrists. And in your hands? A precarious tower of perfectly wrapped gifts that rose so high he could barely see your eyes peeking over the top. Your breath clouded in the air, cheeks pink from the cold, and Jake had to bite back a laugh because you looked so damn cute he almost forgot to say hello.

“Well,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe, “are you doin’ some kind of arm workout, or do you just have a personal vendetta against traveling light?”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it wasn’t very effective with most of your face hidden behind a stack of metallic paper and crisp ribbons. “Ha, ha. Very funny,” you muttered, shifting the gifts before they toppled. “Are you going to help me, or should I just file for workers’ comp now?”

Jake grinned as he reached forward and scooped the whole leaning tower of presents out of your hands like they weighed nothing. “You’re welcome,” he said, stepping aside so you could slip into the warmth of the house.

“Thank you,” you replied, brushing a gloved hand over your coat as if it would make you look less flustered.

But you didn’t get a second more to compose yourself because Jannette’s shriek echoed from the kitchen— bright, high-pitched, delighted. In an instant she appeared, barreling toward you at full speed. She collided with you in a hug so tight Jake winced on your behalf.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” she squealed into your scarf before dragging you toward the kitchen like you weighed nothing at all.

Jake followed with your gifts in his arms, just to the edge of the doorway. Christina turned around, saw you, and let out a squeal that matched her daughter’s in pitch and enthusiasm. She wiped her hands on a dish towel before rushing forward to hug you herself.

From where he stood at the threshold, Jake watched the three of you—voices overlapping, hands busy, warmth practically radiating off the kitchen tiles. Something in his chest tugged, something he refused to name.

Before he could take a step inside, Carl called from the living room, “Jake! Need your help with this bracket!”

Jake lingered one more heartbeat, eyes tracing the way you laughed as Christina fussed over your coat and Jannette immediately tried to steal something from the stove again. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted the pile of gifts under his arm, and headed back to the living room.

The kitchen felt warmer than any heater could manage. It was the kind of warmth born from clattering pots, soft laughter, the perfume of cinnamon and roasted something drifting from the oven. Christina handed you a cutting board, Jannette passed you a knife she’d already stolen a tomato with, and you slipped into the rhythm of helping them prep for tomorrow night’s dinner.

Your parents were already in Mexico for the holidays, and being here—being folded into the Seresins’ chaos—felt strangely natural. You wanted to help, needed to feel useful when their kindness had opened their home to you without a blink.

Jake moved between the living room and the kitchen every so often, delivering decorations for Christina to approve or returning with tools Carl needed. And every time he stepped through that doorway, whether it was with a hammer in his hand or a strand of garland slung over his shoulder, he let his gaze drift toward you. Quick, almost shy glances—like he didn’t want anyone to notice, but he couldn’t help himself.

Of course, Christina noticed. And Jannette did, too. The moment Jake turned away to answer his dad, the two women exchanged a look so subtle it barely registered, but you caught the tail end of it. A shared, knowing smile.

They remembered. They remembered everything.

Growing up, Jake’s crush on you had been embarrassingly transparent, all long limbs and red cheeks and too-fast talking. He hadn’t been good at hiding it then— and if the soft warmth on his face each time he glanced your way meant anything, he wasn’t good at hiding it now either.

You weren’t much better.

You tried to be discreet, you really did, but your eyes had a mind of their own. They tracked the line of his shoulders under that fitted shirt, the flex of muscle in his arms when he lifted a box of ornaments, the curve of his profile when he leaned in to listen to something his mom said. He had grown into himself, into his height and his strength, into that steady confidence that radiated off him like heat.

And you were looking. A lot.

Every time your gaze dipped — just for a second— down the plane of his chest or the sharp cut of his jaw, a quiet thrill shot down your spine. Like touching a live wire. Like being reminded you were still very much alive.

You told yourself it wasn’t because he was hot now, not only that.

But God, he was.

And it had been… a while for you. Dating, intimacy, even something as simple as being touched. The absence of all of it had left a kind of hollow ache you didn’t like to acknowledge. A low, restless hum under your skin.

And now here you were. Getting all worked up because Jake Seresin, Jannette’s little brother, for God’s sake, smiled at you from across the room like you were something warm to come home to.

The realization startled you more than it should have. The suddenness of it, the sharp tug low in your stomach, the heat prickling at the back of your neck.

You cleared your throat and focused on chopping vegetables, pretending you didn’t feel his eyes on you again.

Pretending the flutter in your chest wasn’t answering him back.

—

You stayed the entire afternoon without even meaning to. One minute you were helping Christina peel potatoes, the next you were wiping down the counters while Jannette stole cookies straight off the cooling tray, and somehow the sun slipped low without any of you noticing.

Eventually the kitchen duties were handed off to timers, ovens, and Christina’s uncanny intuition, freeing you to wander into the living room where Carl and Jake had finished arranging decorations. The tree glowed softly in the corner—warm white lights, gold garland, and the familiar collection of mismatched Seresin ornaments.

You sank into the couch with a relieved sigh, pulling out your phone to check a few work emails. You only managed three lines of a message before Jannette plopped down beside you dramatically and smacked your phone right out of your hands.

“It’s Christmas,” she declared.

“It is not Christmas yet,” you retorted, leaning down to reach for your phone. “It’s the twenty-third—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Your whole body paused, suspended mid-reach, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Because Jake Seresin was walking down the stairs.

Freshly showered. Hair damp, curling faintly at the ends; face warm from the heat of it, broad shoulders framed by a soft, worn T-shirt.

But none of that was what made your brain short-circuit— It was the glasses.

Simple, thin-framed, perfectly fitted glasses perched on his nose, making him look sharper and softer at the same time. They framed his face in a way that was almost unfair. Handsome didn’t cover it. He looked intelligent, grounded, older, hotter— God, hotter. As if he needed any help.

Your heart stumbled over its own rhythm.

Beside you, Jannette followed the line of your gaze, took one look at her brother, then at your stunned expression—and smirked like a cat who’d just cornered a canary. Her elbow found your ribs with cruel precision.

“Shut up,” you whispered, swatting her lightly.

“I wasn’t talking,” she sang quietly. “You were staring.”

You forced your eyes off Jake —honestly, ripped them away— and pretended Jannette’s rambling about cookie icing required your full intellectual capacity. Still, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jake settle against the far wall, scrolling through something on his phone, glasses sliding down his nose just enough that he pushed them back up with the knuckle of his thumb.

You almost groaned. Silently. Internally.

It was dangerously close to indecent.

Time passed in a blur of warmth and soft chatter until you noticed the hour glowing on the clock. You stood, brushing your hands down your sides.

“I should head out,” you announced gently. “It’s getting late.”

Christina, perched beside Carl on the loveseat, looked scandalized. “You shouldn’t be driving at night, sweetheart.”

You waved a hand lightly. “It’s fine, really. I’ve done it a thousand times.”

Christina shook her head, already set in her ways. “No. You’re tired. The roads are dark. It’s not safe.”

Before you could argue, Jannette, eyes gleaming with mischief, said, “Jake can drive her.”

Jake’s head snapped up. He blinked once, confusion melting quickly into something bright and alert. His gaze drifted to you, locking on, and your breath caught again because glasses.

Christina lit up instantly. “That’s perfect! Yes. Jake, take her home. And darling, leave your car here. He’ll pick you up tomorrow too.”

Your cheeks flushed warm. “Mrs. Seresin, really, that’s not—”

“I don’t mind,” Jake said, voice sliding in low and steady, cutting off your protest.

Jannette muttered under her breath, “Of course you don’t,” earning herself a sharp look from him.

You swallowed, nodded softly, thanked them all, and gathered your things. Jake grabbed the truck keys from the shelf by the door and held the door open for you.

The chill of the night met you both at once— crisp air, quiet street, the scent of pine lingering on your coat. Your breath puffed out in little clouds, mixing with his.

Your cheeks were still warm from the attention, from the glasses, from the way Jake kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

Jake opened the truck door for you just like before— effortlessly, almost instinctively, as if it were second nature. He offered his hand to help you climb in, the warmth of his fingers brushing yours for a moment that felt much longer than it actually was. Then he closed the door gently and circled the hood, breath visible in the cold night air.

Once he slid behind the wheel, he turned the key, letting the engine hum to life. The headlights washed over the quiet street as he eased out of the driveway. The inside of the truck was warm, dimly lit, and filled with the soft rasp of the heater and the low rumble of the engine. Jake kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, and every now and then he reached up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the lightest tap of his knuckle.

You watched him do it once. Then again. Then again— each time something fluttering low in your stomach.

After a stretch of comfortable silence, you said softly, “I didn’t know you still wore glasses.”

He huffed a small laugh, eyes flicking toward you before returning to the road. “Yeah, I’m still pretty blind,” he joked. “Contacts help, but by the end of the day they get annoying.”

You smiled, leaning back against the seat. “I can’t believe Christina didn’t want me driving at night. I’m offended, honestly.”

Jake laughed, real and warm, the sound filling the cab in a way that made your chest feel too full. He shook his head, voice lighter than before. “Yeah, you’re clearly the bigger hazard.”

You grinned, pretending to be scandalized. “Wow. Thank you, Lieutenant Safety.”

He glanced at you again, longer this time, and there was something soft in his eyes, something easy and fond that made you swallow around the sudden warmth in your throat. He returned his attention to the road, but the faint smile stayed on his face.

The world outside the truck was dark and still— houses wrapped in Christmas lights, lawns sparkling with frost, the sky a deep velvet blue. Inside, though, it felt warmer and smaller, the space between you charged with something neither of you wanted to name yet.

You shifted slightly in your seat. The fabric of your leggings clung to your skin, warm from the heater, and you crossed your legs, then uncrossed them, fingers idly brushing your thigh. You told yourself it was the cold. The long day. The exhaustion.

But then Jake pushed his glasses up again, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the cut of his cheekbone— and your thighs pressed together without you thinking.

You tried to play it off, adjusting in your seat, pretending to get comfortable. But the truth pulsed hot and low: you were attracted to him, wildly, stupidly, overwhelmingly attracted. The kind of attraction that made your breath catch and your skin warm. The kind that made your mind wander to places it absolutely should not go— not while sitting beside Jake Seresin. Not while wearing a seatbelt.

He didn’t seem to notice, thankfully. Or maybe he did and was too polite to say anything. Or maybe he noticed, but the curl of a smile ghosting the corner of his mouth suggested something else entirely—something that made your heart thump hard against your ribs.

You stared out the window, trying to breathe normally.

Jake reached up, pushed his glasses up one more time, and you were gone again.

After a while, he pulled up smoothly to the curb and cut the engine. For a moment neither of you moved, the quiet settling between you like a warm blanket, thick and charged and impossible to ignore. Then he unbuckled, stepped out into the cool night, and rounded the truck with long, confident strides. He opened your door with that same gentle care he’d shown all day, offering a hand to help you down.

You met his eyes as you slid out of the seat. “Thank you for the ride,” you said softly, breath visible in the cold. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Jake shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, shoulders lifting in the faintest shrug. “I wanted to,” he said, simple and earnest.

A small wave of silence washed over you—warm, a little nervous, strangely comfortable. You stood there on your front walk, the porch light casting a golden glow over the two of you. Jake looked taller in that light, broader, impossibly handsome with the frames perched on his nose and the cold brushing color onto his cheeks.

Neither of you knew what to say, neither of you wanted to walk away.

“Goodnight,” you whispered, finally breaking the spell.

“Goodnight,” he echoed, voice quieter than before.

You turned, walking toward your porch steps. You made it halfway to the door, heart pounding, breath uneven, before stopping dead.

Fuck it.

You spun around.

Jake was still standing exactly where you left him, hands in his pockets, breath curling in the cold air. His eyes widened when he saw you coming back, mouth parting like he was about to speak—

—but he didn’t get the chance.

You reached him in one determined step, hands sliding up his chest as you surged forward and crushed your mouth to his. The kiss landed hot, full, desperate. Jake froze for just half a second, but then he melted into you, hands flying from his pockets to your waist, pulling you firmly against him like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.

The world tilted.

You kissed him deeper, your fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that stole your breath. When you finally pulled back for air, barely an inch away, he chased you— capturing your mouth again before you could even inhale, like he couldn’t bear the distance.

You walked backwards without looking, letting instinct guide you, and he followed without hesitation, steps perfectly in sync with yours. He kissed you like you were something he’d dreamed of and never expected to touch. Like he was starving and you were the first real taste of something good in years.

His chest pressed to yours, his breath warm, his glasses slightly askew.

You hit your door with a soft thud.

Jake kissed down your jaw to your neck, his lips hot against your skin. “Where are your keys, sweetheart?” he murmured against the curve of your throat, voice rough, low, absolutely devastating.

Sweetheart.

Your knees almost buckled.

You fumbled in your purse —shaky, breathless— until your fingers closed around the keys. Jake stayed pressed to you, hands exploring your waist, your hips, the small of your back, claiming every piece of you he could reach. You managed to get the key into the lock on the second try and push the door open.

The moment you stepped inside, Jake followed, shutting the door behind him with one hand while the other found your waist again. His lips returned to your neck, nipping lightly, and you let out a breathless giggle. Your fingers slid into his hair, brushing the edge of his glasses, and he pulled back just enough to smirk against your skin.

“Couldn’t keep your hands off my glasses, huh?” he teased, voice warm and wicked.

Before you could answer, he kissed you again, backing you farther into the house until the door clicked shut behind him and the world outside disappeared.

Jake guided you deeper into the house until your back met the wall, the gentle thud echoing in the quiet room. He didn’t kiss you right away. Instead, he paused— breathing hard, chest rising and falling against your — just looking at you like he was trying to memorize every line of your face.

His eyes swept over you, slow and reverent.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, warm and trembling with honesty he probably hadn’t planned to share. “You have no idea how many times I dreamed about this.”

Heat shot straight through you.

Your lips curved, eyes lifting to his through your lashes as you leaned in, brushing your mouth near the shell of his ear. “Tell me what you dreamed about,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin.

Jake pulled back just enough to see you clearly, and something shifted behind his eyes. A spark— dark, certain, hungry. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and sinful.

“No hesitation at all, huh?” he drawled softly.

Before you could respond, his hands slid down your sides, warm and sure, settling at the back of your thighs. In one smooth, practiced motion he lifted you— effortless, like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands flying to the back of his neck, fingers curling in the soft hair there.

Your legs wrapped around his waist by instinct, your body fitting to his like you’d done this a thousand times instead of not at all.

His mouth found your neck again, lips hot and open as he kissed a path up toward your jaw. You tilted your head without thinking, granting him more access, a soft moan slipping out before you could stop it.

Jake groaned quietly at the sound, tightening his grip on you.

And then he started walking.

Up the stairs.

Carrying you like he’d been waiting fourteen years for the chance.

Each step jostled you just enough that your breath hitched, your arms clinging tighter around his shoulders. His body was strong and steady beneath you— solid muscle, warm skin, that faint scent of soap and aftershave still clinging to him after his shower.

He kept kissing you between steps, his lips brushing your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn’t stop touching you.

By the time he reached your bedroom door, your pulse was pounding, your fingers tangled in the hair at his nape, your legs locked tight around him.

Jake nudged the door open with his shoulder, eyes lifting to meet yours— full of every dream he’d never said out loud.

He laid you softly on the bed, his body hovering over yours as your back hit the mattress. The room felt charged, the air thick with anticipation as his warmth pressed close. He planted one hand beside your head, the other trailing down your side, fingers igniting sparks along your skin. His lips captured yours in a deep kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth with confident ease, tasting you thoroughly. You moaned into him, your hands roaming his broad back, slipping under his shirt to feel the hard ridges of his abs clenching under your touch.

You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head in a rush. Your eyes devoured him: toned chest, defined arms, every inch screaming raw power. He mirrored you, stripping your top away and unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers, exposing your breasts to the cool air. They ached for him already, nipples hardening. As he reached for his glasses, you grabbed his wrist.

“Leave them on,” you whispered, voice husky with need. He smirked, that green gaze sharpening behind the lenses, adjusting them before crashing back into another kiss, his mouth devouring yours.

His lips trailed down, hot and insistent, nipping at your jaw before settling on your neck. He sucked hard, tongue lapping at the skin, drawing a gasp from you as a bruise bloomed under his mouth.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmured against your throat, his voice low and rough. You arched into him, fingers threading through his hair. He moved lower, open-mouthed kisses peppering your collarbone, then your breasts. His hand cupped one, thumb circling the nipple while his mouth latched onto the other, sucking firmly.

The pull shot straight to your core, making your pussy clench with empty need. He switched sides, teeth grazing the sensitive peak, leaving faint red marks that would darken into hickeys by morning. Your moans filled the room, body writhing as pleasure built.

“Jake... please,” you breathed, hips shifting restlessly. He released your breast with a wet pop, kissing down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel. His hands hooked into your leggings, peeling them down slowly, caressing the newly bared skin of your thighs.

Cool air hit your soaked panties, the fabric clinging transparently to your folds. He settled between your legs, broad shoulders parting them wide, his breath ghosting over your inner thighs. You rocked up instinctively, seeking friction against the ache in your pussy.

He dragged his fingers along the waistband of your panties, eyes locked on yours through his glasses, that smirk promising everything.

“So wet for me already,” he said, voice gravelly. He tugged them off, exposing your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze. You felt vulnerable, exposed, but the way he stared—like he wanted to consume you—only made you throb harder. He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, sucking marks into the soft flesh, each pull making you whimper. The hickeys would linger, a secret reminder of this night.

“Please, Jake,” you begged, voice breaking. He looked up, green eyes piercing behind the frames, and without a word, his mouth found your pussy. His tongue flattened against your slit, licking a long, slow stripe from entrance to clit.

The sensation was electric, your hips bucking as he lapped at your juices. He hummed in approval, the vibration sending shivers through you. Then he focused on your clit, sucking it between his lips with precise pressure, tongue flicking the swollen nub.

You cried out, hands fisting the sheets. His mouth worked you relentlessly, tongue circling your clit before sucking harder, drawing obscene wet sounds from your pussy. He made out with it, lips and tongue worshipping every fold, dipping inside briefly to taste your arousal before returning to that sensitive spot.

“Look at me, darling,” he commanded, voice muffled against you. You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense stare as he sucked your clit again, the suction pulling a scream from your throat. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, your thighs trembling around his head.

He pulled back just enough to speak, one finger sliding along your slit, gathering your wetness before rubbing firm circles on your clit.

“Did you know not all women orgasm from penetration? Stimulation like this—or toys—can be key. But bet I can make you cum from my tongue alone.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, confident and teasing. Then he dove back in, mouth sealing over your pussy, tongue thrusting inside while his fingertips tugged at your clit. You screamed, the dual assault overwhelming, your body arching off the bed.

His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open as he ate you out with expert focus. Tongue lashing your clit, sucking it rhythmically, he built the pressure higher. Your moans turned to gasps, breaths ragged, every nerve alight. He added a finger, sliding it deep into your clenching pussy, curling to hit that spot inside while his mouth never stopped its assault on your clit.

The combination was devastating— wet slurps mixing with your cries, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat. You felt the edge approaching, body tensing, but he didn't let up, determined to push you over with just his mouth and that skilled touch.

“Jake... I'm so close,” you panted, eyes locked on his as he glanced up again, that smug glint in his green eyes urging you on. His tongue flattened once more, licking broad strokes before pinpoint sucking on your clit, finger pumping steadily. The pleasure crested, threatening to shatter you, but he held you there, drawing it out with every precise movement.

Your body convulses as the orgasm rips through you, waves of pleasure crashing hard. Your pussy clenches and gushes, soaking Jake's mouth with your hot cum. He doesn't flinch— instead, he presses his tongue flat against your swollen folds, lapping up every drop like it's the sweetest nectar.

His lips suck greedily at your entrance, tongue delving deep to scoop out more of your juices, slurping loudly as you tremble beneath him. The wet sounds fill the room, mixing with your ragged breaths, your thighs quivering around his head.

You think he's done, that he'll pull back and give you a second to recover, but Jake's eyes lock onto yours through his fogged glasses, dark with hunger. His tongue keeps working, flicking over your sensitive clit, sending jolts straight to your core.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he moans against your skin, the vibration making you whimper. Before you can beg for mercy, he slides one thick finger into your dripping hole, stretching your walls with its girth. It's long, rough from whatever he's been doing all day, and he thrusts it slow and deep, curling it just right to hit that spot inside.

Your juices coat his finger easily, making obscene squelching noises as he pumps in and out. You gasp, hips bucking involuntarily, but he pins you down with his free hand on your thigh.

“A lot happens in your body during orgasm, especially in the brain,” he says casually, like he's reciting from a textbook while finger-fucking you senseless. “It has been shown that when you reach orgasm, the area behind your left eye, known as the lateral orbitofrontal cortex, shuts down. Kind of why you look so fucked out right now.” His words hit you as hard as his finger, your mind reeling from the mix of science and filth.

“Oh god,” you moan, your voice breaking as he slips a second finger inside, stretching you wider. Your pussy flutters around the intrusion, stuffed full already, but he doesn't stop. He starts scissoring them, twisting and thrusting, while his thumb sneaks up to your clit, rubbing firm circles that make your vision blur. The pressure builds fast, your nerves on fire from the dual assault. “Ho-how do you know all of this?” you stammer, words tumbling out between gasps, your body arching off the bed.

He smirks, never breaking rhythm, his fingers plunging deeper, knuckles grazing your entrance.

“I just read a lot.” His voice is low, teasing, as his hand works you relentlessly. You feel every ridge of his fingers dragging along your inner walls, hitting your G-spot with precision. “Did you know a female orgasm can burn between 60 to 100 calories? That’s on top of the calories burnt during sex.”

“Did you major in women's anatomy or something?” you manage to choke out, your breaths coming in short pants as pleasure coils tighter in your belly.

He shakes his head, eyes gleaming with dominance. “I learn a lot online.” Before you can respond, his mouth replaces his thumb on your clit, sucking hard, tongue swirling around the throbbing nub.

His fingers thrust faster, curling against your G-spot with every stroke, the wet slaps echoing louder. You cry out, the second orgasm slamming into you like a freight train. Your pussy spasms around his fingers, cum coming out in hot spurts as he drives them deeper, fucking you through it without mercy.

He pulls his mouth away just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal. “I want to make you squirt.” The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, but you shake your head weakly, still riding the aftershocks.

“I've never... I don't know if I can,” you whimper, your voice hoarse, body already oversensitive.

Jake's grin turns wicked. “It's different for everybody, but some people may achieve squirting from stimulation to the clitoris, vulva, or other parts of the vagina or body.”

As he talks, his fingers pick up speed, slamming into your G-spot harder, the pressure building to something intense and unfamiliar. “A person may find it easier to squirt when masturbating. Right now, I'm hitting your G-spot. You may feel a tingling sensation or the need to urinate.”

You nod frantically, biting your lip to stifle a scream, the pleasure bordering on too much. That tingling spreads, a full bladder ache mixing with the ecstasy, making your muscles clench.

“Dual stimulation is important, see?” he says, voice rough with his own arousal. His head dives back down, mouth latching onto your clit, sucking and flicking while his fingers piston inside you, relentless on that spongy spot. The overstimulation hits like lightning— deliciously painful, your nerves screaming as the third orgasm barrels toward you.

Your hips jerk, trying to escape the intensity, but Jake locks your thighs in place with his strong arms, refusing to let you pull away. He speeds up instead, fingers curling and thrusting, mouth devouring your clit.

The pressure explodes. You scream his name, body seizing as you squirt hard, a gush of fluid spraying over his face. It soaks his glasses, dripping down his chin, wetting his chest and the bed, but he doesn't stop.

He drinks you in, tongue lapping at the flood, moaning deep in his throat as his hips grind against the bed, cock straining in his pants. Your legs shake uncontrollably, pussy pulsing around his fingers, every muscle going limp as your brain shorts out in bliss.

Jake keeps licking, slower now, savoring every last drop until you're empty and twitching. He finally pulls back, chin glistening, glasses ruined and streaked with your squirt, but his eyes burn with satisfaction. He watches you, sprawled and fucked-out on the bed, chest heaving, pussy still fluttering.

“Told you I could make you squirt,” he says, voice husky, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers trail up your thigh, teasing the edge of your folds again, hinting at more to come.

Your mouth opened, ready to answer, but Jake’s phone rang with a notification from the corner of the bed he had discarded it earlier —

Guessing you’re gonna spend the night there, just know mom will go get your ass if you’re not here to open the gifts tomorrow — naked or not!

He’d spent the weekend in New York for a buddy’s wedding — a good time, sure, but too much whiskey, too many late nights, and way too much small talk. He’s ready to go home. Ready for quiet.

“Eighteen C,” he mutters under his breath, glancing at the numbers overhead as he lugs his carry-on down the aisle.

He’s one of the last to board, so everyone’s already settled in — headphones on, blankets pulled up, the lucky ones already half asleep. His luck? Historically bad.

He spots his row halfway down the cabin and feels that familiar pinch of dread in his gut.

Window seat’s taken.

Middle seat too — by a tiny girl in pigtails, her legs swinging as she hums softly to herself.

Jake exhales through his nose, amusement and exasperation battling somewhere behind his tired eyes. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath.

A four-year-old. For a three-and-a-half-hour flight. Fantastic.

She’s got a white tracksuit on, the hood shaped like little bunny ears. Her pink backpack is open on her lap, stuffed with crayons and snacks, and she’s so focused on her coloring book she doesn’t notice him right away.

He shifts his bag on his shoulder, preparing himself for the inevitable chorus of “I’m bored” and “Are we there yet?”

Then the girl looks up.

Her eyes are big and bright, her expression open — the sort of kid who’s been raised to look people in the eye. “Hi, sir! Are you sitting here?”

Jake blinks, momentarily thrown. “Uh… yeah. Looks like it.”

She nods solemnly, like this is an official transaction. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself. “Glad to hear it, sweetheart.”

The girl beams, turning a little to point toward the woman in the window seat. “Mommy, he’s here.”

Jake follows her gesture — and for the first time, really sees you.

You’re half-turned toward the aisle, hair loosely pulled back, one hand resting protectively on your daughter’s knee. There’s a softness to you that stops him for a second — not flashy, not showy, just… gentle. A quiet kind of pretty that sneaks up on him.

“Sorry,” you murmur, offering him an apologetic smile. “We were trying to keep her things out of the way.”

Jake shakes his head, suddenly more awake than he’s felt all morning. “You’re good. No trouble at all.”

He slides into his seat, careful not to bump either of you, his arm brushing the side of the little girl’s chair for just a moment. The contact is barely there — but he feels it.

And the kid’s not shy, that’s for sure.

As soon as Jake clicks his seatbelt, she turns toward him again, tiny legs still swinging. “Are you going home or going somewhere new?” she asks, bright and curious, like they’ve known each other for years.

He blinks, startled by the directness, then chuckles. “Uh… home, I guess. What about you?”

“I live in Texas,” she announces proudly, “but we went to New York for Mommy’s work. I got to see tall buildings and ride in a taxi and eat a pretzel as big as my face.”

Jake grins despite himself. “That so? Sounds like a good trip.”

“It was!” she says, emphatically. “Except the taxi smelled like feet.”

“Ivy,” you murmur softly, a quiet warning.

She glances up at you, guiltless and sweet. “It did, Mommy.”

Jake’s shoulders shake with a suppressed laugh. You catch it, and your eyes flick toward him — that shy little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. He feels the back of his neck warm.

You lean slightly forward, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry, sir. She can get a little talkative.”

He waves it off easily, shaking his head. “She’s fine. Really. I’ve had worse seatmates.” He smiles down at Ivy. “You’re not bothering me, sweetheart.”

That earns him a delighted grin and a small, “Thank you, sir.”

You mouth another quiet sorry as the flight attendants start their pre-takeoff checks. Jake only smiles back, settling into his seat as Ivy obediently faces forward.

The hum of the engines deepens. The usual rustle of belts and bags, the clipped voices over the intercom — all of it routine. He glances sideways, expecting at least a little squirming or noise from the kid, but Ivy’s sitting calmly, hands folded in her lap, expression serious.

You lean over her, gentle and practiced, slipping tiny pink earplugs into her ears. “There,” you murmur. “All set, baby.”

Jake watches the whole thing — the ease of it, the quiet assurance in the way you move. Ivy doesn’t fuss, doesn’t whine. Just blinks, takes your hand, and squeezes once. Like she’s done this a thousand times.

He’s… kind of impressed.

Most adults he knows get twitchy the second a plane door closes. But this four-year-old? Cool as can be.

When the plane starts to lift, Ivy presses back into her seat, clutching her little stuffed rabbit — a floppy-eared thing wearing a bow — and hums under her breath again. The sound’s soft, soothing somehow.

Jake finds himself smiling, eyes flicking to you when the seatbelt light finally dings off.

You exhale quietly, relaxing into the seat, and reach for the tote bag at your feet. “Good job, honey,” you tell Ivy, fishing something out. “You can play for a little while now.”

She perks right up, accepting the thin booklet with reverence. Jake catches a glimpse — it’s one of those sticker books, with pages like empty rooms and little sheets of people and furniture to decorate them.

“Which one’s that?” you ask her, smoothing the page open.

“The coffee shop,” Ivy says. “I’m gonna make it fancy.”

You hum approvingly. “Good choice.”

It’s then that you notice him watching, elbow resting on the armrest, that small, crooked smile on his face. You tilt your head, half-apologetic again. “She loves those. I think I’ve bought a dozen at this point.”

“Yeah?” Jake says softly. “She looks like she’s got it down to a science.”

You glance at Ivy, who’s busily arranging tiny sticker croissants in a display case, tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. “She could play for hours,” you admit. “It keeps her happy when we travel.”

Jake hums, still looking — but not at the sticker book. At you. The way you talk about your daughter, the warmth in your voice, that mix of exhaustion and affection. He feels that unfamiliar tug again — not lust, not quite — something gentler. Something that makes him want to keep watching.

They’ve been in the air maybe half an hour when Ivy suddenly looks up from her sticker-covered page, expression bright and decisive.

“Mommy,” she says, “can I have another book from the bag?”

You glance up from your Kindle, a faint smile already forming. “Another one? You’re not done with your coffee shop yet.”

“I want to make one with…” Ivy pauses, looking straight at Jake. “With him.”

Jake blinks. “Me?”

She nods, serious. “Yes. So we can have a competition.”

You glance between them, torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Sweetheart, I don’t think the nice man wants to—”

But Jake’s already chuckling, leaning forward to grab the tote from under the seat. “You kidding? I never turn down a good competition.”

You freeze for a second, surprised, as he pulls out another sticker booklet and passes it to Ivy. His grin’s a little lopsided, charming in that lazy way he probably doesn’t even realize.

“What’s the game?” he asks, flipping open the first page.

Ivy’s thrilled. “We both make our coffee shops, and Mommy’s the judge. You can’t copy me, though. That’s cheating.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says solemnly.

You can’t help laughing, soft and breathy. “You really don’t have to—”

But he looks over at you then, eyes glinting, voice dipping lower. “Trust me, darlin’, I’ve survived Navy flight school. I can handle a four-year-old with stickers.”

Your face goes warm instantly. You look away, shaking your head, pretending to be exasperated — but you’re smiling.

So they start.

Ivy’s methodical — she narrates every choice: where the counter goes, what kind of muffins she’s “selling,” the people waiting in line. Jake, meanwhile, takes it as seriously as any mission he’s ever flown. He turns his page sideways for “better layout options” and mutters to himself about the placement of the espresso machine.

Every few minutes, Ivy leans over to inspect his work and announces, “That’s actually pretty good.”

Jake grins at that, his heart doing a strange little flip at her approval. “Thanks, partner. You’re a tough critic.”

You’re watching from beside them, one arm draped protectively over Ivy’s seat, your lips curved in a quiet smile you probably don’t even realize you’re wearing. There’s something in the way you look at them — at him — that hits him right in the chest.

He wasn’t expecting this flight to feel… like this.

Not when his head still throbs faintly from last night’s whiskey, and his back’s sore, and he’d been fully prepared to endure four hours of crying or chaos.

Instead, there’s this — the soft hum of the cabin, a kid’s laughter, your eyes meeting his over the aisle armrest.

He clears his throat when Ivy declares she’s finished and spins her page toward you. “Mommy, we’re ready!”

You play along beautifully, taking the role of judge with exaggerated seriousness. “Alright,” you say, folding your hands. “Let’s see what we have here.”

Ivy goes first, pointing out every detail. Jake listens like it’s the most important briefing of his life, nodding solemnly at mentions of pastries and tables.

Then it’s his turn. “Mine,” he says, flipping his book around, “is less about efficiency and more about atmosphere.”

Ivy gasps. “You put a piano!”

“Sure did. Live music every night.”

She narrows her eyes, impressed but determined. “Mommy, who wins?”

You take a long, thoughtful pause — partly for effect, partly because both are honestly adorable. “I think…” you say slowly, “…it’s a tie.”

Ivy lets out a triumphant laugh. “A tie!”

Jake puts his hand over his heart, mock-relieved. “Fair call, judge.”

When you glance at him, there’s a spark of something in your expression — warmth, amusement… maybe a hint of curiosity.

He gives you that soft, easy smile again. “Told you I could handle her.”

You smile back, cheeks pink. “You did more than handle her.”

For a second, neither of you looks away.

Then Ivy breaks the spell with a small yawn, curling sideways in her seat and resting her head on your arm.

Jake leans back, watching as you brush a few strands of hair from her forehead, your hand lingering there. The way you look at your daughter — soft, full of love — tugs at something deep in him.

He doesn’t even notice he’s still smiling.

When Ivy starts rubbing her eyes and fidgeting, you pull a pink iPad out of your tote bag and queue up Tangled. She’s practically giddy as you slip the comically large headphones over her head — they look like they belong to someone twice her size.

Jake grins at the sight. The headphones tilt slightly to one side, almost slipping off, but Ivy doesn’t seem to mind. Within minutes she’s completely engrossed, mouthing along to the songs like this is a regular ritual.

“She’s got taste,” Jake murmurs. “Tangled’s the best one.”

You glance at him, smiling. “We’ve seen it… I don’t know, a hundred times?”

“I can see why,” he says, settling back. “Pascal really carries the movie.”

You laugh softly, and he feels that sound bloom somewhere in his chest — like a small, unexpected spark of sunlight through the window.

He thinks that’ll be the end of it, that you’ll dive into a book or close your eyes for the rest of the flight. But you don’t. You’re quiet, your focus half on your daughter, half on the screen ahead — and Jake finds himself wanting to know more.

“So,” he starts, voice casual, “what do you do, when you’re not running coffee shop competitions at thirty thousand feet?”

You smile at that, the kind that’s half shy, half amused. “I’m an architect. I do mostly residential projects — smaller firms, family houses.”

He whistles low under his breath. “That’s impressive. You the creative type, then?”

You shrug, a little bashful. “I guess. I like the process. Turning something that’s just lines on a screen into someone’s home.”

“Home,” he repeats softly, like he’s tasting the word. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

Your gaze flickers to him, just briefly, and then you look back to Ivy, as if to ground yourself. “What about you?”

He smiles, a little lopsided. “Fighter pilot. USA Navy.”

You blink. “Oh. Wow. That sounds… intense.”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But not as intense as three hours next to a four-year-old with stickers.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “You handled that very well.”

“I’ve had tougher cases,” he says, deadpan, and that earns him another small laugh — the kind that makes him want to keep going, just to hear it again.

Then, after a moment, he nods toward Ivy. “She’s great, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid that age sit still for this long.”

You glance down at your daughter, her tiny legs tucked under her, the light from the tablet washing her face in soft color. “She’s… she’s my calm in the storm,” you admit. “I lucked out with her. My mom helps a lot too, so I get to breathe sometimes.”

Jake hums quietly. “You doin’ this on your own?”

You hesitate for just a second — barely noticeable, but he catches it. “Yeah,” you say finally, soft but certain. “It’s just us.”

He nods, not prying further. There’s something he admires in your tone — not defensiveness, not self-pity, just quiet strength.

He should leave it there, but the way the sunlight cuts through the small window, landing on your cheek, makes it hard to stop himself.

“You know,” he says, voice dropping just slightly lower, “you’ve got a really pretty smile.”

You turn to him, startled. “What?”

He grins, unbothered. “Just sayin’. I’ve been on a lot of flights, but this one’s got the best company I’ve had in a while.”

Your cheeks go pink instantly. You try to busy yourself with Ivy’s tablet, adjusting the volume even though she’s fine, mumbling something about how kind that is.

Jake bites back a chuckle. He’s always liked flustering people — but with you, it feels less like a game and more like gravity pulling him in.

He angles his seat a little closer, his knee just barely brushing Ivy’s kicking feet. “You blushing, sweetheart?”

You exhale a small, nervous laugh. “You’re flirting with me?”

“Maybe,” he says, grin widening. “But you’re smiling again.”

You are — and it’s soft and unguarded, the kind that makes him want to lean in, to keep you talking for the rest of the flight.

So he does.

You talk about nothing and everything: Ivy’s favorite movies, his favorite cities, how you hate small talk but somehow this doesn’t feel like that. Every time he says something teasing or calls you darlin’, your pulse stutters — and every time you look up at him through your lashes, Jake feels it too.

By the time the captain announces the descent into Dallas, he realizes he hasn’t thought about his hangover or his aching back in hours.

Just you. And the tiny, headphone-wearing four-year-old between you who, unknowingly, might’ve just introduced him to his favorite person on a plane.

The moment the wheels hit the runway, Ivy claps her little hands like they just landed on the moon. Jake can’t help but laugh — she’s so effortlessly joyful that even the people in the row ahead turn to smile at her.

You thank him again for helping with the overhead bag, but he waves it off, brushing a hand through his blond hair. “Please. I’ve faced worse challenges than a carry-on and a four-year-old.”

“I’m sure,” you tease lightly, hoisting your tote over your shoulder as people start filing out.

It takes a few minutes to deplane, and Ivy keeps glancing up at him like she’s thinking something very serious through. Then, right before they step into the jet bridge, she tugs on his sleeve.

Jake looks down, crouching automatically so they’re eye level. “What’s up, kiddo?”

She unzips her tiny backpack with great ceremony, digs through it, and pulls out a small sheet of stickers. “This one’s for you,” she says, peeling off a sparkly golden star and sticking it on his hand.

Jake stares at it for a second — the little glimmer of foil shining under the airport lights — and feels a ridiculous warmth spread in his chest. “A gold star, huh? That’s high praise.”

“You were a very good passenger,” she informs him with complete seriousness. “And you helped Mommy.”

You’re instantly flustered. “Ivy—”

But Jake’s already smiling. “Well, thank you, ma’am. I’ll wear it with pride.”

They reach the baggage claim, and he waits with you — partly because he’s a gentleman, but mostly because he doesn’t want to walk away just yet. You make small talk about Texas heat, and Ivy tries to stand on the luggage carousel (“absolutely not,” you say, gently yanking her back).

When your suitcase finally comes around, Jake grabs it before you can move, setting it upright beside you. Then he hesitates, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“So… listen,” he starts, a little awkward now that there’s no plane seat holding him there. “Would it be crazy if I said I wanted to see you two again?”

You blink, startled — and blushing, of course. “Oh. Um. I don’t—”

“I mean it,” he says, soft but steady. “You don’t have to decide right now, but… maybe coffee sometime? No stickers required.”

That makes you laugh, the sound easing the nerves from your shoulders. “Coffee sounds… nice.”

He hands you his phone, open to a new contact. You type your number quickly before you can overthink it.

Jake’s grin is slow and genuine. “Guess I’ll call you then.”

He takes a few steps back, blending into the stream of people heading for the exits, and you turn to lift Ivy onto your suitcase handle, her little legs swinging.

But then it hits you — you don’t even know his name.

“Wait!” you call, and your voice echoes lightly through the hall.

Jake turns, that same easy smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?”

“I don’t even know your name!” you say, half-laughing, half-mortified.

He chuckles, taking a few steps backward but keeping his eyes on you. “It’s Jake,” he calls out. “But you can call me anything you’d like, sweetheart.”

Ivy giggles, perched on your suitcase, her small hand waving wildly as Jake lifts his in return.

You’re still smiling when he disappears into the crowd — the kind of smile that lingers even as you step out into the Texas sun, a golden star still stuck to his hand somewhere in the airport.