𝔸𝕣𝕒 ❤︎︎

He turned to you, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“And this is my lovely co-host y/n, who I’m told is the voice of reason. Or as I like to call it — professional romance skeptic.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning into your mic. “Nice to meet you, Keeho. Try not to cry when I dismantle all your unrealistic expectations on air.”

Keeho let out a bright laugh, the kind that made listeners weak. “Oh, we’re starting spicy. I like it.”

The episode was supposed to be a simple trial run — introduce the show, talk about first dates, give some light advice. Instead, it became a battlefield of banter.

Keeho: “If someone shows up to a first date with flowers and a handwritten note, that’s romantic.”

You: “That’s a red flag. You’ve known each other for three hours. Boundaries exist for a reason.”

Keeho: “Or maybe some people just know how to love loudly. Not everyone wants a situationship with trust issues.”

You: “Loving loudly and love-bombing are two different things. One is sweet. The other is emotional manipulation with extra steps.”

The producers watching from the other side of the glass looked thrilled. The chemistry was instant — sharp, electric, and undeniably addictive. Every disagreement felt charged. Every time Keeho teased you, your comebacks came faster. Every time you made him laugh, his eyes lingered on you a second too long.

By the end of the episode, you were both leaning forward, fully engaged in a heated but playful debate about grand gestures.

Keeho grinned at you across the table. “So you’re saying if I wrote you a song after one date, you’d run?”

“I’d block your number,” you deadpanned.

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Harsh. But I respect it. Listeners, she’s tough. But I think I can crack her.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide your smile. “Keep dreaming, loud mouth.”

When the recording light turned off, Keeho took off his headphones and leaned back, watching you with open curiosity.

“You’re good at this,” he said, no teasing in his voice this time. “Sharp. Funny. You don’t let me get away with anything.”

You shrugged, trying to ignore how warm his genuine compliment made you feel. “Someone has to keep you humble.”

He smiled softly. “This is gonna be fun.”

As you packed up your things, Keeho lingered by the door.

“Hey,” he said casually, “you did great today. Seriously. I think the audience is gonna love us.”

You met his eyes. There was something deeper there — something attentive and warm beneath all the charm.

“Thanks,” you replied. “You weren’t terrible either.”

Keeho grinned, but it was softer than his on-mic smile. “High praise. I’ll take it.”

He held the studio door open for you as you left, and for a moment, the flirtatious co-host disappeared. He was just Keeho — observant, emotionally intelligent, and dangerously easy to talk to.

You had a feeling this podcast was going to be a lot more complicated than either of you expected.

By the third episode, Heartstrings & Headaches had exploded.

The pilot episode clip of you and Keeho passionately arguing about whether surprise picnics were romantic or “a logistical nightmare” went viral on campus social media. Within a week, the podcast had thousands of downloads, fan edits, and multiple TikTok accounts dedicated to your dynamic.

The comments were relentless:

THE WAY KEEHO LOOKS AT HER WHEN SHE ROASTS HIM?? HE’S DOWN BAD.

Enemies to lovers podcast is real y’all.

Keeho: hopeless romantic. y/n: professional heartbreaker. I need them to kiss on air.

Shipping them harder than my own relationships.

Keeho, of course, saw every single comment.

And he leaned all the way in.

During episode four, titled “Grand Gestures vs. Quiet Love,” he turned the flirtation up to dangerous levels.

“So tell me, y/n,” he said, voice low and teasing through the mic, “if I showed up outside your window with a boombox playing our podcast theme song… would you call security or let me in?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Security. Immediately.”

Keeho clutched his chest, gasping dramatically. “Wow. Cold. But I’d still do it. Someone has to teach you how to be loved loudly.”

The chat during the live stream version went absolutely feral.

Keeho kept going, smirking across the table at you. “Listeners, she acts tough, but I think deep down she likes when I flirt with her on air. Don’t you, partner?”

You narrowed your eyes, leaning closer to your mic. “Keep it up and I’ll start rating your flirting skills out of ten. Current score? Four. And that’s being generous.”

Keeho’s laugh was warm and bright, sending butterflies through your stomach. “Ouch. Harsh. But I accept the challenge. I’ll get that score up by the end of the season.”

The episode ended with record numbers. The fan accounts grew overnight. Edits of Keeho’s lingering stares and your flustered eye-rolls flooded timelines. The university’s official account even reposted a clip with the caption: “Our favorite co-hosts ❤️‍🔥”

Off-mic, however, Keeho’s behavior was becoming harder to ignore.

After that episode, as you packed up your things, he slid an iced caramel latte across the table — exactly how you liked it, with oat milk and one extra shot.

“You seemed tired today,” he said casually, like it was nothing. “Figured you could use this.”

You blinked at the cup. “How did you know my order?”

He shrugged, that charming smile back in place, but his eyes were softer. “I pay attention. You always get the same thing when you’re stressed.”

The casual observation hit deeper than any on-air flirtation. Keeho didn’t just flirt — he noticed. He remembered. And that was far more dangerous.

He started bringing snacks for long recording sessions. When you mentioned in passing that you’d had a rough day, the next episode he’d steer the conversation toward lighter topics to make it easier for you. During one particularly draining recording, he even reached over and gently squeezed your hand under the table when the mics were off — a silent “I’ve got you.”

The audience couldn’t see those moments.

But you felt them.

And every time Keeho looked at you with that quiet, attentive gaze after making you laugh on air, you felt the walls you’d built around your heart cracking just a little more.

One evening after a particularly popular episode, Keeho walked you back to your dorm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” he said, hands in his pockets, “the fans are convinced we’re secretly dating.”

You snorted. “They’re delusional.”

Keeho glanced at you, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah… delusional.”

But the way he said it didn’t sound like he believed it.

And as he waited until you were safely inside your building before turning to leave, you realized something terrifying:

Keeho wasn’t just playing the flirtatious co-host role anymore.

He was genuinely starting to care.

And you had no idea what to do with that.

By episode six, the podcast had become a campus phenomenon. Clips of you and Keeho’s banter were everywhere — stitched videos, reaction posts, and even a growing subreddit dedicated to analyzing every lingering look and sharp comeback. The fans had officially dubbed you “the enemies-to-lovers podcast couple,” complete with fan art and playlists titled “Keeho’s Unrequited Longing.”

On air, Keeho was shameless.

During a heated debate about texting etiquette, he leaned closer to his mic with a mischievous grin. “See, listeners, y/n says double texting makes you look desperate. But if I double texted her right now… I think she’d secretly like it.”

You scoffed, heat rising to your cheeks. “I would block you.”

Keeho’s laugh was low and warm. “Liar. Your voice gets all soft when you’re flustered. It’s cute.”

The comment section exploded in real time.

But off-mic, Keeho was becoming someone else entirely.

It started with small things.

You arrived at the studio one afternoon after back-to-back classes, exhausted and running on barely any sleep. Your usual sharp energy was dulled. You kept rubbing your temples, trying to fight off a headache.

Keeho noticed before you even sat down.

Without a word, he placed a cold bottle of water and two painkillers in front of you, followed by your favorite iced caramel latte. He didn’t make a big deal about it. Just gave you a small, knowing smile and started setting up the mics like nothing had happened.

“You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?” he asked quietly once the producers stepped out.

You blinked. “How did you—”

“You always tap your pen faster when you’re tired,” he said simply, shrugging. “And you ordered an extra shot today. You only do that when you’re running on fumes.”

The observation was so casual, so effortless, that it caught you completely off guard. Keeho didn’t tease you about it. He just adjusted the episode plan slightly, steering the conversation toward lighter topics so you wouldn’t have to carry as much weight.

After recording, instead of rushing off like usual, he lingered.

“Want me to walk you back?” he offered. “It’s getting dark.”

You hesitated, but eventually nodded. The walk to your dorm was quiet at first, until Keeho gently bumped your shoulder.

“You don’t have to push yourself so hard, you know,” he said softly. “The podcast is fun, but it’s not worth burning out over.”

Something in your chest tightened. Most people saw the quick-witted, sarcastic version of you on the podcast. Keeho saw the tired girl who showed up anyway.

From that point on, his care became consistent.

He started showing up to recordings with snacks he knew you liked — strawberry yogurt, the specific brand of chocolate you mentioned once in passing, sour gummies for when you were stressed. When you had a rough week of midterms, he showed up at the studio with a blanket and your favorite playlist already queued for the editing session.

One particularly bad night, you arrived at the studio with red eyes, clearly having cried earlier. You tried to hide it behind makeup and forced smiles, but Keeho saw right through you.

Halfway through recording, he smoothly took over more of the talking, giving you space to breathe. The moment the mics turned off, he closed the studio door and turned to you.

“Hey,” he said gently, no flirtation, no loud personality. Just Keeho. “You don’t have to pretend with me. What happened?”

You ended up telling him about the fight you’d had with a close friend. He listened without interrupting, nodding thoughtfully, his full attention on you. When you finished, he reached across the table and gently squeezed your hand.

“You deserve people who don’t make you feel like you have to earn their kindness,” he said quietly. “And for what it’s worth… I’ve got your back. Always.”

That night, he stayed with you in the studio for hours, helping edit even though he didn’t have to. The two of you worked in comfortable silence, shoulders occasionally brushing. At one point, his hand rested near yours on the mouse. Neither of you moved it away.

The emotional intimacy was terrifying.

Because while Keeho flirted shamelessly on air for the fans, off air he was treating your heart with a level of care that felt dangerously close to love.

And the scariest part?

You were starting to let him.

-----

The studio clock read 1:47 a.m.

You and Keeho had been editing the latest episode for nearly four hours. The discussion had been particularly charged tonight — a debate about whether emotional vulnerability or grand gestures mattered more in relationships. On air, Keeho had flirted relentlessly, calling you “adorably guarded” and saying he’d “break through those walls eventually.” You’d fired back sharply, but the tension had lingered long after the mics turned off.

Now the studio was quiet except for the low hum of the computers and the occasional sigh from one of you.

You were both exhausted. Frustrated. The air between you felt thick with everything unsaid.

Keeho leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. His hoodie rode up slightly, revealing a strip of toned skin. You tried not to stare.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said, voice softer than usual. “Even during recording. Everything okay?”

You shrugged, rubbing your eyes. “Just tired. And maybe a little annoyed that you keep pushing the ‘Keeho will fix her’ narrative on air.”

He turned his chair to face you fully. “I’m not trying to fix you. I just… notice things. Like how you get defensive when we talk about letting people in.” His gaze was steady, emotionally intelligent in that terrifying way of his. “You deserve someone who’s patient with you. Someone who sees you.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You stood up abruptly, needing space. “Keeho, we’re just co-hosts. You don’t have to do the whole caring thing with me.”

He stood too, stepping closer. “What if I want to?”

The tension snapped.

One second you were glaring at him. The next, Keeho had you backed against the editing desk, mouth crashing into yours. The kiss was hungry, desperate, and weeks in the making — all the on-air flirting and off-air tenderness finally boiling over.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he growled against your lips, hands gripping your waist. “Always arguing with me. Always pretending you don’t feel this too.”

You kissed him harder, tugging at his hoodie. “Shut up and do something about it then.”

Clothes were yanked off with little grace. Keeho lifted you onto the desk, shoving your skirt up around your hips and pulling your panties aside. He dropped to his knees, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between your thighs without warning.

“Fuck— Keeho,” you gasped, fingers threading into his hair.

He ate you out like a man starved — messy, eager, and devastatingly skilled. His tongue circled your clit before sucking hard, two fingers pushing inside you and curling perfectly. He groaned against you, the vibrations making your thighs shake.

“You taste so good,” he murmured, looking up at you with dark eyes. “Been thinking about this for weeks.”

He didn’t stop until you came hard on his tongue, biting your lip to stay quiet. Even then, he kept licking you through it, drawing out every aftershock until you were trembling.

Keeho stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were wild. He freed himself from his pants, hard and leaking, and pulled you to the edge of the desk.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice rough.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He pushed inside you in one deep thrust, both of you moaning at the feeling. He fucked you hard and fast against the desk — deep, punishing strokes that made the equipment rattle.

“Been wanting to shut that smart mouth up like this,” he panted, one hand around your throat, the other gripping your thigh. “You feel so fucking good. So tight. So wet for me.”

You moaned his name, nails digging into his shoulders. The angle was perfect, hitting deep inside you with every thrust. Keeho’s usual smooth charm was gone, replaced by raw need.

He leaned down to kiss you messily, biting your bottom lip. “Come for me again. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock.”

The combination of his words, his hand around your throat, and the relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came hard, clenching around him as stars exploded behind your eyes. Keeho followed right after with a broken groan, burying himself deep and spilling inside you.

For a moment, the only sound was heavy breathing.

Keeho stayed inside you, forehead pressed to yours. His hands gentled, stroking your sides almost reverently now.

“Shit,” he whispered. “That was… not how I imagined our first time.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “You imagined this?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes soft despite the heat still lingering. “Every episode. Every time you argued with me. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me.”

He kissed you again — slower this time, almost tender. Then he carefully cleaned you up with tissues from the desk, helping you fix your clothes with gentle hands.

“We probably shouldn’t do that again,” he said quietly, echoing the same words from your thoughts.

But when he walked you back to your dorm that night, his hand brushed against yours the entire way.

Neither of you pulled away.

And you both knew the “probably” was already a lie.

-----

The hate comments started subtly, then snowballed.

It began with a few clipped TikToks of you from the latest episode — you passionately arguing that people shouldn’t ignore red flags just because “the vibes are good.” Someone clipped it out of context and posted: “She’s so cold and unlikeable. Keeho deserves better than this ice queen cohost.”

Within hours, it spread like wildfire.

The comments under the official podcast posts grew vicious:

She acts like she’s better than everyone.

Keeho is carrying the whole show. She’s just there to be rude.

Bet she’s single and bitter lol.

Why does she hate love so much? Therapy exists.

You tried to ignore it. You really did. But by the next morning, your notifications were flooded and your chest felt tight. You showed up to the studio for the next recording with your hood up and headphones on, hoping Keeho wouldn’t notice.

He noticed immediately.

You were quieter than usual during the episode. Your comebacks were sharp but lacked their usual fire. Keeho kept glancing at you between segments, concern flickering behind his playful on-air persona. He covered for you seamlessly — jumping in with extra jokes and steering topics when he sensed you pulling back.

The second the recording light turned off, he took off his headphones and turned to you.

“Hey,” he said gently. “What’s going on?”

You shrugged, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

Keeho didn’t buy it. He wheeled his chair closer until your knees were touching. “Talk to me. For real.”

You hesitated, then showed him your phone. The hateful comments. The edits calling you cold, bitchy, unlovable. Keeho’s expression darkened as he scrolled. His jaw clenched. The easygoing flirt disappeared completely.

“These people are idiots,” he muttered, voice low and angry. “They don’t know you at all.”

He didn’t say anything else right then. Just stayed with you in the studio until you felt steady enough to leave. He walked you home again, quieter than usual, but his presence felt protective.

The next morning, the official podcast Instagram account posted something unexpected.

It was a long caption from Keeho, posted with a simple photo of the two of you in the studio — you laughing at something he’d said, him looking at you with that soft, attentive gaze the fans always pointed out.

Hey everyone, I’ve seen the comments lately targeting my co-host. I usually don’t address stuff like this, but I’m not staying quiet this time. [Y/N] is one of the smartest, funniest, and most genuine people I’ve ever worked with. She challenges me every episode, calls me out when I’m being unrealistic, and makes this show what it is. The fact that she’s honest about love and boundaries doesn’t make her cold — it makes her real. If you only like the version of her that smiles and agrees with everything, then you don’t actually like her. You like a fantasy. We love our girl here. If you can’t respect that, unfollow. We’re good without that energy. — Keeho

The post blew up instantly.

Comments flooded in — mostly supportive, some shocked, many calling Keeho “the greenest green flag.” The hate comments were drowned out by people defending you. Fan accounts posted screenshots with captions like “Keeho defending his girl >>”.

You saw the post while sitting in your dorm, heart hammering in your chest.

When you arrived at the studio later that evening for an extra editing session, Keeho was already there. The moment you walked in, he stood up, looking a little nervous for the first time.

“Did you see it?” he asked.

You nodded, throat tight. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply. “I hate seeing people talk about you like that. They don’t know how hard you work. They don’t know how you remember little details about everyone on the team. They don’t know how you laugh at my stupid jokes even when you pretend not to.” He stepped closer. “They don’t know you.”

The air between you thickened.

You closed the distance and kissed him first — hard, grateful, overwhelmed. Keeho responded instantly, cupping your face like you were something precious. The kiss quickly grew heated, hands roaming, breaths mingling.

He lifted you onto the editing desk again, but this time it wasn’t just desperate release. It was emotional.

He took his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. When he pushed inside you, it was deep and slow, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked.

“You deserve to be defended,” he whispered, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that made you moan softly. “Every single day. Not just by me. But especially by me.”

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper. The pleasure built gradually, intensely, every thrust feeling full of meaning. Keeho’s hand gently wrapped around your throat — not squeezing, just holding — while he praised you between kisses.

“Look at me,” he breathed. “You’re incredible. Smart. Strong. Beautiful. And I’m so fucking lucky to do this with you.”

You came first, trembling in his arms. Keeho followed right after, groaning your name as he spilled deep inside you, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Afterwards, he cleaned you up carefully, then pulled you into his lap in the chair, arms wrapped around you tightly.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your hair. “On air and off it. Always.”

You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in.

Keeho wasn’t just your co-host anymore.

He was becoming your safe place.

And that was far more terrifying than any viral hate comment.

-----

Episode eight was supposed to be light.

The topic was “Red Flags vs. Green Flags,” and the listener questions had been fun and chaotic for the first half. Keeho was in rare form — charming, quick-witted, and shamelessly flirting with you on air as usual.

“Listeners, if someone remembers your coffee order after one meeting, that’s a green flag, right?” he asked, grinning at you across the table.

You raised an eyebrow. “Or it’s a sign they’re paying too much attention too fast.”

Keeho laughed warmly. “You’re impossible. But I love the challenge.”

Everything was going smoothly until the last segment.

A listener submitted a question about past relationships and how they shape current ones. You answered first, keeping it surface-level at the beginning. But as you spoke, old memories surfaced.

“My last relationship taught me a lot,” you said into the mic, voice steady but a little tighter than usual. “He was the type who loved grand gestures but hated the quiet work. Big promises, but never followed through. It made me realize I’d rather be alone than constantly waiting for someone to show up the way they said they would.”

Keeho went unusually quiet.

You could feel his eyes on you, sharp and intense. The playful energy he usually carried evaporated. His jaw was tight, fingers gripping his pen a little too hard.

When it was his turn to respond, his voice was still smooth for the audience, but you heard the strain underneath.

“Yeah… that sounds rough,” he said. “No one deserves to feel like they’re too much work to love properly. If someone can’t show up consistently, they don’t deserve you at all.”

The rest of the episode wrapped up, but the mood in the studio had shifted.

The second the recording light turned off, Keeho took off his headphones and stared at the table for a long moment. The producers left, sensing the tension, leaving just the two of you.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

Keeho let out a slow breath, then looked up at you. His eyes were darker than usual, something raw and protective simmering beneath the surface.

“Your ex sounds like an asshole,” he said bluntly. “The kind who makes big romantic speeches but can’t even text back. You deserved better than that. You still do.”

The jealousy was quiet but unmistakable. Not the loud, dramatic kind — but a deep, genuine upset that made your chest feel warm and tight at the same time.

“He wasn’t all bad,” you said softly, trying to brush it off. “But yeah… it left me guarded.”

Keeho stood up and walked around the table until he was right in front of you. He gently tilted your chin up so you’d meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to be guarded with me,” he said, voice low. “I see how hard you work. How much you care even when you pretend not to. How you remember stupid little details about everyone. You deserve someone who shows up every single day. Not just when it’s convenient or flashy.”

The air between you grew heavy.

You stood up too, barely any space left between your bodies. “Keeho…”

He kissed you before you could finish.

It was slower than the desperate times before, but no less intense. His hands cupped your face like you were fragile, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he deepened the kiss. You melted into him, fingers gripping his shirt.

He lifted you onto the table again, but this time his hands were gentler. He took his time undressing you, kissing down your neck, sucking soft marks into your collarbone as he whispered against your skin.

“I hate that he made you doubt yourself,” he murmured, lips trailing lower. “You’re ineffable. Any guy who couldn’t see that was a fucking idiot.”

When he finally pushed inside you, it was deep and deliberate. He held eye contact the entire time, forehead pressed to yours, one hand laced with yours on the table.

“You feel so good,” he breathed, rolling his hips in slow, powerful strokes. “So perfect. I’ve wanted this — wanted you — for so long.”

The sex was emotional and intense. Every thrust felt like a promise. Keeho’s free hand occasionally wrapped lightly around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there as he fucked you deeper, whispering praises between moans.

“You’re mine to take care of now,” he groaned. “Not just on the podcast. For real.”

You came first, trembling and moaning his name as pleasure crashed through you. Keeho followed soon after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a low, wrecked groan of your name.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body, face hidden in your neck.

“I get jealous,” he admitted quietly against your skin. “Hearing you talk about him… it made me angry. Not because I don’t trust you. But because I hate that someone hurt you.”

You stroked his hair gently. “I’m okay now. Especially with you.”

He lifted his head and kissed you softly, almost reverently.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Loud mouth and all.”

You stayed like that for a long time — tangled together in the quiet studio, the rest of the world feeling very far away.

Keeho’s emotional intelligence wasn’t just for the podcast anymore.

-----

The night after the ex episode, Keeho showed up at your dorm unannounced.

It was past 11 p.m. You opened the door to find him standing there in a black hoodie, hands in his pockets, looking unusually nervous. His usual confident, flirtatious energy was nowhere to be seen.

“Can I come in?” he asked quietly.

You stepped aside without hesitation.

He didn’t waste time with small talk. The moment the door closed, he pulled you into his arms and held you tightly, burying his face in your neck like he needed the contact to breathe.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “About your ex. About how he made you feel like you had to earn consistent love.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes serious and soft. “You don’t have to earn anything with me. Ever.”

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tight.

You ended up on your bed, sitting against the headboard with Keeho’s head in your lap. He talked for a long time — really talked. Not the charming podcast persona, but the real Keeho.

“I flirt a lot on the show because it’s easy,” he admitted, fingers tracing patterns on your thigh. “It’s safe. If people think I’m just playing around, they don’t look too closely. But with you… I keep oversharing without meaning to. I notice everything about you. The way your voice changes when you’re anxious. How you always twist your ring when you’re thinking too hard. How you pretend to be annoyed when I bring you coffee but you always drink it.”

He looked up at you, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

“I’ve never let myself get this close to someone on purpose before,” he whispered. “It’s scary. Because I actually care what you think. And I’m terrified that one day you’ll realize I talk too much, care too much, feel too much.”

You gently ran your fingers through his hair, heart swelling.

“I like how much you feel,” you said softly. “I like that you notice things. I like that you defend me. I like that you’re patient with me even when I push back. You’re not too much, Keeho. You’re exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”

Something shifted in his eyes.

He sat up and kissed you — slow, deep, and full of emotion. There was no rush this time. No desk. No frantic energy. Just the two of you in the quiet glow of your bedside lamp.

Clothes came off gradually, between soft kisses and whispered words. Keeho took his time worshipping your body, lips trailing down your neck, your chest, your stomach. When he settled between your thighs, he looked up at you with dark, reverent eyes.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” he murmured.

He ate you out slowly, lovingly — long, sensual licks and gentle sucks on your clit, two fingers curling inside you in a steady rhythm. He hummed against you like your taste was his favorite thing in the world, bringing you to the edge and then easing you over it with a soft moan of your name.

When you came down, trembling, he crawled back up and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Then he slid inside you in one smooth, deep thrust.

Both of you gasped.

Keeho stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were open, locked on yours with an intensity that made your chest ache.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not for the podcast. Not for the fans. Just for you.”

He started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips that made you feel every inch of him. It was intimate, emotional, devastating. One of his hands laced with yours above your head while the other gently held the side of your neck, thumb stroking your jaw.

“You feel so perfect,” he breathed between kisses. “So warm. So tight. I could stay like this forever.”

Every thrust was deliberate, full of feeling. He whispered praises against your lips, your neck, your collarbone — telling you how beautiful you were, how much he admired you, how he never wanted this to end.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The pleasure built gradually, overwhelmingly sweet. When you came again, clenching around him with a soft cry, Keeho followed right after, groaning your name as he spilled deep inside you, hips stuttering through every pulse.

He didn’t pull out immediately.

Instead, he rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, staying connected as he wrapped his arms around you tightly. His heartbeat was steady under your cheek.

“I meant it,” he whispered into the quiet. “I’m in love with you. Loud mouth, soft heart, and everything in between.”

You lifted your head and kissed him softly.

“I’m in love with you too,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Keeho’s arms tightened around you, a bright, relieved smile spreading across his face. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips — over and over, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

For the rest of the night, he held you close, whispering sweet nothings and silly jokes until you both fell asleep tangled together.

Keeho’s heart had always been soft.

And now it was completely, undeniably yours.

The tension between you and him afterwards had become almost unbearable.

Every recording session felt like foreplay. Every lingering look, every accidental brush of hands under the table, every late-night editing session where you’d end up tangled together on the studio couch — it was all building toward something that neither of you could name out loud yet.

Keeho was still the charming, flirtatious co-host on air, but off-mic he was softer. More honest. He’d started staying over at your dorm more often, holding you through the night without always needing sex. Sometimes he’d just lie behind you, arm wrapped around your waist, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder while talking about his day.

But the fear was still there.

For both of you.

One Thursday night, after a particularly emotionally charged episode about “when to say I love you,” the studio felt too small. Too warm. Too full of everything you weren’t saying.

You were supposed to be editing, but neither of you had touched the computer in twenty minutes.

Keeho was leaning against the desk, watching you with that intense, attentive gaze that always made your stomach flip. The same look that made fans lose their minds in the edits.

“You’ve been quiet since we finished recording,” he said softly. “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, then decided to be honest.

“I keep thinking about what you said during the episode,” you admitted, stepping closer to him. “About how scary it is to say ‘I love you’ when you actually mean it. Not as content. Not as a bit. But for real.”

Keeho’s breath hitched. He reached out and gently pulled you between his legs, hands settling on your hips.

“Yeah?” His voice was lower now. “And what do you think about that?”

You looked up at him, heart pounding. “I think… I’m scared too. Because this stopped feeling like a podcast a long time ago.”

The air crackled.

Keeho’s grip on your hips tightened. In one smooth motion, he lifted you onto the desk, stepping between your thighs. His forehead pressed against yours, breathing uneven.

“I’ve been in love with you for weeks,” he whispered, voice raw. “Maybe since the pilot episode. Every time you argue with me, every time you make me laugh, every time you let me take care of you… I fall harder.”

Your hands slid up his chest, gripping his shirt. “Keeho…”

He kissed you before you could finish.

The kiss was deep, desperate, and full of everything you’d both been holding back. His hands roamed your body like he was memorizing you — sliding under your shirt, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you moaned into his mouth.

He pulled your shirt off, lips trailing hot kisses down your neck as he unbuttoned your jeans. You tugged his hoodie off, nails dragging down his toned back. Within moments, most of your clothes were discarded on the studio floor.

Keeho dropped to his knees, spreading your legs wide. He looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes before burying his face between your thighs.

“Fuck— you’re so wet already,” he groaned, licking a slow stripe up your pussy. “All for me?”

He devoured you like a man starved — tongue circling your clit, two fingers pumping deep inside you, curling against that perfect spot. He moaned against you, the vibrations making your thighs shake.

You came hard on his tongue, gripping his hair as you cried out his name. He didn’t stop, licking you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive.

Then he stood up, freed his hard cock, and pulled you to the edge of the desk. He rubbed the head against your entrance, teasing.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped. “All of you.”

He pushed inside you in one deep thrust, both of you moaning loudly. He fucked you hard against the desk — deep, possessive strokes that made the equipment shake. One hand wrapped around your throat gently, the other gripping your thigh as he pounded into you.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your ear. “Not just on the podcast. Not just when it’s convenient. Mine.”

The words pushed you over the edge again. You came hard around him, clenching tightly as pleasure ripped through you. Keeho followed moments later with a broken moan of your name, spilling deep inside you.

For a long moment, you stayed connected, breathing heavily, foreheads pressed together.

Then Keeho whispered the words that almost broke everything open:

“I’m really in love with you, y/n. Not for the content. I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stopped.

You opened your mouth to say it back — to finally cross that line completely.

But fear gripped you at the last second.

What if it ruined the podcast? What if it ruined this?

You kissed him instead, soft and lingering, but didn’t say the words.

Keeho noticed. He always noticed.

He pulled back slightly, searching your eyes. Something vulnerable flickered across his face, but he covered it with a small, understanding smile.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight.”

But as he helped you clean up and walked you home, holding your hand the entire way, the weight of the almost-confession hung heavy between you.

The live episode was in two days.

And neither of you knew if you’d be able to keep pretending anymore.

-----

The final live episode of the season was scheduled for the following night, and the entire campus was buzzing.

Heartstrings & Headaches had become a phenomenon. Tickets for the live recording sold out in minutes. Fans were camping outside the studio building with signs that read “KEEHO x Y/N ENDGAME” and “MAKE THEM KISS ON AIR.” The pressure was suffocating.

You and Keeho barely slept the night before.

After the emotionally charged almost-confession in the studio, things between you had become even more intense. You couldn’t keep your hands off each other. Every editing session ended with you bent over the desk or Keeho pulling you into his lap. Every late-night conversation ended with slow, deep sex that felt more like making love than just release.

But neither of you had said the words again.

The fear of ruining the perfect thing you had was too heavy.

The day of the live show, Keeho was uncharacteristically quiet when he picked you up from your dorm. He held your hand the entire walk to the studio, thumb brushing over your knuckles in that attentive way of his.

“You nervous?” he asked softly as you approached the building.

“A little,” you admitted. “This feels bigger than usual.”

He stopped walking and turned to face you, gently cupping your face with both hands. His eyes were soft, full of everything he hadn’t quite said yet.

“Whatever happens tonight,” he murmured, “I’ve got you. On air and off it. Okay?”

You nodded, heart racing. He leaned in and kissed you — slow, deep, and full of quiet promise. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I mean it,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

The live recording started at 8 p.m. sharp.

The studio was packed with a small audience, cameras rolling, and thousands listening live online. The energy was electric. Professor Lim (who had become the unofficial producer) was practically vibrating with excitement.

Keeho was in full charming host mode on air — laughing, teasing, flirting with you shamelessly like always. But you could feel the undercurrent of something deeper every time his gaze lingered on you.

Halfway through the episode, during a listener Q&A segment, someone asked the question you’d both been dreading:

“To Keeho and y/n — be honest. Are you two actually dating? The chemistry is insane.”

The chat exploded. The live audience held their breath.

Keeho laughed, but it sounded slightly strained. He glanced at you, eyes full of something raw and vulnerable.

“That’s a complicated question,” he said, voice warm but careful. “We’re… really good co-hosts. And really good friends.”

You forced a smile, heart pounding. “Yeah. Just friends.”

The audience groaned in disappointment.

But Keeho’s hand found yours under the table, squeezing tightly. His thumb stroked your skin in soothing circles, even as he continued bantering with the audience.

The rest of the episode passed in a blur of laughter, debates, and fan questions. But the tension between you and Keeho was thicker than it had ever been. Every look felt loaded. Every accidental touch under the table felt like fire.

During the final break before the last segment, Keeho pulled you into the small side room used for storage. The moment the door closed, he backed you against the wall and kissed you like he was starving.

“Fuck, I can’t do this anymore,” he breathed against your lips, hands sliding under your shirt. “Pretending like I don’t want you every second of every day.”

You kissed him back just as desperately, fingers tangling in his hair. His hand slipped into your pants, fingers finding you already wet. He groaned softly, rubbing tight circles on your clit as he kissed down your neck.

“We have to go back soon,” you gasped, even as you rocked against his hand.

“I know,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Just need to touch you. Need to remind myself you’re real.”

He made you come quickly on his fingers — fast, intense, and quiet, his mouth covering yours to muffle your moans. When you came down, he kissed your forehead tenderly and helped fix your clothes.

“We’ll talk after,” he promised, eyes dark with emotion. “For real this time.”

You nodded, heart in your throat.

The final segment of the live show was about to begin.

And neither of you had any idea that everything was about to change — live, on air, in front of thousands of listeners.

The studio was buzzing with energy. The audience was packed, phones recording, chat moving at lightning speed. Professor Lim gave you both a thumbs up from behind the glass. Keeho sat across from you, looking calm and charming on the surface, but you could see the tension in his jaw and the way his fingers kept flexing under the table.

The last question came from a listener:

“To both of you — if you could say one thing to each other right now, no filters, what would it be?”

Keeho laughed softly into his mic, the sound warm and familiar. “That’s dangerous territory.”

But when he looked at you, his expression shifted. The playful host mask cracked. His eyes softened, full of everything he’d been holding back for weeks.

He reached over and gently took your hand on top of the table — in full view of the audience and cameras. Gasps rippled through the room.

The producer frantically signaled that they were still live.

Keeho didn’t care.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, voice clear and steady through every speaker. “Not for the fans. Not for content. Not even for the chemistry everyone keeps talking about. I’m in love with the real you. The girl who argues with me about everything, who remembers the stupid details I tell her, who lets me take care of her even when she pretends she doesn’t need it. I’m in love with how smart you are. How strong you are. How you make me want to be better.”

The entire studio went dead silent.

Your heart stopped.

Keeho kept going, eyes locked on yours, completely vulnerable on live broadcast.

“I’ve been falling for you since the pilot episode. Every late night editing session, every time you let me hold you, every time you looked at me like I was more than just the loud guy on the mic… I fell harder. I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want to be with you. For real.”

Tears pricked your eyes.

The audience was losing their minds. Someone actually screamed.

You leaned forward, gripping his hand tighter, voice shaking but clear through your mic.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whispered, then laughed wetly. “God, I’ve been so scared to say it. But I’m in love with your loud mouth and your soft heart. I’m in love with how you notice everything. How you defend me. How you make me feel safe even when I’m guarded. I don’t want to be just co-hosts anymore either.”

Keeho’s face lit up with the brightest, most genuine smile you’d ever seen from him. He stood up, pulled you out of your chair, and kissed you right there — deep, passionate, and completely unscripted.

The studio erupted in cheers and applause. The live chat crashed. Phones flashed everywhere.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were laughing and crying at the same time.

Keeho pressed his forehead to yours, whispering just for you, “I’ve got you. Always.”

-----

The moment the cameras turned off, Keeho didn’t let you go.

He pulled you into the side room, locked the door, and kissed you like the world was ending. Hands roaming desperately, clothes coming off in a heated rush.

He lifted you onto the small couch, spreading your legs and burying his face between your thighs, eating you out with pure devotion — moaning against you like he’d been starving for weeks.

When you came on his tongue, he didn’t stop. He kept licking you through it until you were shaking, then climbed up and slid inside you in one deep thrust.

“I love you,” he groaned, fucking you slow and deep, eyes locked on yours. “I love you so much.”

You wrapped your legs around him, nails digging into his back as he thrust into you with emotional intensity. Every roll of his hips felt like a promise. His hand gently wrapped around your throat as he whispered praises and love confessions between moans.

You came together — trembling, moaning each other’s names, holding onto one another like you’d never let go.

Afterwards, Keeho cleaned you up carefully, then pulled you into his arms on the couch, wrapping a blanket around both of you.

“No more pretending,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “You’re mine now. Loud mouth, soft heart, and all.”

You smiled against his chest. “And you’re mine. Flirty on air… and all mine off it.”

Keeho laughed softly, the sound warm and full of joy. “Deal.”

From that night on, Heartstrings & Headaches continued — but now as the podcast where the co-hosts were openly, disgustingly in love.

The fans had never been happier.

And Keeho?

a/n: ayeee guess who’s back! this fic won on the poll so here i am delivering. this is also my 3k followers thank you post hehe!! thanks to each and every one of you guys that have been reading and supporting my work 😘 keep an eye out i’ll be putting out another pole soon. as always comments, notes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy reading :3

𓂃

you and jake sim grew up three houses apart on a street where everybody's moms knew everything and everybody's dads pretended they didn't. you were the loud one—the kid who rang doorbells like you were collecting taxes, who demanded attention with the confidence of someone who'd never been told no.

which you hadn't.

meanwhile jake... poor jake. he was the sweet, soft-spoken boy who trailed after you like a golden retriever with a bowl cut and velcro spiderman sneakers. he always had crumbs on his face, always carried your backpack without being asked, and always—always—laughed at your jokes, even when they weren't funny.

they were rarely funny.

you'd yell his name across the street, and he'd come running. you'd shove the glittery lip gloss you stole from your cousin into his hand and say "hold this," and he would. you'd call him "my assistant" during your bossy childhood games, and he accepted the demotion.

once, you made him cry because he didn't run fast enough during tag. you didn't apologize—instead you loudly declared, "omg, relax, you got tagged ONCE. big deal."

jake sniffled, you stomped away. and five minutes later he followed you again, because that's just how he was.

but somewhere around the end of high school, the world started pulling you in different directions. you were busy being dramatic, discovering tinted lip oils, complaining about your parents rules, and posting instagram stories from the passenger seat of other people's cars.

jake was busy doing things like... assignments. group projects. extracurriculars. things you mockingly called "nerd behavior."

he didn't go out much. he didn't chase chaos. he didn't orbit your life the way he did when you were younger. and you—in a classic act of emotional immaturity—pretended not to care.

at eighteen, you chose a college far away purely because the campus looked "aesthetic in fall," packed up your entire personality into two suitcases, and left without saying a proper goodbye. you waved at jake from the car window as your mom pulled out of the driveway and yelled something ridiculous like:

"don't let anyone bully you except me!"

he laughed. that soft, warm, dimpled laugh that used to follow you everywhere.

and then you were gone.

𓂃

college turned you into an even worse version of yourself—aggressively iced-coffee-dependent, chronically late, allergic to responsibility, and thriving in an environment where chaos was practically currency.

your life became a rotation of parties, spontaneous shopping, soft-launching people you weren't even dating, and pretending every bad decision was "character development."

you went through roommates like seasonal flavors. every semester someone new moved in, and every semester someone new moved out with a complaint that you were "a lot" or "messy" or "kind of terrifying when woken up."

you didn't disagree.

jake became a distant memory, the boy who sometimes liked your posts from an account with a profile picture you swear was five years old. you'd smile for half a second when his username popped up, then go right back to ignoring three overdue essays and online shopping for shoes you absolutely didn't need.

your worlds didn't touch anymore.

until life, rude as always, decided to intervene

it started with your roommate announcing she was "basically moving in" her new boyfriend. you thought she meant he'd be around more. no, he was actually moving in. toothbrush, clothes, gaming chair, ugly LED lights—the whole infestation.

he hogged the bathroom. he cooked shirtless at inappropriate hours. he once ate your leftover pasta and shrugged, "it was mid anyway."

you saw red. you didn't commit a crime, but it was close.

you decided to move out.

your landlord, a man whose personality could best be described as "human expired raisin," decided this was the perfect time to raise your rent by five hundred dollars.

you stared at the email. then you screamed. not a cute scream—a guttural, operatic wail that made the downstairs neighbor bang on their ceiling.

you called your mom, pacing through the disaster zone that was your half-packed room.

"i'm going to die," you said dramatically. "i'm literally going to die. you're going to have to identify my body by my lash extensions."

your mom sighed the sigh of someone who'd raised you for twenty-three years. "sweetheart, calm down—"

"don't tell me to calm down, my life is in ruins. ruins, mother."

"you're not in ruins."

"i'm going to be homeless."

"you're not going to be homeless."

"i'm going to have to live in my car—"

"oh honey," she cut in, "why don't you stay with jake?"

you froze mid-rant. "...jake?" his name unfamiliar on your tongue.

"yes! jake sim! he's back from finishing his degree. he bought a nice apartment downtown. he told his mother he has a spare room."

you stared into space, horrified. "jake sim? bowl-cut jake? used-to-cry-when-i-yelled jake?"

"he didn't cry," she corrected. "he teared up. once."

"mom. be serious."

"i am. you two were inseparable."

"when we were twelve!"

"well, he's always liked you."

"as a person?" you asked skeptically. you seriously doubted that anyone who was sane liked you as a person. yes, you're a lot of things but one thing you definitely are is self aware.

she made a vague noise, you didn't like the noise.

"i'll text his mother," she decided, and you instantly regretted calling her.

two minutes later, your phone buzzed.

mom: jake says you're welcome to stay anytime.

you stared at the text. it felt unreal. absurd. borderline comedic.

but you were desperate. and dramatic. and the universe clearly hated you.

so you said yes. because of course you did.

you packed your things with the confidence of someone who absolutely believed jake sim was still the same soft, shy, easily-managed boy who used to trail after you in elementary school.

you were so, so sure.

and you were so, so wrong.

𓂃

you hype yourself up in the elevator.

it's just jake.you think to yourself, the image of 12-year old him fresh in your mind.

you've known him your whole life. he once cried because you told him clouds were solid and he fell off the playground trying to "sit on one."

you are not nervous. you are annoyed.

annoyed that your lease fell apart. annoyed that your mother thinks you're still friends. annoyed that jake, sweet, soft, bowl-cut jake, is your only housing option unless you want to sleep in your car.

the elevator dings.

you're ready to see scented-candle bachelor hell. dirty laundry. possibly raccoons.

you knock and the door swings open. and your soul leaves your body.

because the man standing there is definitely jake—but upgraded. taller, broader, stupidly handsome, and sporting a smile that used to be pure golden retriever sunshine. except now it's... toned down. slower. like he knows exactly what it does to people.

"hey," he says, his eyes dropping down to take in your form and your hot pink suitcases. "come in."

come in? come in? no shocked gasp? no "wow you're back"? no nervous babbling?

you narrow your eyes suspiciously. "wow. no bowl cut." you admit, not the best choice of first words to say to your childhood best friend who you hadn't seen in years. but it was fitting.

he laughs—actually laughs—and steps aside. and you walk into the biggest personal betrayal of your adult life.

his apartment is spotless.

not "i cleaned because company is coming" clean. "i am a fully functioning adult who alphabetizes spices" clean.

the air smells like sandalwood and laundry detergent. plants sit by the window like they've never known suffering. there are no pizza boxes, no dirty plates, no gamer chair.

this is not jake's apartment.

"is this staged?" you demand. "did someone professionally sanitize this because you knew i was coming?"

"nope," he says, grabbing one of your suitcases. "i live like this."

you blink owlishly. "on purpose?"

he snorts, looking at you with an unidentifiable expression on his face. "on purpose."

you want to throw something, no, you want to throw up.

but instead, you drop your bag on the couch like an entitled raccoon and flop dramatically across it. "i'm making myself at home."

he glances at your shoes on the carpet. "i can see that."

he takes a seat in the armchair across from you— calm, collected, not even a little frazzled— which is insane, because you're very clearly being a handful on purpose. you call that, asserting dominance. like the old days.

you clear your throat. "so. rules. house agreements. i assume you're gonna ask me to clean something? or, like... wash a dish? or close a cabinet? if so, i'll need written notice."

jake smiles. not the "aww she's being annoying again" smile you expect. no, this one is deeper. amused. knowing.

"sure," he says easily. "we can talk rules."

that throws you off. he's supposed to be flustered, scrambling to keep up. not leading the conversation like he owns the apartment—which, annoying fact, he does.

he leans back, forearms resting casually on his knees. your eyes almost pop out of their sockets when you notice how veiny his hands and arms were.

"okay," he starts, "rent is six-fifty a month. i already talked to your mom about it—she said she'd help out until you get settled again."

you cough on pure embarrassment. "she did what?"

he suppresses a grin. "it was cute, actually. she kept saying, 'jake honey, please don't let her be homeless, she can be... a lot.'"

you sit up. "i will literally burn my house down before i let you repeat anything my mother said about me."

"her words, not mine," he says, holding up his hands. his beautiful, god crafted, veiny hands. "anyway—utilities included. chores are pretty simple. i cook, so you can take trash and recycling. laundry we do separately. shared spaces stay clean."

"define clean."

"not a biohazard."

"rude."

"accurate."

you throw a pillow at his head. he catches it one-handed without breaking eye contact.

you actually stop breathing for a second.

since when can jake do that? since when is he coordinated? since when does he have forearms like that?

you scowl to cover the fact that your brain just short-circuited. "fine. anything else?"

he tilts his head. "yeah. don't steal my hoodies." you blink innocently. "why would i steal your hoodies?"

his gaze drops to your suitcase—where three of his old ones that you had 'borrowed' back in highschool are hanging out the side. proof that you struggled to pack all your belongings in two measly suitcases.

traitors.

"uh-huh," he says. "point is, don't steal them."

"i don't steal," you lie.

"you do."

"i borrow."

"indefinitely." you cross your arms. "well, maybe if you didn't buy hoodies that look good on me—"

"they look good on me," he corrects smoothly. "you're just annoying enough to steal them."

you're going to scream.

you stand, stalking toward the kitchen just to regain power. "i'm eating your snacks as payment for emotional damages."

he follows at a leisurely pace, because apparently he's immune to your chaos now. you yank open the fridge. it's organized. color-coded. there are vegetables.

"who are you?" you whisper, horrified. "where is the boy who ate a fruit roll-up off the sidewalk?"

"buried him," jake answers, grabbing a bottle of water and handing it to you. "grew up. got a job. graduated. learned to mop."

you squint at him. "did you join a cult?"

he laughs again—warm and low. "no. i just stopped being twelve."

"you were twelve for like ten years."

"and you're still twelve," he shoots back calmly. "so at least one of us stayed consistent."

you gape. "you're so— so—"

"accurate?"

"i was gonna say insufferable."

he leans on the counter across from you, arms folded, gaze steady.

"you were expecting me to be exactly the same, weren't you?"

you freeze. he's right. he knows he's right and you hate that he knows he's right.

before you can respond, he adds—lightly, but with something underneath, "don't worry. i still remember everything."

your heartbeat trips.

"everything?" you repeat.

he smiles. slow. devastating. "everything."

you look away first. you hate that too.

you grab chips from the pantry—loudly, aggressively—and announce, "i'm gonna walk around in tiny shorts and leave my stuff everywhere."

"go for it," jake says, opening a cabinet above your head to grab a mug. "i don't scare that easily."

"i wasn't trying to scare you!"

"sure."

"i wasn't—!"

he takes a sip of water like he didn't just psychologically annihilate you.

you feel your face heat. you hate him. you hate that he's changed. you hate that he hasn't changed in the ways that matter. you hate that he's taller and calm and unbothered and smells like pine and laundry and maybe a little bit like heartbreak.

and you really hate the traitorous thought sneaking into your brain: you might be in trouble.

after the unexpected back forth between you and jake, jake kindly showed you to your room which was much nicer than the one at your old apartment.

"i'll let you settle in, i'll be back in a few. gym." and with that he slips through the door and out of your sight.

since when did he go to the gym? since those veiny arms blessed your sight.

you huff while unpacking, taking in the clean space as a foreign feeling takes place in your chest.

what the fuck are you going to do?

𓂃

you hear the door before you see him.

a heavy, warm thud of sneakers hitting the entry rug. the quiet clink of keys. then the low, tired exhale of a man who just returned from the gym and doesn't realize he's about to emotionally ruin someone.

you peek over the couch. and yeah, he's sweaty.

like—sweat running down his neck, shirt stuck to his chest, hair pushed back with a damp curl kind of sweaty.

your brain forgets basic motor functions. he looks up and catches you staring, a unrecognizable glint in his soft eyes. 

"hey," he says, voice rougher than usual. "you're still awake?" awake? you're clinically deceased, but sure.

you sit up, flipping your hair like you didn't just get jump-scared by his forearms. "yeah. couldn't sleep. your... stomping woke me up."

"i didn't stomp," he says, amused. "i walked in."

"well it was loud."

"you were watching tiktoks on full volume."

you glare, chucking your phone on the other couch. "stop knowing things."

he smirks and heads to the kitchen for water, pulling his shirt up to wipe his face.

you get a full view of toned stomach. abs. v-line. you stop breathing somewhere around ab #3.

okay. enough. you're not going to let him win tonight. this morning he made you flustered. tonight? you're fighting back.

you hop off the couch and follow him to the kitchen, wearing the tiniest sleep shorts you own and his hoodie—you know, for psychological warfare.

"so," you announce, hopping onto the counter, crossing your legs slowly. "long workout? you look... tired."

he opens the fridge. "yeah. leg day."

you hum. "maybe you should let me massage them. you know. as a housewarming gift."

he doesn't choke. he doesn't blush. he just closes the fridge, sets down the water bottle, and looks at you with that infuriating, slow-lingering gaze that makes your stomach flip like a dying fish.

"you wanna massage my legs?" he asks softly, his brow quirking up before his gaze drops down to your bare legs and your small frame which was swallowed by his hoodie.

your throat closes. "i— i mean— maybe— if you—"

he takes a step closer. then another. until he's right in front of you, standing between your knees, but not touching you. not even a brush of skin. just close enough that you swear you can feel the heat rolling off him.

your brain: DEAD. ABSOLUTELY GONE.

he places his hands on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in—without touching you once.

your breath catches. everything in you goes still.

"you offering charity massages now?" he murmurs, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. "that doesn't sound like you."

your voice cracks. "why not?"

"you don't do things out of kindness." his tone is teasing, warm. "you do things because you want attention."

your entire nervous system sets on fire.

"i— excuse— i don't—"

"it's okay," he continues, leaning just an inch closer, his nose almost brushing yours. "i don't mind giving you the attention."

you swallow hard. "move."

"you sure?" he asks quietly. "you seem pretty comfortable."

you are not comfortable. you are a molecule vibrating out of your own skin.

you shove a hand at his chest—bad idea, he's solid—and babble stupidly, "i'm fine. you're weird. stop being tall at me."

jake laughs under his breath. it's warm. dangerous. affectionate in a way that makes your stomach curl.

he leans in like he might actually touch your cheek, lips, something and you freeze. but he doesn't. at the last second, he dips his head past yours and reaches behind you to grab a mug from the cabinet above.

you nearly scream. he pulls back slowly, the corner of his mouth tilted in a knowing smirk.

"relax," he says softly. "if i actually cornered you, you'd combust."

you glare at him, cheeks on fire. "i hate you."

"no you don't." he taps your knee with a finger, the only touch, light, teasing, devastating. "but you can keep pretending."

you nearly fall off the counter trying to escape.

he watches, amused, taking a sip of water like he didn't just send you through all five stages of grief.

"goodnight," he says casually, heading to his room.

you stare after him, emotionally damaged.

"i'm not massaging your stupid legs!" you call out.

his voice drifts back, "you offered."

you bury your face in your hands. you are so, so screwed.

𓂃

you wake up to the smell of something heavenly.

warm. buttery. slightly sweet.

you blink at the ceiling.

no way. no way jake is up early being...competent.

you stomp down the hall dramatically, ready to insult him for being a functional adult at 8:12 a.m.

and you freeze. because jake is shirtless. shirtless. in his kitchen. your now shared kitchen.

his back muscles shift as he flips pancakes. his sweatpants hang low. his hair is messy in the exact way that suggests he just rolled out of bed and looked inhumanly good by accident.

you forget why you entered the kitchen. or how to inhale.

he glances over his shoulder. "morning."

the audacity. “you—" your voice cracks. "you're— you're not wearing clothes."

he looks down, confused. "i'm wearing pants."

"that's not the point!"

"sounds like it is."

you hate him. you hate him so much your eye twitches. he plates a pancake and nods toward the stove. "there's extra batter if you want to make your own."

you puff up, offended. "i CAN cook."

jake raises an eyebrow. "do you want to say that again? slowly?"

you march to the fridge, grab random ingredients you probably won't need, and announce, "watch and learn."

"i'm watching." his voice is annoyingly amused. "not sure i'll be learning."

you ignore him, crank the stove on too high, and pour way too much batter in the pan. it spreads like a sad, beige puddle.

jake strolls over, sipping coffee, watching like he's observing wildlife.

"that's... thick," he comments.

"it's called fluffy," you snap back, your eyes finding his before dropping down to his chest and stomach. oh god why did you do that? jake catches your vision, a smirk playing on his lips.

fuck you.

"oh. okay. it's very... fluffy."

"shut up."

the pancake starts smoking aggressively. you start panicking aggressively.

"um— is it supposed to—"

WHOOSH.

flame kisses the edge of the pan. you shriek. "OH MY GOD—" jake moves instantly, reaching past you to turn down the burner.

and suddenly—he's right behind you. his chest against your back. his arms braced around you as he grabs the pan. his voice low, right by your ear, "hey. relax. i got it."

your brain vacates the premises.

his hands move with confidence, fixing your disaster pancake. his breath brushes your neck. he's close—too close—and yet he's acting like this is normal.

"you're gonna start a fire," he says softly, almost teasing.

"i— i didn't— the burner— your stove is— i— shut up," you whisper, mortified.

he laughs quietly, the sound warm against your skin.

"you're cute when you panic," he murmurs, not moving away. you seize up when you feel his warm breath brush against the shell of your ear, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

you clutch the counter for emotional support. "can you—can you back up?"

"why?" his tone is innocent. way too innocent. "you seemed fine last night when i was close."

you almost combust like the pancake.

"that was different!"

"how?" he asks, dipping his head just enough that you feel the brush of his hair against your cheek.

you have no good answer. because the truth is humiliating, last night you were flustered. now you're flustered and underprepared and wearing pajama shorts shaped like licorice strings.

you grab a spatula and use it like a weapon to push him away.

"move," you hiss, your face burning red.

he steps back, hands up, grinning like a menace. "yes, chef."

"don't call me chef."

"okay. fire hazard."

"JAKE."

he laughs a full, bright laugh that makes your stomach twist and heads back to his own plate. you plate your uneven, charred pancake with defeated silence.

and jake, the infuriating man, sets another golden, perfectly round pancake onto your plate.

you blink. "what's this?"

"a real breakfast," he says, pouring syrup for you like you're a child. "because you nearly burned the apartment down trying to prove a point."

you glare at him. "i was doing FINE."

"sure," he hums. "and i'm a ballerina."

you stab your pancake.

he watches you with that soft, amused smile again—the one with something deeper behind it.

then he adds, "you know... it's kind of nice having you here."

your fork slips out of your hand. "...what?" like you had said earlier, you're a lot of things but one thing you definitely are is self aware. you are not nice to have around, and you know it.

he shrugs, easy. "just saying."

you stare at him, face warming in a way you refuse to acknowledge. you mumble into your syrup, "i hate you."

he smiles, slow and knowing. "no you don't."

and the worst part? he's right.

the first week in jake's apartment goes... fine. dangerously fine.

it should've been easy to fall back into the old dynamic: you, the bossy menace; him, the soft puppy trailing after you with a shy smile and an unlimited tolerance for your nonsense.

except—he doesn't trail. he doesn't melt. he doesn't fold. and that pisses you off more than you'd ever admit.

the chaos starts small.

your makeup begins multiplying across the bathroom counter like it's staging a coup. lip glosses in a neat little line beside his toothbrush; your setting spray sitting directly in front of his razor; your glitter eyeshadow palette open—because closing it would've taken effort, obviously.

jake doesn't complain. he doesn't even sigh.

he just walks in one morning, towels slung over his shoulder, hair damp from the gym, and pauses at the counter.

"is this all yours?" he asks.

you don't look up from your phone. "hm? oh. yeah. i need space. don't be selfish."

jake nods slowly, like he's taking notes on you for a research study. "right. selfish. of course."

you ignore the way that makes your stomach twist.

you up the ante. you start asking—no, demanding—rides.

"jake," you call from your bedroom one morning, "can you take me to get coffee?"

"there's a café two blocks away," he says, leaning on your doorframe, wet hair dripping onto his hoodie.

you gasp like he's suggested you walk barefoot through snow. "that's uphill."

"slightly."

"jake. it's morning. i'm fragile."

he snorts and tosses you his car keys. "fine. you drive."

you blink at him like he had grown a second head. "i was... i was asking you to take me."

"yeah," he says, already walking away, "and i'm telling you to take yourself."

you stare at the keys like they've personally insulted you.

then there's the pizza incident. you take the last slice. obviously. you don't even feel bad. you're sitting on the couch when he walks in, box in hand, looking for the missing piece.

he lifts an eyebrow—that stupid, infuriatingly calm eyebrow—and glances at the empty plate on your lap.

"you didn't eat the last slice, did you?"

"no," you say immediately, even though the evidence is literally smeared on your mouth.

he looks at you. really looks. slowly. knowingly. lips tugging upward. "right," he says softly. "of course you didn't."

then he reaches forward, thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth—not touching, but close enough that the heat of him brushes your skin.

your body locks up.

his voice drops, warm and amused, "you've got sauce right here."

you nearly stop breathing. and then he pulls back, smiling like nothing happened.

you want to strangle him. or kiss him. or both.

but it's the blanket situation that finally pushes you over the edge.

his blankets are better. obviously they are. he's responsible and orderly and uses fabric softener. you're a tired disaster with a credit card.

so you drag his nicest throw blanket into your room one night without asking.

in the morning, he finds you on the couch wrapped in it like a human burrito, scrolling through your phone.

he laughs—this low, warm sound that makes something traitorous flutter in your chest.

"you know," he says, "you have blankets."

"yeah but yours are... softer."

he tilts his head, walking behind the couch. "so your solution was theft?"

"i don't see you complaining."

"i'm not complaining." he leans down behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath by your ear. "i'm just observing."

you freeze. again. you're starting to hate how often that happens.

"why're you so jumpy?" he murmurs, voice like honey.

"shut up," you whisper.

he only chuckles, watching your face turn a pretty shade of pink.

and then comes the night you push too far.

you're irritated for no real reason—maybe because he didn't react the way you wanted, maybe because he's not the boy you expected, maybe because his quiet confidence does something to you you can't explain.

you snap at him. something stupid. something about the air conditioner and his "stupid, organized, obsessive thermostat rules."

he's standing in the kitchen drying dishes when you say it. you expect him to fold, apologize, let you roll over him like you always have.

instead—he sets the plate down. slowly. carefully. like he's placing a piece in a chess game he's already winning.

then he turns and walks toward you. the air changes, it thickens, until you swear you can feel it press against your skin.

you retreat one step, he follows. you bump lightly into the counter. he doesn't touch you. he doesn't need to.

he braces one hand on the counter beside your hip, leaning in just enough that your heart slams painfully against your ribs.

his voice is warm, but the firmness beneath it is unmistakable. "don't talk to me like that."

heat crawls up your neck, "i wasn't— i didn't—"

"no," he says, soft and steady, "you did."

his eyes flick down to your lips for half a second—half a heartbeat—before meeting your eyes again.

"i let you get away with that stuff when we were kids," he continues. "but i'm not that guy anymore."

your pulse stutters. his face is close enough that you see the gold flecks in his eyes. "you don't get to talk to me like that," he says.

a beat.

"not anymore."

you swallow so hard it hurts. you open your mouth—to apologize, to argue, you're not sure—but nothing comes out.

jake watches you, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. not cruel. not mocking. just... knowing. then, gently, he pushes off the counter and steps back.

"good," he murmurs, turning away to finish the dishes. "i'm glad we understand each other."

you stand there, dizzy, cheeks burning, knees genuinely weak. you've never shut up so fast in your entire life.

and you hate—absolutely hate—how much you liked it.

𓂃

you don't realize when it starts.

or maybe you do, and you're just pretending you don't, because acknowledging it would mean admitting something absolutely unacceptable: that jake sim—golden retriever, former bowl-cut disaster, childhood doormat—is becoming the gravitational pull of your entire stupid life.

and you hate that.

you REALLY hate that.

it happens on a friday night.

you're out with a few friends—the fun, chaotic ones who think your bratty personality is "endearing" and "so girlboss of you." you're half-done a drink, leaning over the bar to talk to some tall, kind-of-cute guy who'd been eyeing you for the last ten minutes.

he's laughing at your jokes. you're flipping your hair and pretending you're not checking your reflection in the chrome beer tap.

it's going great.

until you hear the voice that's been in your dreams for the last few months, "hey."

you don't even have to turn around. your stomach recognizes his voice before your brain does.

jake.

you freeze, hand still hovering mid-gesture, and the guy in front of you lifts a curious eyebrow.

the asshole actually smiles at jake when he approaches, like they're suddenly in a friendly competition he's about to lose without knowing why.

jake leans against the bar beside you like he's been invited, like he belongs there—tall, warm, annoyingly good-smelling. his hand is on the small of your back, not touching, but close enough that you feel heat radiating through your shirt.

you hate that your heart triple-flips.

"hey," you say, pretending not to care, though your voice is a little too high. "what are you doing here?"

jake shrugs lightly. his eyes flick once—just once —to the guy you were flirting with. "came to pick you up."

"i didn't ask you to."

"your phone's dead."

you blink. you check your phone...your phone is, in fact, dead.

god, that's so annoying.

the cute guy clears his throat. "you two... know each other?"

before you can answer, jake does, with the most harmless, friendly voice you've ever heard, "yeah. she lives with me."

the guy's smile collapses.

your jaw drops. "jake—that's not—"

"roommates," he adds, finally throwing you a look that says better? but it's too late. the guy is already pulling back, suddenly very uninterested in continuing the conversation with a girl who apparently has a six-foot wall of muscle as a roommate.

"he's just—he's exaggerating," you say desperately, but the guy is already lifting his drink in a goodbye gesture. "nice meeting you," he says—to jake. not you.

he leaves. just like that.

you whirl on jake. "what the hell was that?"

jake looks genuinely confused. "what was what?"

"you—you scared him off!"

"i didn't do anything." his voice is maddeningly calm.

you shove his arm. it does nothing except hurt your hand a little. "you know what you did."

jake tilts his head, pretending to think, then steps closer, way closer, bending slightly so his face is level with yours. "if he got scared because i exist, maybe he wasn't that interested."

"you're insufferable."

"you're welcome for the ride home," he says, smiling like the world's sweetest problem.

you want to push him again.

you also want to grab him by the stupid lapel of his stupid jacket and kiss him until he can't talk like that anymore.

it's infuriating.

and it keeps happening.

you're out for brunch with friends and jake drops by to hand you the cardigan you "accidentally" stole again and suddenly the guy who'd been trying to get your number excuses himself.

you're buying ice cream at a street vendor, jake appears behind you because he was "in the neighborhood," and the guy working the cart instantly stops flirting with you mid-sentence.

you're at the bookstore, a cute grad student is recommending a title, and the moment jake walks up beside you to say, "hey, thought you wanted that coffee?" the grad student's smile just... dies.

every time, jake acts like he has no idea why.

every time, you want to scream.

one evening, you're sitting on the couch scrolling, pretending not to watch the clock, wondering when he's going to get home.

you hate that you miss him. you hate that his absence feels like silence filling the apartment too heavily.

the door unlocks. your heart jumps. you immediately scowl at yourself.

he steps in—hair messy from the wind, gym bag slung over his shoulder, wearing a fitted hoodie that absolutely shouldn't fit him that well.

"you're late," you snap, even though he isn't.

jake lifts a brow. "didn't know i had a curfew."

you huff. "whatever."

but he's already walking past you, and your eyes, traitors, follow him. the way his shoulders move. the way he reaches up to put his keys on the hook. the way his shirt lifts just slightly as he stretches.

you look away too fast and nearly drop your phone.

he notices. of course he notices. jake always notices.

he walks back toward the couch, slow, amused, hands in his pockets. you're about to make up some snarky comment when he stands directly in front of you, blocking the TV, blocking everything, and says gently:

"hey."

you blink up at him. you didn't even realize you'd been frowning.

"rough night?" he asks, voice warm, soft, impossibly soothing.

"none of your business," you mutter, crossing your arms.

but you don't move away when he leans down a little, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside your head—not touching you, just close enough that you feel caged in.

"you know..." he says slowly, eyes dropping to your lips for one devastating second, "you don't have to act tough with me."

your throat closes. your brain refuses to function.

then—as if that wasn't enough torture—he adds, quieter, "you know i'm not the kid you used to boss around. you see that now, right?"

you hate how hot your face gets. you hate how your pulse spikes. you hate that your breath catches in your chest like you've been punched. and you really hate how much you want him to say it again.

before you can fire back, before you can regain control, jake pushes off the couch and steps away, giving you space again.

like he didn't just ruin your entire week.

"i'm gonna shower," he says simply, like he didn't just mentally dismantle you. "order dinner if you're hungry."

you stare at him. you stare through him. then you finally breathe.

your voice comes out small. "jake?"

he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. his eyes soften in that way that makes your stomach flip inside out.

you swallow. "why do people keep assuming we're... y'know... together?"

he smiles—slow, deep, knowing.

"maybe," he says, "they're seeing something you're not ready to see yet."

your heart stops. you want to scream. you want to hit him. you want to kiss him until your knees give out. but you can't say any of that. so instead you throw a pillow at him. "shut up."

he laughs—warm, gentle, absolutely insane-making and disappears into the hallway. leaving you on the couch, heart sprinting, stomach twisted, entire world tilted sideways...

and realizing, for the first time, that you might be in very, very dangerous territory.

𓂃

you don't plan on getting jealous. you really don't. it just kind of... ambushes you, like a flying brick to the head.

the whole thing starts because your friend group decides to have a little saturday picnic in the park—very "we're adults now," very "bring something homemade," very "let's pretend our lives aren't falling apart."

you drag jake along because obviously. he has a car and you don't feel like ubering. plus, he always carries things for you without complaining, and you plan to bring at least four bags despite it being a two-hour outing.

he agrees without hesitation, because of course he does.

the morning of, he comes out of his room wearing a white t-shirt, grey sweats, a backward baseball cap, and that infuriating golden retriever smile that makes your stomach do embarrassing gymnastics.

you pretend not to notice. you absolutely notice.

"you ready?" he asks, grabbing the cooler like it weighs nothing.

you squint at him. "you're wearing that?"

he glances down at himself. "...yes?"

"to a picnic?"

"is this not... picnic attire?"

"you look like a catalogue model for 'athletic boyfriend who loves you.'"

he grins. "so i look good? i fit the part?" you blush furiously at his words, choosing to roll your eyes so dramatically it should win an award. "i didn't say that."

"but you didn't deny it."

"jake."

"yes?"

"shut up."

he just laughs and ushers you out the door with a hand on your lower back—casual, familiar, too natural.

you hate how your heart stutters. you want to be annoying on purpose, just to punish him. you succeed by making him carry every single one of your bags.

he still keeps that stupid gentle smile.

you hate it. you love it. you hate that you love it.

the picnic starts fine. your friends adore him—which annoys you for reasons you refuse to examine.

"jake's so sweet," one of them says while he helps set up the blanket.

"jake's so tall," another sighs dreamily.

"jake's so—"

"okay!" you cut in, a little too loudly. "we get it. he's perfect. shut up." everyone stares. you pretend you didn't say anything weird.

jake just throws you an amused little look like he knows exactly what's happening in your brain and is choosing to spare you.

which somehow makes it worse. then she arrives.

the problem. the villain. the enemy.

your friend's coworker—invited last minute—named mia, with perfect hair and a perfect smile and an offensively cute sundress. she spots jake instantly, like a moth to a glow-in-the-dark lantern.

"oh my god, hi," she chirps, stepping right into his space. "we haven't met yet. i'm mia."

jake stands, polite, warm, annoyingly charming. "hey. i'm jake."

you watch from your corner of the blanket, chewing a strawberry like you're trying to murder it with your teeth.

mia laughs at everything he says. she touches his arm at least twice. she calls him funny—funny, jake, the man who laughs at his own dad jokes and says "oopsies" when he drops things.

your eye twitches. and jake... doesn't pull away.

worse, he's being his usual self—easygoing, kind, listening fully, that soft focused attention he gives people when he genuinely likes them.

you have never hated being conscious more. your friends keep giving you meaningful looks.

you keep ignoring them. except then mia leans in closer, tiny sundress fluttering, and says, "so, are you seeing anyone?"

you nearly choke on air. jake doesn't seem fazed. "uh... i—"

"jake!" you snap, way too quickly, way too loud.

everyone stops. jake turns toward you with slow amusement raising his eyebrows. "yeah?"

"you— uh..." your brain abandons you. it packs its bags and literally leaves the continent. "you forgot to... um... help me with something."

he looks at the fully assembled picnic. "help you with what?"

"something," you repeat, sweating. "very important."

mia blinks. "oh, we can finish our conversa—"

"NOPE," you say, grabbing jake's wrist and yanking him off the blanket so fast he practically trips. "no need. bye. go touch grass or something."

you drag him behind a tree like a deranged cartoon burglar. he follows, mostly because he's trying not to laugh.

"you good?" he asks softly.

"i'm fine," you snap, glaring at him.

"you sure? because you look—" "if you say 'jealous' i'm going to drown you in the lake."

he smirks. "i was going to say 'cute,' but okay."

your brain fries like an egg on asphalt. "shut up," you whisper, but it comes out breathless.

he steps closer—not touching, but close enough that the tree is behind you and he's in front of you, warm and solid and taller than you remember.

"you dragged me away from someone mid-flirt," he murmurs, voice dropping into that low warm register that goes straight to your knees. "so i'm gonna need you to explain."

you glare up at him. "i did not. she wasn't flirting."

"she asked if i was seeing anyone."

"she was just being friendly."

"she touched my arm."

"maybe she's friendly with arms." god, you want to be friendly with his arms. "you pulled me across the park."

"i felt like walking."

"you growled." your face burns. "i did not!"

he grins—slow, devastating. "you definitely did." you shove his shoulder, which does absolutely nothing because he's built like a wall now. "you're imagining things."

"am i?"

"yes."

he leans in, inches from your face, eyes ridiculously soft and warm and knowing. "then tell me why you're mad."

you open your mouth. nothing comes out. your throat works around a sound that isn't a word.

jake watches all of it with that maddening patience—like he's been waiting years for this exact moment and can give you all the time in the world.

then, barely above a whisper, "you know i'd drop anyone the second you wanted me to... right?"

your heart stops. actually stops. you physically forget what breathing is.

and he smiles—that deeper, slower version he only gives you now—before stepping back, giving you space like he didn't just vaporize your entire soul.

"come on," he says, gentle. "before your friends think you murdered me." he starts walking back. you stare after him, stunned, furious, flustered, painfully alive.

you hate him. you really, really like him. you hate that you really, really like him.

and when mia tries to talk to him again later, he doesn't even notice—because he's too busy watching you out of the corner of his eye, like you're the only person in the park.

and that's when you know, you're doomed.

𓂃

the day starts stupidly normal, which should've been your first warning.

it's saturday. the sun is too bright. jake's already up—as always—making breakfast like some domestic prince charming he has no right to be. you stumble into the kitchen in one of his hoodies, hair a mess, mascara from last night smudged like war paint.

he glances over his shoulder, amused. "morning, trouble."

you roll your eyes because your heart does a weird little tap-dance. "you're loud."

"i haven't even said anything."

"you existing is loud."

he laughs—soft, warm, like he thinks you're hilarious even when you're being awful and goes back to cooking.

you sit at the counter, chin in your palm, watching him move around like he owns every inch of this kitchen. he does, technically, but you hate how good he looks doing it. the rolled sleeves that expose his delicious looking forearms. the concentration. the way he pushes his hair back when it falls over his forehead.

you look away before he catches you staring. he sets a plate in front of you a moment later, eggs, toast, fruit. stupidly wholesome.

you poke at it. "jake..."

"mm?"

"i need your car today." your car had been in the shop for the last few days, leaving you stranded at home majority of the day.

he pauses. not dramatically. not in a way meant to provoke you. just... pauses. "for what?"

"i need to run errands," you shrug. "grocery store, nail appointment, whatever."

he leans his hip against the counter, arms crossing. "you can take the bus. i need the car."

you blink. blink again. "...the bus?"you say it like he suggested you swim across the pacific ocean.

"yeah," he says simply. "the 14 stops right outside the building. it's not hard."

you stare at him and he stares back. somewhere deep inside your spoiled, bratty, slightly feral soul, a fuse lights.

"you're being dramatic," you declare.

"i'm being practical."

"you're supposed to help me."

"i do help you."

"not right now!" he exhales, patient but firm. "my car isn't your personal uber."

your pride twists sharply. you feel it—that hot, impulsive, immature spark that always gets you in trouble.

"wow," you snap, standing from the stool. "you get a couple muscles, a salary, and suddenly you're too good for me?" his brows lift, surprised—not offended, not angry—just surprised that you'd go for that. "i didn't say that."

"you're acting like it!"

you don't mean the words. not really. they spill out because you're flustered and embarrassed and you hate how stable he is when you're wobbling all over the emotional place. you fold your arms, chin lifted in that signature i'm-right-even-when-i'm-wrong posture.

"i'm asking for one tiny thing, jake. one. and you're giving me attitude? seriously?"

he doesn't flinch. "you're not asking," he says quietly. "you're demanding."

your pulse kicks up—defensive, stubborn. "because you're supposed to say yes!"

"why?" you hate that he says it without raising his voice. hate how calm he is while you're practically vibrating.

"because you always have!" you blurt. "you always listened to me! you always—"

"i was a kid," he says, tone low but steady. "you treated me like i didn't know how to have my own life. and back then? maybe i didn't."

you freeze. his expression softens—not pitying, not mocking —soft in the way someone looks when they finally decide to stop letting you run from something. "but i'm not that kid anymore," he says. "and you can't talk to me like i am."

your throat tightens—sharp, sudden. it's stupid how much it hits you, how fast your anger collapses into something hot and guilty.

he steps closer. not threatening. just... present.

closer than you expected. closer than your heart can handle without short-circuiting.

your voice shrinks. "i wasn't— i didn't mean—"

"yeah," he murmurs, eyes steady on yours. "i know. but you said it anyway."

you swallow. hard. jake looks down at you like he's seeing every version of you at once, bossy eight-year-old you, dramatic teenager you, chaotic adult you, and none of them scare him. none of them push him away.

"i'm not the one who needs to grow up," he says, softer now. "and i'm not trying to fight you. but i'm not here to be ordered around." the room feels too quiet suddenly. the only sound is the faint sizzle of the pan cooling on the stove and your own uneven breathing.

"i... didn't know i was doing that," you whisper.

"yeah," he says again, but gently. "that's the problem."

you look away, frustrated with yourself more than with him. and then he reaches out—slow, careful—and hooks a finger under your chin to tilt your face back up. not forceful but impossible to ignore. his voice drops just a little. warm. real. a little too intimate.

"i'm not going anywhere," he says. "i never have. but you can't keep pretending i belong to you just because i used to follow you around."

the words hit you dead center. because the truth—the horrible, humiliating, painfully raw truth—is that you didn't treat him like he was below you.

you treated him like he was yours. and somewhere along the way, he learned to walk without trailing behind you. you blink fast, trying not to let your eyes shine too much. "i... i just thought..."

"i know," he murmurs. "but that's why we're having this conversation."

you nod, small. awkward. vulnerable in a way you hate being. jake steps back slowly, giving you space without breaking eye contact.

"you can still take the bus," he says lightly. "i'll even google the schedule for you." you glare. but it's weak. he smiles, that stupid warm smile that ruins you every time. and for the first time, your bratty instinct doesn't flare up. instead, something quieter settles in your chest.

you're not sure you like it. you're very sure it has everything to do with him.

𓂃

it starts on a lazy sunday afternoon—the fake kind of lazy where you're doing nothing but somehow jake is doing everything.

he's folding laundry, humming, looking offensively good in a plain white tee, while you lie on the couch upside down, legs over the backrest, scrolling on your phone like a disgruntled cat.

you're bored. dangerous.

"jake," you call, voice dramatic, "i'm craving entertainment. entertain me." he doesn't even glance over. "i'm folding your shirts. that's entertaining."

"no, that's domestic," you correct. "you're like a husband in a detergent commercial."

"at least i smell nice?" he shrugs. you pause. he does. annoyingly so. you ignore the flutter in your stomach and point your toes at him from the upside-down position.

"tell me a story," you demand. "like bedtime story vibes. something juicy. something chaotic. something where i'm the main character—" "—which you always are," he finishes for you, snorting. "okay. fine. let's do memory lane."

you lift your head just enough to squint at him. "that sounds suspiciously sentimental."

"you're the one who asked." you flop your head back. "proceed, peasant."

he finally looks at you—that slow, amused, golden-retriever-who-knows-your-game look. "alright. remember grade four?"

"i choose not to."

"too bad," he says, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, folding the last shirt. "you announced to the whole class that we were getting married."

your phone drops onto your face. "i what—?"

he laughs, warm and full, like it's a memory he's kept safe. "yeah. you stood on a chair during recess and yelled, 'jake is gonna be my husband because he listens!'" you bury your face in your hands. "oh my god."

"you even made me a ring out of twist ties."

"stop talking."

"and then you made me swear an oath—"

"NO YOU DID NOT JUST SAY OATH—"

"—that i'd carry your backpack forever because i was 'stronger' and 'built for it'." you groan so loudly that he laughs again.

"you loved bossing me around," he says, softer now. "i still do," you shoot back, kicking his shoulder lightly with your foot. he catches your ankle. not tight, but just enough for your breath to hitch.

"i know." his voice is lower. "you were kind of terrifying."

"i was adorable," you argue, rolling his eyes.

"you were a tiny tyrant with pigtails."

"and you followed me everywhere," you retort, letting your foot rest in his hold because pulling away feels too much like losing.

"yeah," he says quietly, thumb brushing just once over your ankle before he realizes and lets go. "i did." you freeze. he doesn't look flustered, but the way he moves—slow, controlled, pretending nothing happened—tells you he definitely felt something too.

so you clear your throat and switch the subject recklessly. "well, remember when you glued your hand to a desk?" the corner of his mouth twitches. "you told me it would make me smarter."

"and you believed me!" you cackle.

"you said the glue had 'knowledge properties,'" he defends, pointing an accusing finger at you. "you said einstein invented it!"

you're laughing so hard you almost fall off the couch. he tries to stay serious, but your laugh is contagious and he ends up leaning back against the couch, head tipped against your knee as he laughs too.

you go still. his head. on your leg. like it's natural. like it's always been that way. your laugh fades into a stubborn little silence you can't name.

he notices. he always notices. "hey," he murmurs, chin tilting up just a little so he can see your upside-down face. "what's with that look?"

"what look?" you whisper, too fast.

"the one where you pretend you're annoyed but you're actually... i don't know." he searches your expression. "thinking."

you scoff. "i don't think."

"yes you do."

"nope."

"you definitely do."

"stop accusing me of intelligence!" he laughs again, but this time something softer lingers under it — something warm, something knowing. the air shifts. you hate it. or maybe you don't, maybe that's the problem.

"okay, next memory," you say quickly, tapping his forehead with your foot to break the moment. "tell me something where i look cool."

he smirks. "that never happened."

"JAKE—"

"kidding, kidding." he nudges your leg. "there was that time you punched a boy in the nose because he called me 'jakey-wakey.'"

you blink. "oh yeah. classic me."

"classic you," he echoes, smiling to himself in a way that makes your chest feel tight. and then, quietly, "you always had my back." the room goes still. your heart stutters—because he means it. because he remembers it. because he says it like it mattered.

"don't get sentimental on me, golden boy," you mumble.

"too late," he says, voice warm, teasing, but edged with something real. "you brought up memory lane. i'm just walking it."

you swallow. the dynamic tilts again—just slightly, just enough to make you feel like you're standing on the edge of something big.

so you do what you do best. you kick him lightly in the shoulder. "get up. i'm bored again." he stands, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt.

"fine," he says. "let's go get ice cream."

"you're paying, right?" he sighs. "i always do."

you grin. and he does too, like he wouldn't have it any other way.

𓂃

it starts stupidly. you're not even fighting.

you're tipsy—not blackout, not sloppy, just warm and giggly after a night out with friends. you called jake because your uber bailed and your phone was dying, and he showed up in ten minutes flat, hair messy from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, looking unfairly good for someone dragged out of bed at 1 a.m.

you slid into the passenger seat, all smug. "aww, jakey. did i wake you?"

he didn't even look at you. "put your seatbelt on."

ugh. infuriating. for the entire drive, you tried to poke at him— literally and figuratively—but he kept dodging with that maddening calm.

by the time you walk into the apartment, and by walk you mean jake carrying your flailing body—you're buzzing with irritation that isn't... really irritation.

not exactly. you kick your shoes off dramatically. "you didn't have to come get me, y'know."

he locks the door behind you. "you called," he says simply, shrugging off his hoodie. "i wasn't gonna leave you outside alone."

"i can take care of myself." he gives you a slow, deliberate once-over—the skirt, the smudged makeup, the slightly-wobbly stance.

"sure you can." you make an offended noise, fully ready to start something stupid—but he walks past you toward the kitchen.

which pisses you off more. so you follow him. obviously. he's pulling a water bottle out of the fridge when you step right into his space, eyebrows raised, chin tilted up like a challenge.

"you're ignoring me," you accuse.

"no," he says calmly. "i'm choosing not to indulge you." your stomach actually drops. oh, that tone. that new tone you still haven't learned how to handle.

you scoff. "wow. someone got confident."

"someone had to," he says. and then—god help you—he steps closer. not touching you, just closer.

your back meets the counter, cold through your shirt. he sets the water bottle beside you but doesn't move away. he's right there—warm, solid, taller, broader than he ever was as a kid—and he's looking at you like he can see every thought you're trying to hide.

"you good?" he asks softly. that should be a normal question. but it isn't.your throat goes tight. "i'm fine." he inhales once, slow, like he's counting to five because of you. "you're doing that thing again."

"what thing," you snap too quickly.

"pretending you don't want something," he murmurs, "just because you don't wanna admit i'm the one you want it from."

your breath actually stops. you hate how your hands grip the counter; you hate how your pulse stutters; you hate that he can hear it, probably feel it, with how close he is.

"you think i want something from you?" you manage, trying to sound bored. he leans in, not touching. but close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

"i think," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have called me tonight if you didn't." your voice comes out small. "i called because my uber bailed."

he smiles. slow. knowing. devastating. "sure," he says. "if that's the lie you wanna stick to."

you actually shove him. well—you try. your hands hit his chest, but he doesn't budge an inch. he just looks down at you with that infuriating calm, like you're cute for even attempting it.

"don't—" your voice breaks, and you hate that too. "don't talk like you know everything."

he corners you fully now, one hand resting on the counter beside your hip, the other lifting—slowly, giving you time—until his fingers hover under your jaw. not touching. just waiting.

"i'm not the one pretending here," he says softly. "i'm not pretending anything."

"yeah?" he whispers. "then look at me." you do. you shouldn't have.

his eyes are warm and dark and unbearably sure of you—like he's known this moment was coming since you were both twelve and you bossed him into giving you the last popsicle on the block. like he's been waiting for you to catch up.

"you can be a brat to everyone else," he says, barely above a murmur. "but you don't get to lie to me." your chest pulls tight, breath shaking, and you don't realize you've gone still until he tilts his head, studying you.

"there it is," he whispers. "finally." finally what? finally you stop running? finally you stop pretending you don't want him? finally you admit you're not the one with the power anymore?

you don't know. you just know your voice is barely a whisper, "...jake." something changes in his face. not anger. not triumph. just... relief. warm and deep and terrifying.

he leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours and his voice drops, low and steady, "i'm not gonna kiss you tonight," he says. "you're drunk."

you swallow hard, embarrassed and grateful and furious all at once. "but tomorrow?" he adds, eyes flicking to your mouth for half a second.

your knees actually go weak, tomorrow? "tomorrow," he says, "you don't get to run." and he steps back. leaving you breathless, cornered by nothing but your own heartbeat.

you wake up with your skull splitting in two, your mouth dry, and the horrifying, slow–motion realization that you remember every single thing that happened last night.

the way jake lifted you off that sidewalk like you weighed nothing. the way he held you steady while you tried to unlock the door and failed miserably.

the way he said it—low, warm, devastating, "you can be a brat to everyone else. but you don't get to lie to me." and worst of all, the way he looked at you afterward. like he was two seconds away from kissing you senseless against your own doorway.

you roll onto your back, throw an arm over your face, and groan.

"oh my god i hate it here," you mutter into your pillow. "i should move out. i should join a monastery. i should fake my death."

a soft knock hits your door. your entire soul leaves your body. "hey," jake's voice calls, maddeningly gentle. "i made breakfast." you consider leaping out the window. instead you croak, "i'm... busy."

"you're hungover."

"busy being hungover." he laughs—that warm, breathy laugh that you hear way too clearly through the door.

"come eat. i won't bite." liar, you think, dragging yourself out of bed. you almost did. you trudge down the hall in an oversized hoodie and socks, praying he looks terrible so you can at least feel morally superior.

he does not look terrible. he's standing at the stove in grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, hair damp, shoulders broad, forearms flexing as he plates food. the apartment is stupidly bright, the sun hits him like it's personally in love.

you want to die. you try to sneak to the fridge for water and pretend he doesn't exist. he turns just in time to catch you.

"morning," he says. you nearly drop the bottle. "...hi."

he raises an eyebrow. "that's it? no yelling? no demands?" you glare at him weakly. "i'm on sick leave."

"mhm." he sets a plate in front of you. "how's the headache?"

"big."

"water's on the table."

"i know."

"you didn't drink it."

"...i was getting emotionally prepared," you mumble. he smiles—soft, amused, slightly pitying—and sits across from you.mthe silence is unbearable. you poke at your eggs like they personally offended you. "so. about last night."

"yeah," he says calmly, sipping his coffee. "about last night." you brace yourself. you don't know what you're expecting—a lecture? a joke? him pretending it didn't happen?

what you don't expect is him leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking over your face like he can see every thought you're trying to drown.

"you were pretty honest," he says softly. you choke on air. "i— what— honest how?" he tilts his head. "you kept grabbing me."

"NO I DID NOT—"

"you did," he says, annoyingly unbothered. "kept saying i 'smelled stupidly good' and that i 'ruined guys' for you." you want the earth to open up and swallow you. "i was drunk," you whisper.

"i know." he nods. "that's why you didn't lie." your heart stutters. his voice drops, the same tone he used last night—warm, steady, too real.

"you don't have to freak out," he murmurs. "i'm not asking for anything." you stare at him. "you're being... weirdly nice."

"i'm always nice to you."

"you're being extra nice." his lips twitch. "you're hungover."

"i don't trust it."

"that says more about you than me," he says, and you actually consider throwing your fork at him. but then... he pushes his chair back. stands. walks around the table. you freeze as he stops right beside you. not touching you, he never touches first, but close enough that your entire body tenses.

"look at me," he says quietly. you do, because what other choice do you have. his eyes hold yours, steady and dark and impossibly sure.

"what i said last night wasn't because you were drunk." a beat. "i meant it." your breath catches. your fingers curl around the edge of your chair. "jake..."

he leans down just a little—not enough to cross the line, but enough that you feel him, warm and solid at your side. "you can avoid me all you want today," he murmurs. "hide in your room. glare at me. pretend you don't remember."

your heart is hammering so loudly you're scared he can hear it. "but we're not going back," he finishes. "not after last night." you can't speak. you can't move. you can't breathe. he straightens slowly, like he knows exactly what he just did to you, and steps back.

"eat your breakfast," he says lightly, already turning toward the sink. "you need your strength." you stare at his back, absolutely feral with confusion and panic and want.

because he's right. everything has changed and you're the one who feels ruined.

the rest of the day is... hell. you hide in your room because you're a coward with a hangover and a heart that won't stop doing gymnastics. you scroll on your phone. you pretend to nap. you dramatically throw yourself on your bed like a victorian widow.

unfortunately, your bedroom shares a wall with the living room.

which means you hear everything. you hear jake laughing softly at his phone. you hear him moving around, cleaning, humming, doing dishes. you hear him existing like the universe didn't tilt on its axis last night.

and every time he shifts, every time the floor creaks, your stomach flips like it's auditioning for a reality show.

around 5 p.m., you crack. you storm out of your room under the noble excuse of "checking if he replaced the Brita filter," which is a lie, but you're committed to the bit.

jake is on the couch. hair damp again from the gym. black t-shirt stretched over his shoulders. sweatpants hanging too low for god's favorites, let alone you, god's forgotten middle child.

he looks up the second you appear.

"hey." so casual. so normal. so illegal.

you fold your arms. "why are you acting weird?"

he blinks. "...i'm literally sitting."

"you're sitting weird." he bites back a smile. "okay. how does one sit weird?"

"like that!" you snap, gesturing vaguely at his whole body. "all... confident."

"i'm sorry?" he laughs, leaning back. "you want me to slouch more?"

"i want you to stop—" you choke on your own words. "—being like... this."he tilts his head. "like what?" you should walk away. run. escape. join witness protection. instead you stomp closer. "stop being smug about last night." his eyebrows lift. "i'm not smug."

"you are," you fire back. "you're doing the eyes."

"...the eyes?"

"yes! the—" you wildly point at his face "—'i know something you're not admitting' eyes." his lips twitch. "maybe because you are avoiding something."

you freeze. he didn't say it sharply. or cruelly. just... plainly. softly. like he's stating the weather.

"i'm not avoiding anything," you lie.

"okay." he pats the couch. "come sit, then." you scoff. "no."

"why not?"

"because." because you don't know what will happen. because you don't trust your own body around him. because his voice last night is still echoing in your bones. "because?" he repeats gently.

you glare. you hate him. you hate that he's winning. you hate that he's not even trying to win. "fine," you snap, and drop onto the couch beside him.

the space between you is legal... but barely. jake doesn't move. doesn't lean in. doesn't touch. he simply turns his head and looks at you.

slowly. openly. like he's reading a book he's already memorized. your pulse stutters. "what?" you demand.

his voice is quiet. "you still look upset."

"i'm not upset."

"you're doing the eyebrows."

you gasp. "I DO NOT—"

"you do," he murmurs, and the tone—god, that tone—almost makes you shake. "you always do when you're overwhelmed." you hate how he knows that. you hate how he knows anything. you hate how safe he makes it feel to be known.

"jake," you say, trying to sound sharp. "stop... looking at me like that."

"like what?"

"like you're—" you swallow "—waiting for me to break." he's quiet for a beat. then, "i'm not waiting," he says softly. "you already are."

your breath catches. he doesn't smirk. he doesn't tease. he just watches you—steady, patient, unbearably gentle. and something in you snaps. "you think you know everything," you whisper.

"no." he shakes his head once. "i just know you."

your throat tightens. you push up from the couch —too fast, too dramatic, too you—but before you can escape, his hand closes around your wrist.

not hard. not forceful. just enough, enough to stop you. enough to pull a tiny gasp from your mouth. enough to make your knees weaken embarrassingly fast.

you stare at him and he stares right back.

"don't run," he murmurs.

"i'm not—"

"you are." his hand slides down, fingers brushing yours. "why are you scared of me?"

"i'm not scared of you," you whisper.

"then look at me." you do and that's your mistake. because he stands and steps into your space. not touching, but close enough that your breath stumbles. your legs buckle beneath you and you find yourself sitting on the sofa again.

your back presses into the sofa without you thinking, his body following, not pinning you, but caging you all the same—one arm braced above your head, the other still holding your wrist like he's reminding you he could've touched more, but chose restraint instead.

his breath ghosts your cheek. "this is what you wanted last night," he says quietly.

your stomach flips so violently you almost fold.

"i— you— i was drunk," you manage.

"you're sober now."

you hate him. you want him. you hate that you want him. his forehead drops to yours—barely touching, barely there, but it feels like a strike of lightning.

"say it," he murmurs, voice dropping to that devastating low. "just once. stop lying to me." you swallow so hard it hurts. "jake..."

his thumb skims the back of your hand—the first real touch—slow and devastating and enough to make heat coiling in your stomach spike.

"say it," he repeats, even softer now. "and i won't make you wait anymore." you gasp. you could feel your chest press in and your thigh clench together, an action that doenst go unnoticed by jake's sharp eyes.

your whole body trembles under his breath, his closeness, his voice and he feels it, oh he absolutely feels it. he smirks, barely. and then, in a tone that is not patient anymore, not gentle anymore—a tone that is pure control, "don't make me ask again."

your mouth parts. your pulse jumps. the line is right there—the moment before the moment—and you know if you speak, if you admit one more thing, everything you've been holding back is going to break wide open.

and he's waiting. breathing with you. holding you still. letting you fall on your own.

your mouth opens, but the only sound is a shaky, pathetic little gasp. your brain is screaming at you to shove him, to run, to do something—anything—but your body is a traitor. it's melting. sinking into the wall of the couch, arching just the tiniest bit toward him, like a flower leaning into the sun.

his thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner wrist, a slow, deliberate circle that feels like a brand. "i'm waiting," he murmurs, and his voice isn't gentle anymore. it's low. rough. it's the voice of someone who's done waiting.

"i—" you try, but the word dissolves. your pride is a flimsy shield against the sheer force of him. he's not just jake anymore. he's the boy who memorized your every whim, who learned your tells, who grew up and sharpened all that quiet observation into a weapon aimed directly at your defenses.

"look at me," he says again, and you do. you have to. his eyes are dark, pinned on yours, and there's no escape in them. there's only the truth. "say it."

"i hate you," you whisper, and it's the most honest thing you've ever said. a slow, vicious smile spreads across his face. it's not triumphant. it's relieved. "no you don't," he breathes, and then he closes the last inch of space.

the first kiss is a collision. it's not soft. it's not hesitant. it's a punishment. his mouth is firm on yours, bruising, and before you can even process it, his teeth are sinking into your bottom lip, a sharp, stinging bite that makes you cry out.

he licks over the hurt immediately, a hot, possessive swipe, and then he's kissing you again, all teeth and tongue, a messy, hungry claim. he's devouring you, and you're letting him. you're arching into him, your free hand fisting the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.

he breaks the kiss, leaving you panting, your lip tingling. his forehead rests on yours, his breathing just as ragged. "see?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "not so hard, was it?"

you want to snap back, but all you can manage is a weak, breathless glare.

he chuckles, a dark, warm sound. "still got that look in your eye," he says, his thumb stroking the side of your neck. "like you're planning my murder."

"maybe i am," you whisper, dazed out of your mind.

"good luck with that," he says, and then he's manhandling you. his hands grip your waist, and he's spinning you, pushing you forward until your knees hit the edge of the couch. he bends you over the arm, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down. the position is obscene, your ass in the air, face pressed into the couch cushions.

"these," he says, his voice low and rough as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sleep shorts, "have been driving me crazy for a week."

he tugs them down, slowly, deliberately, and you lift your hips to help him, a silent surrender that feels more powerful than any argument you've ever won. he tosses them aside, his gaze dropping to the thin lace of your panties.

"so much for being subtle," he murmurs, and you flush, because he knows. he knows you wore them for him. you always do.

then his hand is gone from your back for a second, and you hear the sharp sound of it cutting through the air before it connects with your ass. a sharp, stinging slap that makes you yelp into the cushions.

"that's for being a fucking tease," he growls, his hand rubbing the sting into your skin. another slap, this one on the other cheek. "and that's for making me wait."

he yanks your panties down, and the cool air hits your dripping pussy. you're so wet it's embarrassing. "look at this," he breathes, and then you feel it—a sharp, stinging slap right against your folds. you jolt, a choked moan tearing from your throat. it's a different kind of pain, sharper, more intimate.

"so fucking wet for me. you wanted this just as bad as i did, didn't you?"

he doesn't wait for an answer. he's on his knees behind you, his hands gripping your ass cheeks and spreading you open. you feel his hot breath a second before his mouth is on you. he doesn't start slow. he licks a broad, flat stripe from your clit to your entrance, a messy, hungry taste before his lips close around your clit and he sucks. hard.

your knees buckle, but his grip on you is iron. he's a man possessed. he eats you out like he's starving, his tongue fucking into you, his nose pressing against your ass, his teeth scraping your inner thighs. he bites down on the sensitive skin there, hard enough to leave a mark, and you sob, pushing back against his face. he's obsessed. he's consuming you.

he groans at the taste of you, his tongue messy yet precise as he slide down your folds making your squirm. "jake, please," you gasp, your hands fisting the couch cushions.

he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice muffled by your cunt. "please what? beg for it."

"please, i need—"

"need what?" he demands, landing another sharp slap to your pussy. the sting mixes with the pleasure, a dizzying cocktail. you feel his fingers tease your clenching hole, not quite pushing in but instead dip in slightly before running over to rub at your swollen clit.

"your cock," you sob, completely broken. "please, jake, i need your cock."

he groans, a deep, guttural sound of victory. he stands up, and you hear the rustle of his jeans. then he's grabbing you, flipping you over onto your back on the couch like you weigh nothing. he looms over you, his shirt gone, his chest heaving. his eyes are wild, feral.

"open your mouth," he commands, his hand reaching between your legs to rub tight circles around your clit while you struggle to keep your legs open.

you do, without thinking. he leans down, spits directly onto your tongue. it's filthy, degrading, and it sends a bolt of pure lust straight through you. "swallow it," he orders, and you do, your eyes locked on his.

his expression morphs into one of pure bliss, his hand wrapped around his thick aching cock as he jerks himself slightly. he watches your needy mouth pull into a whine when his fingers press harder on your clit, pleading for him to fuck you.

originally, he was going to tease you. have you begging and crying for his cock, but he overestimated his ability to hold back when he realized how good you looked fucked out.

"good girl," he murmurs, and then he's lining himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. he doesn't wait. he pushes into you in one hard, deep stroke, and you both groan. he's big, stretching you, filling you completely, and it's overwhelming in the best possible way.

he starts to move, his hips slamming into yours, a brutal, punishing rhythm. each thrust is deep, deliberate, designed to break you apart. he leans down, sinking his teeth into the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, a hard, possessive bite that you know will leave a dark bruise.

"mine," he growls against your skin, his pace quickening. "you've always been mine." his hands fumble to pull up your shirt, eyes bright when he realizes that you weren't wearing a bra. his greedy hands grab at you tits, pinching and squeezing as he watched your face scrunch in pleasure.

"so fucking pretty." he mummers, his cock pounding into you strong before his mouth reach's down to take in one of your nipples—sucking hard.

you whine in response, hands clawing at his shoulders as you arch unnaturally against the couch.

"been waiting for this day for years." he confesses, between kisses that he's leaving on your chest. your heart beats faster at his sudden confession, moaning louder when his cock brushes against that all get area that many of your ex's had trouble finding.

the coil in your stomach tightens, impossibly fast. he can feel it too, can feel the way you're clenching around him, and he reaches down, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles.

"cum for me," he commands, his voice a low growl. "now."

you shatter. a blinding, all-consuming orgasm rips through you. you scream his name, your body arching off the couch as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. he follows you over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, spilling himself into you.

you shudder at the feeling of his warm cum in you, feeling him twitch inside you as he helped you ride out your high.

he collapses on top of you, his body heavy and warm, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you're both panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing.

for a long moment, neither of you speaks. you just lie there, tangled together, the aftermath of the storm settling around you.

finally, he pushes himself up, his arms braced on either side of your head. he looks down at you, his expression soft, his eyes filled with a terrifying amount of adoration. he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to the bite mark on your neck.

"still hate me?" he murmurs, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

you look up at him, at the boy you've spent a lifetime fighting, and feel something inside you crack open. "no," you whisper, and it's the truest thing you've ever said.

the room is still warm.not from the heater, not from the blankets—from him. from the way he touched you. from the way you touched him back.

you're lying on your back, hair messy, chest still rising too fast, your skin flushed in a way you hope isn't obvious... but you know it is. jake's spread out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily resting across your stomach like he claimed the space there without even thinking about it.

you don't speak at first. neither does he. your breathing gradually falls back into something human, and eventually something soft and unbearably embarrassing curls into your voice.

"so," you mumble, staring at the ceiling because looking at him might actually kill you. "um. that happened."

jake turns his head toward you slowly—so slowly your pulse skips like it's trying to escape your body.

he doesn't tease. he doesn't joke. he doesn't even smirk. he just looks at you, eyes dark and soft and deeply certain in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"yeah," he says quietly. "it did."

you swallow. his fingers move—not leaving your stomach, just tracing lazy, slow circles like he's memorizing the shape of you now that he's allowed to.

"are you..." his voice dips, warm and low, "okay?"

you shut your eyes for one humiliating second before answering.

"i'm fine."

"you sure?"

"yes."

"positive?"

"jake, please," you groan, dragging your hands over your face. "i'm fine, you're fine, everything's—whatever."

he laughs, soft and breathy, and his hand slides higher on your torso—warm palm resting just beneath your ribs without pushing, without restraining, just there.

and the worst part? you lean into it without thinking.

he notices—of course he notices—because his thumb presses lightly, intentionally, like he's acknowledging the way you reacted.

your voice comes out embarrassingly small. "stop acting like you know everything."

"i don't," he murmurs. "i just know you."

you turn your head sharply, finally meeting his eyes—which was a mistake, because he's already looking at you like he's been waiting for you to do it.

and he holds your gaze. fully. openly. no hesitation left whatsoever.

god, he's bold now. not arrogant. not smug. just... sure.

sure of you. sure of himself. sure of what he wants.

"i meant what i said," he says, the slightest rasp in his voice. "you don't get to lie to me anymore."

you swallow, throat tight. "i wasn't—"

he cuts you off with nothing but a look. a look that tells you exactly what he heard in your voice earlier, in your breathing, in the way you clung to him.

"you don't have to pretend," he adds quietly. "not here. not with me."

your chest squeezes.

no one has ever said that to you before—not like that, not with that kind of certainty, not with that kind of gentleness that feels like he's handing you permission you didn't even know you craved.

so you whisper—barely audible, "i'm not pretending."

his breath catches. barely, but you hear it. then he shifts—not climbing over you, not pulling you in —just rolling onto his side, facing you fully, his leg brushing yours under the blanket that he has pulled over you two.

his voice drops to something dangerously soft.

"good," he murmurs. "because I'm not pretending anymore either."

you blink. "pretending what?"

he leans in, just enough that you feel his breath against your cheek, his nose brushing the corner of yours.

"that I don't want you," he says simply.

your stomach drops straight through the mattress. he keeps going, voice steady, tone low but honest in a way that shakes you more than anything else tonight.

"i'm done acting like I don't think about you all the time," he whispers. "i'm done holding back because I thought it was what you wanted."

your lips part, but nothing comes out.

his thumb grazes your hip under the blanket— slow, barely there, but intentional. grounding. claiming. reassuring.

"i'm done pretending you're just my friend."

your pulse jumps so hard you swear it echoes.

you stare at him—dazed, breathless, overwhelmed.

"jake..."

he just watches you, eyes soft, voice steady.

"you don't have to say anything tonight," he murmurs. "you don't owe me anything. i just need you to know."

you whisper, "know what?"

he holds your gaze like he's anchoring you in place.

"that I want you."

your breath stops.

"that I'm not scared of it."

his fingers tighten just slightly on your hip. "that I'm not scared of you."

you tremble.

"and that I'm not going anywhere."

the room feels too small. too warm. too full of everything you've been running from.

you look at him, really look, and something cracks open in your chest. you don't know what to do with it. you don't know how to breathe around it.

but he does. he reaches up, cups the back of your neck with a gentleness that ruins you more than anything else tonight, and he tugs you in just a little—not kissing you, just touching foreheads, sharing breath.

"we'll talk tomorrow," he murmurs. "when you're less in your head."

you want to argue. you want to push him away. you want to pull him closer.

you end up doing none of those things—instead you melt, slowly, helplessly, into the space he holds open for you.

he pulls the blanket up. shifts closer. lets your head rest on his chest when you finally, silently, give in.

his hand stays on your back.

steady. warm. sure.

and for the first time, it hits you—painfully, beautifully, terrifyingly, you're not the only one who fell.

𓂃

you wake up before him.

which is unfair, honestly, because you absolutely deserve to sleep in after what he did to you.

your legs ache in that humiliating, delicious way. your throat is dry. your body is warm, too warm, because jake's arm is still around your waist, lazy and heavy and possessive even in sleep.

his breath ghosts the back of your neck. your, his, hoodie that he had helped you slip on last night was now halfway off your shoulder because of him. your pulse is still not normal.

you lie there, staring at the ceiling of the divining room, trying not to combust.

you should be embarrassed. you're not. you should be panicking. you are.

but underneath all of that—buried under the adrenaline and the dizzy aftershocks—there's this new, terrifyingly soft awareness sitting in your chest.

you want him.

in a way that isn't just physical. in a way that isn't just bratty competition. in a way that makes your stomach twist because you know it didn't start last night.

it started way, way before that.

your brain drifts—uninvited, unstoppable—right back to the beginning.

flashback — age 9, the playground

you're wearing a sparkly t-shirt and a crooked ponytail because you cut your own hair with safety scissors. jake is sitting in the sandbox, building something horrifyingly ugly but he swears it's a castle.

you stomp up to him, hands on hips, full attitude, even back then.

"you're doing it wrong," you announce.

he doesn't even look up. "hi to you too."

"jake. that's not a castle. that's a blob."

"it's abstract."

"it's ugly."

he sighs—that tiny, patient sigh that would become his trademark. "okay. what do you want me to do?"

"move over."

you don't wait. you physically shove him two scoots to the left and plop down beside him like you own the sandbox.

he moves. he always moves.

you grab his bucket. "we need more water."

he blinks at you, confused. "um... then go get some?"

you fix him with the most dramatic stare your nine-year-old face can manage.

"...i don't want to."

he laughs—that same soft little huff he still does —and stands up, brushing sand off his shorts.

"fine. i'll go."

"thank you," you say, like you're the queen of england.

when he comes back carrying a wobbly, half-filled bucket, you beam. you don't say thank you again, but he sees it in your face.

he hands you the bucket. but you don't take it.

you tilt your head and say, completely serious, "you pour it."

he should argue. he should tell you to do it yourself. he should tell you you're bossy. instead, without hesitation, he kneels and does exactly what you want.

and you lean closer—too close—watching him work, feeling weirdly fluttery and warm because jake listens to you in a way no one else does.

you don't know what it means at that age.

you just know it feels special.

later, when a group of older kids tries to take over your half-finished castle, you puff up, ready to argue—but jake steps in first.

"this is ours," he says firmly.

the kids back off and you stare at him like he's a superhero.

you don't understand your feelings, not then. but years later, lying in his bed with his arm around you, remembering the way nine-year-old jake defended your ugly sandcastle like it mattered?

you finally get it. it started there. it always started there.

back to present

you wake fully with a heavy breath and a heavier realization, you want to tell him. you want to admit it. you want to say something terrifyingly real like i think i've liked you since we were kids or i don't want last night to be a one-time thing or i want you.

and that's the problem.

because wanting is easy. saying it out loud is not.

so when jake shifts behind you, murmuring softly into your hair, "morning..." in that gravelly, post-sleep voice.

you panic. full feral panic.

you slip out of his arms, ignore his sleepy protest and practically flee the room.

you don't make eye contact during breakfast. you don't sit near him. you don't let him touch you, even though he tries—a hand on your waist, a brush of his fingers, small things that make your breath hitch.

he notices. of course he notices. he doesn't push, though. he just watches you with that calm, frustrating, evolved-from-childhood patience.

"everything okay?" he asks at one point.

you say, "yep!" like an idiot and then walk away before you faint.

cowardice: 1 you: 0

you're on the couch later, pretending to scroll your phone, doing a terrible job of acting normal. jake is in the kitchen, on speakerphone, fixing something near the sink.

you're not listening. until you are. because a girl's voice floats through the speaker—bright, flirty, familiar.

"so you're free this weekend?"

you freeze. jake hums. "yeah, probably."

the girl laughs. "good. i was hoping we could go out again."

again? AGAIN??

your vision goes sharp. hot. you sit up so fast your neck cracks.

jake notices the sound and glances over his shoulder—but you're already looking at him with an expression that could kill crops.

he mouths, 'what?' you don't answer.

the girl keeps talking. "my friends keep asking about you," she giggles. "they think you're cute."

you go still. silent. dangerously silent.

jake's eyes flick to your face and something about your expression makes him stand up straighter, makes his brow pull slightly together.

"uh—" he clears his throat. "can i call you back?"

"sure! text me later."

he hangs up and the kitchen goes too quiet. he wipes his hands on a towel and steps toward you slowly, cautiously, the way someone approaches a wild animal that might bite.

"hey," he says softly.

you don't respond. you just stare at him, jaw tight, heat ticking under your skin in a way that feels feral.

"that was... a friend," he offers.

you blink once. just once. but your eyes are sharp and possessive and nothing like the bratty irritation he's used to handling.

he stops walking. "what's going on?" he asks gently.

and that's when it hits him—the realization flickers across his face.

your posture. your eyes. the way you're holding your phone like you want to throw it at the wall.

you're jealous. not playful jealous. not the type of jealousy you showed at the park when mina, mona, mia whatever the fuck her name is was hitting on him. not petty jealous. real, territorial, chest-tightening jealous.

and jake has never seen you like that. his breath changes. his shoulders straighten. his whole energy shifts—calm, sure, controlled, like something in him clicks perfectly into place.

"come here," he says quietly.

you don't move. your throat is tight. your stomach is hot. everything in you is wound too tight to speak.

"come here," he repeats, firmer this time but still soft.

you finally stand. slow. tight. bristling with emotion you don't know how to name yet.

you walk toward him until you're only a foot away, eyes burning into his. he looks down at you—and there's something in his gaze you've never seen before.

something knowing. something claiming. something like, finally.

and then—you can feel him watching you. that stupid half-smirk, that stupid relaxed posture like he didn't just back you against the counter a few days ago, hands on your waist, voice warm enough to melt your spine. like he didn't murmur things that have been replaying in your head nonstop.

and what makes it worse? he looks so unbothered. like he knows something you don't. he always does.

"you're awfully quiet," he says from the couch, leaning his head back like he's bored. "you only shut up when something's bothering you."

you glare at him. "nothing's bothering me."

"mm." his eyes drag lazily up your legs, slow enough to make you want to throw something at him. "so it's just your attitude that's loud today."

"jake."

"what?" he grins. "you get weird whenever someone gets too close to the truth. you always have."

you cross your arms, heat rushing to your cheeks. "don't start."

he sits up like he's been waiting for that. "start what? pushing you?" a shrug. "you like when i do that."

you hate how your pulse jumps. you hate how he hears it. "you're so full of yourself."

"no," he says softly, "i just know you."

and the way he says it—warm, sure, familiar—makes your stomach twist in that embarrassing way you can never hide from him.

you turn away, but he laughs under his breath.

"see? there it is." he shuffles and steps in front of you, tilting his head. "that little flinch. the one you get when you're about to run your mouth but you don't know how to without admitting something."

"i don't have anything to admit," you snap—too fast, too sharp, too obvious. he raises a brow.

"okay," he murmurs, stepping closer, "then tell me why you've been avoiding looking at me since i had you pinned against that sofa with my cock deep inside of you."

you almost choke at his vulgarity.

"i— that— that was—"

"yeah," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "exactly."

you push his shoulder, out of pure panic. "shut up."

he laughs, catching your wrist midway, gentle but firm. "that's what i mean."

your breath stutters. "you've always been like this," he says, voice low. "bratty, loud, impossible. acting like you're the one in charge. you'd push me around, yell at me, boss me around—" his thumb brushes your pulse. "—and i loved every second of it."

your heart stops. you meet his eyes, stunned, and he smiles like he's been waiting years for that reaction.

"you liked that?" your voice cracks.

"of course i did." his tone warms, softens. "i loved that you treated me like i was yours without even realizing it."

your face burns and you whisper, "then why won't you let me do it anymore?" he steps in—close enough to feel his breath on your lips.

"because," he murmurs, "i finally realized something." your throat tightens. "what?" his eyes drop to your mouth, slow... deliberate.

"it's fun being pushed around by you," he says, "but it's even more fun watching you fall apart when i push back."

your knees go weak. he notices—of course he does—and his hand slides to steady your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch.

"see?" he whispers. "this is why i don't mind waiting for you to confess." you swallow hard. "i'm not confessing."

"you already are."

"no i'm—"

"you are." he smirks. "and you'll say it any minute now." your eyes narrow. "you're impossible."

"mm. and you like me."

your face flames. "shut up." he leans in, lips brushing your cheek—not a kiss, but close enough to ruin you.

"say it," he murmurs. "c'mon. you've been holding it in for years." you shove him again—weakly this time. "god, jake, you're so—"

"annoying?" he offers.

"cocky."

"you like that too."

you groan in frustration. "fine! okay? i like you. i've liked you for a long time. happy now?"

his breath hitches—barely—but you feel it. then he smiles—slow, victorious, soft around the edges.

"very."

you try to look away but he catches your chin with two fingers. "hey," he whispers, "look at me."

you do and his voice drops—deeper, rougher. "you think i didn't know?" a slow shake of his head. "i've always known."

your pulse pounds. "and i didn't say anything," he admits, "because you... being like this? all flustered and mouthy and stubborn? it's the cutest thing in the world."

your knees actually wobble and his grip tightens.

"and now that i know you want me too..." he leans in, lips barely brushing yours—never quite touching. "...i'm gonna enjoy every second of this."

and then he kisses you. not careful. not patient. like he's been holding himself back for years and finally lets the dam break.

your back hits the counter, his hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head exactly the way he wants. he drinks in the little gasp you make, smirking against your mouth like he knew it'd happen.

you try to kiss him harder, try to take control, but he catches your wrists—pinning them lightly above your head, just enough pressure to make your stomach flip.

"see?" he murmurs against your lips. "told you. it's fun pushing you around." you whimper—quiet, involuntary. his lips curve. "there she is."

he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, his mouth warm and sure and maddeningly steady. like he wants you to feel every second of it.

when he finally pulls back, your wrists are still caught in his hand, your chest rising and falling too fast.

he brushes his nose against yours, smiling softly—smug, but affectionate. "you can push me around later," he says, "but right now... let me have this."

you bite your lip, trying not to melt.

"jake?"

"yeah?"

"don't stop."

his smile is lethal. "wasn't planning to."

No breaks were given, just round after round of testing with no explanation as to what it was all for. 

To some of the women, it was clear that they weren’t in Kansas anymore, that whoever the kidnappers were, or rather whatever they were, they were not friends — they weren’t even humans. The others pleaded through muffled, garbled noises for reprieve, negotiating and promising cooperation if they could simply know what was going on. 

The lights never dimmed. Time, in that place, lost all distinction. It was only a relentless rhythm: the scraping of metal, the hissing of vapour, the unending beep...beep...beep of unseen monitors 

Separated from each other, the women were none the wiser that they hadn’t been plucked alone. Perhaps if they had known, it might have settled their minds somewhat, might have sown courage in their quaking souls. 

The Blobs, as the women had agreed on calling them, eventually became distracted with something in the control room. For an hour or so, they were left unattended. Alone enough for one to finally utilise the scalpel-looking tool she had stolen from the table of medieval torture contraptions beside her. She sawed away at her restraints until she fell to the cold, metal floor and hobbled out. 

Her hands trembled as she held the knife tightly in her grip. 

No one wanted to talk about what she would have had to do with the knife, if it came down to it. Only that she freed herself, and all the others when she stumbled into another room and realised, to her horror and relief, that she wasn’t alone. 

One by one, the five of them grouped together. It was good, they thought, that they had numbers. After all, there was no way of knowing what they were walking into, when they began sneaking through the building, if there were guards posted, weapons and fates worse than experimentation awaiting them. But still, they marched on, empowered by the warmth they radiated, which thawed the sterile chill of the metal trap they were stuck in.

After much fumbling about, they reached a room that buzzed with dulled sounds. Armed with one scalpel and vibrating with anger and a need for justice, they, foolishly perhaps, charged in. They roared and wrestled and kicked and punched. Tables were knocked over. Bodies flew. Buttons pressed. Glass shattered. 

They weren’t fighters nor warriors, but they fought as such. For them, it meant freedom, vengeance, life. Nails digging, teeth clamping, head butting — they did everything they could to take back control. 

And it was working. The non-humans weren’t expecting a fight, they weren’t expecting their guinea pigs would drop-kick them, and that they’d be slapped around in their own space. 

In hindsight, though, perhaps the girls shouldn’t have been so hasty in their approach; no one even stopped to inspect their surroundings and realise that the light flashing in the room wasn't from the expression ‘to see red’, as a metaphor for anger. No, they really were seeing red.

Only when their organs dropped and a sudden alarm blared overheard did they realise a very terrifying fact: they weren’t in a building.

They were in an unidentified, flying object. 

Or, in other words, a fucking UFO.

Things got blurry after that. 

All they remembered was waking up in the spaceship, sore and disoriented. There were figures lying on the floor, misshapen and all sorts of wrong. It brought them peace to believe it was their captors. All five women were accounted for, one of them being in a worse off position than she had entered the room initially. 

A shard had pierced her side. Blood dribbled from the wound. None of them were doctors; they had no clue what to do, only that they couldn’t stay forever. They had to go home. 

Through the big window, green surrounded them – branches, grass and leaves. 

A jungle. 

Eagerly, they left, carrying their injured friend, and ventured onwards in search of civilisation. 

Hours they walked, following a stream. Hours they talked, getting to know their companions. Hours they struggled and moaned and groaned.

A humbling dawn fell upon them as they traversed and dragged their feet, starved and drained. Fighting, on one hand, could be faked, learnt on the spot. It was rather easy, actually. You could use your own momentum and harness your emotions to let your body do what it needed to do for survival. A piece of cake, one could even say. Navigating unknown terrain, on the other? 

Not really.

Was it the odd shapes of the plants, the way they thrummed with a pink hue underneath, that clued them in on the very important note that they weren’t where they thought they were? Maybe the towering Venus fly trap that tried to snap one of them up and growled when it failed? Or perhaps it was the Pterodactyl that flew overhead, squawking and gobbling a large pineapple-seeming thing from a coconut tree?

“The vibes are off,” one of them noted. “It’s like we got teleported back to the past.”

Another girl butted in, “Does anyone else have that sinking feeling that we’re not actually on Earth?”

“Let’s not even think about it.”

“But we have to!” Someone groaned. “Look at her. She can’t walk on her own. Everything in this place is bigger than us. It’s like every single thing here is designed to kill. And we’ve been walking for hours. How long do you think she’s going to last? How long are we all going to last? We haven’t eaten in ages and I really don’t think we should drink water from the stream over there; it’s probably venomous!”

Hesitantly, the girl to her right corrected, “Poisonous. Things that are consumed and are bad for you are poisonous…but yes, you’re right. It’s not looking good for us.”

“So what do you suggest we do? Walk back to the ship? Can we even? Who was keeping track of the direction we’ve been walking in?” Silence. “Yeah, I thought so. And if we do make it? How long do we stay on the ship? Do they have human food? Can we repair it and fly it on our own? Huh?”

“We know! But we gotta have faith.”

“Faith won’t feed us. It won’t protect us from the shit we’ve been seeing. And it certainly won’t ensure that those assholes' families or friends, I don’t know, won’t come looking for us.”

Though they argued, there was no malice or resentment in their voices, just an overwhelming frustration, fuelled by hunger, lethargy and the bitter taste of defeat.

“You guys need to leave me; I’m slowing you down,” the injured one suggested, voice shaky.

“No,” the others said in unison.

Leaning against the thick trunk of a tree, its canopy shielding her from the glare of the sun, someone muttered, “I think we’re doomed. We’re gonna die here.”

“You can’t just say that.”

“Stop, that’s not even funny.”

“Guys…I think we’re being followed.”

“I’m so fucking hungry I could eat one of you guys, Yellowjackets style.”

“Ew, don’t you dar– Wait. Did you just say ‘we’re being followed’?”

All five of them turned, slowly, necks creaking. Their eyes dragged to the large, hulking beast-like creature only metres from them. No one had heard it approach. No one knew how long it’d been there, how long it’d been hot on their trails. And worse of all, no one knew what the hell it wanted. 

One of them whispered, “What…the…fuck.”

When they collectively took a step back, it stepped forward, muscles bulging in anticipation. That was enough for them all to know that they definitely, absolutely should not move. That thing, whatever it was, did not look friendly. Even less so than the literal aliens that had kidnapped them. They knew this one, despite looking distinctly male, was not human — it had two arms more than usual, eyes that glowed red, and wore nothing but a loincloth. 

“What the hell is that?” Someone wondered, eyes squinting as she studied its features. A hand reflexively held onto her arm in fear that she might step closer in curiosity. “It looks kinda like a dude.”

“How many dudes have you seen with four arms?”

“Is now really the time to sass me?” 

Their hearts beat rapidly, so loudly that they could hear each other’s and feared that it could hear theirs. They all thought different things: fight, cry, pinch themselves and hope it’s a dream, what’s behind the loincloth, and is there anything edible around?

Then, it advanced again, the equivalent of a leap for them and tilted its head with a sneer, of sorts. It said one thing and one thing only. 

“Mine.”

Squeals and shrieks echoed around the jungle. Birds flew ahead, bushes rustled, distant howls pierced the air. The girls shared deafening sounds of panic.

“It can speak! Oh my god! It can fucking speak!”

“Please don’t kill me! I don’t taste good on the second week of my cycle!”

“I told you it’s a man! What else would say some possessive bullshit like that?”

“I’m gonna shit myself. No, I’m gonna pass out. Oh god, I’m gonna shit myself and pass out.”

And finally, “Uh, why did he say that whilst looking at me?”

All it took was another step forward for them to turn back around and run away, away from that, away from what it signified, and, of course, right into a trap. They were hoisted high up in the air by a net hidden under fallen leaves and hung in a jumbled mess of limbs and hair. 

For the second time in 24 hours, they were taken away. 

Who was having a worse Friday than the five of them?