🍎 Don't Cry, We're Bound Together You’ve always known time would catch you. Now, married to Clark, you begin to notice quiet signs of your own mortality. Clark remains almost untouched by time, and the question haunts you: What if you leave first? Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Death, Anxiety

💍 Straight To The Good Part It starts as Jimmy’s well-meaning project to document your engagement year. It quickly turns into something real when Clark has the chance to watch an early edit of the cut. You and Clark discover that love just can't wait for perfect timing. Mentions of sex, Fluff, Romantic!Clark, Soft!Clark, Elopement

🌌 Viola In His Arms A quiet night. A sleeping baby. A husband whispering truths that make you laugh, cry, and fall in love all over again. Clark talks to your precious star about family, quirks, and love in a way only he could—and somehow, you can’t hide your smile anymore. Fluff, Kent OC baby, Headcannon Clark would love to name his daughter after a Shakespeare character

🐈‍⬛️ The Prince of Cats You and Clark have always sworn off pets—not with your schedules, not with his disappear-at-any-moment life. Then he comes home too cheerful, too kissy, and very much not alone. FLUFF, Accidental Pet Adoption, Romantic!Clark, Soft!Clark, Whole Lotta Kissin'

🗡 As You Wish Clark promises to always come home to you. FLUFF. The Princess Bride Reference

🥧 I'd Do Anything (For Pie, For You) After a twelve-hour Thanksgiving shift in the ER, you’re fully prepared to come home to a dark, cold, empty apartment and eat gas-station turkey and mashed potatoes. You insisted Clark to go to Ma and Pa's for the holiday—because it was the right thing to do, because he deserves peace with the people he loves—but the truth is, you’re dreading the quiet when it's all said and done. Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Thanksgiving/holiday angst, Dedicated Husband Energy

🛏 The Bed Budget You and Clark have to admit it might be time to invest in sturdier furniture. Kent OC baby GirlDad!Clark, Financial Discussions. Implied and Blunt References to Sex

🤍 A Choice Made - TW: abortion A half-Kryptonian pregnancy turns dangerous fast, and you and Clark are forced to choose your life over the future you both wanted—holding each other through grief, love, and the decision that saves you.

🏨 Paging Superman Clark, as Superman, visits the pediatric unit during the holidays. You fall deeper in love watching your husband, father of your child, bring hope, joy, and merry tidings. Major fluff, pregnant!wife!Reader, pre-Kent OC baby

💚 Lapsus Linguae Clark says Lois's name when making love to you. Kinda. Hurt/Comfort. Kent OC baby. Implied/Blunt References to sex.

🎆 Auld Lang Syne (All Over Again) NYE Superstition. You and Clark chase midnight. Fluff. Implied sex.

🍒 Cheri Cheri Lady You went to a vineyard for the wine. Turns out, Clark was the most intoxicating thing there. (silly drunk + I want you so bad it hurts). Fluff, Implied sex, nothing explicit. Exasperated!Clark, married idiots in love, alcohol use, DownBadNoFilter!Reader (truly, my self-insert)

[ 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 ]

🏡 Home You and Clark return to Smallville for the weekend to help Ma recover from surgery. Clark starts to imagine a future that feels achingly possible—a ring, a home, a family. 18+ MDNI, Soft Smut / Intimate Scenes, Breeding Kink If You Squint, pre-marriage

💦 House of El Lust Club Clark is so in love with you that he entertains your bullshit, despite his growing desire to fly himself into the sun. Fic-ception. 18+ MDNI, fic-ception, Romantic!Clark, Insufferable!Reader, Oral (f receiving)

🫦 Desire "Sweetheart, keep this up, and you won't be able to walk tomorrow." "Promise?" 18+ MDNI, Sexting, Horny!Clark, Inappropriate Use of Tie

💍 Green “I think I really, really like you, Clark. Maybe even love you.” “Oh, sweetheart.” “Do…do you like me back?” “I’m—literally—inside—you. How else do I prove I’m committed?” 18+ MDNI, p in v , Oral (f receiving) Wedding Night, Romantic!Clark — Green Ask - 18+, MDNI, p in v, Superman voice while Clark makes love to you

🔆 Midnight Sun Fortress of Solitude Sex. 18+ MDNI, oral (f and m receiving), p in v (unprotected), creampie.

🖼️ Golden Hour Van Gogh spent his life chasing light with a brush. Clark just needed one look at you. 18+ MDNI, smut p in v.

🌙 The Promise A quiet date night takes an unexpected turn with an unintentional fake-out. That night, Clark makes amends, starting with a kiss to your ring finger. The rest follows. Fluff/angst/smut 18+ MDNI, tender lovin, brief female oral & p in v (unprotected), body worship Romantic!Clark, soft!Clark

🍓 Sugar Rush It started with one strawberry. One chocolate. One kiss. While Clark was called away for Superman duties, you indulged. Now, you’re in the bath aching, breathless, and burning waiting for his return. 18+ MDNI Smut p in v (unprotected), Accidental Aphrodisiac, Bathtub Sex, Underwater Oral (f receiving, Clark my celetial munch), Praise Kink, Size kink, Dirty Talk,, Reader acting stupid horny as hell

👨🏻‍🍼Hot Dad A quiet night turns contemplative when Clark asks a question that lingers longer than expected. What follows is reassurance. 18+ MDNI,Dom!Clark (kinda?), reader on top bby, pussy talking, orgasm delay, its poetic bc I couldn’t bring myself to finish the full smut, married idiots in love, brief talks of pregnancy/parenthood, insecure!Clark, breathe if you think Clark's a DILF

😈 Master (Rage)baiter You knew better than to tease your husband when he was at work. 18+ MDNI, smut, masturbation (f), sexting, piv, a teeny bit rough sex, standing doggy, Ragebaited!Clark, Mutual horniness

🎶 Give It To Me When a stranger crosses a line, Clark doesn’t raise his voice. He simply steps in and makes it clear. The word “husband” slips out as a defense, but by the end of the night, it feels more like a future. 18+ MDNI, SMUT, dance floor grinding, hot-n-heavy make out, simultaneous fingering + handjob, semi-public wall sex (just how i like it, mr muscles), p in v (unprotected), Cock Praise, Praise Kink, hyperspermia, creampie, alcohol use but reader is not drunk, protective!Clark, unwanted attention/touching, brief talks of wedding rings

🛏️ Talk So Sweet, Doing Bad Things The morning after Valentine's finds you tender, well-loved, and staring down the latest casualty of being married to Clark: your one and only bed. 18+ MDNI, smut, fingering, cockwarming, piv, creampie, hot and heavy make out, minor praise kink, overstimulated from the night before and Clark is the consent king, Downbad!Clark, Smug!Clark, Romantic!Clark, Mutual horniness, Clark breaks the bed and is prideful, HATES when you're mad

💦 Friday I'm In Love You knew you had dinner reservations at seven. You also knew better than to let Clark have his way with you before then. This was the consequences of your actions. 18+ MDNI, aftercare, hyperspermia, you are leaking like a faucet, Smug!Clark, Smartass!Clark, married idiots in love, married banter, happy friday

❤️‍🔥 Lover Boy Clark's a greedy, indecisive man when it comes to you. minimal plot, mostly porn, 18+, mdni, smuuuut, hot n heavy make out, fingering, oral (f receiving), groping, brief nipple play, body worship, doggy style bark bark, creampie, the suit stays on, Smug!Clark, Lovesick!Clark

🗃 Heaven's Touch After a day spent teasing Clark across the bullpen, one last stop in the archives room proves to be a very bad idea. Or a very good one. An inevitable one. pwp, 18+, MDNI, smuuuut, hot n heavy make out, fingering, brief oral (f receiving as always), creampie, mild manhandling, overstim, workplace fucking, Yearning&Horny!Clark, the skirt and stockings stay on

👌🏼 Curiosity Will Never Let Me Go girlfriend!reader. Clark's from out of this world. Not in the abstract, romantic, larger-than-life way the rest of the world said about Superman. No, your boyfriend was factually an alien. Kryptonian. What you do not know, and unfortunately cannot stop thinking about, is how far that whole thing went. 18+ MDNI, smutty ramblings (hot-n-heavy make out, thinking about alien dick, handjob, Clark cums on you, brief cum tasting).

💄 Starving Loving Clark Kent means loving Superman too, even when the city steals him away on the nights you wanted him most. 18+ MDNI,smuuuut, oral (m receiving), deep throat, wet and filthy, saliva as lube, nipple/breast play, tugging on hair, suit stays mostly on, cum swallowing, filthy use of lipstick, lovesick!Clark, needy!reader, established relationship, f!hair mentioned but no style, color, length described, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey/hon)

🚪 FutureSex/LoveSounds Pre-Superman!Clark gets thrown into the future… and sees things he's not meant to. He really shouldn’t watch… but he can’t look away. 18+ MDNI, 18+, MDNI, Smut, voyeurism!!!, p in v, breeding kink if you squint, brief mention of hyperspermia, creampie, time travel AU (Younger!Clark early 20's, older!Clark early/mid-30's), yearning!Clark

[ 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐒/ 𝐒𝐍𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐒 ]

💃🏻 Dancing — Clark would be a great dancer.

💦 Slippin' Out — 18+ MDNI, p in v, raw,

🤥 Just the tip — 18+ MDNI, Clark's a damn liar.

🗣 Dirty Talk — 18+ MDNI Clark's good at dirty talk. How could he not be?

🗒 Respectfully, 22B — 18+ MDNI, You're not as quiet as you think.

🥵 The Handler — 18+ MDNI, sub!clark Clark’s exposed to Red K on a mission, and the Justice Gang calls in the only person he’ll listen to.

🛻 Backseat Freakstyle — 18+ MDNI, Kansas hailstorms are no joke. You and Clark make sure the Kent truck doesn't take a pounding. But you on the other hand? “Barn’s empty. Bed’s warm. Storm’s loud." “If anyone walks in, that’s on you.”

🥧 Bad Habit — 18+ MDNI Dessert, dick, doesn't matter. You yap regardless. “I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth.”

💍 Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me — The reception may be winding down, but Clark isn’t done holding you yet. "Don't move, I want to feel this."

🚨 SOS — 18+ MDNI, Clark hears you from across the city, and thinks you're in danger. Every sound you make is making this worse.

🧎‍♀️Good for Me — 18+ MDNI, You ask Clark for honesty. “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you… slowly.”

💙 Superman Day — drabble. Fluff, angst if you squint.

🧎‍♂️Bad Day Remedy — Clark's the kind of guy who drops to his knees, apologizing for your bad day, even though you both know it's hardly his fault.18+, mdni, pure filthy smut, oral, doggy style, creampie.

.

You were close when the dream tipped from warm into too real.

Heat. Clark’s weight over dream-you. The steady rhythm of his thrusts. The drag of the sheets against your thighs, damp and slick with arousal. His mouth at your throat, his breath damp, his hands so locked on your waist for leverage. Every sound felt too clear, too real—his rough inhale, the wet press of his kiss, the low, needy noise he made when you parted your legs wider for him.

You arched into him because of course you did. Your body didn’t question him. It never had. Even asleep, even in a dream, you knew your husband.

And then, right at the worst, right when dream-you was about to come with a shrill cry, dream-Clark moaned a name into your neck.

"O-oh… Lois."

Cold rushed through your chest. Your stomach dropped. Your ecstasy drained so fast it made you feel sick. You’d been tricked. Your own mind had turned you into someone standing in for another woman.

The nightmare didn’t stop. It didn’t correct itself. Dream-Clark kept going, chasing his climax like nothing had happened. His hands stayed on you. His mouth stayed on you. His breathing got harsher—like her name belonged there, like you were supposed to swallow it and keep taking him.

You woke with a sharp gasp.

Your heart slammed fast and hard. Sweat cooled on your ribs and along your hairline. The sheet was twisted tight around your legs like you’d been fighting it. For a second, you just lay there, staring into the dark, trying to get your breathing under control, trying to scrub the sound of another’s name in Clark’s voice.

Beside you, he shifted. A soft exhale. The mattress dipped. His arm reached out automatically, palm finding your waist the way it always did, because it had a thousand nights of practice.

You flinched away. Too quick. Too hard.

Clark stopped mid-reach. In the next breath, he was up on an elbow, the fog of sleep peeling back like a curtain. 

"Hey," he whispered, still raspy. "Sweetheart, what’s wrong?"

You swallowed, throat tight. You could feel your pulse in your neck, in your wrists. Your skin felt sticky. Under your shirt, your breasts were heavy and sensitive, and there was that faint warm leak inside your nursing bra that made you want to crawl out of your own body. You could smell sweat and milk and the clean laundry detergent from the sheets. Too domestic, too normal for how wrong you felt.

"It’s nothing, baby," you got out too fast.

You tried to keep it light, tried to make it sound like you were only half-awake. The quiver still slipped through. The urge to cry was right there, and it was humiliating. The urge to shove him away was worse. To grab your pillow and swing it once—just to get the feeling of betrayal out of your body. "Just… an intense dream."

Clark’s face softened, concern written clean across it. His hand went to your hair, fingers gentle as he smoothed damp strands off your cheek. He leaned in and kissed your shoulder, warm mouth against warmer skin.

"Do you wanna tell me?" he asked quietly.

You stared past him toward the window. City light leaked in around the curtains. You shifted and felt the soft weight of your belly against the sheet, the way your skin pulled in places it hadn’t before. Stretch marks that still felt too new when you caught them in the mirror. A body that had done something incredible and still didn’t feel fully like yours on the days your mind turned mean. A body borrowed for a miracle, and still didn’t feel fully yours again.

You made your face go blank. You made your voice brave. Years of experience performing in  front of patients, keeping your expression calm, keeping fear behind your teeth until someone else delivered the hard words.

"No, it’s okay," you lied. "I’m okay. Go back to sleep."

Clark held still for a beat. You could feel him searching you, even without his glasses, even with sleep still clinging to him. You knew he didn’t buy it. You also knew he wouldn’t force it. His thumb traced slow tender circles at the edge of your shoulder

But your anger stayed anyway—unreasonable, irrational, real. 

Because you and Clark had been each other’s firsts. Because you’d only ever had him. Because he’d only ever had you. Because your brain had made him say her name while he was inside you, while you were coming apart for him—made him feel like someone else’s man for one ugly second.

And you couldn’t shake it.

In the dark, with his hand still hovering like he wanted to pull you back to him, you couldn’t make yourself relax. Your mind wouldn’t let go. You lay there wide awake, heart still racing, and hated that you were mad at the man who hadn’t even done anything wrong.

.

Morning came too fast.

Viola fussed in her bassinet with a thin, offended whimper that always started small and then climbed. You rolled onto your back and felt the damp stick of sweat you’d missed behind your knees, the ache in your shoulders from sleeping tense. Your nursing bra was damp again. You could already feel the pressure in your breasts, the full, heavy pull that made you wince when you sat up.

Clark was up before you fully cleared sleep. He moved quiet across the room, bare feet on the wood floor, dark hair flattened on one side. He scooped Viola up with both hand, murmuring to her in a low, soothing voice. The room smelled like diaper cream and warm milk and the coffee from the machine set on a schedule.

"Good morning, Little Miss," he murmured, bouncing her against his chest. "I’m here. I got you."

He changed her on the dresser with quick, steady hands. He talked the whole time, soft and patient. Viola kicked, tried to roll, got indignant. Clark didn’t get frustrated once. He wiped her clean, fastened the tabs, kissed the top of her head. Then he warmed a bottle, tested it on his wrist, and offered it to her. 

You watched from the edge of the bed, hands on your lap. Your stomach tightened in a way you didn’t want to name. He looked so sure. So good at this. Like fatherhood slid onto him without friction. Like he didn’t have nights where one wrong thought could ruin his whole body.

Clark glanced over his shoulder and grinned at you. He crossed the room with Viola in one arm and leaned down for a morning kiss.

It was hungry—quick but full. Warm mouth. The clean, sleepy taste of him. His free hand cupped your jaw. Normally, you would’ve met him halfway. Normally, you would’ve sighed, reached up, messed up his riot of curls on purpose, pulling him back for a second kiss and a third, because it was your favorite way to start the day.

You didn’t.

Your body stayed too still. Your hands stayed in your lap.

Clark eased back and looked at you. His eyes scanned your face like he was assessing for fever. For pain. For Injury. For something he’d missed.

"Everything okay?" he asked gently.

You forced a small nod. "Yeah. Just tired."

He held your gaze for a beat, lips pressing together. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just kissed your cheek instead, and turned back to Viola to give you room.

His kindness made guilt crawl up your throat like bile.

It’s just a dream, you scolded yourself while he bounced your daughter. It didn’t matter. The name was still there, loud in your head. Lois. You could still feel the moment it had hit, like your body had been fooled and then punished for believing.

Why did my brain choose her? Why did his mouth in my dream choose her name?

It wasn’t jealousy. It’d never been that way with Lois. Lois, who was loud and capable and sharp in a way you’d always respected. But now your brain kept lining you up next to her anyway, measuring things you didn’t want measured. Lois confidenc in that bullpen, owning the room. Lois arguing with Clark like it was play, in a way you hated since you were kids. Lois looking like she never doubted what she deserved.

You shifted out of bed and glanced down at yourself. The soft swell of your belly. The nursing bra. The faint milk smell you couldn’t scrub off no matter how many showers you took. 

Clark passed Viola to you so he could grab your water bottle off the nightstand. His hand brushed your hip. Warm, casual. Then he gave your ass a quick squeeze, like a private joke.

"Come back to bed after? For five minutes?" he coaxed with a wink, voice light. "I can make it worth it."

Something in you snapped, fast and ugly. "You have work, Clark."

The words came out sharper than you meant. Too flat. Too final.

His face dropped for half a second. You saw it. The flicker of hurt. Then he smoothed it over with a bright grin like he was trying to keep the morning normal.

"Yeah," he replied easily. "Of course. Can’t be tardy."

He kissed Viola’s cheek, kissed your forehead, and went to start breakfast. You heard the clink of silverware, the cabinet door, the faucet running.

You stood there with your daughter in your arms and felt sick with yourself. You hated that you’d hurt him. You hated that you couldn’t stop. You hated that you couldn’t tell him why without sounding insane, without admitting you were angry at him for something he didn’t do.

And the worst part was how real it felt anyway. How your body held onto it like it had happened.

Over the next two days, it didn’t let up.

Clark came up behind you at the sink with a dry towel ready while you washed plates post-dinner. The water was hot enough to sting. Steam rose around your wrists. He pressed his chest to your back and wrapped his arm around your waist. For one second, your shoulders dropped. Your body leaned into him on reflex. His mouth touched the side of your neck, slow and familiar, and your skin reacted before your mind could interfere.

"I thought about you all day," he murmured between pecks.

Then he spoke again, casual against your skin. "Lois and I—" he started, probably about a lead, probably about a meeting, probably about anything normal.

You went cold again. Your stomach dropped so hard you felt nauseous.  Your hands went clumsy around a bowl. Soap slid over your fingers. You pulled away too fast and stared at the sink like it was the water’s fault. Like it was the heat. Like it wasn’t your own brain turning one harmless sentence into a threat.

Later, getting ready for bed, his phone lit up on the nightstand. A notification from Lois. After work hours. Some quick line you didn’t even dare read. You didn’t want to inow. Didn’t want to see anything that could feed this.

Your skin went cold anyway.

Clark brushed his teeth in the bathroom. The sink ran. The toothbrush buzzed. Normal sounds. You lay on your side and stared at the ceiling, counting hours you didn’t have proof for. All the time they spent together. All the danger they shared. All the conversations you didn’t hear because your day was bottles and diapers and trying to eat something with one hand while Viola cried.

You told yourself it was irrational while your chest stayed tight like it was a real threat.

Clark noticed you flinching from his touch. He started being gentler. He took Viola the second he got home. He asked if you wanted a shower. He kissed you more carefully, like he was trying not to startle you.

Your brain twisted it into guilt. Into him compensating. Into him knowing you’d finally noticed.

By the third day, your nerves felt scraped raw. Your patience ran thin arguing with yourself. Tired of the quiet panic. Tired of hearing that name in your head whenever he breathed too close.

You stared at Viola’s diaper bag on the counter—wipes, bottles, burp cloths, a spare onesie—and made a decision because you needed the noise to stop.

You would go to the Daily Planet with Viola.

You would see Clark there. You would see Lois there. You would watch it with your own eyes and force your body to understand that nothing was happening.

You would feel normal again.

.

You dressed more done up than a quick run to the grocery store. 

A blouse Clark had mentioned admiring on you before—soft fabric, a cut that made his eyes linger. A new shade of blush you’d tested in the bathroom mirror until your cheeks looked a little warm, burnt. Mascara. Lip balm. You checked the mirror and tried to see what Clark claimed he saw.

You packed the diaper bag like you were heading into a shift. Extra wipes. Spare onesie. Bottle. Burp cloth. The pacifier Viola rejected with a fierce, Kryptonian-level toss, until the worst moment, when she suddenly wanted it and screamed like you were withholding oxygen.

You clipped Viola into her carrier. She was warm and heavy against your chest, her little body solid and real. You checked the straps twice. Then you checked again. Your chest stayed tight, like you were bracing for something you couldn’t name out loud.

The Daily Planet lobby was bright and busy. Phones rang behind the reception desk. The big globe hung above, turning slow. Security waved people through the turnstiles without looking up with practiced boredom.

When you stepped forward, the guard lowered his newspaper and his face shifted into recognition.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Kent," he greeted, friendly. "Visiting Clark?"

"Yes, the two of us," you managed, shifting Viola higher. The carrier strap dug into your shoulder and she squirmed. Her small hand fisted in your blouse. You touched her fingers through the fabric, a quick check-in for both of you.

The elevator ride up felt too quiet. Your pulse stayed loud in your ears. You watched the numbers climb and tried to rehearse what "normal" felt like. You tried to tell yourself this was a good idea. You tried to make your stomach unclench.

When the doors opened, the bullpen noise hit you all at once.

Keyboards. Voices. Laughter. Someone arguing about a headline. Interns rushing past with lanyards swinging and papers tucked under their arms. The smell of coffee and warm electronics and paper. Your shoes squeaked faintly on the polished floor the closer you got to the reception desk.

The receptionist, Janet, glanced up. "Oh my—hi, honey! Would you look at her," she chirped, leaning forward. "She’s cuter than the pictures Clark shows."

Viola picked that moment to get wiggly, like she could feel the attention. Her legs kicked against the carrier, little heels thumping your ribs through the fabric. She let out a bright squeak, then another, arms pumping like she was trying to fight her way out and join the conversation.

You tightened your hold on the strap and bounced her once. "She knows when she’s being admired," you muttered, half under your breath, cheeks warming.

The receptionist laughed. "Oh, she’s a ham."

"She gets it from her dad," you replied, managing a small smile as Viola kicked again, satisfied with herself.

A camera shutter clicked fast somewhere behind you. Jimmy. You lifted a hand in a quick, polite goodbye and kept moving, because you were on a mission.

Clark was at his desk with a folder in his hands, sleeves rolled up, glasses slipping slightly as he skimmed a page and clicked his pen in uneven beats. He blinked, then looked up, like he felt you, heard you, before he saw you.

His whole face changed.

The tired focus disappeared. His blue eyes went wide and bright. His mouth parted like he’d abandoned his sentence. For a second, he looked….so happy.

Then he moved. Not fast enough to draw a scene. Not Superman-fast. Just Clark trying to keep his excitement contained in a room full of people. He crossed the bullpen with that careful, long stride, dodging a rolling chair, nodding at someone who greeted him without slowing down to see his wife and child fast.

When he reached you, his hands came up immediately, taking the diaper bag in one hand. His other hand cupped your face, thumb at your cheekbone. 

"Hey, hon," he breathed, voice soft, like he didn’t want anyone else to get this moment. His eyes flicked down to Viola in her carrier, and his whole expression turned tender. "You’re both here? Everything okay?"

You nodded, throat tight. "We were nearby," you explained, and your voice came out thinner than you wanted. "We missed you."

Viola blinked up at him, then smiled wide and gummy, recognizing her father by more than sight. She made a little noise and reached both chubby hands out. Clark laughed, sharp and delighted, like he couldn’t believe she still chose him and wasn’t afraid of letting it be known. 

He leaned in and kissed you—quick, warm, hungry, still careful of Viola between you—and then his hands reached for his daughter. 

"Come here, Little Miss," he murmured to her, "Let’s give mama a break."

He lifted her out with practiced ease, one hand behind her shoulders, the other under her bottom. He pulled her close and pressed his cheek to her curls for half a second, breathing her in.

Viola grabbed his tie immediately and yanked. Clark made an exaggerated face, eyes crossing slightly as if she’d caught him in a trap. "Oh no," he gasped with a strangled voice, playing it up. "I’ve been captured."

She squealed and reached higher, fingers catching the edge of his glasses. He pulled her away before she could fling them to the floor, exposing his true identity to anyone with sharp and curious eyes, then leaned his forehead to hers. 

"Nuh-uh, those are not for babies," he informed her, very seriously, like she could understand.

Her hand went straight to his curls instead. She tugged with her tiny fist and Clark didn’t even flinch. He just smiled, eyes half-lidded, letting her do it like it was a privilege to risk a bald spot.

"Careful, babe," you warned quietly with a snort. "Or we’ll have to invest in a toupee."

You watched the way Clark’s shoulders relaxed with every second Viola was in his arms. The way his voice lowered. The way he kept kissing her temple in small, absent motions. It was hard to stay angry when he looked like this.

"Noted," he murmured, kissing Viola’s knuckles like it was a joke just for the three of you.

For a moment, it worked. Dream-Clark’s voice in your head dulled. You let yourself stand there and watch him be your husband, Viola’s father. You let yourself remember that this was your real life. That you belonged here, with him, with her. No one else held dominion over his desires.

"Okay, I’m going to be annoying," a familiar voice cut in, warm and teasing.

Your stomach clenched so fast it hurt.

"O-oh, Lois."

You turned, and there she was, stepping up with a grin, coffee in hand, hair shiny and wavy. She looked awake in a way you haven’t felt in days. She looked sharp in her blazer and dress pants. Effortless. She took in Viola with immediate warmth.

"Oh my God, Smallville," Lois gushed, dropping a notch softer in a way that took strangers by surprise. "Look at her! She’s getting so big. "

"Stronger too," Clark replied, still smiling down at Viola. "She was doing pull-ups on my tie just now."

Lois wiggled her fingers at Viola. "Keep that up, Vi. You’ll be running this place."

Viola stared like she was deciding if Lois was worth her time, then grabbed Lois’s finger anyway. "She’s judging me."

"Sharp intuition," he returned, and his eyes crinkled behind his glasses. "Like her mama."

Lois looked at you then, expression softening even more. She stepped in and hugged you tightly. "How are you doing? Seriously."

"I’m fine," you answered too quickly, feeling conflicted within her embrace.

Lois pulled back just enough to look at you. Her gaze swept over your blouse, your hair, your makeup. Her face brightened. "Jesus, you look so good."

You felt your face tighten because the words couldn’t land anywhere safe. You heard them, but you didn’t believe them. You looked good? Yeah, right.

Because standing there—Clark holding Viola, Lois smiling up at him—you looked like a spectator. You looked like you were watching a play from the back of theater. Like you’d walked into a moment that existed without you, and you were just… added in at the end.

"Thanks, Lois," you managed with a nod as she stepped back, and it came out thin. "You look great, too."

Clark pressed a hand to your lower back. His palm warmed you through the fabric of your blouse, thumb pressing small, appreciative circles.

"You okay?" he asked quietly when your eyes didn’t meet his, leaning in close enough that no one else could hear.

You made your eyes meet his for only half a second and forced your mouth into something neutral. "Yeah," you insisted. "I’m good."

And for a few seconds, you almost believed it. The warmth of his hand, the weight of Viola’s little noises, the normalcy of Lois being… Lois. Nothing romantic. Nothing secret. Just coworkers. Just your husband in his workplace, ecstatic to see you.

Then Steve Lombard’s voice hit from behind like brick to a glass house.

"Well, damn!" he announced, loud enough to catch attention, including yours and Viola’s. She squirmed within Clark’s arms, fussy at the volume. "Kent’s got his whole situation here!"

He kept strolling past with that lazy grin, slowing down not because of manners, but because he had an audience. He looked at Clark soothing Viola, then at you, then—worst of all—at Lois, and his smile widened like he’d found a punchline.

"Lois, your work husband finally brought the baby around to meet you?" He barked a cackle, smirking. Like it was clever.

Clark’s smile died instantly. His jaw set. His whole body went still in a way you recognized watching him in battle. Not anger for himself. Anger that was trying to stay controlled.

Steve wasn’t finished. He tilted his head away from Lois’s furious gaze, meeting Clark’s instead. Like he wanted to make it worse. 

"Come on, Kent. You and Lane are always together. Finishing each other’s sentences. Saving the city. Having her play the work wife. I see you together more than I see my own girlfriend."

Your brain connected the words straight back to a few nights ago, connected to the way you’d woken up feeling replaced. Your skin went hot. Fast. Your face flushed so hard it burned. Your throat tightened, and your stomach dropped, the same sick drop you’d felt when dream-Clark moaned—

Lois’s expression turned murderous. "Steve," she snapped, disgusted. "What is wrong with you?"

Steve lifted his hands like he was innocent. "What? It’s just a joke. Relax. We know Kent’s whipped. Unless there is something—"

Jimmy, somewhere nearby, blurted sharply, "Dude—shut up. There’s a kid around."

You couldn’t breathe for a second longer. You could feel everyone looking now—maybe not everyone, but enough. Enough for humiliation to crawl up your neck and settle behind your eyes, your nose, around your throat. All you could hear was the blood in your ears and Steve’s voice repeating in your head.

Work husband. Work wife.

"O-oh, Lois."

Clark’s hand on your back tightened. "Steve," he started, voice low and dangerous. "Apologize to my—"

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Your hands moved on their own. "Sorry, I have to—" you choked out, reaching for Viola too fast.

Clark shifted automatically, startled. "Hey—wait," he murmured, trying to keep Viola steady as you took her too quickly. Viola let out a startled noise and clutched your shirt as you strapped her back in the carrier with fumbling hands.

"I need to feed her," you lied, voice a notch higher. Your nose burned and felt pressure behind your eyes. You didn’t look at Steve’s smug face. You couldn’t look at Lois. You couldn’t look at Clark’s face. "She—she needs—"

Lois stepped forward, hands wrapping around your forearm to steady your movements. "Hey, hey. Slow down. Don’t—don’t listen to him. He’s an idiot."

Jimmy’s face was tight with sympathy. "I’ll kill him for you," he chimed, not joking.

"Hey!" Steve protested. "What’d I do—"

Lois cut him off, sharp. "You know damn well there’s nothing going on between me and Clark, why—"

"Honey," Clark urged cutting in, careful, begging without making a scene. "Let’s talk."

You didn’t. Couldn’t. If you opened your mouth again you were going to sob in front of his coworkers. In front of Lois. In front of Jimmy In front of stupid Steve. In front of Clark.

Polite good-byes and hugs be damned, you turned and sped away. 

Your vision blurred. You kept your chin up until you hit the elevator bank. Your fingers shook so badly you missed the button the first time. The elevator doors opened automatically as a batch of people stepped off. You slipped inside easily, finally alone and pressed your face toward Viola’s hair like you could disappear there.

The doors started to slide shut.

Just before the gap closed, hazard a glace at the group you just abandoned. You saw Clark move— really move—past desks, chairs, and ignorant colleagues. His face was tight with panic, jaw clenched, eyes wide with helpless anger behind his glasses.  His mouth opened like he was about to call your name.

The doors closed on him with a soft ding.

You stared at the seam where the metal met, like if you looked hard enough it would open again and rewind the last sixty seconds. Like you could step back out, laugh it off, be normal. Your hands stayed locked around the carrier straps anyway, knuckles sore from how hard you were gripping.

Then you finally broke. A sob ripped out of you, loud and ugly, and you hated yourself for the sound. You pressed your mouth into Viola’s hair and tried to swallow it down. It didn’t work. Your chest kept hitching. Tears ran hot down your cheeks. You wiped at them with the back of your hand, then remembered your mascara and the effort you’d put in this morning—blouse, blush, the stupid little hope—and that made your throat tighten again

Viola made a small, confused sound against your chest. You held her tighter and stared at the numbers above the doors as they ticked down to the lobby, your heart still racing, your throat aching, and the name you didn’t want in your head sitting there anyway.

Viola kicked, startled by the sudden shaking of your body. Her legs thumped against your ribs through the carrier. She let out a small confused noise, then another, like she was asking what happened.

"I’m okay, baby," you whispered to her automatically, even though it was a lie. You bounced her once, trying to settle her, trying to settle yourself. Your heart wouldn’t slow. Your stomach still felt hollow.

You stared at the numbers above the doors as they ticked down.

Your throat ached. Your cheeks burned. Your hands shook. And the insecurity wasn’t squashed at all—it was louder now, sharper, fed by real voices and a real room and the memory of Clark moving toward you too late

.

Clark stayed still for two long seconds after the elevator doors closed on his face.

He heard the murmur of the bullpen slide back into normal noise like nothing had just happened. He still felt the weight of Viola leaving his arms too fast, his body not yet catching up to the loss.

Jimmy hovered a few feet away, face tight, hands half-raised like he wanted to do something and didn’t know what. "Clark—"

"Sorry, not now," Clark muttered, eyes fixed on the elevator bank.

Lois stepped up beside him, jaw clenched. Her eyes tracked the path you’d taken like she wanted to follow and drag you back into safety by force.

"That was disgusting," she snapped, loud enough that Steve could hear if he was still within range. Then her gaze flicked to Clark. "If he says that again, I’m going to staple his tie to his forehead."

Clark finally blinked. He swallowed once, hard.

He wasn’t confused anymore. The last few days lined up in a straight, ugly row. Your flinch in bed. The way you’d stopped reaching for him. The way your "I’m fine" had come out too quick and too flat. The sharpness in your voice when he tried to flirt and tease. The way your eyes kept cutting away whenever Lois’s name came up in conversation like it burned.

And then today—your face when Steve opened his mouth. That split-second of panic before shutdown. Viola as an excuse. Out.

Clark’s hands curled at his sides. His chest felt tight, but his brain was already moving. He needed facts. He needed to get to you before you talked yourself deeper into whatever hole your mind had dug.

He forced his voice steady. "Lois," he murmured.

"Yeah?" she bit out, still furious.

"Cover for me if Perry asks?"

Lois nodded her head once, sharp. "You didn’t have to ask," she ordered. "Go get your wife."

Clark’s gaze flicked toward Steve’s desk. Steve was watching from across the bullpen with that stupid, satisfied look people got when they thought they’d landed a joke. Clark felt something hot rise in him—anger, yes, but more than that, disappointment. The kind that sat heavy in his stomach. Steve wasn’t a kid. He knew what he was doing.

Clark started forward, then checked himself. Not too fast. Not in a blur. Not in a way that would draw eyes and questions. His fingers flexed once like he wanted to grab steel and bend it until it screamed.

He didn’t.

This wasn’t about teaching Steve a lesson first. This was about you.

He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair with controlled movements. He didn’t bother with his tie. His mind kept flashing to your face as the elevator doors closed. Your lips pressed together too hard. Your eyes glassy. The way you’d turned away like you couldn’t bear to look at him a second longer.

The thought that hit hardest was simple. You were hurting, and you hadn’t told him.

He kept walking as Clark Kent—husband, best friend, the man who knew the sound you made right before you cried—because this wasn’t a rescue.

It was a conversation he needed to earn.

.

Clark found you before you made it to the corner.

You stood near the side entrance of the building, half-hidden by a concrete pillar and a row of newspaper boxes. The wind cut through the street canyon and tugged at your blouse. Your cheeks were blotchy. Mascara had smudged beneath one eye. You bounced Viola against your chest in short, restless motions like you were trying to keep both of you from falling apart.

Viola fussed in the carrier, tiny face scrunched. Her legs kicked, little heels thumping against your ribs. Her hands patted at your collarbone, then clenched into your blouse. 

Clark slowed before he reached you. Not because he wanted to, but because people were still coming and going behind him. He forced his breathing even. He kept his hands loose at his sides.

"Sweetheart," he called, quiet but firm.

You turned too fast, eyes wide like you’d been caught doing something wrong. Your chin lifted immediately. "Go away, Clark. I’m fine."

Clark stopped a few feet away, giving you space while his chest felt too tight to hold air. He took in the wet shine at the corners of your eyes and the way your fingers trembled on Viola’s back. Fine wasn’t even close.

He tipped his head toward the small recessed alcove beside the entrance—out of the main foot traffic, still public enough that you wouldn’t feel trapped. "Come here with me."

"I don’t need—" Your voice cracked. You swallowed hard and tried again, sharper. "Clark, I said I’m fine. I just need to go home."

"Then I’ll go home with you," he replied, keeping his tone steady. He stepped closer, careful not to crowd you. "But not like this."

Your mouth tightened. You looked past him, toward the street, toward escape. Viola let out a louder cry and kicked again, feeding off your tension. You bounced her faster. "She needs me."

"Then she’s got you," Clark assured,  eyes flicking to Viola’s face with momentary tenderness. "And you’ve got me. Just—please. Two minutes."

He watched you fight with yourself. He could see it in the way your shoulders rose and didn’t drop. Finally, you nodded once, stiff.

Clark guided you into the alcove. It smelled faintly of wet concrete and old paper. The noise of the street dulled. He leaned back against the wall so you had room, so you didn’t feel pinned.

You wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand, smearing it worse. You seemed to realize and flinched, embarrassed, then turned your face away.

Clark’s voice softened. "Talk to me, sweetheart." He pleaded, then added, slower, "Please. I can’t help if I don’t understand."

"I don’t need help," you muttered.

Clark exhaled through his nose, controlled. "Then tell me what’s happening," he urged, palms open, not touching you. "Just tell me."

Your throat bobbed. You stared down at Viola like she might give you the right answer. Viola quieted to a small whine, eyes blinking, warm breath puffing against your skin.

You forced out a shaky laugh that had no humor in it. "This is so stupid."

Clark didn’t take the bait. "It didn’t look stupid when you ran out of the bullpen."

You swallowed again. Your voice came out smaller. "Steve’s an ass."

"Yes," Clark agreed, clipped. "He’s an ass. But that wasn’t the first thing. This has been days."

Your eyes snapped to his, startled. Then guilt flickered through your face. For a second you looked like you might deny it again. Then your shoulders sagged, like you’d been holding them up out of stubbornness and they finally gave out.

"I love you, Clark," you blurted, breathy and sudden, like you needed it on the table before anything else. "I love Viola. I love our life. I love—" Your voice caught. You blinked hard, and a tear slid down anyway. "I don’t feel like myself."

Clark’s focus locked in. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t push. He just stayed there, listening.

You wiped your cheek again, more carefully this time. "My body doesn’t feel like mine. I’m tired all the time. I smell like milk and spit-up. I look in the mirror and I can’t tell what I’m supposed to… do with my face anymore." Your mouth twisted. "And I know you’re still—"  You glanced at him, then away, ashamed. "You’re still you. Handsome, kind, infuriating you."

Clark kept his face calm, but his stomach dropped. He’d been seeing you through love and familiarity—through the way you held your daughter, through the way you got things done while running on nothing. He hadn’t realized how loud your own criticism had gotten.

"I had this dream a few nights ago," you pushed on, words speeding up like you wanted to get it over with. "And it was—God, it was so embarrassing. I felt like a teenager."

Clark stayed still. His voice came low. "You don’t have to be embarrassed with me."

You flinched at the softness, like it made you want to break. Your eyes filled again.

"It was basically a wet dream," you admitted, barely above a whisper. Your cheeks flushed. "It was with you. It felt like everything you’d do."

Clark exhaled and tilted his head, trying to follow, "Okay."

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second. When you opened them, you looked devastated.

"Clark," you started, and your voice shook hard, "you called me Lois during sex."

His chest seized.

You rushed to correct, panicked. "Dream-you. But it was your voice. It was your mouth. It was—" You swallowed like you might gag on the words. "You. It felt so real."

Clark went still. His hands didn’t move. His face didn’t change much, but inside him something split open with a clean, sharp dread.

He hated the dream version of him immediately. He hated the way it had reached into your most vulnerable place and stuck a knife there.

He kept his voice steady. "Hey. Look at me."

You hesitated, then lifted your eyes.

Clark, swallowed, arranging this thoughts. Then he spoke carefully. "Dreams aren’t vows. They aren’t the truth." He swallowed again. "That nightmare hurt you. I’m so sorry it did. But it wasn’t me choosing someone else."

Your laugh came out wet. "It was still your voice."

"I know." Clark’s gaze held yours. "And I hate that it used my voice."

You sniffed, angry tears now. "It’s all I can hear last three days. And then Steve—stupid Steve—" Your mouth tightened around another sob. "Seeing you and Lois and Viola, all together, it felt like I was standing off to the side watching something I wasn’t part of."

Clark’s brows pulled in. He shook his head once. "You are part of it. You’re the center of it."

You looked unconvinced. "I love Lois," you blurted, needing that said before it got twisted. "She’s my friend. She’s been good to me, to our family. I don’t want to be unfair. I don’t want to act like she’s done something wrong when she hasn’t." Your voice cracked. "But Clark, why would Steve even say that? Why would he call it that if there wasn’t—if people didn’t think—"

"Because Steve likes attention," Clark cut in, blunt. "Because he thinks being cruel is funny. Because he likes watching people squirm." His eyes hardened. "That’s it. That’s the whole reason."

You swallowed, still shaking. "But he said it so easily."

Clark stepped closer, slow. His voice turned firmer as he said you. "Listen to me."

Your eyes stayed on his.

"Lois is my colleague," he stated, precise. "My partner at work. That’s it." His hand gently grabbed yours, lifting it up to admire your wedding ring. "You are my wife. You are my best friend."

Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak.

He kept going, precise, because vague comfort wouldn’t cut it. "Lois knows Superman the headline. You know Clark." His mouth tightened at the thought and he forced himself to keep steady. "You know the man who forgets where he put the burp cloth and tears the apartment apart like it’s a crisis. You know the kid who used to trip over his own boots and pretend he meant to. You know Ma’s pie recipe because you made it with her. You know what I look like when I’m scared and trying to hide it."

Your eyes flicked, searching his face. For uncertainty. For anything that would confirm a lie.

"You gave me a daughter," Clark added, voice rougher now. "You gave me a family. All that pain and blood and tears, and you still got up and fed her and held her and loved her when you were exhausted." He swallowed hard. "Darlin’, I have never looked at you and felt anything but lucky you picked me."

Your breath hitched. You shook your head like you didn’t want to accept it. "What if you’re… relieved you have someone like Lois all day," you forced out, voice thin with fear. "Someone you connect with. And then you come home to… me."

The words landed like a punch, not because they were true, but because he could hear how long you’d been carrying them alone.

Clark’s eyes burned. He didn’t let himself blink too long.

"No," Clark replied immediately. Sharp with certainty. Then he gentled it, because Viola kicked again and you flinched like your whole body was on edge. "Never. I’m not relieved to come home to you. Coming home to you is the best part of my day."

You stared at him, disbelieving.

His voice lowered. "I watch you with Viola at three in the morning and you don’t even know I’m awake. You still touch my wrist in your sleep like when we were kids. You laugh at all the dumb things I say and it fixes my whole day." His throat tightened, pressing a kiss along your ring finger’s knuckle. "And when I see you wearing this ring and call me your husband,…" He swallowed. "I still can’t believe I get to be him."

Your eyes spilled over again. You laughed once, broken, then pressed your lips together hard.

"Can I touch you?"

You hesitated, then nodded, small.

Clark let go of your hand and stepped in close, cupping your jaw gently, careful of Viola between you. His thumb wiped the smear beneath your eye. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your cheek—warm, steady contact. He kept his palm against your face like he was reminding you: you’re here, you’re real, I choose you. 

"I could never want anyone else," he murmured, voice tight. "I could never be with anyone else." His mouth twitched, a flash of sadness cutting through. "When I talk some sense into Steve for hurting you—and if I could get my hands on dream-me for hurting you like this, I would."

A sound broke out of you that was half laugh, half sob. Viola answered with a soft coo, as if the shift in your body registered. Her little fist relaxed against your blouse.

Clark leaned in and kissed your mouth—slow at first, then deeper when you finally leaned into it. Your free hand lifted, trembling, and threaded into his curls like you used to, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch.

He pulled you in deeper, one arm around your back in a short lift, keeping his touch steady and comfortable with Viola between you.

You laughed into his mouth, still crying. "I hate my brain, but I love you," you whispered against him, blinking away the last of your tears.

"I love you," Clark murmured with equal relief and pain, pressing his forehead to yours. "Never doubt that."

Then he tucked you into his chest, you didn’t flinch away. You let him hold you like he’d been trying to since the moment you woke up that awful night. And the ugly sound of that dream—Lois’s name in his voice—finally started to fade under the real thing: your breathing, Viola’s little noises, and Clark’s steady heartbeat right against you.

.

You went back up with Clark the same day because he asked you to—no pressure, no guilt, just a quiet, steady, please.

"Come with me," he requested. "Just stand with me. I want you there."

So you did.

Not right away. Not until your face stopped feeling puffy and your breathing stopped stuttering. Not until Viola was fed and sleepy and your body stopped shaking from the aftershock. Clark didn’t rush you. He stayed close and calm, hands steady. He told you what he was going to do before he did it. He didn’t want you blindsided again.

The bullpen felt smaller when you walked in again. Clark kept one hand at the small of your back the whole walk from the elevator. You were aware of people looking up and then looking away fast. 

Lois was at your side instantly. Her expression was tight with concern, focused on just you. She came close enough for you to hear her without anyone else catching it.

"Hey," Lois murmured. "I’m really sorry. Are you okay?"

You swallowed. Your throat still felt raw. "It’s not your fault."

"I want to be very clear about something," Lois kept her voice low. "There is nothing with Clark. There has never been anything. Not even close." Her eyes held yours. "I would rather eat a stapler."

A surprised sound almost came out of you—half laugh, half snort—caught in your throat.

Lois’s mouth twitched, but she stayed serious. "I mean it. Steve’s a creep who likes hearing himself talk. Don’t let him make you feel stupid."

Your eyes burned again. You nodded once, hugging her briefly.

Clark didn’t let the moment stretch. He glanced at Lois in your embrace with quiet gratitude. Lois gave a short nod back like: go handle it.

Steve was at his desk, half-turned in his chair like he’d already heard you were back. His mouth opened with a grin that didn’t fully form.

Clark didn’t let it.

He stopped a few feet from Steve’s chair. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t posture. He just looked at him, steady and flat.

"Steve," Clark started, calm. Not loud. Not exactly friendly.

Steve’s grin tried to appear anyway. "Hey, Kent—"

"Don’t call my coworker my wife again," Clark cut in. "And don’t call anyone my wife except my wife."

Steve blinked, then scoffed in disbelief. "It was a joke, man."

"It wasn’t funny," Clark replied without getting louder. "You embarrassed her. You embarrassed Lois. You turned my marriage into a punchline in front of a room full of people."

Steve shifted in his chair. His grin slipped. He glanced around like he expected someone to save him from this. Nobody did. "Alright, alright—"

Clark nodded once toward you. "Apologize."

Steve blinked. "Right now?"

"Right now," Clark confirmed.

Steve stood up, slow, shoulders a little tight. He looked at you, then at the floor, then at Viola like he didn’t know where to put his eyes. He was equally clueless where to put his hands.

"I—" He cleared his throat. "I’m sorry. That comment was… out of line."

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t pretty. But it was real enough that you could hear him hating it.

You kept your face steady. You used the voice you used with difficult families at work—calm, calm, direct, no room for negotiation.

"I hear you," you replied. Then you added, without smiling, "You also need to apologize to Lois. You dragged her into it, too."

Steve’s eyes flicked past you to where Lois was standing a few desks away, arms crossed, watching like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole career.

"Yes, ma’am," Steve blurted too fast. His ears went red. "I will."

"Now," you told him, same tone.

Steve swallowed. He turned toward Lois, stiff. "Lois… I’m sorry. That was stupid of me to say. It won’t happen again."

Lois held his stare for a beat, then nodded once. "It better not."

Clark didn’t linger. He didn’t wait for reactions. He didn’t need anyone to clap or laugh or make it easier. His hand returned to your back, and he guided you away toward the elevator like that was the end of it—because for him, it was.

A boundary. A correction. Done.

And the whole time, he kept you close enough that no one could question that you weren’t the center of his life.

.

That evening, you stayed in the apartment with Viola. The day’s drama still sat heavy on your shoulders, your throat, your nose, your eyes, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It wasn’t cutting. It was just… there.

You bathed her, warm water steaming your hands. She kicked and splashed, squealing at the rubber duck like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. You dried her off, lotioned her legs, wrestled her into pajamas. You folded tiny onesies at the coffee table, clean laundry smell in your nose, her baby monitor humming softly in the background.

Clark came home later than usual. You heard his key, the click of the lock, the sound of the door closing behind him. He kicked off his shoes, and crossed the living room without taking his eyes off you, 

He cupped your face and kissed you without trying to turn it into anything more than a warm greeting. Then he reached into his messenger bag.

"Jimmy printed this," he explained with a bashful grin. "There’s a copy on my desk."

He handed you a stiff slip of paper, a photo. It was from earlier—right when you’d walked into the bullpen. Clark was holding Viola against his chest, her fist tangled in his tie. His glasses were slightly crooked. You were tucked against his side, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his arm. Your face looked soft. Tired, yes, but soft. Not a spectator.

You flipped it over.

On the back, in Clark’s neat block, handwriting, were nine simple words:

This is my life. This is my favorite name.

Your throat tightened. You stared at it until your eyes stung again.

Clark stepped in behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. "I’m sorry you carried that alone," he murmured into your hair. "I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me."

You leaned back into him. "You didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t want to sound crazy."

"You weren’t crazy," he answered immediately. "You were hurt."  His arms squeezed you once. "And I hate that you were hurt."

He turned you slowly in his arms until you were facing him. His eyes searched your face like he was checking for doubt all over again. 

"I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. Never forget that."

.

Later, when the apartment was dark and Viola was settled in her bassinet, you let him take his time with you.

He kissed your stomach, nose running along fading stretch marks. He kissed your hips, warm hands working in tandem. He kissed the sensitive skin of your breasts with a gentleness that made you exhale shakily. He didn’t rush. He didn’t make it about fixing you. He made it about seeing you.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, mouth feather-light against your skin. "All of you. I think about you all day. I have to fight not to fly home and have you."

A small, breathy laugh slipped out of you as his thumb brushed against the sensitive patch of skin between your hip and thigh. 

"Clark," you breathed, half-warning, half-amused. You carded your fingers through his hair, nails lightly scatching his scalp. "Not unless you’re planning on giving Viola a sibling right now."

He chuckled and leaned into your touch. He lifted his head and kissed your neck. "Right, too soon," he agreed. "I can be patient."

From the bassinet, Viola made a little noise in her sleep—one of those soft, startled baby sounds—then settled again. You both stilled, listened, then smiled at each other as she settled back to sleep. 

Clark pressed his face into the side of your neck and let out a long breath.

"I love you," he whispered.

And then he said your name. The one he’d been carrying since you were kids. The one he learned before he ever learned how to kiss you. Not a mistake. Not a slip. Not a dream.

You closed your eyes and let your body settle into his embrace, letting the day finally end the right way.

.

On Monday, a bright yellow piece of paper is stuck to the top of the coffee maker. Written in his scratchy handwriting there's a message: You took a lot of the bed last night. But I still love you. Enjoy your coffee. - J

On Wednesday, it felt like you were sprinting through the house to try to make it to work on time. When you grabbed your keys from the entryway bowl, a neon pink note was resting on your keychain: Your laptop is still in the office. You look beautiful. See you at 1800. - J

By Friday, the door of your fridge was full of his handwriting, written on sticky notes in all different colors. Your lates one was right on the handle of the fridge door when you went to grab your breakfast: We made it through another week. Two more drills and I'm all yours. Counting down the minutes. - J

A childlike smile fell onto your face as you moved the sticky note to the door of the fridge with the others. The house may physically be empty when you wake up, but the sticky notes are a constant reminder that Jake never really leaves you hanging, even when Hangman is 30,000 feet in the air.

-

After a weekend spent only in each other's presence, Monday quickly snapped Jake back into reality. The bliss of sleeping in with his wife was immediately ruined when his alarm didn't go off. By the time his eyes snapped open, the clock read 5:40 AM.

Panic immediately sets into his bones. The following twenty minutes was a blur. Jake raced around the bedroom, putting his uniform on blindly.

By 6:00, he practically throws himself on top of you as he quickly kisses your forehead. "Darlin, I'm late. Heading out, gotta fly." He didn't even wait for your sleepy mumbles before he was walking out of your house.

It wasn't until later that morning, when he was fully strapped into his jet and ready for takeoff that his brain finally processed the chaos of the morning.

His eyes shot up. The sticky note. Your sticky note.

Through the frantic rush of the morning as he dashed out the door, he completely spaced out the pad of sticky notes on the counter. The realization punches him in the gut. He tries to reach for his phone to text you, but once his fingers reach the empty pocket, he remembers his phone is locked away in the locker. He is cut off from you completely.

Maverick's voice comes through comms, quickly snapping Jake out of his panic. "Hangman, do you copy?"

"Copy, Maverick. Aligned and ready," Jake replies as he's trying to clear the thought from his brain.

For the rest of the morning drill, that forgotten note takes up a large chunk of his mind. He feels the guilt of imagining you waking up and walking downstairs to nothing.

Luckily, he's Hangman. His muscle memory kicks in for him during the training. The second his wheels touch the ground, however, he is out of the cockpit and running to the locker room.

The whole squad is watching him as he scrambles out of the jet and down the hall, his Hangman persona disappearing in a swift motion.

"Woah, where the hell is he going?" Javy chuckles as he sees Jake head toward the hangar.

Jake flies through the locker room doors, throwing his flight helmet onto the bench as his locker is ripped open. He grabs his phone and unlocks it, heading to your messages.

But a notification catches his eye before he can even begin typing. A text from you that was sent an hour ago.

Good morning J! I just got to work and can't wait to see you tonight. Fly safe, I love you! 🤍

His chest feels heavy with affection and guilt. His fingers are flying a mile a minute as he replies to you.

I realized when I was in the cockpit that I didn't write you a note this morning. I'm so sorry darlin. I woke up late and I hate knowing that you woke up to nothing downstairs for you. I love you so much, counting down the minutes until I come home to you.

The message was through a phone screen, but the genuineness of his apology is so clear. Reading it from your office, you can hear his worried tone through it. It makes your heart swell.

By the time 4:15 rolls around, the front door flies open - much different than it's normal, gentle click.

Jake soars into the house looking frantically for you as you're sitting quietly in the living room. Before you can even stand up from the couch, he is dropping onto his knees on the floor in front of you. His hands engulf yours, and he looks up at you with pleading eyes.

You laugh softly, "Jake, breathe. Welcome home."

"Sweetheart I am so sorry," he pleads, his voice distressed. He squeezes your hand. "I haven't stopped thinking about the note since the canopy closed. You woke up and the house was empty with not even one sticky note waiting for you-"

"Jake, love, it really isnt' that big of a deal," you quietly interrupted, placing a soothing kiss to his forehead. "I am not upset, I promise you. You were running late this morning, I completely understand."

"But it is a big deal," Jake insists; he refuses to let himself off of the hook. He rests his elbows on your knees, moving closer to you. "It's our thing. I leave you a note every morning. I swear I'm making this up to you. I'll write you fifty notes tomorrow. I'll write you two hundred notes. They'll be everywhere. The fridge, the mirror, your shoes, your car, every single piece of silverware we own. You won't be able to see a piece of this house that doesn't have paper on it."

You burst out laughing as you cup his face with your hands. "That sounds like a really bad paper cut hazard, Commander."

"It's a risk worth taking," Jake mumbles, a relieved smile finally breaking through him as he relaxes into your touch. He leans up to press his lips to yours that completely resets his mind after his stressful day. "Can you promise me that you know I didn't forget about you?"

"I always know," you whisper against his lips, trying to pull his body up to the couch next to you. "Now, please at least change out of your flight suit before you start writing the first hundred."

-

You woke up on Tuesday morning, the house already quiet. As you pulled the blankets off of you, a smile already tugged at your lips as you remembered Jake's pleading promises from the night before. You told yourself he probably left three or four extra notes down on the counter to make up for his mistake.

You stood up and froze.

Stuck to the center of your house slipper is a bright blue piece of paper. You reach down to pull it off and notice that familiar handwriting:

Good morning darlin. Slide these on and follow the trail. - J

You slip the shoes on and open the bedroom door. The staircase to the main floor is a colorful sea of small, square papers. Jake didn't write two hundred, but he definitely cleared fifty. And he stole your office supply of sticky notes to complete the task.

You head down the stairs, taking each one off of the wall as you walked. He didn't only put them on the walls; he put them on everything.

On the bathroom mirror, dead center: WOW you look pretty today, even fresh out of bed. Especially fresh out of bed.

The thermostat in the hallway? Don't touch this. It's just like your husband: perfect.

You rolled your eyes as a chuckle escaped your lips. You headed down the stairs and into the kitchen. There, the countertops looked like a stationary bomb went off. There's notes on the coffee maker, the mug he left out for you, the sink faucet, and right on the cabinet door.

The one on the coffee maker comes off first: 100% caffeine, 0% chance I forgot about you today. Love you.

When you looked in the fridge for your favorite coffee creamer, there's a neon pink note on the egg carton. These eggs are fragile, but my ego is not. I'm still the best pilot in the Navy. Enjoy your coffee.

You grab your coffee in one hand, a large stack of colorful sticky notes gathered in your other hand. Heading towards the door to grab your keys, you spot one more bright square by the handle of the door. The green sticky note was written in bold black Sharpie, as if he was shouting this message to you.

I told you I was going to do it. Never doubt me. Have a perfect day, Mrs. Seresin. You can count on me to be at home at 1800 to receive my reward as best husband on base. I love you - Jake

You slowly peel the note off of the door, adding it to the top of the rest of your stack. You put them against your chest, your heart flooded with emotion and admiration for your husband. The house might by empty in the morning, but Jake's true, chaotic, arrogant, and sweet love absorbs every corner of your home.

You gather your breakfast, a massive stack of neon papers already accumulating in your left hand, and head toward the front door to grab your keys for work. Slapped squarely over the deadbolt of the front door is a massive, extra-large green sticky note. It’s written in bold, aggressive black sharpie, practically shouting off the wood.

Told you I was going to do this. Never doubt the executioner. Have a perfect day at work, Mrs. Seresin. I'll be home at 18:00 to collect my reward for being the most attentive husband on base. - Jake.

You peel the final note off the door, holding the thick stack of neon paper against your chest, your heart completely full. The house might be empty when you wake up, but Jake’s chaotic, arrogant, and deeply tender love fills every single corner of your world.

-

By Thursday, the normal routine resets: 5:15 alarm, the rustling of Jake getting up in the morning, and the forehead kiss from him before he slips out of the room.

When 6:45 AM rolls around, Jake is walking into the locker room on base. Bradley and Javy are sitting on the benches, finishing getting dressed and groaning about the 7 o'clock briefing.

"Morning, boys," Jake confidently says, his Hangman persona fully locked in. "Ready to chase me today"

"Quiet, Seresin," Bradley groans, rubbing his eyes. "Some of us still need to have coffee."

Jake smirks to himself, reaching into his locker to get his flight helmet. As he lifts the helmet up, he sees something small and bright inside the ear cup.

It's a green neon sticky note.

The smirk on his face turns into a soft smile. He pulls the piece of paper out of the helmet and immediately recognizes your handwriting.

Javy looks over to Jake, raising his eyebrow. "What you got there, Hangman? Secret admirer?"

"Mind your business, Coyote," Jake laughs, his back turning to give himself from privacy. He looks down at the green piece of paper: Waking up in an empty bed sucks, but your fast flying makes up for it. Kick some pilot butt today, Hangman. See you at 1800. - Your Wife

Jake keeps looking at the note for a long moment, warmth flooding through his chest. He delicately peels the note from his helmet, opens his wallet, and puts it safely inside.

"Seresin! Briefing in two minutes, let's go!" Maverick calls out.

"I'm right behind you, Mav," Jake says smoothly. He tucks his helmet under his arm and is ready to dominate the sky. But his heart is on the ground, anchored by a single sticky note.

---

The flight here had been no problem. No unexpected turbulence in the air, you got through the monster that was the Los Angeles airport with an hour to spare, and there were no crying babies or barking dogs on your flight. You had chosen to fly out a few days later than the rest of your coworkers, tying up a few bits and pieces of paperwork for the most recent case you had worked on.

But now you were regretting your decision to skip out on your Bureau-commissioned jet ride to fly commercial instead. Maybe it was the thrill of the upcoming weekend that had blinded you, but being in an airport didn't seem all that horrible just a mere day ago.

Now you were running on fries from the McDonald's within the terminal and the knowledge that maybe, eventually, you would be getting on a flight to D.C. within the next few hours.

From your left, you hear a low chuckle. Glancing over, you spot the man who had been on your same connecting flight from Los Angeles.

You noticed him almost immediately when boarding, his posture and demeanor screaming military. Even now, his hair was combed too neatly, and his expression was too bright to have spent the same amount of time here as you.

"You and me both," he told you with an amused smile and quirked brow.

"I just can't believe they haven't rerouted us or given us any more updates other than pending weather conditions," you told him, complaining freely now.

Maybe a few hours ago, you would've been more guarded, but after sitting in the same gate for the past day, your words now flowed freely.

"I understand a delay for a rainstorm, but it's been sprinkling since 3 in the morning," the man spoke with a disbelieving tone of voice that made you laugh a bit to yourself.

He looked at you as a wave of laughter consumed your body, soon joining in himself. The situation was absurd, and anyone in your position knew that. You shared a look that could only happen in a circumstance like this, an unspoken connection.

"I think I'd rather just get a car at this point and drive. I just don't think they'll refund my flight if I leave now," you sigh as the man next to you just hummed in agreement.

"Yeah, could've been there already. It's not too long a drive," he thought out loud as you laughed in disbelief again.

The familiar chime of the broadcasting system once again rang, leaving both you and the man sitting to your left looking over at the counter.

"Attention passengers for the 539 flight to Washington D.C., we are now offering a full refund on tickets and a $2000 voucher to those who are willing to give up their seats and find alternate transportation to their destination. For more information, please come talk to a representative for the airline."

People around you buzzed at the new information, but no one moved to get up. You glanced over the man next to you once again, trying to confirm something without saying it out loud.

He whistled at the total of the voucher, looking at you to see your reaction. "2 grand, huh?"

"And reimbursement," you said, nodding your head and jutting out your bottom lip.

Still looking at one another, you could tell the man next to you was having the same thoughts.

"My final stop is D.C., but I have to be there by Friday night," you offered up, hoping he would catch on.

"Same. What is it, only 17 hours on the road, should take 2 or 3ish days give or take," he reasoned.

"Perfect timing for us." You raised your brows at the man.

He smiled back knowingly, reaching to put away his charging cord and pack up his water bottle into his bag. You mirrored his movement, double-checking that you had your credentials tucked away safely.

Rising to your feet, the man next to you did the same as you walked over to the help desk.

"You're not like a creepy serial killer or anything like that, are you?" you questioned with a teasing look.

"Quite opposite, actually," he told you with a grin. "Decorated lieutenant in the Navy."

He smiled widely at this, but you just hummed and narrowed your eyes, looking him up and down. "I'll be the judge of that."

"Wow," he laughed, almost in shock, like he couldn't believe you hadn't swooned or lit up with amazement at his title. "Always so cautious?"

"Always," you affirmed with a shrug of your shoulders, like it was something that was built into you.

Jake's eyes now looked over you, trying to figure out where the certainty of your words had come from.

Before reaching the desk, you turned once more to the man whose name you didn't even know yet to confirm. "So, we're really going to do this?"

He smiled and nodded before speaking, "I've done a lot less for 2000 dollars."

You laughed at this, and his smile seemed to widen, more authentic this time.

"I'm glad we have 3 days on the road, because we'll need to unpack that," you said before turning and heading over to the desk.

જ⁀➴

Jake had snatched the keys from the rental car counter before you could even blink. You think it might have been his sharp smile or jests that distracted you, but as soon as you got settled into the passenger's seat of the car, you fell asleep within the first 15 minutes of the drive.

He opted to not disturb you, not even to turn on the radio. Looking over at your sleeping figure, he made sure to slow down during sharp turns and to keep a good amount of space between him and the cars around him on the freeway, not wanting any sudden stops to disrupt your sleep.

Jake would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed you on the first flight. Your seat was a bit in front of his on the opposite side, and while he was never one to people-watch or eavesdrop, he couldn't help but look as you talked across the aisle with an older woman.

You had a sweet smile on your face and nodded when she talked, and that was all Jake expected. But after 15 minutes of watching both of you, he noticed how engaged you were. You genuinely asked her questions and sat back to listen. He could tell she needed someone to talk to, and you were the perfect candidate.

Not to mention, you were beautiful. The fullness of your cheeks whenever you smiled, the softness of your lips, and your lashes batting every few minutes, had Jake on the edge of his seat, nothing else distracting him, not even the whirling of the loud engines.

Around the 5-hour mark of driving, Jake gently rubbed your shoulder as he pulled into a small diner.

"Ready to eat, Sleeping Beauty?" he asks in a soft voice, not trying to tug fun at you too much. He was happy you were able to fall asleep so easily in front of him after only a few conversations.

You hummed at the touch and words, stretching out a bit in your seat. Jake watched as the t-shirt on your frame tugged up, showing a sliver of your stomach in the process. Between the small huffs and exposed skin, Jake turned away to hide his blush.

It was an odd reaction from him; he was never particularly flustered when seeing some skin, but it was something about the intimacy of it. Watching the relaxed look on your face for the past few hours and seeing how you shifted around next to him made Jake feel like he knew you in a different way, in a way that most people didn't get to see.

"Thanks for not killing me. I was half expecting to wake up in an abandoned cabin in the woods, not Johnny's Roadside Diner." Your voice was quiet, but Jake could see the small smile that graced your face as you looked out at the stop he had chosen.

"What am I going to have to do to win your trust?" he asks, opening the door of the rental car as you did the same.

You hummed, contemplating your answer. But after a few seconds, Jake saw the way your face lit up before speaking, "Buying me a milkshake is a good place to start."

"I'll buy you a whole meal, sweetheart," he tells you with a smile, but you just roll your eyes playfully at him. Jake grabs the door, making you duck under his large frame to enter the small diner.

The host led you towards a small booth near the window. Jake watches as you take in the decor, your eyes lingering on the picture frames hanging on the wall of what looks like the owners and staff over time. Sitting on the bouncy plastic of the booth, you smile softly at the staff as they hand off the menus and leave you alone.

The diner was quiet, other than the low-volume classic rock music coming from a jukebox and the two older men talking lowly at the bar top; it seemed like you and Jake were in your own bubble.

Scanning the menu, you speak unexpectedly. "So, Jake Seresin. Tell me about yourself and your go-to diner meal."

He laughs a bit at this, the question loaded at the front and amusing at the end. Something that Jake figures is normal for you.

"Definitely the Steakhouse Burger with fresh jalapenos," he tells you as you hum. "And I'm a TOPGUN graduate with a Navy Corps Commendation Medal, a Navy Achievement Medal, a National Defense Service Medal–"

Before he could continue, you cut him with a laugh and bright smile. "Whoa. I asked about you, not your medals. Impressive, by the way, just not really what I was looking for."

You tilt your head to the side, looking at Jake, trying to see if he would open up to you.

"Right, sorry." He smiles sheepishly, and a pink dusting appears on his cheeks not long afterwards. "I grew up in Texas," he starts, a little quieter than before. Jake hopes that you take this piece of information and do something good with it, hopes you don't mock him for starting here.

"Texas?" you ask, a smile on your face as he just nods at your question. "Farm boy? No way you're from the city."

He laughs at this, eyes crinkling up at your accurate assessment.

"Yep, born and raised farm boy. Got three older sisters, all still in Texas," Jake offers up as you raise your brows.

"Do you want to move back out when you're older? Or happy with where you're at?" you ask, hoping this might open him up a little more.

He takes a minute, thinking before he gives you an answer. "I like where I'm at now, but maybe I'll move back when I start a family. Don't really get too much of a choice with my job, though," Jake says sincerely. You can almost see the sparkle in his eye as he talks about his future family; it's sweet.

"Family man, then."

"Yes, through and through," he says quickly, a soft smile on his face.

"Yeah, family's important. But, it's hard being away from them," you tell him, breaking eye contact to look down at your nails. "My job takes me away from my loved ones pretty often, too. Maybe not across the globe, like you, but still."

He hadn't said one thing about missing his family or being scared to leave them, but you had picked up on it almost immediately. And you did so by being vulnerable yourself, not putting the spotlight on him.

It freaked him out a bit if he was being honest. But another part of him wondered how you figured it out so easily.

Just as he was about to open his mouth and ask, your waiter appeared at the table ready to take your order. Telling him what you wanted with a polite smile, you handed the menu back to the younger-looking boy and then turned you attention back to Jake.

You watched as his fingers rubbed up against the edge of the table in soothing motions, back and forth. His eyes not quite meeting yours again.

"Do you do that a lot?" you asked him, breaking the tension once more.

At this, Jake looked at you, seeing a small smile on your face. He didn't know what you meant, but knew it wasn't supposed to be malicious. "Do what?"

"Answer questions without really answering them," you said, raising your brows, watching as his face twisted.

"I told you about my family." It was almost defensive in the way he said it, like he had given you information no one else knew about him.

You nodded, trying not to laugh. "You did. And your job and where you're from."

"Those are all normal things to tell someone," he argued back, arms now crossing over his chest.

"Maybe, but that's not what I asked for."

"You want to get to know me, that's me. My family, my job, where I was raised," he pushed back.

You shrugged, leaning back into the booth as Jake seemed to now be on the edge of his seat. "I don't know," you said, head shaking a bit.

"You don't know?" he repeated, eyes narrowing like he was studying you.

You bit down on your bottom lip briefly to contain your smile. "I guess it's just the difference between a biography and a person, y'know?"

For a moment, Jake just stared at you. But this time, his face had relaxed, and his shoulders had dropped, no longer looking to see if you were going to attack. Instead, he was now trying to figure out what to give you.

Most people were satisfied with the call sign, the medals, and the confidence. They liked the polished version. The one who knew exactly what to say and how to say it.

But you didn't seem interested in that at all.

"So, who's Jake?" you asked again, softer this time.

He looked out the window of the diner for a few seconds, eyes tracking the cars that sped past on the nearby road.

"I'm the youngest," he finally spoke. Hands still moving back and forth against the edge of the table, eyes not quite meeting yours yet.

Still, you waited.

"By a lot." A small smile tugged at his mouth at this, like he was recalling a memory.

You hummed, and he finally turned to look at you once again.

"My sisters used to drag me everywhere. Tea parties. School plays. Dance recitals." He shook his head. "They treated me like a doll half the time."

You laughed at his words, and he just smiled at your actions.

"I'm serious," he told you, hands raised like he was being interrogated.

Your laughter continued, head thrown back a bit before you added on, "I can absolutely picture little Jake getting his hair brushed and makeup done."

"That's classified information." His finger pointed out at you at this.

Your grin widened, and Jake found himself smiling too.

"My parents…" He paused, sucking his teeth a bit. "They were good parents. Still are. Worked hard. Expected us to work hard too."

It was quiet again, crackling from the kitchen and the whooshing of the overhead cooling systems in the background.

"There wasn't really room for failure." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Your expression softened at his admission. "That's a lot to carry when you're a kid."

He shrugged automatically. "It made me who I am."

"Maybe," you said, voice still soft and inviting. Your hand itched against your jeans, wanting to reach out to his from under the table. But you kept it against your denim-clad thigh even as you watched his fingers move tiredly against the table.

The answer seemed to surprise him, though, eyes narrowing a bit as he looked at you. "Maybe?" he repeated.

You nodded.

"Or maybe you would've become a good person anyway," you offered, like it was the easiest thing to say, like it didn't tear open a part of his heart.

Jake didn't know what to say to that. The idea felt foreign. His entire life had been built on earning things: good grades, flight school, his wings, TOPGUN, promotions, respect.

Every milestone was another box checked. Another expectation met.

He wasn't sure he'd ever considered who he was without all of it.

"You know," you said after a moment, "you don't have to be Lieutenant Seresin while you're with me."

Jake snapped out of his stupor at this.

You smiled gently before continuing. "You don't have to anybody's golden boy. I just want to know Jake."

He felt his chest tighten. For the first time since you'd met him in that airport terminal, Jake found himself at a complete loss for words.

And strangely enough, he didn't hate it.

જ⁀➴

"Please tell me we're stopping for the night," you groaned from the passenger's seat. Somewhere between the empty cups of coffee from the diner back in Madison and the annoying voice of the GPS announcing that you had reached Chicago, Jake and you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm.

Maybe it was the aching in your back or the pent-up energy you had from sleeping earlier in the day, but you were itching to get out of the rental car.

Jake laughed as you squirmed in your seat. It had been fun watching you for the past few hours, trying anything and everything to keep yourself entertained.

First, it was a game of I-Spy, but you got over that pretty quickly after Jake had beaten you almost every round. He swore he heard you mumble something about him cheating under your breath. Second, you read the car's safety manual for about five minutes, then put it away, saying you were going to get sick and Jake needed to pull over. His eyes widened at your claim, his mouth opening to ask if you were okay, but you quickly put up a hand to silence him as you huffed in the seat next to him. But most recently, you had been on your phone, doing what, Jake had no idea. But every so often, you gasped silently and jotted something down on a spare napkin from the diner he hadn't even realized you grabbed.

"That's the plan," he told you, eyes glancing over at your sprawled out figure just briefly.

Pulling up to the hotel in the heart of the city, you had practically cheered as Jake put the car in park.

You tugged on your backpack, but before you could grab your carry-on, Jake was hauling it out of the back, claiming it as his own. He had even opened every door from the parking garage to your hotel room, despite both hands being full.

Each time, you laughed and shot him a smile. "Thank you, Jake."

By the time you had reached the hotel room, his cheeks were dusted pink from your careful attention.

You flopped down on your bed face-first. Jake mirrored you, sinking into the desk chair near the entrance of the room.

"It's not even dark yet." Your voice was muffled, face still buried in the white covers.

Trying not to laugh too hard, Jake bit the inside of his cheek.

"Are you tired?" you ask, body rising and twisting to face him. Your hair was now ruffled and your eyes a bit glossy, something that made Jake's heart pound.

"Not really, no," he said honestly.

A smile crept up on your face at this. "Tourist stuff?" you suggested, bottom lip trapped underneath your teeth, trying to contain the grin that would surely light up your face when Jake inevitably agreed.

He raised a brow at your request, but you could see the hidden smile on his face before he confirmed your idea.

"Tourist stuff."

Sure enough, the apples of your cheeks rounded, and you bounced up from your place on the bed.

જ⁀➴

At the Bean, Jake quickly discovered that "tourist stuff" apparently meant being recruited into photographs. You were already approaching a woman holding out an old digital camera before he could protest.

"Would you mind taking our picture?" you asked her sweetly.

The stranger smiled immediately, nodding as you handed off the camera and walked back towards him.

Jake blinked.

Our?

You stepped beside him naturally, like it hadn't required a second thought.

The woman lifted the camera and smiled at the two of you.

Instinctively, Jake moved closer. The picture snapped.

Your hand snuck around his waist before the next one.

By the last click, his arm was draped around your shoulder, big hand landing on your smaller shoulder.

The woman handed your camera back, and you wished her a good day, saying thank you too many times to count.

You immediately started clicking through the photos.

Jake stared at you incredulously.

"What?" You looked up to meet his gaze.

"Nothing," he shrugged, lips pouting a bit.

"No, seriously," you pushed, chin now tilted up to meet his eyes fully.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Why'd you want me in them?"

You looked genuinely confused. You could hear the insecurity hidden in his voice, buried but still there.

"Because it's our trip," you offered, voice certain and firm.

He huffed out a laugh. "That's not an answer."

"Sure it is."

His eyes narrowed, still not willing to accept your answer.

"I scrapbook."

Jake snorted at this. "You scrapbook?"

Your brow furrowed, and you gasped dramatically, hand coming up to your chest in mock offense. "Don't sound so surprised."

"I just didn't peg you for a scrapbooker." The way his voice danced, and the grin spread across his face, made you roll your eyes.

"Well, Jake, sometimes people contain multitudes." You picked up your camera again and snapped a picture of him, a grin still painted on his face.

That earned a loud laugh.

"I take pictures everywhere," you told him, the smile on your face softened. "It helps."

Jake's face twisted with confusion at this. "Helps with what?"

You hesitated, shrugging and looking away from him for the second time since meeting. "When work gets bad."

Jake watched you carefully.

You rarely talked about your job beyond vague comments and carefully selected stories. When he had asked questions back at the diner, you had waved them off.

"What do you do with them?" his voice was careful now, no teasing lit in it.

"The pictures?"

He nodded as you looked back up at him.

You glanced back at the screen, clicking through the memories. "Sometimes life gets ugly," the answer came quietly. "And sometimes I need proof that it isn't always like that."

Jake felt something tighten in his chest. He wanted to ask you more, to push you to open up. What type of things were you doing that you needed these reminders? Had anyone hurt you? How could he help you with this pain?

A small smile found your face again after this, but Jake could tell it didn't quite meet your eyes. "This way I can remember the good parts."

The good parts.

His mind drifted to the photograph you had just insisted on taking. To himself, standing beside you. To the smile on your face.

And for a second, Jake couldn't stop thinking about the fact that you'd counted him among them.

જ⁀➴

Drifting around the city for what seemed like forever, you had finally landed in a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. Bright, neon red lettering read Bellissima across the brick patterning. You grinned at Jake as you tugged him into the small building.

Red checkered tablecloths and wine bottles decorated the interior. Old music played in the background. And at the end of the restaurant, there was a tiny black and white photo booth.

Of course, your eyes found it almost immediately, and you whipped around to look at Jake.

"Oh, my God."

"No."

"Oh, my God."

"Absolutely not."

Five minutes later, he was squeezed into the tiny booth beside you.

"Move over," he half-complained. You were perched up on his lap, one leg thrown over his. The warmth of your body seeped through his denim, making him want to melt into you.

You huffed, pushing up onto his lap even more. "There is literally nowhere to move."

The curtain slid shut as he huffed.

The first flash went off before either of you could prepare, painting a funny and honest picture where Jake was rolling his eyes, and you were scowling at him.

The second click caught Jake and you locking eyes instead of looking at the camera, a small smile on his face, while you bit down on your lip, grinning.

The third featured your hand covering your mouth as you laughed. Jake's smile now overtakes his face, his eyes still trained on you.

The fourth was completely ruined because neither of you stopped laughing in time. Blurry, but still capturing your hands coming up to brace against Jake's chest as his own poked your cheek teasingly.

The machine rattled as you stood outside of it, waiting for a single strip of photos to slide out.

But then, there was another that followed the first. You grabbed both eagerly as Jake laughed. He watched as you studied them, a smile growing on your face.

Without a word, you handed him one.

"For me?" he asked, surprised you had handed one over.

"Obviously," you told him, like it was a no-brainer.

He looked down at the pictures. A stupid little photobooth strip. Four grainy photos. Nothing special.

Except suddenly it felt very special.

"Thanks," he spoke sincerely, eyes still looking at the pictures.

Your smile widened at this, now carefully watching him. "You're welcome."

Jake folded the strip carefully before sliding it into his wallet.

જ⁀➴

Emerging from the steamy bathroom, Jake had a towel draped around his neck and was now changed into an old TOPGUN shirt and loose boxers.

He doesn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't this. Jake thought that maybe he'd find you reading a book or scrolling on your phone before bed. Maybe even scrapbooking. But the room was quiet and dark, only his bedside lamp dimly illuminating his surroundings.

For a moment, he thought you'd gone somewhere, maybe out to grab some ice from the machine down the hallway or off wandering around by the pool.

Then he spotted you.

Curled beneath the blankets, fast asleep. Your face was smushed into the soft pillow, mouth open just a bit. It was similar to the scene he had witnessed in the car, but now your entire body was relaxed and sprawled out across the bed. You looked peaceful like this.

And the colorful pajamas you'd changed into looked ridiculously comfortable. The pink fabric loose around your skin made everything about you seem softer.

To top it all off, there were little gel patches beneath your eyes, still in place despite your positioning. It made him chuckle a bit under his breath, and Jake couldn't help the smile that pulled at his mouth.

Cute.

The thought arrived immediately. Dangerously easy for only really knowing you for about one day. He shook his head, trying to shake away the feeling in his chest.

Crossing the room, he lowered himself onto the edge of his own bed. It was soft and cushy, but the sheets were cold when he slipped underneath them. Jake couldn't help but think back to how your arm felt around his waist or the weight of your body on his in the photo booth.

He wasn't sure why you had claimed the bed closest to the door. Jake had tried taking it, but you had claimed you'd sleep better this way. He didn't like the thought of you being the first line of defense if anything happened. Again, he rolled his shoulders, trying to push away those thoughts.

The city glowed beyond the curtains. It was surreal being in Chicago in the first place, but the circumstances made him smile. Walking down the busy streets with you today, hand finding yours if the crowds got too big or too pushy, was something that made Jake's stomach toss.

Traffic hummed somewhere below. He recalled you hailing a cab after dinner. It seemed like second nature to you. He remembers wanting to grab your waist as you stepped out into traffic. But with a raised hand and confident stride, a yellow taxi had pulled up next to you within 10 seconds.

His gaze drifted toward the nightstand. Toward the photo booth strip sticking out of his wallet. A souvenir from a day that shouldn't have mattered, shouldn't have even happened. A woman he should have only known for a delayed flight.

Jake had spent most of his adult life leaving.

Leave home. Leave training. Leave bases. Leave countries.

The people worth missing were always waiting somewhere else.

But sometime between Minneapolis and Chicago, his brain had apparently forgotten the rules.

Because when he thought about tomorrow, he wasn't thinking about Washington.

He was thinking about how many hours were left in the drive.

How many meals.

How many bad gas station coffees.

How many chances he'd have to hear that laugh again.

The realization settled heavily in his chest. Not because he wanted you, no, he couldn't want that. Those thoughts couldn't have a place in his heart. That part had become painfully obvious.

But something else tugged in his brain.

How you'd eventually leave.

And for the first time in a very long time, Jake wasn't sure he wanted to be the one left behind.

You shifted slightly in your sleep. The blankets rustled, then settled again.

A soft inhale and exhale.

Jake leaned back against the headboard and just listened.

For years, his life had been noise. Jet engines. Radio chirping. Big expectations. High pressure. Constant movement.

But here, in a cheap hotel room in Chicago, he just listened to your steady breathing.

Jake felt something he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Peace.

And it scared him a little how badly he didn't want the feeling to end.

જ⁀➴

By the time you left Chicago the next morning, you were feeling significantly more human. You had woken up before Jake, giving yourself time to get ready without disrupting him. By the time you had come out of the bathroom, he was changed out of his pajamas, but his hair was ruffled, and his face was still a little puffy. It was something so small, but it made your heart race.

Walking back to the car, you had now had your morning coffee. Jake had his too, matching cups in your hands. And the world seemed manageable again. Not life-ending like yesterday morning at the airport.

Which was exactly why you held your hand out for the rental car keys.

Jake looked down at your palm. Then back up at you.

"No."

"What do you mean no?" you asked, slightly taken aback by his response.

"No," he repeated, lighter this time, like he was about to laugh.

You scoffed at this. "Why? Because I'm a woman?"

Jake's eyes widened.

"What?" His voice rose to a pitch you had yet to hear. It was almost amusing.

"You heard me," you stated, hand snatching the keys from his grasp in this moment of weakness.

Before you could react, he plucked the keys directly from your hand again.

"No."

He started walking toward the driver's side.

"Jake!" you called out, but he didn't stop. "Why? I feel great. And you did all of the driving yesterday."

He looked over his shoulder. Your face was scrunched up, and your free hand was in a fist by your side. The sight was pretty cute.

Despite this, he decided to tease you even further.

"Because I'm a gentleman."

You barked out a laugh. "A gentleman?"

"That's right," he told you matter-of-factly as you rolled your eyes at him.

"You flirted your way into a free cinnamon roll at breakfast," you said, brows furrowed at the memory of Jake laying it on thick with the barista this morning. He had come back with a wide grin and two forks. You swore the woman shot daggers your way the rest of the morning.

He shrugged at this. "I never said I was a perfect gentleman."

Still, as you settled into the car, you couldn't help but feel a little useless.

"You don't always have to take care of everything, you know. I'm a grown woman."

Jake's grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel as he peeled out of the parking lot. "I know."

The answer came too fast for your liking. Too automatic. Like he had given it no thought at all. Like you couldn't take care of yourself.

You turn toward the window, no real malice in your actions, just the need for space. "Sure."

The car fell quiet.

For a few moments, only tires against pavement filled the space between you.

Finally, Jake sighs. "I wasn't trying to say you couldn't do it."

You shrugged, voice struggling to remain light. "Didn't say you were."

But he could hear it anyway. The frustration. His eyes jumped over to your form. He saw the way your body curled in on itself, hands wrapping around your waist like they would keep you safe.

Jake swallowed. He didn't want you to assume anything. He just wanted you to understand.

"Growing up, my sisters were always getting hurt." His voice was steady in comparison to yours earlier, eyes now trained on the road.

You glance over briefly and see the small grimace on his face as he continues.

"They climbed trees that were too tall. Rode horses without the proper gear. Ran straight into bull pens without thinking."

A small smile tugs at his mouth, like the memory outweighed the feeling of fear.

"And?" you ask, voice still a little small.

"And I got really good at worrying."

The confession hung awkwardly in the air.

It wasn't charming, just honest.

"Oh," you said, chest finally feeling a little lighter. "I guess that's slightly better than sexism."

His eyes flitted over to you again. This time, your knees pointed towards him and your arms were loose at your side.

"Slightly?" Jake scoffed, smiling at you.

"Slightly," you repeated, trying to hold back a laugh.

જ⁀➴

The first few hours passed comfortably. To your surprise, the roads weren't busy, allowing for a peaceful way ahead in your journey.

Quickly into the drive, the radio became your shared entertainment. Every few minutes, you'd switch stations, pausing and listening, then switch again.

After the 5th song, Jake eventually glanced over. "You know you can connect your phone, right?"

You shrugged, like you had known that already. "Where's the fun in that?"

"The fun?" he asked, voice laced with confusion.

"Yeah." You continued scrolling through stations, not offering anything other than the one word. Jake shook his head at your actions, still a smile started to form on his face.

A small gasp was heard as a familiar song started playing. "There."

Jake looked in your direction once again, unimpressed. "You could've listened to that song whenever you wanted," he argued.

"Exactly." You pointed toward the speakers. "But I didn't."

His face twisted at this, ultimately settling in a frown. "I don't get it."

You laughed at his words. Jake's brows were furrowed, eyes trained on the road in front of him. Smiling at the sight, you explained, "When you find a song you love on the radio, it's exciting."

Jake looked like he was trying very hard to understand. "It's the exact same song."

"Jake, no, it's not."

"It literally is," his hand gestured to the radio and then to his phone.

You shook your head. "Nope."

He laughed. "You are ridiculous."

"Maybe," you said, leaning back in your seat. "But it feels more special when you weren't expecting it."

Jake couldn't help but smile at this. There was something oddly endearing about the way you found joy in things most people ignored.

After a few moments of silence, he spoke, "What else?"

You looked over at the man again. Now it was your turn to be confused. "What else what?" you asked, sitting up a bit at the question.

Jake glanced over at you, meeting your gaze, making his smile grow wider. "What else makes you happy like that?"

"Oh." The question surprised you; it was obvious by the way you were now sitting upright, at full attention.

Jake noticed immediately. "What?"

"You've never asked me something like that before," you told him, voice softer like it had been when you were settling down before bed last night. The sound of it made Jake buzz inside.

He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. Like he asked these types of questions all the time. "I want to know you too."

A swirl of emotions settled in your chest. You were glad Jake couldn't look at you fully right now. Surely you were a mess, making a stupid, surprised face. Still, you looked out the windshield for a moment while thinking, giving yourself a little space to calm the raging pounding of your heart.

Then you smiled at the thought that crossed your mind almost immediately.

"The community stories." Your voice was quiet, and Jake almost didn't pick up what you were saying.

To confirm, Jake glanced over once more. He saw a bashful look on your face, which made him even more intrigued. "The what?"

"You know." Your face brightened a bit more as you explained. "The little stories they do on local news."

Recognition slowly crossed his face. "The feel-good ones?" he asked, voice lifting at the end of his question.

"Yeah, those ones," you confirmed, head nodding.

Jake hummed before continuing. "Those make you happy?"

You laughed a bit at that. "Happy, yes. But, they make me cry."

His eyebrows shot up at the image he was conjuring. You sitting on the couch at the end of the day, sobbing to the news. "Cry?"

"Every single time." The confession was immediate and unapologetic. He could see the way your body relaxed at this, sinking back into your seat with a happy smile.

Jake shook his head, laughing at your words. "You're unbelievable."

"I know." You grinned, biting down on your lip at the ridiculousness of what you had just said. But still, you continued to bare your heart to the man next to you. "There'll be some story about a neighborhood raising money for somebody's medical bills or a little kid helping stray animals or something, and I'll completely lose it."

Jake was openly laughing now. "You're serious."

"Dead serious." You pointed dramatically. "And before you judge me, I strategically watch them before I do my makeup in the morning."

His laughter got even louder, the whole car filling with the noise, the radio long forgotten. "Oh, my God. You schedule your crying?"

"I schedule my happiness," you defended, trying to stay serious. But the smile on your face said otherwise. "Those stories remind me there are good people everywhere."

Jake's grin faded slightly as he saw you turn back to the window, pine tops and leafy trees whirling past you.

"No matter what else is going on, they make me grateful," you told him, voice now soft again, more contained. The quiet was back, only the hum of the dashboard and the small melody of the radio filling the car now.

Jake found himself staring at the road. Thinking. He wanted to push, but he wasn't sure what the right questions were to ask.

Eventually, you nudged his shoulder with your hand. "Your turn."

"My turn?"

You hum at this. "Mhm, what makes you happy?"

The obvious answers came first. Ones that would be rehearsed and polished. Something about flying. About the feeling of completing a hard mission. Words came to mind about how he touched down on the tarmac; the feeling it gave him of being infinitely lighter, stronger.

But after Madison, after Chicago, and after everything you'd shared with him, this answer felt incomplete. Still, he gave it anyway.

"I like finishing a flight."

You smiled knowingly, like you had sensed the war raging within his mind. This time, though, you didn't push; you just laughed. "That tracks."

"It does," he said steadily. But you picked up on the way his breath hitched, like he was trying to get something else out.

Then there was another answer. It was a second thought, a memory he thought he had buried a long time ago. Not something he had told anyone, not even something he had admitted to himself

It wasn't embarrassing, but as the thought formed, his cheeks flushed. "I like hearing birds in the morning."

Your head turned so quickly that your neck would probably be hurting in just a few minutes. "What?"

Jake groaned at this; he could see the smile forming on your face. "See."

"No, no, keep going," you urged, excitement dripping from your words.

He smiled despite himself as he recalled the memory, the feeling. "When I was a kid, my dad used to take me camping."

Your expression softened at this, trying to control yourself at the honesty he was giving you.

"Every summer," he started, eyes stayed on the road. "We'd wake up before sunrise."

You laugh a bit at this. "That sounds awful."

"It was awful," he told you with a smile, words not matching his emotions. "I hated it."

He could practically feel the sleeping bag and cold morning air from those memories. The ache in his muscles from the hikes he had partaken in the days before. The caked feeling of dirt over everything he brought with him, no real way to clean it.

"But every morning there'd be birds everywhere," he wistfully recalled. "Different calls. Different sounds. And eventually I started expecting it."

A small smile appeared on his face at the end of his sentence. You watched carefully as the muscles in his cheeks twitched and the steady rubbing of his thumb on the steering wheel began to come to a halt.

"Now whenever I wake up somewhere and it's completely quiet…" he trailed off, like he was living his words. "I get disappointed."

Your heart squeezed at this confession. Because of course it did. Of all the things he could have said, giving you a half-assed answer about flying, something he gives everyone else, instead, he told you about birds. And somehow it felt more intimate than anything he'd shared so far.

જ⁀➴

Jake climbed back into the driver's seat. You had pulled up to a little gas station to refuel. While Jake pumped the gas, you had booked it into the convenience store.

But as he reached to turn the car back on, he stopped immediately, keys swaying from his fingers.

On the center console, there was a can of Coke Zero, a bag of jalapeño kettle chips, and —

"Herbert's Watermelon Slices?"

You smiled at the goofy look on his face. "Yep."

Jake just stared at you, utterly confused. "How did you know?"

You shrugged, cracking open the can of soda you had gotten for yourself. "I guessed."

"There is absolutely no way," Jake scoffed, his eyes lighting up as he looked at you.

"It was kind of easy," you told him, taking a sip of your drink and putting it down, moving to crack open his can too.

"Easy?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "The burger at the diner, the fruit this morning, the constant waters at every restaurant."

Jake opened his mouth. Then closed it.

"But how'd you get here?" he gestured to the array of snacks between the two of you.

You rolled your eyes at him, like you couldn't believe you were still having this conversation. "I just notice things. Put them together"

"Yeah, I see that now," his eyes narrowed as you just shrugged. "Maybe I should be worried about you being the psycho-killer."

"Hey," you pouted as Jake laughed. "I buy you all these nice things, and this is what I get."

"It's okay, you can be honest, sweetheart," Jake teased as you scoffed.

"I'm never doing anything nice for you again."

Jake burst out laughing at this. He took a swig of the Coke Zero, and you seriously should've looked away. The bobbing of his throat made you squirm in your seat. And the way he licked his lips after was almost criminal.

"I find it flattering," he told you while sending a wink your way.

"Shut up and drive, Seresin."

જ⁀➴

The hotel room had barely settled around the two of you before you were pacing.

Jake watched from his bed as you crossed from one side of the room to the other.

Then back again.

Then again.

"You okay there?"

You stopped immediately.

"No."

His laugh came easily now. "What's wrong?"

"I've been trapped in a car with you for two days," you told him, not thinking much about the words as they left your mouth.

"Wow, rude," he joked, but still you whipped around.

"No, not like that. I mean, like the car," you tried to backtrack, but Jake just chuckled. "I think I'm gonna go for a walk."

At this, Jake sat upright in his place on the bed. "A walk? It's almost dark out."

"You're right," you said, crossing the room to get to where you had slipped off your shoes. Jake sighed at this, glad you were settling down. "I should probably get going then if I want to catch the sunset."

He heard the jingling of your keys and the click of the locks and shot up. "You can't go into a city at night by yourself, it's not safe."

You contemplated this for a moment. Bending down, you tossed Jake his shoes with a smile.

"Well then let's go."

Jake deadpanned you as you paced back and forth by the door. "Seriously?" he asked as you just nodded. "Unbelievable."

But still, he tied his laces and let you lead the way.

The city is busy at this time of day, the sun just about to set on the horizon. Apparently, Jake isn't walking fast enough, because you tug on his hand, lacing your fingers through his as you urge him to hurry. He smiles and isn't sure if it's because of the urgency of your words or the feeling of your smaller, softer hand in his.

Coming to an outlook at a nearby park, Jake and you stand side by side to watch the pinks and oranges of the sky turn into purples and dark blues.

"Go stand by the railing," you tell him, hand dropping from his. His eyes immediately track it, searching for it. But he sees you reach into your jacket pocket for the old camera and just shakes his head.

"Just me?" he asks, brows draw in the middle.

"Yes, just you. Just for me, okay?" you ask, smile on your face as the camera shifts to life in your hands. And when you put it like that, Jake can't help but agree, leaning against the railing without any more complaints.

You raise the camera up to your face, and Jake smiles as the flash goes off, not noticing any of the sweet looks you both are getting from people around you. However, a young girl comes up to you and you nodded vigorously while handing over the camera.

For the second time in two days, you're standing next to Jake for another picture. This time, though, his arm slips over your shoulder like muscle memory, and your hand comes around his waist with a squeeze that makes him jump.

The moment is captured in a blink, Jake looking down at you with a surprised grin while you bury your head into his chest, laughing sweetly.

She comes back up to you both after snapping a few more pictures, handing you back the camera with a blush. Jake almost misses it; the girl is quite shy and only looking at you, but he hears the passing comment as she hands off the camera.

"You guys are such a cute couple."

You laugh at this, not mockingly, but like it actually made you happy to hear the words. Before you could respond, she hurries back to her family with a wave and smile.

Jake just watches you. The crinkling of your eyes and smile lines around your mouth. Every time he looks at you, he finds something else that fascinates him.

"I've never met anyone like you," he admits, the words coming out without him meaning to say anything at all.

But just as he's about to backtrack and explain himself, you smile brightly and repeat the sentiment, "I've never met anyone like you."

You're smiling up at him now, looking at him like you really believe what you've just said. He can't help but glance down at your lips.

As he catches himself, he looks back up at your eyes and sees you do the same to him. But quickly, your eyes meet again and you just laugh.

"Come on, I'm hungry," you say, but there's no real push in your voice. Jake listens anyway and nods.

The park is dark now, only spaced-out lampposts illuminating your way. Still, you walk with confidence, as if you know the city like the back of your hand.

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" Jake asks, voice laced with skepticism.

"Yes, I promise. I had the best veggie sandwich at this little stand just a little bit this way, like 4 cases ago," you tell him, steps not faltering.

"What do you mean case—"

"Here! I told you!" You cut him off as soon as a small food truck comes into view. Sure enough, Sal's Sandwiches stood at the edge of the park. Small picnic tables taken up by families, couples, and groups of friends surrounding the structure.

Scanning the area, you point to a table not too far away from the truck.

"Can you go save that one?" you ask as he follows your finger and nods. "Thanks, Jake."

You split from him, heading towards the line. Jake watches as you go, your head on a swivel for the first few seconds before you settle in line and begin talking with the person in front of you, because, well, of course you do.

Jake chuckles at your behavior, watching as you light up, talking with the people around you. What's especially odd, though, is that when you make your way up to the window of the truck, an older man comes rushing out and scoops you up into a hug.

He can see the way the man fuses over you, but you wave him off, offering another hug. He sees the way some of the other workers poke their heads out to say hi to you as you wave. Soon enough, he's patting you on the back and sending you on your way with a bag and two canned drinks.

As you place the objects down on the table, you start talking immediately, "I got you the Meat Tornado, fresh jalapenos, don't worry. Sal says it's yummy."

"Sal?" Jake asks with an amused look on his face.

"Yeah, come on, try it!" you urge, unwrapping your own sandwich.

As Jake's teeth sink into the fluffy bread and perfectly flavored meat and veggies, he groans. "Oh, my God."

"Right," you laugh, taking a bite of your own sandwich now. Jake has to look away as your eyes roll back into your head with delight.

"I swear this is the best sandwich I've ever had," he tells you, mouth still full. You laugh, hand coming up to cover your mouth.

"Stop, you're gonna make me choke," you say, slapping him lightly on the chest as he laughs.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes as you shake your head at him.

You sit for a few moments like that, just eating and enjoying each other's company. That is, until a black beetle finds its way onto the table between you.

You all but throw your sandwich in the air and scream bloody murder when it crawls towards you. Quickly, you rise to your feet and run over to hide behind Jake.

"Seriously?" he asks, throwing a teasing look over your shoulder, but when he sees the fear on your face, he quickly turns back to the bug, swatting it away.

A few moments pass, and you make your way back to your seat. "Sorry, they just freak me out," you explain, but the way your eyes don't meet his makes Jake think this might be something deeper than just an irrational fear.

"No biggie, all got our stuff," he says, giving you an easy out. You just nod at this, hands still placed in your lap and eyes still trained on the ground.

Jake reaches out for your hands, encompassing them with his own. The action finally makes you look up at him, he can see the tears brimming on your lashes.

"Y'know if we were out in the woods right about now, I'd be exactly the same as you are now."

Your brows furrow at his words, but he can see the way they've temporarily distracted you, and that's enough for him to keep going.

"When I was a kid, I ran away from home. I was that age where if I didn't get what I wanted, I just started running."

You laugh softly at his admission. He just slides closer towards you, body fully facing you now.

"This one night, I ran into the woods before dinner started. My mom made chili, and I wanted hot dogs. Not a great night for me. So I took off, and before I knew it, the sun had set, and I was all alone out there. No idea where I was," his voice was careful. Not trying to make you feel like he was patronizing you, but still concerned.

Your breathing slowed down a bit now, chest not heaving as much as it had been a few minutes ago.

"I was out there for what felt like hours. Only tall trees around me, wherever I turned. I didn't know if anyone would find me, if anyone was even looking in the right spot."

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth as a tear slipped down your face. God, so empathic, he thought. Thumb coming up to wipe away wetness and hold your face in his palm.

"But my dad found me, just around dawn. I remember running into his arms and crying all the way home. My sisters and mom fussed over me as soon as we came through the door. She never made chili again," Jake joked.

You laughed, watery but there.

"Yeah, but I, uh," Jake's face twisted, and now it was your turn to squeeze his hand.

He cleared his throat before continuing.

"Two years ago, a buddy of mine and I were flying over these forests on a mission. Everything was going good, we were just reserve, not really doing anything but surveillance and back up," his voice shakes at the memory.

"It's okay," your voice is barely there, but Jake's eyes find yours immediately.

"No, I want to," he tells you as you nod, hand gripping yours even tighter now. "But we were flying one minute, and the next we got separated. An ambush. It was just for a few seconds, but I lost him. The radar lost him. I didn't know where he went. Still don't."

His breathing hitches at the thought, something that still haunts him.

"I don't," he starts, voice weak. "I don't want to go like that. I can't leave my family like that. Not like that."

You nod, a hand coming up to meet the one on your cheek. Jake's eyes find yours, and he smiles, something wobbly, but he tries for you.

"I'm sorry, Jake."

But he just shakes his head. "Not your fault, don't gotta be sorry, sweetheart."

You can see the walls coming back up, protection and shields all taking their place.

"About a year ago, I was out in Iowa, of all places," you huff, a laugh bubbling despite yourself. "And, um, I got stuck in this barn. For a while. And there were these black beetles that would crawl from under the floorboards and gaps in the wood at night."

Jake sees the distress on your face at the recall of the memory.

"And I couldn't move. They crawled all over me, and I couldn't move. It was three days until my team found me. But by then I had all these little bites across my skin, didn't know where I was."

Another tear slipped down your cheek, but this time Jake's hand caught it before it could drip down your chin.

"So I can't do bugs. Those bugs especially."

"That's okay," Jake told you, voice still soft. "Bugs are dumb anyway."

You laugh at this, fully this time. It makes Jake smile. "So dumb. Just like the woods."

Now it's his turn to laugh, eyes finding yours. "So dumb," he repeats.

You share a look, something like recognition, like understanding. You lean in and collapse on Jake's shoulder. Nose finding the softness of his neck and hands wrapping around his broad back. His hand shifts to hold the back of your head, rubbing soothing strokes in your hair. The other finds your lower back, bringing your body even closer into his hold.

જ⁀➴

"There he is!" Javy's voice rang out from across the hotel courtyard.

Jake grinned at the sight of his squad, all done up in dress whites for the event tonight.

"Thought you'd never make it, Bagman," Nat jests as he just rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, where've you been, man?" Rooster asks, hand coming down to clamp on the man's shoulder.

"Roadtrip. My flight got delayed, so we decided to drive from Minneapolis," he shrugged.

"We?" Javy's brows furrowed as he looked to his best friend. The squad all looked towards Jake expectantly.

Like a deer in headlights, Jake froze at the slip. "Yeah, me and this girl I met at the airport."

"Oh, my God. This sounds like plot from a shitty rom-com," Nat laughed as she watched Jake's cheeks heat up.

"Shut up, Phoenix," he swatted his hand in her direction as her laughs grew louder.

"No, no, she's right. Are you guys in love now?" Rooster chuckled as Phoenix continued to cackle next to the tall man.

Jake recalls the end of last night. How you had walked back to the hotel, hand in hand. He remembers the look you gave him after coming out of the bathroom, hair still damp and dripping at the ends. He can still hear the crinkling of his sheets as he moves to make room for you. He swears he can still smell the freshness of your hair and the sweetness of your body lotion as you sank in next to him in the sheets. He knows he'll never forget the feeling of your soft skin under his rough hands, the contrast not lost on him. But the way that you had relaxed further in his hold only reassured him, hand coming to wrap around your body tighter, pulling you closer.

"Holy shit, he is," Javy spoke, mouth hanging open a bit.

"Shut up," he said again quickly.

"Well, where is she?" Bob asks, eyes finding Jake's.

"I don't know, actually. She dropped me off here earlier today, still need the rental car for this weekend," he explained, hand instinctively reaching to find his wallet.

"What about her number? Don't tell me you didn't ask," Phoenix questions, invested fully now despite her jests.

"We were with each other 24/7, I guess I just didn't think about it," Jake's voice is uncharacteristically soft as he talks. His hands dig into his wallet, fingers grasping the photo strip. He holds it out in Javy's direction.

"Damn," he says breathlessly, passing it to Rooster next.

"Are you an idiot, man? Do you see the way she's looking at you here," Bradley huffs, handing the strip to Phoenix.

"Forget her, look at Bagman. He's head over heels," she says, giving the photos to Bob.

"Wow, man. You gotta find her," Bob tells him, eyes wide as he takes in the pictures.

"I don't even know where she's staying. Or even where she lives or what she does for work," Jake groans.

"How did you not talk about this? Didn't you spend, what, like two or three days together?" Phoenix asks, voicing her disbelief.

"We talked about other stuff. Deeper stuff," Jake shrugged.

"Oh, Jesus," Bradley laughs out. "You've got it bad, man."

"Don't you think I know that, Rooster!" Jake groans as the squad laughs at his misery.

"Alright, aviators, it's time to head out," Maverick's voice boomed. The group rose to their feet and made their way out of the hotel. Somewhere in between the shuffle, the photo strip landed back in Jake's hand. He looked down at it once more, eyes finding your smiling face. There was nothing he could do now, well, at least not until after the State Dinner.

જ⁀➴

"Oh gosh, he's dreamy," Penny tells you as she looks at the photos from your trip.

"I know," you sigh, slumping further into yourself as you sit at the table. The form-fitting dress seems too constricting for your dramatics, digging into your ribs as you slouch.

"I could always look him up, y'know. Track him. You said he's in the city, right?" she asks, hand already reaching for her phone.

"No, no, Penny. We can't do that. He didn't ask for my number or anything when I dropped him off. I don't want to push it," you ruminated over the memory. "Maybe I just made it all up. Like it was all in my head."

She cooed at this, hand coming to rub soothing circles on your shoulder.

"I'm sure he felt it too. Maybe he just wasn't thinking," she offers. You groan at the thought.

"He went out this morning. Early, before I got up. Got us pastries and coffee from this place we passed by last night. They were so yummy," you whine as she laughs a bit.

Jake ran his fingers through your hair to wake you this morning. When you opened your eyes, you were met with the sight of a brown paper bag and a goofy smile. It made you flush even now, just thinking about it, thinking about him.

"And he checked the hotel room both nights before bed. The locks and windows. I didn't even get the chance to do it," you tell her with a frown.

"Dream man," she teases.

"You have no idea," you say, ignoring the teasing lit in her voice. "I told him about Iowa."

"Really?" The woman next to you now in shock at your words.

"Not everything, obviously, but I told him. And it felt good. He made me feel safe," you confess as she looks at you with a sad expression.

"Well, come on, let's get a drink in you. Maybe that will help," Penny tells you, beckoning you to follow her to the open bar.

You sigh, but walk with her and eventually order your usual drink.

Sipping on your drink, you spit it out almost immediately as it hits your tongue, a loud voice ringing in your ear.

"It's you!"

You and Penny look at the man next to you in curiosity. He had a handlebar mustache and a big grin on his face. Neither of you recognized him.

"Stay here, please. Just stay," he said, setting his drink down and rushing across the room.

Looking back at Penny, you frown. "What the hell was that about?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but you see a stunned look overcome her face. "Oh, oh!"

"What? You're freaking me out," you question as she begins to jump up and down a bit.

"You never did tell me what you did for work. Policy analyst? Campaign strategist?" a familiar voice says from behind you.

Turning around, you see him. "Jake." You face lights up at the sight of him.

"So am I close?" he teases as you pull him into a hug.

"I can't believe you're here." Your voice is muffled as he pulls you closer into his grasp, your face buried in his neck as his comes down to dip over your shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm here," his tone is tender now, not teasing. You can feel his hands wrap around your waist, fingers almost digging into the silky fabric of your dress.

You pull back just enough to look at his face. Jake's mouth stretches into a goofy grin, eyes not leaving yours.

"FBI agent," you tell him, watching his brows shoot up.

"Wow. Seriously?" he asks as you just nod shyly. "So that's why you had so many serial killer questions for me."

You laugh at this, head thrown back a bit, completely missing the look of adoration Jake throws your way.

Jake laughs against your forehead, still holding you close.

"You have any idea how close I came to having one of my squad members file a missing persons report for a woman whose last name I didn't know?" Jake admits, voice quiet, so only you could hear.

Your eyes widen at this. You feel your heart beating wildly in your chest. "You were looking for me?"

Jake gave you a look as if you had said something so unbelievably obvious. "Sweetheart, I spent the last hour getting roasted by every pilot I know because I couldn't answer a single question about you."

The admission settled warmly in your chest as you looked into his eyes.

For the first time since Minneapolis, neither of you was rushing somewhere. No delayed flight. No rental car. No hotel checkout.

Now, it was just the two of you. The sound of classical music and soft chatter in the background, but you only heard Jake's steady breathing, grounding you in this moment.

"I was looking for you too," you confess quietly.

He was quiet for a minute, not expecting your words. "You were?"

You nod, head dropping into his strong chest as the words spill out of you, "Penny offered to run your name through three different databases."

He barks out a laugh. "That's terrifying."

"That's what I said," you mumble, cheeks flushing a bit at the thought.

"No, that's actually terrifying."

Meeting his eyes again, you can't help but start laughing. Jake joins in, and the sound eases something that had been wound tight since the moment you dropped him off that morning.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

The ballroom buzzes around you. Glasses clink. People talk and laugh. Somewhere across the room, you hear a man loudly telling someone he deserved credit for this reunion.

But all of it fades into the background.

Jake's gaze softens as he looks to you.

"You know what I've been thinking about?"

"What?"

"The radio."

You smiled immediately, face twisting a bit in confusion. "The radio?" you parrot.

"The stupid thing you said," he offered, like it would help you narrow things down.

Your grin widened. "You're gonna have to be more specific."

Jake rolled his eyes, smile still on his face. "About songs."

Recognition flashed across your face, mouth parting as you spoke, "Oh."

"You said it felt more special when you weren't expecting it." Jake glanced down for a moment before looking back up. "I think that's what this was."

The words stole the air from your lungs.

A delayed flight. A cancelled trip. A random seat at a gate in Minneapolis. A road trip that never should have happened.

And somehow, here he was. Here you were.

Jake smiled nervously, something you hadn't seen from him before. It made your tummy turn in the best way possible.

"But I don't really want to leave the rest of it up to chance," he spoke once more.

Your breath caught at his words. "No?"

He shook his head. "No."

Then he reached into the pocket of his dress whites and pulled out the photo booth strip. The edges were already worn, like he had pulled it in and out of his wallet every few minutes.

"I think we should go on a date. You know, a proper one."

You laughed at this; the simple statement seemed so ridiculous and at the same time riveting. "A date?"

"One where we aren't fleeing an airport," he offered. You tracked as his thumb brushed across the photo.

You pretended to mull it over, eyes looking towards the ceiling. "That does sound nice."

"And maybe one where we don't share a rental car for three days first."

"Hm. I don't know. That's become kind of my standard," you deadpanned.

Jake groaned at this. "You're impossible."

"But you're asking anyway," you spoke quietly, hand coming to meet his on the photo strip.

His smile returned immediately. "Yeah."

"Good."

Jake's eyes searched yours, boyish charm now all worn off. You only saw vulnerability and wonder across his face. "Good?"

"Because I'd really like another picture for my scrapbook," you told him with a smile.

The grin that spread across his face was brighter than anything you'd seen from him since Minneapolis.

His hand comes up from your waist and lands on your cheek. You nodded slightly, tongue coming out to wet your lips quickly.

When he kissed you, you felt yourself melt into his touch. Thoughts of missed planes, long stretches of road, and cheap diner food are all gone from your brain.

The house was nicer than you expected. Not flashy, but clean, with a small front porch, neat grass, and a truck in the driveway that looked like it had been washed that morning. You dragged your suitcase up the path, phone in one hand with the door code Maverick had sent you.

He’d added one final message beneath it.

Don’t let him wind you up.

That was not reassuring.

You punched in the code, waited for the lock to click, then pushed the door open. “Hello?”

No answer.

You stepped inside carefully, pulling your suitcase over the threshold before shutting the door behind you. The house smelled faintly of clean laundry and coffee. There were boots by the door, a set of keys in a ceramic bowl, and a sweatshirt thrown over the back of the sofa. Someone definitely lived here.

You called out again. “Hello? It’s me. Well, not me. You don’t know me. It’s Maverick’s niece.”

Still nothing.

You stood there for a second, feeling very aware that you were in a stranger’s house with a suitcase and no plan beyond try not to look weird. You were about to text Maverick when you heard movement upstairs.

A door opened.

Footsteps crossed the landing.

You looked up just as Jake Seresin appeared at the top of the stairs, shirt half on, hair damp, one arm still shoved through a sleeve while the other side hung loose. He froze when he saw you.

You froze too.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.

Jake looked down at himself, then back at you. “You lost?”

You blinked, then held up your phone like it was evidence. “Unfortunately, I think I live here.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Do you?”

“I bloody hope so, because if not, your security is terrible.”

That got the corner of his mouth to twitch. He pulled his shirt on the rest of the way, taking his time because of course he did. “You Maverick’s niece?”

You tried not to look embarrassed and failed. “And you must be the spare room.”

Jake came down the stairs with the kind of confidence that made it very clear he was used to people looking at him when he entered a room. “Hangman.”

“Your actual name, ideally.”

“Jake.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because calling my new landlord Hangman feels like a mistake.”

He stopped a few feet away from you, close enough that you could see he hadn’t shaved properly and there was a faint crease on one cheek from sleep. He looked like he had been woken up, which made you feel worse. He also looked amused, which made you feel annoyed.

“Mav said you weren’t arriving until six,” he said.

You checked the time on your phone. “It’s half five.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m early, not breaking in.”

“You used the code.”

“That he gave me.”

Jake folded his arms, leaning back against the bottom of the stair rail. “Did he also tell you to just walk in?”

You hesitated.

He smiled.

You narrowed your eyes. “He said you were expecting me.”

“I was. Just not while I was getting changed.”

You felt your face warm despite yourself. “I didn’t see anything.”

“You hesitated before saying that.”

“I was being polite.”

“You were staring.”

“I was shocked.”

“By the house or by me?”

You stared at him for a second. “You always like this?”

Jake’s smile widened. “Usually worse.”

You could see why Maverick had told you not to let him wind you up. The man was clearly built for it. He looked relaxed in a way that felt deliberate, like every part of him had decided there was nothing in the world worth getting flustered over. You, meanwhile, were stood in the hallway with your suitcase still upright beside you, suddenly very aware that you were tired, hungry, and not in the mood to be charming for a stranger with wet hair and a good jaw.

You picked up the handle of your suitcase. “Can you just show me the room?”

That seemed to knock the grin down a little. Not gone, but quieter. “Yeah. Come on.”

He took the suitcase before you could argue, lifting it easily and heading up the stairs. You followed, trying not to stare at his shoulders. That lasted about three steps before you caught yourself doing exactly that and looked sharply at the wall instead.

Jake glanced back. “Careful, there’s a step.”

“I can see the stairs.”

“Just being helpful.”

“You’re being irritating.”

“Same skill set.”

Your room was at the end of the hallway. It was plain, but clean. Double bed, empty wardrobe, small desk near the window, and a set of towels folded at the end of the mattress. Someone had cleared space properly, not just shoved things into corners and called it done.

Jake put your suitcase by the wardrobe. “Bathroom’s across the hall. I’ve got the room at the other end. Kitchen’s downstairs. Use whatever, just write it on the list if you finish it.”

You looked at him. “There’s a list?”

“On the fridge.”

“Very organised.”

“I’m a delight.”

You gave him a flat look.

He nodded toward the desk. “Wi-Fi password’s written down there. Spare key’s in the top drawer. If you’re out late, lock the door behind you. If you’re bringing anyone back, don’t.”

You laughed once. “Excuse me?”

Jake shrugged. “House rule.”

“Bit controlling for someone I met three minutes ago.”

“It’s not a moral judgement. I don’t want strangers in my house.”

“I’m a stranger in your house.”

“You’re Maverick’s problem. Slight difference.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. “I’m not his problem.”

Jake’s expression shifted.

It was tiny. Barely anything. But it was the first time he looked like he’d actually heard you instead of just enjoying the conversation.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

“Sure.”

“I didn’t.”

You looked away first, annoyed at yourself for reacting. It had been a long day. Longer than that, really. Weeks of trying to prove you deserved your place and not just your surname. You had heard every version of it already. Maverick’s niece. Mitchell’s girl. Nepo baby if someone was feeling brave after a drink. Most of them smiled when they said it. That didn’t make it better.

Jake was quiet for a second.

Then he said, “Mav told me you’re in final training.”

You nodded.

“That why you needed the room?”

“Yeah. I was commuting from the motel outside town and it was a nightmare. Base housing is full, and apparently your spare room was available.”

“It was.”

“You sure? You seem thrilled.”

He gave a small laugh. “Mav said you were quieter.”

“I am. Usually.”

“You walked into my house and insulted my security.”

“You came downstairs half-naked and accused me of being lost.”

“Half-naked is generous.”

You looked at him before you could stop yourself.

Jake noticed.

Of course he did.

He smiled slowly, and you immediately regretted everything.

You pointed toward the door. “You can go now.”

“Yeah, probably should.”

He didn’t move right away. For the first time since you’d stepped inside, he looked a little less like Hangman and a little more like someone trying to work out what kind of person had just been dropped into his spare room by his commanding officer.

“I’ll let you unpack,” he said. “Mav’s coming by later?”

You frowned. “Is he?”

“He said he might.”

“That means he will.”

Jake nodded like he already knew that. “He also told me not to be weird.”

You stared at him.

His face stayed completely serious for about two seconds before he cracked.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, short and reluctant. “He actually said that?”

“Several times.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“You heard the man.”

Jake leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “For the record, I’m extremely normal.”

“You introduced yourself by callsign.”

“That’s normal here.”

“You asked if I was lost in a house I had a key code for.”

“You looked lost.”

“I was being polite.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep being difficult.”

Jake smiled again, but there was less bite to it this time. “You’ll fit in fine.”

You didn’t know why that made your chest loosen a little. It shouldn’t have. It was barely anything. But there was no edge to it, no little dig about who you were related to, no suggestion that you were only here because Maverick had pulled strings.

You looked down at your suitcase. “We’ll see.”

Jake pushed off the doorframe. “Dinner’s at seven if you want some. I was making enough anyway.”

You looked up. “You cook?”

“Try not to sound so shocked.”

“I’m just surprised there’s more to you than standing on stairs making people uncomfortable.”

“That was a one-time welcome package.”

“Lucky me.”

He stepped back into the hall. “Seven. No pressure.”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

He was almost gone when you remembered something. “Jake?”

He turned back.

“I really wasn’t staring.”

He looked at you for a moment, then smiled like he absolutely did not believe you. “Sure.”

You shut the door before he could say anything else.

For the first time all day, you leaned back against something solid and laughed properly.

Only once.

Then you looked around the room, at the empty drawers, the folded towels, the sunlight coming in through the blinds, and let yourself breathe. It was temporary. That was all. A room for a few weeks. A place to sleep, eat, train, and keep your head down until you passed.

You could do temporary.

You were good at temporary.

Downstairs, something clattered in the kitchen, followed by Jake swearing under his breath. You smiled before you could stop yourself, then pushed away from the door and started unpacking.

By the time Maverick arrived just after seven, you had managed to get most of your clothes into the wardrobe and had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. You came downstairs to find him in the kitchen with Jake, both of them standing at opposite sides of the counter like they had been caught mid-argument.

Maverick looked over as soon as you walked in. “You settled?”

“Mostly.”

“Room okay?”

“It’s good.”

Jake leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Don’t sound too pleased. I’ll get emotional.”

You ignored him and looked at Maverick. “You told him not to be weird?”

Maverick winced slightly. “He told you that?”

“Immediately.”

“Of course he did.” Maverick turned to Jake. “I said one thing.”

“You said it four times,” Jake replied.

“Because I know you.”

Jake looked offended. “That hurts.”

“Good.”

You tried to hide your smile and failed. Maverick caught it, and something in his face softened a little. He had been hovering since you got assigned to the final training phase, careful not to push too much and bad at hiding when he wanted to. It was sweet. It was also suffocating.

You liked Maverick. You loved him, really. He was the only reason you had kept going some days. But being his niece on base came with a weight you hadn’t expected, and neither of you had quite worked out how to talk about it without arguing.

Jake slid a plate toward you. “Eat.”

You looked down at it. Chicken, rice, vegetables. Not fancy, but it smelled good.

“You cook like this for all your tenants?” you asked.

“Only the ones who break in before six.”

“I had the code.”

“You keep saying that like it helps your case.”

Maverick looked between you both. “You two already start?”

“She accused me of being half-naked,” Jake said.

Your eyes went wide. “I did not.”

Maverick closed his eyes. “Seresin.”

Jake pointed at you. “She said it first.”

You pointed back. “Because you were.”

“I had shorts on.”

“Bare minimum.”

Maverick pushed away from the counter. “I’m leaving.”

You laughed. “You just got here.”

“And somehow I already regret all of this.” He kissed the side of your head as he passed, quick enough that you couldn’t dodge it. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

You gave him a look.

He held his hands up. “I know.”

Jake watched the exchange quietly. You noticed because he was rarely quiet for long. Maverick stopped at the door, then looked back at him.

“Take care of her,” he said.

Your stomach tightened.

“Uncle Pete.”

“I mean the house,” he added too quickly. “Make sure she knows where things are.”

Jake’s face didn’t change, but you could tell he understood what Maverick had really meant. “She’s got it.”

Maverick nodded once, then left.

The door shut behind him.

You stared at your plate for a second, appetite fading a little.

Jake noticed. “He worries.”

“I know.”

“Does he always do the hovering thing?”

“He thinks he’s subtle.”

“He’s not.”

“No.”

You sat at the counter and picked up your fork. Jake stayed on the other side, eating standing up like he didn’t fully believe in chairs.

You ate a few bites in silence before he said, “For what it’s worth, I know you’re not here because of him.”

You paused.

Jake didn’t look at you, which somehow made it easier. He kept his attention on his plate as he spoke.

“Mav asked about the room because he’s your uncle. He didn’t get you through training. He didn’t sit your exams. He didn’t land anything for you. If you’re here, you earned it.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat with a mouthful of rice and nearly choked. Very graceful. Really impressive start to cohabiting with someone who looked like that.

Jake looked up. “You good?”

“Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Rice betrayed me.”

He huffed a laugh and slid his water across the counter toward you. You took it without thinking, drank half of it, then realised what you’d done.

“Thanks,” you said.

“No problem.”

You expected him to make a joke. He didn’t.

That somehow annoyed you more than if he had.

You set the glass down. “I’m not fragile, by the way.”

Jake looked at you then. “Didn’t say you were.”

“People hear Maverick’s niece and decide I’m either spoiled or need protecting.”

“I don’t think you’re spoiled.”

You waited.

His mouth twitched. “Jury’s still out on protecting.”

You rolled your eyes. “Brilliant.”

“I’m joking.”

“No, you’re testing.”

That made him pause.

You set your fork down. “You want to know if I’ll bite.”

“And?”

“I will.”

Jake smiled a little. “Good to know.”

You shook your head, but you weren’t really angry. Not yet. He was a lot, and you knew that was probably intentional, but he didn’t feel cruel. He pushed, but he watched where things landed. You were used to people pushing and only caring if it got a laugh.

This was different.

You didn’t know whether that made it better or worse.

After dinner, Jake showed you where everything was. Laundry. Cleaning stuff. The spare key for the back door. Which cupboard stuck unless you lifted it slightly. He told you the shower ran cold if the dishwasher was on, then immediately admitted he only knew that because he had made the mistake twice.

You found yourself laughing more than you meant to.

It was annoying.

At half nine, you went upstairs with the excuse of an early start. That part was true. Training began at six, and you had a full day of checks, simulator hours, and one evaluation you were trying very hard not to think about.

You had just changed into sleep shorts and an old academy T-shirt when your phone buzzed.

Maverick.

All okay?

You typed back quickly.

Yes. Room is good. Jake is only moderately annoying.

The reply came back less than a minute later.

He’s on best behaviour then.

You smiled, plugged your phone in, and sat on the edge of the bed.

The house was quiet beneath you. Not silent. You could hear Jake moving around downstairs, rinsing dishes, shutting cupboards, something low playing from the living room TV. It should have felt strange to be in his house, listening to his life happening around you.

It did.

But not in a bad way.

You lay back and stared at the ceiling, telling yourself you would sleep soon. You didn’t. Your brain kept circling tomorrow, the evaluation, Maverick’s face when he tried not to look worried, the way Jake had said you earned it like it was a fact, not a favour.

After a while, there was a knock at your door.

You sat up. “Yeah?”

Jake opened it only an inch, keeping his eyes politely on the wall opposite. “You decent?”

“Enough.”

He looked in then, holding a mug. “Tea. Mav said you don’t sleep before evaluation days.”

You stared at him.

He lifted the mug slightly. “Unless that was classified niece information.”

You got up and took it from him. “He told you that?”

“He told me a lot of things I pretended not to listen to.”

You looked down at the tea. It was made exactly how you liked it.

Of course Maverick had told him that too.

“Thanks,” you said.

Jake nodded and stepped back. “Night.”

“Jake?”

He stopped.

You leaned one shoulder against the door. “You don’t have to report back to him.”

His expression softened slightly. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

You searched his face, trying to work out if he was just saying that because it was easier.

Jake seemed to read that too. “You’re my tenant, not my assignment.”

You let out a small breath. “Good.”

“And before you ask, no, I don’t normally make tea for tenants.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“You were thinking it.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Usually right.”

“Usually irritating.”

“There she is.”

The phrase made you pull a face before you could stop yourself. Jake caught it immediately.

“Not that?” he asked.

“Not that.”

“Noted.”

You blinked, surprised he’d accepted it so quickly.

He tapped the doorframe once with his knuckles. “See you in the morning.”

You nodded. “Night.”

He left, and you shut the door softly.

For a few seconds, you just stood there with the mug warming your hands.

You had expected awkward. You had expected cocky. You had expected to spend the next few weeks gritting your teeth and reminding yourself that cheap rent was worth a bit of discomfort.

You had not expected Jake Seresin to notice a flinch in your face and adjust without making a big thing of it.

That was inconvenient.

You got into bed and drank your tea while your phone sat quiet on the nightstand. Downstairs, the TV volume lowered. A door shut. The house settled.

Temporary, you reminded yourself.

Jake Seresin never looked more himself than when he was out of uniform and off the clock, arms and attention thrown wide as if he could embrace the whole world, if the world would just let him. Tonight his shirt was already half unbuttoned with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, veiny forearms on full display. 

He navigated the Hard Deck as if he’d built the place from the ground up, and maybe in a way he had: every time he walked through the door, the room recalibrated around him.

He kept you close, your hand swallowed in his as he navigated through the crowd. Every time someone called out to him, he gave your hand a subtle squeeze. 

“You’re showing off,” you shouted over the Aerosmith song playing through the crowd.

Jake glanced back at you  and just flashed you a smirk before continuing on. As you followed him through the crowd you looked around, spotting the usuals. Rooster was at the pool table playing a game of 9-Ball with Phoenix. Bob was perched on his stool nearby sipping a ginger ale and snacking on his cup of peanuts.

Jake threaded you through the press of bodies and settled at your usual table next to Bob, never once breaking contact. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was make you feel like the only person in a room full of people desperate to be seen. 

He let his hand linger as he sat, just a little too high on your thigh to be innocent. You shot him a look, but he just arched an eyebrow.

He ordered a round from one of the college kids Penny had hired as a waitress to help out with the summer crowds before you could say a word. Another round of pilots had arrived at Top Gun for the summer and The Hard Deck would be busier than normal for the next several weeks while they were here.

The waitress returned a few minutes later, setting a bottle down in front of you. Jake watched as you picked it up and brought the rim to your lips. You felt the head of his gaze as you to the first gulp.

“You’re starin’, sweetheart.” He drawled, voice pitched just for you.

“Only thing here worth looking at,” you shot back, louder than you meant. 

Bob snorted into his drink, and even Phoenix cracked a smile. 

Jake just shook his head and leaned closer. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll think you want something from me.”

“Who says I don’t?”

Jake tipped his head, appraising you. You could feel the tension in him, a restless itch just under the surface. You took another slow sip, eyes on him the whole time, and watched his fingers drum an uneven pattern against your knee.

After that you played innocent for a while. You talked to Bob about how his wife was doing, and bugged him for the hundredth time to bring her around sometime. Meanwhile Jake took Rooster’s place after he’d lost handily to Phoenix.

A few rounds into the game, Jake was holding court over something stupid Rooster had done in the hangar. You let him talk, but waited for your moment.

“Like you’ve never fucked up a landing before?” 

It landed exactly like you wanted. Rooster laughed so hard he nearly choked, Bob snorted into his can of Canada Dry, and Jake’s eyes cut to you in a razor thin sliver of warning.

You watched the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he caught himself. The grin didn't falter, but something behind his eyes went very still, very focused. He turned fully then, crowd be damned, and stepped close enough that you could smell the leather of his jacket and something underneath, something warm and distinctly him. His thumb traced a slow circle across your knuckles, proprietary and deliberate.

"That so?" He asked, mild as summer thunder, and something in his tone made your breath hitch. He lifted your joined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles that was half reverence, half challenge. "Funny. Don't recall you minding my landings at oh-dark-thirty last Tuesday. Or the Tuesday before that." His eyes held yours, dark and dancing. "Seemed pretty satisfied with my technique then." 

You felt the heat crawl up your neck, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you leaned into him, your knee pressing against his under the table, and smiled slow and wicked.

"Tuesday," you said, like you were considering it. "Was that the one where you couldn't stop talking about your 'flight data' for twenty minutes after? Or the one where you fell asleep with your face in my-"

"Alright," Jake cut in, but he was laughing, that low, helpless sound you rarely heard. He caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours tight enough to mean it. "You win."

"Do I?"

"For now." He brought your knuckles to his mouth, pressed a kiss there that lingered too long for public. "But I'm keeping score, darlin'. And you're racking up quite a debt."

You reached for Jake’s bottle before he could, twisting it from his fingers with a practiced ease. He let you, but the smile that spread across his mouth was all teeth. 

“You’re playing with fire, darlin’,” he said, voice soft as velvet.

“Maybe I like the burn,” you fired back, and this time Phoenix didn’t bother hiding her grin. She looked at Rooster, then at you, like she was betting on how long until someone broke.

Jake rolled his shoulders as he brought his arm around you, resting his fingers at the curve of your neck. 

“So what you’re telling me,” Jake said as he leaned in closer, “is that I have to keep you in line?”

“I’d like to see you try,” you replied

You let the silence ride for a minute, then cut through it by slumping into Jake’s side, cheek resting against the point of his shoulder. He went tense for a second, then relaxed, exhaling a laugh against the top of your head.

“Hangman’s got a soft spot,” Phoenix chirped. “Who knew?”

“Don’t go spreading rumors like that,” Jake shot back, but he never moved you away. If anything, he tugged you closer.

After that it turned into a contest: who could escalate, who could hold out the longest. You stole his fries, fed him one just to see if he’d bite your fingers. He did, gently, and then sucked the salt from your thumb with a look that should have been illegal.

Phoenix watched it all, hiding her face behind her glass, but her shoulders shook with laughter. Rooster looked at Bob, then at Jake, then at you, like he was counting down to zero.

It was just before closing when you made your play. Rooster was recounting some old war story, half the table bored, the other half buzzed from too many rounds. You ducked your head, leaned close enough to Jake’s ear that no one else could hear, and whispered, “Maybe if you were as good in the air as you are at running your mouth, they’d rename the whole program after you.”

His hand stopped moving. Just for a second. The smallest beat, but you caught it, the way he froze and then reset. He looked at you, real slow, like he was recalibrating his whole opinion of the evening. Then he leaned in, close enough that you felt the scrape of his stubble at your cheek.

“Careful, darlin’,” he murmured. This time it wasn’t a joke. His voice was a full octave lower, all steel and expectation. “You keep testing me like that, I’m not gonna be responsible for what happens.”

You grinned, teeth flashing. “Promise?”

He looked at you for a long moment, jaw set. Then, slowly, he smiled. “You got it coming, sweetheart.”

You hoped so.

You were going to let it go from there. You could tell Jake was just the right level of worked up to give you a good fuck later when you got home. But then Rooster handed you the perfect opportunity to push just one more button, and you couldn’t help yourself.

“Y’know,” you said, tilting your head, “I’ve heard a lot about Hangman’s legendary stamina. But honestly, all I’m seeing tonight is talk.”

The words landed with a thud. Rooster let out a low whistle. Bob’s brows hit his hairline. Phoenix grinned so hard she looked like she might choke.

You kept your eyes on Jake. You watched the way his expression didn’t so much as twitch, except for a tiny pulse along the line of his jaw. You could tell, though, that you’d hit something vital. Maybe not a nerve, but close. You bit down on your smile, waiting for him to come back at you, maybe with a one liner or some lazy threat.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at you for a long, silent moment, and then he stood. The suddenness made your chair squeak against the floor. His hand slipped behind you, not rough, not soft, just sure, and slid into the back pocket of your jeans. He tugged you upward, slow and steady, until you had to rise with him or get hauled up like a sack.

He bent his head, lips grazing your ear, and said, “Go get in the truck.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, and it sure as hell wasn’t a joke.

You blinked, not sure what you’d expected, but it wasn’t this. Maybe you’d thought he’d laugh it off, maybe you thought you’d keep sparring until you ran out of steam, but the finality in his tone made you shiver in your bones.

And then, right there, in front of all of them, Jake gave your ass a firm smack. Not playful. Not gentle. Just a warning shot across the bow. You stifled a squeak and shot him a look, but he was already looking down at you, steady as the North Star. Entirely in control.

“C’mon, darlin’,” Jake said, still close enough that only you could hear the heat in his voice.

You were on your feet before your brain caught up with your body, the line between game and reality burning up in the aftershocks of his handprint. You made yourself walk slow, even as your heart beat at Mach one. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to, you could feel Jake’s eyes following you all the way to the door.

Outside, the night was ocean-black and the air tasted like rain. You wrapped your arms around yourself, partly for warmth, partly to hold together the thrill leaking out at the edges. The lights in the bar flickered gold and blue through the windows, but you stood just out of range, feeling the world get very quiet.

You could see Jake through the glass, still at the table, like nothing had happened. He smiled at something Rooster said, tossed a couple bills on the table for yours drinks, and finished his beer in one long pull. 

King of composure, even with the room watching.

You waited by the truck, hands in your pockets, watching the oil shimmer on the blacktop. Your whole body buzzed, not from the drinks, but from the leftover adrenaline of pushing a man built for boundary lines right over one.

He didn’t say anything at first, just unlocked the door and nodded at you. You climbed in, tried not to smile too hard as you settled into the leather seat. He got in, started the engine, and let the rumble fill the silence between you. You felt his hand brush your thigh, but this time it was just a tap. Small, controlled, but a clear reminder.

Jake just stared straight ahead, profile clean as a knife blade in the streetlights. You realized then: you’d started the game, but he’d already planned the end.

The drive back was nothing like they normally were. Usually Jake’s hand was on your thigh, his thumb idly circling just above the seam of your jeans. He’d casually crank the radio up and harmonize badly to whatever was on. Sometimes he’d take the long way home, windows down, letting the wind and the engine noise fill up the spaces where words weren’t needed.

Tonight, though, Jake was all silence. He put the truck in gear, eyes forward, and the only sounds were the hum of tires on asphalt. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t touch you. His knuckles ghosted the shifter, light and controlled.

You shifted in your seat, searching for a foothold, but he offered nothing. Even the radio was turned down to a whisper, some old country song flickering in and out like static. You tried to catch his gaze at a red light, but he didn’t give you the satisfaction. Just flicked the turn signal, waited for green, and rolled on.

You wondered, as the lights of the base bled past in a blur, if you’d pushed him too far.

Jake pulled into the driveway, killed the headlights, and let the engine idle for a few heartbeats before shutting it off.

He didn’t move right away. Just sat there, fingers drumming a slow, thoughtful rhythm on the wheel. 

Finally, he said, without looking over, “Ready?”

You nodded. Your voice, when it came, was thin. “Yeah.”

He got out, boots crunching on the driveway, and you followed, legs a little unsteady. Jake didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to. The space between you crackled, sulfur and static, a live wire waiting to ground.

You didn’t dare look over your shoulder as Jake moved behind you, but you heard the measured steps: the hollow knock of boots against the old tile, the faint rasp of his jacket as he hung it on the hook. You kept your eyes on the kitchen counter, the swirl in the cheap laminate suddenly fascinating. The air in the house was warm and still, no fan running, just the ache of your heartbeat pulsing in your ears.

In three silent strides, he was behind you. One hand gripped your hip, fingers spread and possessive, and the other slid up the nape of your neck, into your hair. His palm was rough from years of flight controls and gym pull-ups. He used it to tip your head back until your spine arched and your eyes found his.

Jake’s pupils were blown wide, but his smile was calm. “You thought you were real cute tonight, didn’t you?”

You felt the blush start at your jaw and spread, slow as lava. You bit down on your lower lip, teeth scraping skin. It wasn’t that you couldn’t talk, it was that you knew exactly what would happen if you did.

He chuckled, close-mouthed and dangerous. “Not so mouthy now, huh?”

You shook your head, just once. He loosened his hold on your hair, but didn’t let go. He let his fingers drift down to your chin, guiding your face so you couldn’t look away. 

“I think it’s time you learned a little lesson about consequences.”

The word landed like a promise, and your knees nearly buckled.

Jake took a step back, dropping his hand, and glanced at the hallway. “Bedroom. Now.”

You didn’t run, but you didn’t dawdle either. The house was small enough that the ten second walk to the bedroom felt like a walk of shame, every inch of you aware of the heat in your cheeks and the thrum between your thighs. 

You stood beside the bed, hands at your sides, trying to pretend your heart wasn’t about to batter itself loose from your chest.

You heard Jake in the bathroom, washing his hands, humming a song you half-recognized from the bar. He took his time. When he finally came into the room, he stood in the doorway for a long, silent moment. Just watching.

“You know what to do.”

You slid your shirt over your head, folded it and set it on the chair like you’d been taught. Your jeans followed, denim slithering down your legs, and you left them pooled at your feet. You shivered in the sudden coolness, left in just your black bra and panties.

Jake crossed the room, slow and deliberate, and let his hand rest at your hip. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, and whispered, “You look nervous. Are you nervous?”

You nodded, swallowing hard.

He smiled, a genuine one this time, and ran his thumb along the waistband of your panties. “Good. That means you know you’ve got it coming.”

With no warning, he smacked your ass. Once, hard. The sound cracked in the small room and you jumped, more out of shock than pain. He squeezed, then did it again, the second one lower, softer. You yelped, heat blooming beneath his palm.

“Hands on the bed,” Jake said, voice suddenly all command.

You bent, palms pressed to the duvet, ass up and thighs already trembling. You heard him step back, then the sting of his hand again. Three, four, five sharp slaps, each one just a little different: sometimes cupping, sometimes open, sometimes a flick at the end that made you gasp. He never missed, never lost the rhythm. Sometimes he’d wait, a beat or two, just to make you wonder when the next one would land. The pain was real, but so was the pleasure. You arched your back, grinding into his hand on reflex, and you heard him laugh.

“Look at you,” he drawled, “already making a mess of yourself.

He paused then, letting his palm smooth over the red heat of your skin, and you moaned at the relief.

“You gonna be good now?” He asked, low and close.

You whispered, “Yes.”

Jake ran his hand down the backs of your thighs, kneading the tender flesh, then hooked his finger in your waistband and tugged. 

“Take ‘em off,” he said.

You did, trembling as the fabric slid down. Your skin burned where his hand had left its mark. 

He stepped away again, and for a second you thought maybe that was it, maybe he was done. But you knew better. Jake never quit a job half-finished.

He dragged two fingers down your spine, then up, then back down, slow and steady. “You know why I’m doing this, right?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Because I was a brat.”

He chuckled, “Smart girl.” 

Then another smack, this one less about pain and more about ownership. You felt every nerve ending light up.

You heard the clink of his belt, the slide of a zipper, and knew what was coming next. You knelt between his knees until you were eye level with the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the band. You hooked your fingers into the waistband and pulled his jeans down past his hips. His boxer briefs barely contained him, and when you pressed your palm against the bulge, Jake groaned low and needy. You looked up at him, waiting for a nod, and when he gave it, you freed him with a careful, reverent touch.

His cock was thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You wrapped your hand around the base, marveling at how he filled your grip, and stroked him once, slow and teasing. Jake’s hand found your hair, fingers threading through, but he didn’t push, just held you there, letting you go at your own pace.

You started slow, licking up the shaft, then swirling your tongue around the crown. You looked up at him, eyes wide, waiting for the command.

“Take it, baby,” he said, voice rough, and you did.

You loved the way Jake lost his composure when you sucked him. He went from cocky to silent in half a second, every muscle drawn tight, every ounce of focus on the way your mouth stretched around him. You set a pace, bobbing slow, then fast, then slow again, your hand working what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Jake watched you, eyes burning, one hand threading through your hair, just guiding, like he wanted to keep you there forever. 

“God damn,” he groaned. “Look at you.”

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, feeling the weight and heat at the back of your throat. He thrust gently, never too much, but enough to remind you who was in charge.

“Good girl,” he said again, and this time you moaned around him, the vibration making him curse. You squeezed your thighs together, aching with need, but you kept your focus on Jake, on the way he looked at you like you were a miracle.

You had him right there, right on the edge, could feel it in the way his thighs trembled beneath your palms, the way his breath came ragged and desperate. 

But Jake never let you finish him like this, not when he could have more. His grip shifted from your hair to your shoulders, pulling you up his body with a strength that made your head spin. He kissed you messy and deep, tasting himself on your tongue, then guided you until you were sprawled across the mattress. 

He shifted, settling back against the pillows, and drew you up with him, guiding your knees to straddle his hips. His cock strained against your stomach, hot and insistent, and he looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes. 

"Ride me," he said. "Want to watch you." 

He stroked himself, slow and steady, then watched as you lined up and sank down, inch by inch, until you were full of him.

You gasped at the stretch, the shock of how good it felt, how right. Jake held you steady, rocking you gently as you adjusted. 

“That’s it, baby girl,” he murmured, “just like that. You’re so perfect.”

He let you set the rhythm, at first. Soft rises and falls, rolling your hips until you found the angle that made you clench around him. Jake’s breath stuttered every time you moved, and his hands roamed your body, up and down, pausing to cup your breasts.

You rode him, slow at first, then faster, chasing the pleasure that built with every glide. Jake never stopped praising you, telling you how beautiful you were, how good you felt, how proud he was.

“God, you’re amazing,” he said, voice hoarse. “Take what you need, sweetheart. I got you.”

You lost yourself in the motion, in the way your bodies fit together, in the electricity that crackled up your spine every time you bottomed out. Jake’s hands left smudges on your hips, and when you leaned forward to kiss him, he bit your lower lip, just enough to make you whimper.

When you came, it hit you all at once. A burst of white heat that made your vision blur. Jake held you tight through it, coaxing you to ride it out, fucking up into you just enough to make it last.

You collapsed against his chest, boneless and sweating, and he just held you, stroking your back and murmuring, “Good girl. That’s my girl. You did so fucking good.”

The room smelled of sex and sweat, the sheets tangled beneath you like a nest of vines. You were still trembling, your body humming with the aftershocks of what Jake had just wrung from you. His hands were on your hips, warm and possessive, and before you could catch your breath, he was flipping you onto your stomach with a single, effortless motion. The world tilted, your cheek pressing into the cotton sheets as he arranged you exactly how he wanted: head down, ass up, your thighs spread just enough to make you feel exposed.

You whimpered, the sound muffled by the pillow, but Jake heard it. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, before dipping lower to spread you open. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and hungry, and the vulnerability of the position made your pulse spike. 

"Fuck," he murmured, voice rough with approval. "Look at you. So pretty like this."

A pillow appeared beneath your hips, lifting you higher, angling you just right. You gasped as the shift in position made your oversensitive nerves flare to life. Jake’s hands were everywhere: skimming your thighs, squeezing your ass, teasing the wetness still dripping from you. 

"So wet for me," he said, and there was something darkly satisfied in his tone. "Even after all that. You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart."

You tried to push back against him, to find some friction, some relief, but his palm landed on the small of your back, holding you down. 

"Uh-uh," he chided, fingers sliding through your folds with maddening slowness. "You don’t get to rush this. I wanna take my time with you." His touch was light, almost teasing, and you whined, your hips twitching in frustration. 

"Jake—"

"Shhh." His fingers pressed inside you, just the tips at first, then deeper, stretching you open with a slow, relentless rhythm. You clenched around him, your breath hitching as he curled them just right, hitting that spot that made your vision blur. 

"That’s it," he murmured, voice dripping with Southern charm. "Take it like a good girl. Let me hear you."

You couldn’t help it. The sounds spilled out of you. Whimpers, gasps, and broken pleas, each one rewarded with a deeper thrust, a firmer touch. Jake’s free hand slid up your spine, tangling in your hair and pulling just enough to make your scalp tingle. 

"You like that, don’t you?" He growled, fingers working you faster. "Like being used. Like being mine."

You nodded, your cheek rubbing against the sheets, your body arching into his touch. 

"Yes," you breathed, the word barely audible. "Yours."

Jake’s laugh was low and dark. "Damn right you are." His fingers twisted inside you, and you cried out, your thighs shaking as the pleasure coiled tighter, tighter. "Jake, I can’t—"

"You can," he said, voice firm. "One more for me, sweetheart. Give it to me." 

His thumb found your clit, circling with just enough pressure to send you spiraling. You came with a broken sob, your body clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of sensation crashed over you. Jake didn’t stop and didn’t slow down. He worked you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you were boneless, trembling beneath him.

When he finally pulled his fingers free, you whimpered at the loss, but then his weight was shifting. He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked himself, using your wetness like lube.

Then his cock pressed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you moaned as he pushed inside, inch by slow inch. The angle was deeper like this, sharper, and you gasped as he bottomed out, your body stretching to accommodate him. 

"Fuck," Jake groaned, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel so good."

He started to move, slow at first, letting you adjust, but then faster, harder, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that made your toes curl. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he fucked you, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. 

"You take me so well," he growled, voice rough with need. "Like you were made for this. Made for me."

You could only whimper in response, your body too overwhelmed to form words. Jake’s hand slid up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned, and the dominance of the gesture sent a fresh wave of heat through you. 

"That’s it," he murmured, his voice a dark purr. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You obeyed, your cries filling the room as he fucked you harder, deeper, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Jake. Jake, please–"

"Please what?" He demanded, his voice a growl. "Tell me what you need."

"You," you gasped. "Just you. Always you."

Jake’s laugh was dark, triumphant. 

"Damn right." His hand slid around your hip, fingers finding your clit, and you cried out as he rubbed you in tight, relentless circles. "Come for me again, sweetheart. Show me how much you love this. Show me how much you love me fucking you like this."

The words sent you over the edge. You came with a broken scream, your body clenching around him as pleasure ripped through you. Jake followed with a groan, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled himself deep, his hands gripping you tight enough to leave marks.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of Jake’s body pressing you into the mattress. 

Then he shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, his arms wrapping around you like a cage. His lips found your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to your skin. 

"Gonna fuck the brat right out of you," he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. "Every damn day if I have to."

You shivered, your body still humming with the aftershocks of what he’d done to you. 

"Promise?" You whispered.

Jake’s laugh was a dark, delicious thing. 

"Oh, sweetheart," he said, his voice a promise all its own. "You have no idea."

-

Tag List - if you'd like to be tagged please let me know. I did start a new tag list as my old one had a lot of inactive usernames and people that weren't interacting with my posts. If you were on the old one and would like to be added to the new one, please let me know with a comment

You’d never been the most tech savvy person, you know that.

You understand the basic functions of your laptop and definitely aren’t hopeless. No one would ever call you technology deficient. But your knowledge ends with the essentials. 

So when you overheard one of your coworkers talking about the way she learned to delete her voicemails, you didn’t exactly question it.

“You just have to press *67 as soon as you’re finished and it’ll delete it. It’ll make it look like you never called.”

It didn’t seem like vital information at the time, but nights later, as you were sitting on your couch slightly drunk, watching The Fox and the Hound, it suddenly became much more useful. Unable to stop yourself, you called Jake that night, leaving a brief and somewhat tearful voicemail before typing out *67 and hanging up.

Admittedly, you were a little weary of your coworker’s tip—maybe you’d watched too many TV episode plots that revolved around tracking down someone to delete a voicemail off their phone. But you woke up the next morning with no questioning text from Jake. When a week had gone by and he still hadn’t reached out, you hesitantly left another voicemail.

You don’t entirely know when they became such an integral part of your daily routine, almost a voice diary you found yourself using on every walk home after work. But it became a comfort, a way for you to talk through your grievances with someone you used to think cared about them. It got so lonely in San Diego, it was nice to have someone to talk to.

You could talk about whatever you needed to and then delete it, without ever having to worry about Jake answering his phone either. Back when you were still dating, you learned that Jake had two phones—only keeping his older one in case people too far back in his past to have his new number ever tried to reach him. In the entire year you’d been together, no one but a telemarketer had called it and it stayed untouched in a drawer.

So you could cling to the first man you’d ever loved, like you wanted, and Jake could forget you ever existed, like he wanted. It was a win win.

“Hi, Jake. It’s me again—I feel like I don’t have to keep introducing myself, sorry. Today was pretty good. I got a lot of tips, so I think I’m finally gonna get new shoes. Even customers started noticing, it was really embarrassing. 

I see my therapist tomorrow. She wants to talk about you, which I’m kinda nervous for, but it’ll probably be good for me. She’s been really helpful actually and she’s really nice when we work though stuff… I don’t know, I like to think you’d be proud of me for that.

I’m pretty sure it’s, like, 8:30 in Texas, so you’re probably at the gym right now. Unless you’re not—Sorry, I shouldn’t assume. But, um, what else?

Oh! I saw a dog that looked like Harley today. It was walking past the window at the diner with a cute bandana and I got a little excited... I miss him. I miss...

Anyway, I’m rambling so I’ll probably hang up now, but, um, I hope you had a good day. Bye, Jake.”

Jake’s fingers tighten around his phone, his knuckles white as your voice cuts off in his headphones. He has to force himself to loosen his grip on his phone out of fear of breaking it, the old iPhone 6 was hardly durable as it is. Jake squeezes his eyes shut.

He can still hear you in his head, your quiet voice, your soft breaths. He hates it. When he goes home, he’ll screen record your message so he can keep his voicemail box empty for you.

In truth, Jake had discovered your voicemails entirely by accident. Moving back to Texas eradicated his need for his second phone since he was now close enough that any friend or family who didn’t have his new number could probably just walk to his condo if they needed something. He’d completely forgotten about the phone for months until Javy’s sister said she was looking for an older phone to give to her son as he started 8th grade.

It took him hours to find, but when he did, the last thing he was expecting was notifications for no less than 10 missed calls and voicemails. Jake was even more surprised when he realized they were all from you. He listened to every one of them, as you talked through the highlights of your day. And the lowlights. For a moment, Jake could almost pretend you were still together.

But you weren’t talking to him—you were talking to the idea of him. Because that’s all you had. That’s all he left you. 

Jake must have stayed up all night playing your voicemails over and over again.

The logical part of him, the part he usually listened to, told him to forget about it. He should just put the phone back where he found it, and let you reach the voicemail limit, and never think about it again. The logical part of him told him that clearly even you didn’t want him to listen to them and why would he want to listen to them anyway? Jake Seresin doesn’t get hung up on his ex.

And Jake suddenly carrying his old phone everywhere with him and recording every voicemail so he could still listen to them while keeping his mailbox empty was Jake not being hung up on you.

He’s allowed to still think about you, to still care about you. And that didn’t mean he regretted breaking up with you. Just because he always felt lonely, and started letting Harley sleep on the bed with him which he had never allowed before, and found himself wanting to pick up your call if only just to hear your voice in real time, didn’t mean he regretted it. It didn’t mean he thought it was the stupidest decision he ever made. And it wasn’t the reason he was so ready to move back to California.

“Dude.” Javy’s voice breaks him from his reverie, and Jake turns to see his best friend giving him an unimpressed look. “You’re the one who said you wanted to go to the gym tonight.”

Jake tries to shake you from his head, sliding his old iPhone 6 discreetly into his gym bag. “Sorry. I was changing my music.”

He knows Javy doesn’t believe him, the other man just crossing his arms without a word. He has that look on his face, the one Jake sees quite frequently now, the look of wanting to step in but being hesitant to push him. Jake hates that look more than your voicemails. 

“Dude… If you wanna talk about something—,”

Jake rolls his eyes with a scoff.

“Don’t do that,” Javy points an accusing finger at him. “You’re doing that thing you do where you get mad at people for caring about you.”

“To get mad at you would require caring in the first place,” Jake walks away from his bag with a snippy tone.

Because Jake doesn’t care.

“I don’t know, I’d like to think you’d be proud of me for that.”

Jake doesn’t care that he is proud of you. He doesn’t care that it feels like a knife through the heart every time he realizes that he is now something you have to work through, that the pain he caused you is something you have to learn to let go of.

“I miss him. I miss...”

Jake doesn’t care that you miss him. It doesn’t rip him apart that maybe you don’t. It’s not like he has dreams where he’s with you, where he’s telling you that he’s sorry and that he loves you. He doesn’t wake up in a cold sweat, shaky fingers swiping through his phone before he plays one of your voicemails because your voice is the only thing that calms him down. He doesn’t do any of that because doing that would require him caring. 

And Jake doesn’t care.

“Hey, Harley.” You give the dog a scratch behind his ears as he greets you excitedly, stubby tail thumping against your legs.

Harley prances after you as you walk further into the house, hanging up your jacket and dropping your purse on a chair like shedding those items will be enough to shake off the day. It’s not, you still feel drained, and you hope that Jake’s up for something from Charlotte’s tonight.

“Angel? That you?” 

Jake’s voice drifts from the living room and you start heading in that direction. You’re mildly surprised he’s home at all, he spends most of his time at Maverick’s and you usually don’t see him until much later in the night. But it’s only 6:30 and he’s looking through his laptop as he sits on the couch.

“Sorry,” you move to sit next to him on the couch, the cushion in the middle feels like feet between you but you’re not quite courageous enough to move any closer. “I didn’t know you were home. I thought you’d be back later.”

Jake nods offhandedly, continuing to scroll through whatever is on his laptop. You hardly take offense to it. Though no one would guess Jake is weirdly responsible and it’s a very real possibility he’s filing away things for your taxes or something. Instead, you pull out your phone, reveling in the quiet for a moment.

Though working at Knockouts paid the bills, it was by no means your dream job. It was loud and customers could be cruel and almost all your coworkers were looking for other work—or, at the very least, didn’t plan to stay there forever. Jake promised you that once his boxing career took off, you wouldn’t have to work there anymore. You could go back to school, and get your masters in English like you always wanted to.

That hasn’t happened yet though. And you can tell it frustrates Jake every time you come to his house exhausted or on the verge of tears that he’s still waiting for some big break to be able to provide for you. But you always try to assure him that it isn’t his job, that eventually he’ll find his footing and everything will be okay. You’ve gotten better at hiding the bad days from him.

In fairness, it seems like he has too. These past couple days he’s been scarce—more than usual—this is the first time in a long time that he’s been home before you’ve fallen asleep. You know he’s taking things more seriously at the gym, training more, winning more. He’s also going out partying with Javy a lot more too, it only stings a little that he doesn’t invite you. 

It’s not like he hasn’t always been doing this, but something about this time around feels different. Like, this time, he knows something that you don’t. 

“I think we should break up.”

Your phone falls from your hand and into your lap. “What?”

“I think we should break up,” Jake repeats, reaffirming that his words weren’t something you’d misheard. That they weren’t some nightmare you’re having while awake.

“I… I don’t—Why?” You swallow thickly, your chest feeling heavy as you try to understand what feels like a blindside on Jake’s part. 

Jake sighs, looking up from his laptop. “Mav told me there’s a guy back in Texas that’s looking for fighters. The fighting scene isn’t as competitive there. This would be my shot.”

“You think we should break up because you want to move back to Texas?”

You don’t understand how Jake can be so nonchalant about this. Maybe he thinks you wouldn’t want to go with him? But you would. You would go with him. You weren’t loyal to San Diego. Hell, you weren’t even loyal to California. It would take you a bit of time of course, you’d have to put in your two week notice and figure out how to sell your apartment...

“It’s huge for me, you know?” Though he sounds excited, he’s looking at you with an unreadable expression. “And we really aren’t serious enough for long distance to make sense—,”

Oh.

There was a part of you that was always a little wary of Jake. Of the guy you met at a bar, who called you “angel” before he called you your name. And maybe this was why. Because guys like that didn’t do serious relationships. But Jake had been loyal and yours for so long that you thought that, maybe, it was okay. Maybe it was okay to trust him. All squares are rectangles but not all rectangles are squares.

You clear your throat, biting down on your lip harshly. “Right, um, that makes sense…”

There’s a flash of something in Jake’s eyes—maybe hurt—but it’s gone before you can know for sure. “I’ve been thinking about this for a bit and I just think it makes the most sense.” He laughs suddenly, but you can’t seem to find the joy in it like you used to. “It’s not like you were planning to spend the rest of your life with some underground boxer.”

You were, but it feels childish to admit now. Like Jake was just some fantasy and you’ve reached the end to find no happily ever after. You swallow thickly.

“I mean, this is a really big opportunity for you.” You’re grateful Harley is playing in the backyard, because he’d have certainly called you out on your clear distress if he were here. “So, you should do what you think is best.”

It’s silent for a moment as Jake stares at you, and you wish he would just say something. Because you don’t know what he’s thinking and you don’t know what he wants you to say. You’ll say it, whatever it is. You don’t know what he wants from you. 

Jake wets his lips. “And we—I mean… We can still be friends.”

You knew what that meant. He’d never talk to you again. You’d no longer be there for him when he just didn’t want to be alone. You’d no longer be the first person he thought of when he caught a trailer for a new movie that looked good. You wouldn’t speak to him for years and years and then suddenly, out of the blue, you’d get a pity invite to his wedding to some Russian super model and all he’d introduce you as is someone he knew from college. Because that’s the kind of “friends” exes became.

“Right,” you force a smile. This time, not even Jake could make you believe him. “I’m—I’m okay with that.”

It wasn’t until months later, when you were wine drunk watching The Fox and the Hound, that you finally admitted it out loud. “Hey, Jake. I, um, I lied. When I said I was okay with you leaving, I lied. I’m not okay. I’m really, really not okay…”

The soft scent of floral notes fill your lungs as light mist lands on your skin. You take a deep breath, looking up at the fluttering butterflies moving in the air above you. It calms you, how silent butterflies are, like they’re the only creatures that don’t intrude on your space. Silent, and soft, and beautiful.

Dr. Elsher’s words ring in your head as you walk your feet through the familiar turns of the butterfly pavilion. The two of you had been talking about Jake for the last couple sessions, working through what he meant to you and what he made you feel about yourself. It was painful, you won’t pretend that it wasn’t, but it helped. You’d even stopped leaving Jake voicemails every day. 

It wasn’t a lot, you know that. But it was something. It wasn’t that you stopped loving Jake, or missing him, or wanting him, you just didn’t need him. You could live without him. Because you had other things—or, at least, you’re working on that. For now, you have butterflies.

For a moment, you think about leaving Jake a voicemail, but you shake it off. Not today. Today is about you and your happiness and the fact that you can live without Jake.

“And that’s important,” Dr. Elsher gives you a knowing look. “That you look at it as living. Up until now, you’ve been surviving. I want you to know that you can live whether or not you have Jake, or your parents, or anyone else.”

A blue butterfly flies in front of you and your shoes stop on the concrete to watch it for a moment. It lands on a peony growing near you, its wings spread to show off their iridescent shimmer. Your fingers brush against the edge of your phone case in your back pocket, but you stop yourself. Though you can’t explain it, you decide not to take a picture of the butterfly. Instead you just watch it until it flies away.

The bench you always sit at is just behind the flower bush in front of you and your shoes start moving against the concrete again. Dr. Elsher had recommended you try journaling for a bit and you figured this would be the nicest place to do it—sitting at your bench, in the quiet, surrounded by butterflies.

Your breath feels like it was ripped from your lungs when you finally move past the flower bush.

“Jake?”

The blond’s head turns at the sound of your voice, confirming his identity. He looks equally as shocked and he hops up from the bench quickly. “Hey…” He swallows.

You stare at him. He’s bigger now, muscles more toned and firm. He looks taller, if that were even possible, and you have to crane your neck a bit just to look at him. He’s still Jake though. He’s just a bigger Jake with slightly longer hair and… softer eyes. He’s Jake all the same.

“You’re, um, you’re back,” your voice is small and you wet your lips out of habit. “I thought you were in Texas.”

Jake scratches the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle. So unlike the Jake you know, he seems nervous and for a fleeting second panic fills you. Has he been getting your voicemails? “Yeah, I just moved back. It’s—It’s nice to see you though. It’s been a while, huh?”

A year and a half. That’s how long it’s been. One year, six months, and eleven days.

“Yeah.”

When you say nothing more, Jake clears his throat. “Well, I should go. I mean, I know this is your spot and—I was just—,” He stops himself, his expression morphing into one that almost looks like he’s disappointed in himself. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you around.”

With a strained smile, Jake brushes past you, heading towards the exit as he runs a hand through his hair. He seems anxious, fidgeting with himself as he leaves. You can’t stop staring at him.

Jake doesn’t spare you another glance before he’s gone.

Jake feels like he’s going to get a headache from how loud the music is, the flashing lights making his eyes squint. California feels different compared to Texas, but not by much. Alcohol is still alcohol after all. 

Not that Jake’s having that good of a time due to that fact. The amount of bodies packed into this club has him more irritated than anything and even the alarming amount of shots he’s been taking doesn’t seem to help. He’s just annoyed. Javy’s been pushing him in the gym, critiquing every mistake and making him practice punch combinations again, and again, and again. And there’s no reason for it either because, while Jake thought he was just competing with Rooster for good fights, he came to learn that some other up-and-comer has carved out his place in Mav’s lineup and now Jake has to sit back and watch the Grim Reaper take fights that should’ve been his.

It feels like the beginning of his career all over again, except this time he knows he deserves better fights. He’s stronger now, he knows how to put on a show, and if he just stayed in Texas he could be fighting whoever he wanted. If he just stayed in Texas a lot of things would be simpler.

Throwing back one final shot, Jake gets up. At this point, he might as well stop moping around and do something that’s actually going to make him feel better. There’s a buzz in his head that has the ability to take his mind off things if he focuses on it and what looks to be a bachelorette party has just made its way to the dance floor. Despite how in his own head he’s been, he isn’t stupid enough to remain oblivious to the redhead that’s been eyeing him since she got here.

With confident strides, he makes his way over to where she’s dancing with a few friends, gaze locked on the carefree swaying of her hips. She moves to make another glance at him, but she seems to have not realized that he’s already spotted her as her eyes widen slightly when she sees he’s coming closer. Whispering something quickly to her friends, she pulls herself away from the group.

Jake watches the way her chest rises and falls, taking in oxygen deeply with how much she’s been dancing. Sweat pools at the dips in her collarbones—something Jake can see because of her low cut top—making her skin look like it’s shimmering under the neon lights. She looks up at him through long, innocent lashes, biting her lip shyly.

Like it always is, the way he speaks to her is a blur. He says something to make her giggle and she steps closer to him under the guise of wanting to hear him better. She tells him her name and he forgets it and he pretends to be interested in what she’s doing in the city. One thing leads to another and then she’s grabbing his hand, leading him away with that same giggle, and then he’s pressing her against the wall in some dark hall before he inevitably takes her home like he always does.

Jake ignores the somewhat queasy feeling in his stomach, chalking it up to one too many shots, and lets his hands fall to her hips. Her head tilts up just slightly, an invitation to kiss her, and Jake can see the pink lip gloss that’s reflecting off her parted lips. 

The lights from the club travel over them occasionally, illuminating the scene enough for Jake to catch details about this woman, like the freckles peppering her shoulders and the glitter she’s smeared on her eyelids. But Jake never usually takes the time to notice these things, not when they truly and utterly don’t matter, he hardly ever gets with these women just to look at them.

When he finally dips down to kiss her, the lights pass over them again, right before her eyes can fully flutter closed. Jake jerks his head back.

“What?”

Jake knows the woman is looking at him in confusion, but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead he shoves his palms into his eyes, trying to erase the clear effects of alcohol he’s experiencing like he’s trying to wake up from a dream. Because this woman doesn’t have your eyes.

He sucks in a shaky breath, letting his hands fall. The lights pass over them again. The woman looks heavy with concern. But she suddenly has your eyes and your perfect nose and Jake feels like he’s going crazy because she’s not you.

She’s not you.

And he was going to kiss her.

Jake feels sick. He takes a step back from the woman, eyes darting all over the club as he tries to collect his thoughts. He knows that running into you had thrown him, he hadn’t been expecting to see you, not so soon and not when he still didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t been expecting to be so grateful though, like seeing you suddenly made everything feel right again, like he didn’t know how much he needed it until it finally happened.

He saw you at the butterfly pavilion and had to stop his heart from skipping beats because he had never truly realized just how right he’d been when you were together. You are an angel. 

And Jake always thought poetry was stupid, but now he wishes he paid more attention when you excitedly spoke to him about your literature classes in college because no words seem sufficient to describe what it felt like to lay eyes on you again. Beautiful didn’t even hold a candle—ethereal maybe? He felt like a lovesick idiot.

And here he is trying to kiss another girl that isn’t you.

“Are you okay?” A delicate hand weighs down on his shoulder but it feels like it’s 1,000 pounds.

Jake flinches away from the woman’s grip, only able to shake his head. The alcohol is catching up to him now, as is the realization that this entire time he’s been doing everything he can to forget you and he’s finally reached his limit. He can’t forget you because he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to find women that only like the idea of him and who he only likes the idea of too. He only ever wanted them because he can’t have you.

“I have to go.” Jake says finally. He doesn’t want this. “I have to—I should go.”

He’s walking away before the woman can even say anything, shouldering his way past people to get out of the stuffy club. His ears are ringing and it feels like all he can see are flashes of you. Jake knows that he should go home, sleep off the alcohol and the memory of you so guarded at the butterfly pavilion. At the very least, he should call Javy so that he isn’t alone

Instead he stumbles his way to Mav’s with the plan to hit a punching bag until he physically can’t anymore.

“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten”, you sighed after the first bite. Jake had taken you to that diner where he had interrupted your date once. You were finally able to get that burger he had but fresh out of the kitchen this time. And it was even better than you imagined.

“Oh god”, you said after the second bite, making Jake chuckle. “If you keep this up, I will not let you finish that burger”, he mentioned and his green eyes bore into yours while he licked his lips. He hadn’t even touched his burger yet.

“Yeah, like you’re able to get up right now”, you countered with a challenging smile and took another bite. His eyes shot down to his crotch for a second then he adjusted in his seat. Your smile widened.

“We should get chocolate cake after”, you suggested and wiggled your eyebrows. His face froze. “Stop it. Right now”, he advised you with a low voice but you could see that he was intrigued.

If there was something you could drive him even wilder was eating chocolate cake. He said he had never seen anything more sensual and then continued to lick it off your chin and other places he had put it on your body. Good thing you were at his place when it happened and it were his sheets that were ruined. But the sex was out of this world.

You shot him a wink and a smile before you ate some fries. Your feet were entangled under the table. You were now the couple you were often so sick of when you saw them in restaurants, bars or just on a bench in the park. But this was actually quite fun when you were on the other side.

“Listen, Y/N, I wanted to talk to you about something”, Jake started and seemed a bit nervous all of a sudden. You looked up from your plate. He still hasn’t touched his burger.

“Yeah?”, you encouraged him as he didn’t continue right away. “Uhm, it’s about work”, he continued and it was almost awkward how nervous he got. It definitely made you nervous, too.

“Jake, what is it? You’re making me nervous”, you stated, chuckling. “Sorry, that wasn’t my intention. I wanted to talk to you about…”, “Hey! Hangman, Y/N!”, you heard behind you and turned around.

It was Rooster, Payback and Fanboy. Bob and Phoenix were already shipped off to Miramar for their next assignment. The group was coming over to you. “Hey, are you guys on a date?”, Rooster asked as he arrived at your table and immediately sat down on the bench next to you, pushing you down a seat. Payback sat down next to Hangman and Fanboy pulled up a chair.

“We were”, you told him. “Cool. Now it’s a group hang”, Rooster said and started eating some fries off your plate. “Hey, get your own food”, you told him and grabbed your plate, turning away from him. This burger was too good to share. “Sorry”, Jake mouthed and pulled a face. “We need new friends”, you said out loud, not caring if you hurt their feelings. They had just interrupted your date.

“No, we need more of those burgers”, Rooster said and turned around to wave at the waitress.

You ended up having an improtu group dinner but Jake managed to get the two of you out of there just when you had finished eating, leaving the guys with the bill as payback. Instead of going straight back to his place like you had expected, he drove to Pacific Beach and invited you to a walk on the beach.

You took your shoes off and carried them in your hand, feeling the sand between your toes as you walked next to Jake. For a little while, the two of you didn’t talk and just enjoyed the view and each other’s company.

You walked a few steps towards the water and ran back to Jake when the waves came in, trying not to get your dress wet. The last one came quite close and you squealed as you hurried back to Jake. He caught you in his arms and pressed a kiss to your lips while you smiled big.

You put your arms around his neck and kissed him back. His hands settled on your hips.

“You good?”, you asked him when you pulled back and your hand caressed his cheek. “With you in my arms, I’m always good”, he replied and gave you another kiss. “Aw, so cheesy”, you chuckled and played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Back at the diner, you wanted to talk about something before we got so rudely interrupted”, you reminded him. Jake’s facial features hardened at your words and underneath your hands, you could feel how his body tensed up.

“Jake, come on. You’re really scaring me right now”, you told him and tried to keep a brave face but you got increasingly worried the longer his silence went on. You let go of him and took a step back.

“I wanted to talk to you about work”, Jake finally spoke. “Okay”, you said slowly.

“I already put in two requests to prolong my stay at North Island and I can't put it off any longer”, he told you and your stomach turned. Was he breaking up with you?

“They're sending me overseas”, he told you and your heart sank so fast, it almost knocked you off your feet. Your shoes fell out of your hand. No. This couldn’t be happening.

“And I would really love for you to come with me”, he continued.

You looked at him with big eyes. You weren't even living together yet and you're supposed to leave the country with him?

“I don't even know where exactly they're sending me yet and it's only temporary. But I asked if I can bring someone and they said yes, so, it's not gonna be somewhere dangerous, so, I think...”, he finally realized that he was rambling and you were overly quiet.

He took your hands in his and took a step closer to you.

“I know it's quick, we're moving five times the speed you're provably supposed to do this, but I'm so sure about us. I haven't felt about anyone the way I feel about you and I just think that this could really work out between us. If you don't wanna come, which I can totally understand, we can do the long-distance thing. It's not gonna be ideal but anything is better than not being with you one way or another”, Jake declared and just about stopped himself. The puppy eyes he was giving you were almost too much to bear.

“Yes”, you finally said. The expression on his face turned hopeful yet hesitant.

“Yes as in...”, he asked.

“Yes, this is super quick and yes, long distance would be less ideal”, you began and his face dropped. Your stomach turned nervously when you took a deep breath. You couldn't believe what you were about to say.

“And yes, I will go with you wherever they send you because I don't care how fast we are moving, we're fucking great together and I'm not ready to have our story end just like that”, you told him.

“Really?”, his voice was shaky, unsure, trying to hide his excitement just in case he hadn't heard you right.

“Really”, you nodded and the next second his lips were on yours. His arms wrapped around you and held you close, never wanting to let you go ever again. It felt like forever until you pulled back.

“I've known you pretty much since the day I came to San Diego and even though you annoyed the hell out of me when we first met, I simply can't picture this place without you”, you added. He put his forehead against yours.

“Don't let me regret this, Hangman”, you told him.

“Never”, he lightly shook his head against your skin.

“I love you, Y/N”, Jake said.

“Good, 'cause I love you, too, Jake Seresin and I will literally follow you to the end of the world”, you said and closed your eyes for a moment.

My god, you were really doing this. There was no place you'd rather be than with him.

a/n: okay, but this time, it's really over. Their story might only be beginning, but our window into their little world is closed now.

You’ve been together for a few months now, and you’ve had sex. You’ve had great sex. The kind of sex that had Andy coming back for more even though he’d sworn off real relationships after his divorce from Laurie, which had been rough.

But fuck, he just couldn’t stay away from you.

So you’ve fallen into exclusive relationship territory, although neither of you have outright said it or even broached the subject, but it is what it is - exclusive.

And if Andy is being honest with himself, he’s pretty fucking happy about it.

So much so that tonight he wants to revel in it and take his time with you.

He has you spread out on his bed, slowing things down because you tend to like it hard and fast, but fuck, he’s just in the mood to worship you, like you deserve.

He’s kissing his way down your body, his lips a slow, sensual drag on your skin when he realizes you’re shaking.

Andy’s lips are still trailing along the skin of your belly as he glances up and sees your fingers clawing at the sheets. His gaze moves higher, to your face streaked with tears as you bite at your lower lip, your body tense.

That’s when he realizes that it’s not desire or desperation making you tremble, it’s something else.

He’s just not sure what.

Frowning, Andy pushes up over you, stretching out until his face is hovering over yours.

“Hey,” he murmurs, the warmth of his palm cupping your cheek. “You okay?”

You’re not sure how to tell him it’s too much.

The softness. The undivided attention. The adoration. The way he’s loving you with his touch.

It’s overwhelming, all of it, especially the way Andy consumes you. As much as you like it, as much as you want him, it’s been a long time since anyone’s paid you this much attention, and it’s the first time anyone’s ever been this devoted to you.

It’s too much.

The way Andy whispers your name is soft, but it’s tinged with concern.

You’ve ruined the moment, and to add to everything else you're feeling right now, a pit grows heavy in your stomach. You blink your eyes open, distraught.

Andy’s face softens, his full lips twisting into a small frown as he gently thumbs the remaining tears from your cheeks. “Did I do something wrong, honey?”

“No.” You're quick to answer, and despite it just being one word, it still rings untrue.

His gaze is blue, unblinking, as he watches you for a long beat, and then he’s asking, “What do you need?”

You swallow, knowing you need a moment but you want him. You want everything Andy is offering you and more. You’re just not sure how to reconcile the two - the too much and the desperate want.

“Can we just...take a break?” your voice wavers, unsure, and you can feel your eyes stinging with a fresh onslaught of tears.

You know if you start crying, it’s just gonna make Andy even more concerned, and the night will be even less salvageable than it already is.

So you turn away from him, curl onto your side, sniffling quietly as you take a shaky breath.

“Yeah, of course,” Andy says, shifting until he’s lying beside you. He watches you for a long moment before asking, “Can I hold you?” He doesn’t like the way you stiffen at his question, but after a few seconds you’re whispering back at him.

“Okay.”

“You sure?”

You nearly burst into tears at how insecure Andy sounds, and you hate that you did that to him. So you’re quick to shift back against him, initiating contact until he’s gently curling around you and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“You know we don’t need to fool around if you’re not in the mood, right?” Andy’s voice is a quiet murmur as his hand tentatively slides over your hip, his palm spreading warm over your tummy.

“I know, and I always want to,” you whisper, hesitating before sliding your hand over his and twining your fingers together. “I always want you, Andy.”

Andy feels a little better at your admission, at the way you give his hand a squeeze, but he stays quiet as he tugs the blanket up and over you both, pressing another kiss to your back.

You’re both quiet for a long time, and then you tell him, “Sometimes it’s just a lot, being close to someone. And...at the same time, it’s all I want, even though I’ve never really had it, at least not like this.”

Andy hums in wordless acknowledgement, not quite sure what to say, but shifting a bit closer and hugging you a little tighter. He rolls your words around in his head, replays your reactions and physical responses from earlier, and slowly the realization hits him.

You’re touch deprived.

Andy doesn’t know all the gory details of your last relationship, but from what you’ve shared and what he’s pieced together, it wasn’t a great experience.

You’re also not close to your family and have few friends, and maybe that’s what drew him to you in the first place - you were a bit of a lone wolf, just like him.

But no matter his lone wolf tendencies, and the fractures in his relationship with Laurie, he’s always been an affectionate guy.

In fact, Andy found touch easier than words sometimes. He was naturally touchy feely because he was tactile, and maybe a little possessive, if he was being honest with himself.

Regardless, he wanted to know you were there, feel you against him, that you were his, and he hoped his presence and touch reassured you in the same way.

When the realization that you’re touch deprived dawns on him, Andy’s bewildered. And sad. It breaks his heart because you’re so lovely--amazing, really--and he falls a little bit more in love with you each day.

So in that moment as he holds you close, as he listens to your breath even out and he feels you go pliant with sleep against him, Andy decides it’s his new mission to make sure you know just how much he cares about you.

How much he wants you, always.

That you’re safe with him.

And even though it was probably a little too soon to tell you, Andy would show you just how much he loves you.

He starts small, with hand holding.

The next day when you go on your weekly farmer’s market trip, he reaches for you as you browse the berry selection.

You glance over at him in question as Andy catches your hand, but he just smiles and interlocks your fingers with his, lifting your hand to his face and pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

You don’t stiffen, you just look confused for a beat, but you eventually return his smile, your clasped hands swinging between the two of you as you move to the next  produce stand.

From there Andy works more hugs into your interactions.

The first few times you’re a little startled…

When Andy randomly pulls you into a hug as you’re both getting dressed for work one morning, and he just stands there quietly holding you for a long moment before pressing a kiss to your forehead, gently pinching your cheek with a fond curl of his lips, and then he’s reaching for his tie to finish off his outfit of choice.

Or when you’re finishing up the dishes late one night, Andy’s reflection startling you in the window over the sink before his arms wrap around you and tug you back against his firm chest. His deep purr rumbles against your back as you go slack against him, your hands falling atop his and your head tilting to the side to allow his lips to wander your skin, encourage it even.

Or one day as you help Andy finish loading the shopping bags into the trunk of his Audi, and he closes it before turning to you and tugging you against his chest, just holding you in the middle of the parking lot for no reason at all. You relax against him quickly, a smile tugging at your lips as your belly flutters, and it’s a nice change from the tightness in your throat that you usually feel at unexpected or lingering touches. You catch a glimpse of Andy’s warm smile as he slowly pulls away, and then he’s dropping a kiss to your lips, shooting you a wink, and leading you to the passenger side of the car to get you settled.

Soon you’re not only melting into Andy’s loving touch daily, you’re craving it.

Delighting in it.

Like tonight, as you emerge from the bathroom connected to your shared bedroom, you smile as Andy catches your hand and tugs you toward him.

He looks comfy--and stupidly handsome--in his flannel pajama pants and light gray t-shirt. He pulls you onto his lap with a soft smile and lounges back against his pillows with a content hum.

You shift closer to him, until you’re comfortably straddling his thighs and loosely looping your arms around his neck. Dipping close, you kiss Andy at a leisurely pace, enjoying the soft, warm press of his lips against yours, the tease of his tongue along the seam of your mouth.

Squirming now, you whimper in the back of your throat, the sound needy and desperate as you press flush to Andy’s chest as your fingers grip his soft hair.

He smiles when you pull away, knuckles caressing your warm cheek as his darker than normal eyes twinkle at you. “What do you need, honey?”

“You,” you whisper without hesitation. Your arms wind tighter around Andy’s neck as you lean in for another wet, thorough kiss. You shiver at the hot, firm drag of Andy’s hands up your back as you pull away to meet his gaze.

“And what do you want?” he asks.

“You.”

Your answer sounds the same, but it’s not, and as you stare into each other's eyes, you both know it.

“You have me,” Andy promises. Reaching for one of your hands, he pulls it to his face, pressing a bristly kiss to your palm before pressing your hand to his chest, over his heart. “You have all of me, sweetheart.”

Your own heart feels like it’s growing in your chest, overflowing with warmth and happiness and the kind of too much that you could get used to.

“Show me,” you tell him, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

This time when Andy spreads you out on the bed, when he takes his time undressing you--that warm, covetous look in his eye enough to make your belly flutter with something so much more than happiness--and starts showering your body with soft, lingering kisses, you bask in it.

Your body arches against him in invitation--in encouragement--hips impatiently shifting as Andy teases along your ribs with his mouth, his hands cupping your sides.

It’s in the slow, heavy drag of his hands along your body, the teasing brushes of his thumbs against your aching nipples.

It’s in the way he pauses to press up over you and catch your mouth in a messy, possessive kiss, humming at the taste of you before his lips are back to wandering your body once more.

It’s in how he gently drags his beard along the softness of your inner thighs--marking you as his--as he trails his fingers along the curve of your calf, the jut of your ankle bone.

It’s in when he finally--blessedly--sinks into the hot, dripping center of you, merging you two together as one, your skin pressed against his--no space in between--as Andy moans your name, the look in his eye so tender your own eyes sting with emotion.

It’s then that you know - this is so much more than a loving touch or an intimate moment between lovers.

This is worship and devotion.

This is the love of Andy Barber.

And it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and so much more.

WELP. I GUESS NOW I’M JUST A GODDAMN SAP TOO, HUH?! WTF.

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