jakbubs

You always woke up first. That was just the way it went.

The early sun never failed to warm your face through the slightly cracked blinds of your shared bedroom, golden light slipping across the foot of the bed like it belonged there.

Jake’s arm was slung heavy around your waist, his breath slow and deep against the nape of your neck, and just a little too warm. One of his legs was tangled with yours, as if even in his sleep he couldn’t stand to be far from you.

And at the foot of the bed, curled up with a stuffed gray bunny that was beginning to unravel at the seams, was James— Jihoon when he was in trouble.

Five years old. Barely able to tie his shoes right, but already carrying Jake’s stubbornness in his bones.

You shifted gently, trying not to wake Jake as you slipped out from under his hold.

He grumbled something incoherent in his sleep and reached out for you, but you were already halfway to the kitchen.

It wasn’t long before little feet padded after you, and then James was clambering onto a chair at the table, face still puffy with sleep, hair a mess.

“Toast?” you asked.

He nodded, rubbing at one eye. “With honey.”

You ruffled his hair before turning to the counter. “You’re getting too used to sweet things in the morning.”

“It makes me run faster,” he insisted, already kicking his legs under the table like he had a hundred miles of energy to spend.

Behind you, you heard Jake’s heavy steps thudding down the hallway, groggy and shirtless, his curls a wild mess. He kissed your shoulder as he passed, then bent over to ruffle Jihoon’s hair too.

“Morning, champ.”

“Morning,” James beamed. “Can we box today?”

Jake laughed as he sat down. “You wanna box again?”

James nodded so hard his curls bounced. “I’m gonna be a boxer just like you!”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just buttered the toast. Carefully.

Jake noticed. Of course he did.

After six years, he could read you better than anyone. “We’ll be careful,” he said softly, glancing at you over James’ head.

“Boxing’s not a game,” you replied quietly. “It’s not— it’s not something I want him dreaming of every night.”

Jake’s eyes softened, and he reached for your hand as you placed the plate of toast down. “I know, I know it scares you. But he doesn’t see the blood or the bruises. He just sees his dad being strong.”

You looked at him, feeling your chest ache. “That’s exactly why I’m scared.”

James munched on his toast without a care in the world, his feet swinging. “Can I come to your next match?” he asked suddenly, crumbs on his lips. “Please, please, please, pleeeeeease?”

Jake blinked, surprised. “What, the next one? That’s in two days, James.”

“I’m big enough,” he declared, sitting up straighter. “I wanna watch, I wanna cheer. Please, mommy?”

You looked at him, at his big, pleading eyes.

At the innocence behind them.

And then you looked at Jake, with the same eyes who looked torn between pride and guilt. It wasn’t fair— how much James looked like both of you at once, how easily he could tug at your heart.

You sighed. “We’ll see.”

Which really meant yes. Because you were never good at saying no when it came to them.

That night, you helped James into Jake’s old boxing gloves. They were far too big, slipping past his wrists, practically swallowing his arms.

He tried to throw punches, but they were mostly flailing motions that made Jake laugh until he was nearly wheezing on the floor.

You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to smile too much.

Jake caught your eye, cheeks flushed, a sheen of sweat on his collarbones from messing around with James. “See? He’s a natural.”

“He’s five.”

“He’s my kid, he’s gonna be unstoppable.”

James fell over trying to jab at Jake’s leg. “Gotcha!” he shouted.

Jake swooped down and scooped him up, holding him upside down while James shrieked with laughter. “You got me, huh? You sure about that?”

“Daaaaaaad!”

“You gonna knock me out one day, champ?”

“Yeah! One punch!”

You bit back a laugh as you walked over, flicking Jake’s shoulder. “Put him down before he vomits dinner.”

“Fine,” Jake groaned, dropping James onto the couch. “You both take all the fun out of my life.”

James poked his tongue out at him. “No I don’t. I’m your best fun.”

Jake looked at him for a long second, eyes warm, and then over at you. “You both are.”

Two nights later, the arena smelled like sweat and nerves.

You had James on your lap, his little legs tucked close to his chest, his hands gripping a paper cup of juice too tightly.

The crowd was loud, the lights bright, and your heart was beating way too fast for someone who wasn’t even in the ring.

Jake stepped into the spotlight wearing his mouthguard and gloves, robe slung low over his shoulders.

He looked fierce. Serious. Beautiful. Like the fighter you’d first met back in college, when he was reckless and full of fire, but still somehow managed to be the kindest boy you’d ever known.

Jihoon bounced excitedly. “There he is! Look, mom, look!”

“I see him, baby.”

The bell rang.

The fight started.

And something was wrong.

You could tell, even if the others couldn’t.

Jake’s steps weren’t as light, his dodges not as quick. The other guy was aggressive, coming in hard and fast, and Jake—he was getting hit. A lot.

Your stomach twisted.

“Mom,” James said, his voice small now. “Why’s dad not winning?”

“He’s trying,” you whispered, arms tightening around him. “He’s okay, he’s— he’s just warming up.”

But then Jake stumbled. His lip was split.

His shoulder sagged like he’d pulled something.

And your son started to panic.

“Mom, he’s hurt. We gotta go help him.”

“James, no, listen to me— he’s gonna be okay, you can’t—”

But your words weren’t fast enough.

James wriggled out of your arms before you could catch him, ducking under the security rope, sprinting across the edge of the crowd.

Someone shouted. You were on your feet, your heart in your throat, but James was already halfway to the ring.

“Jihoon!”

He scrambled up through the ropes, small enough to slip between them, and ran straight to his father.

Jake didn’t even notice at first, too dazed by the last punch.

“Stop the fight!” you screamed. “Stop it, my son’s in there!”

The ref blew his whistle furiously, waving his arms. The other boxer dropped his stance immediately, confused.

Jake blinked down— and froze.

“Champ?”

James launched into his chest, wrapping his tiny arms around his waist. “Don’t let him hit you again! I’ll fight him for you!”

Your vision blurred with tears as you rushed down toward the ring.

Someone opened the gate for you, and you ruan inside, breath shaking, legs trembling.

Jake had dropped to one knee, one arm around James, the other shaking as he pulled his mouthguard out.

“Hey,” he whispered. “What are you doing, buddy? You can’t be in here.”

“You were losing,” James mumbled, clutching him tighter. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Jake let out a laugh that sounded like it hurt. “I’m okay. It’s just a match.”

“You were bleeding.”

Jake looked up at you then, and his face — Lord, his face —he looked so sorry. So wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve never let him come. This was too much.”

You knelt down beside them, pulling James into your arms, running a hand through his hair. “You scared me,” you whispered. “You can’t run off like that, Jihoon. Ever.”

“I’m sorry,” he sniffled. “I just— I didn’t want him to lose.”

Jake leaned in, pressing a kiss to both your foreheads. “I’ll never lose anything that matters, okay? Because I’ve already got you.”

The crowd was murmuring. Officials were everywhere. The match was called off.

Jake was disqualified, but he didn’t care.

All he cared about was you. And James. Safe. In his arms.

Later, in the locker room, after everyone had gone, Jake sat with James asleep in his arms, still wearing one glove that dwarfed his hand.

You sat beside him, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Promise me,” you murmured, “that if he really wants to fight when he’s older…you’ll teach him how to be smart. How to be safe.”

Jake nodded, kissing the top of Jihoon’s curls. “I promise. But for now…I just want him to dream about anything else. Anything safer.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “You scared me tonight.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you, Jake.”

He turned, eyes soft. “I love you too.”

And in that quiet moment, with your son snoring softly between you and the world finally still, you felt it again— that fragile, powerful kind of happiness that could only exist when you had everything you loved right there in your arms.

☆.

It was supposed to be your morning to sleep in.

The deal was sacred: on Sundays, or holidays, or any day the world wasn’t demanding something from the two of you at dawn, one of you got to stay in bed while the other kept James entertained.

It had been years of trial and error, balancing exhaustion with parenting, love with chaos, but you’d found your rhythm.

This morning, you were supposed to be nestled in the warmth of the blankets while Jake took James to the kitchen for cereal and cartoons.

You’d heard them shuffling around in the other room— Jake’s low, sleepy voice, and James, wide awake, asking if he could have two bowls because he was ‘super strong today’.

But instead of dozing off again like you usually did, a sharp pain twisted through your stomach, a heat blooming behind your navel and spreading like fire.

You jolted upright, cold sweat already rising on the back of your neck, and before you could think or breathe or blink, you were rushing out of bed.

The bathroom door hit the wall when you shoved it open, and you barely made it to the toilet in time before your stomach gave out.

Violent, sudden.

Your knees hit the tile hard as your body curled in on itself.

“Baby?” Jake’s voice, thick with sleep, came from the hallway.

You couldn’t answer. The retching had stolen all the air from your lungs.

There were small footsteps, bare feet padding quick against the floor, and then James’s voice, high and worried. “Mommy?”

Jake was there a moment later, crouching beside you, his hand on your back.

“Shit— hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He was rubbing gentle circles into your spine, his other hand brushing the damp strands of hair from your forehead.

You forced yourself upright, gasping, “Phone. Get me my phone.”

Jake didn’t waste time asking questions. He was up in a flash, bolting down the hall.

But it was James who surprised you.

He knelt beside you, mimicking his father’s earlier movements, his tiny fingers clumsy as they gathered your hair and held it back.

“I’m here, Mommy,” he whispered. “You’re okay. Daddy’s coming.”

You shut your eyes for a second, heart swollen even through the pain. “Thank you, baby.”

Jake returned a beat later, sliding to the floor with your phone in one hand, his other reaching out to feel your forehead. “You’re burning up. Do you want me to call the doctor? What do you need?”

You didn’t answer at first, just searched the appa until you found the period tracker one.

You looked at him — really looked at him — and said, hoarse and quiet, “My period’s late.”

That madew him pause.

He glanced briefly at James, still by your side, loyal and worried and trying so hard to be brave.

“Late?” he asked.

You nodded. “Like…late late. And I know July’s always weird for me, and sometimes it skips, but this… this isn’t like that. This is…”

Jake caught on. He stood and reached for the bathroom cabinet before you could finish.

His hand went straight to the little white box buried behind cough syrup and cotton pads. The spare test.

He held it up. “This?”

You nodded, pressing a palm against your stomach as another wave of nausea rolled over you.

Jake knelt again and gently coaxed James to his feet. “Hey, buddy. Can you go watch TV for a bit? I’ll bring you snacks soon, I promise.”

“But—Mommy—”

“She’ll be okay,” Jake said, smoothing a hand over James’ss head. “I promise. Just give us a few minutes.”

James hesitated, looking from you to Jake, before finally nodding and stepping out of the room with one last glance over his shoulder.

You leaned back against the wall, breath shaky. Jake helped you up and steadied you with an arm around your waist.

“I’ll wait out there,” he said quietly, placing the test in your hand.

“No,” You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Don’t go.”

He hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Alright. I’m here.”

The test took less than a minute to take. But it felt like a year.

You placed it on the edge of the sink, both of you staring at it like it might jump to life and scream the answer at you.

You were still sitting on the toilet lid, knees tucked up, your arms hugging them to your chest.

Jake sat across from you on the closed tub, elbows on his thighs, eyes flicking between the floor and your face and the tiny plastic stick.

You broke the silence. “We weren’t planning this.”

Jake gave a breathy laugh that had no humor in it. “We weren’t really planning anything back then, either… when we had James.”

“That was different,” you said.

He met your eyes. “Was it?”

You bit your lip, chest tightening. “It feels scarier now.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a second. Then he moved closer, kneeling in front of you.

His hands found yours, his fingers cold from the tile but steady. “Whatever it says…you’re not alone in this. You’re never alone, love.”

“I threw up everywhere.”

“Still not alone.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, and for the first time since the pain had woken you up, you let yourself cry.

Just a little.

Jake held you through it, fingers curling into your hair, his lips pressing against your temple.

When the ten minutes were up, the test was still face-down on the sink.

Jake turned it over.

He didn’t say anything at first.

You looked at his face, trying to read it. He was too still. His jaw clenched once, then loosened.

His eyes flicked up to yours, wide and stunned.

You stood slowly, walking to the sink, feeling your heartbeat rattle in your ribs.

You saw the two lines.

Pregnant.

Your stomach swooped. Your hands trembled.

“Oh my god.”

Jake was behind you in a second. His hands came around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder.

“That’s real,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

“That’s real.” you said, more convinced.

Jake nodded, kissing your cheek softly. “Looks like we’re doing it again.”

You turned in his arms, eyes brimming, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “What if I can’t handle it? What if it’s too much?”

“You will handle it,” he said firmly. “Because you’re strong. And because I’m here, and we already made the best little human in the world. We can do it again.”

You clung to him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “He’s gonna be a big brother.”

Jake pulled back just enough to smile at you. Really smile. “Can you imagine him? With a little sibling running after him?”

“He’ll boss them around.”

“He’ll protect them.”

You laughed again, eyes still blurry with emotion. “We need to tell him.”

Jake looked toward the door. “Now?”

You paused. “Not yet. Let’s just…hold it, just for a little bit. Just ours.”

He nodded. “Just ours.”

There was still pain. Still nausea. Still fear.

But Jake was here. You were here. And there was life, again, starting inside you.

Another heartbeat waiting to be loved.

☆.

You never liked hospitals.

They always smelled too clean, too sharp, like something was being covered up.

But you went anyway, let Yunjin drive you in her little too-fast-for-comfort car with her playlist blaring.

She didn’t let you argue. Not when she saw the look on your face after the test. Not when she showed up with a fresh croissant and a determined, no-bullshit attitude.

“I’m not letting you stay in bed and Google symptoms until you give yourself a panic attack,” she said. “We’re going to the doctor. I’ll hold your hand, throw up with you, whatever you need.”

True to her word, she was there when you lay back on the crinkly white paper of the exam table, heart in your throat, the sonographer squeezing warm gel onto your skin.

She didn’t let go of your hand once.

AAnd there it was.

That flickering heartbeat.

Tiny. So small it didn’t feel real until it pulsed across the screen like a drum.

You stared at it, lips parted, heart unraveling. The image was hazy, grainy, but it was there, this new, growing piece of you. Of Jake. Of your family.

You cried, of course. You always cried at these kinds of things, even if you tried not to.

Yunjin blinked hard a few times herself. “You’re really doing this again, huh?”

You laughed, a watery sound. “God, yeah.”

“You’re stronger than me.”

“No I’m not,” you said. “You’d be amazing.”

She squeezed your hand. “But right now, this baby’s gonna have the coolest mom on earth… and well, aunt, duh!”

When you finally did tell your son, Jake was the one who brought it up.

James had been building a Lego tower in the living room, lying on his stomach in his little dinosaur pajamas, humming to himself.

Jake sat beside you on the couch, his hand on your thigh, a soft press of reassurance.

“Hey, bud,” Jake said, ruffling his son’s hair, “we’ve got something kinda cool to tell you.”

James looked up, blinking, pieces of Lego clutched in each hand. “What?”

Jake looked at you. You nodded, and he smiled. “You’re gonna be a big brother.”

James blinked again. “What?”

You leaned forward. “There’s a baby growing in my tummy, sweetheart.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, “A baby? In there?” He pointed, alarmed, at your belly, which still looked more like you’d eaten too much lunch than anything else.

You laughed. “Yeah. In there.”

His mouth dropped open. “Is it gonna pop out soon?”

“Not soon,” Jake said. “You’ve got a few months, but eventually, yeah.”

James crawled closer, pressing his little hand against your shirt like he was trying to feel the baby through your skin. “Is it a girl?”

“We don’t know yet,” you said.

He tilted his head, clearly deep in thought. “Will it like dinosaurs?”

“I hope so,” Jake said, laughing.

James was quiet again for a moment, looking at you, then Jake, then back to you. “Do I have to share my snacks?”

You smiled. “Only if you want to.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said solemnly. “But only if it doesn’t touch my T-rex.”

“Deal,” Jake said.

And just like that, James accepted it.

Sort of. He had questions, of course— How does the baby breathe? Will it be loud? What if it’s a girl and doesn’t like trucks?

But in the end, he was still the sweetest baby boy on earth.

☆.

The first trimester was cruel.

The toilet became your closest companion.

Mornings were the worst: your body felt hijacked, your stomach constantly roiling, everything smelling too strong or too wrong.

Jake woke up every day with you, even when his eyes were heavy with sleep and his matches were approaching.

Even when his training hours stretched him thin. He still tried to take up time to stay with you, to train younger boxers instead of boxing himself.

But what surprised you most was James.

He’d peek into the bathroom every morning, hair sticking out in wild directions, clutching his little stuffed dinosaur by the arm.

And if Jake wasn’t already holding your hair back, James would quietly step in and do it.

He never complained.

He just stood there with a serious look on his face and said things like, “You’re doing a good job, Mommy,” or “It’s okay. Sometimes I throw up when I eat too much candy, too.”

Jake started calling him your bodyguard.

James puffed his chest with pride every time.

Sometimes, when the nausea got bad enough, Jake would carry you to bed, settle behind you, and James would crawl in on your other side and whisper stories to the baby. “Today I drew a robot. When you come out, I’ll draw you, too.”

It was in that moment that you realised you had won in life.

.

☆.

Valentine’s Day wasn’t usually a big deal for the two of you.

You’d never been the candlelight-dinner, wine-glass-clinking, heart-shaped-everything type of couple.

Your love was built on early mornings and grocery runs, on whispered goodnights and holding hands during hospital appointments, on parenting and partnership and choosing each other again and again, even on the days when your patience was thin and the dishes were stacked high in the sink.

But this year felt different.

You woke up to the soft creak of your bedroom door opening and the quiet shuffle of socks across the floor.

Your belly was heavy, so round and taut it felt like you were a balloon stretched to its final inch of give.

And you were tired. So tired.

But when you opened your eyes, you saw them— Jake, holding a bouquet of slightly squashed red roses, and James peeking from behind his leg with something hidden behind his back.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Jake murmured, kneeling on the edge of the bed and brushing a kiss against your forehead.

James stepped forward, biting his lip, then presented you with…a crayon drawing of what looked like three lopsided people holding hands. “This is us,” he explained proudly. “That’s you, and that’s Daddy, and that’s me, the little one in your belly is a circle. I didn’t know if it’s a girl or a boy.”

You took it like it was the most precious thing in the world. Maybe it was.

Jake handed you the flowers with a sheepish smile. “James wanted to get you chocolates, but I told him flowers are important too.”

“Mommy should have both,” James declared.

“You taught him well,” you said, kissing your husband’s lips. Then you reached under in the bedside table drawer and pulled out a wrapped box you’d hidden last night. “And so did I.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “What is this?”

“Open it.”

He unwrapped it to find a tin of dark chocolate truffles and a new pair of wraps for training —embroidered with Best Father Farter across the edge.

His smile cracked wide. “Oh my god.” he laughed loudly “I love them!”

James clambered onto the bed between you both. “Can we eat cake now?”

“After lunch,” you said, laughing. “But yes. Later, we’ll eat cake.”

Jake cooked lunch while you sat on a stool in the kitchen, rubbing your belly and trying to ignore the low ache that had been bothering you all morning.

James danced around in his socks, insisting on wearing a tie for ‘the special day’c and you let him because he looked too cute not to.

The cake was store-bought, a simple one with little pink sugar hearts, but James was excited about it like it was some magical treasure.

You stood up to grab a knife to cut the first slice.

You didn’t even make it to the drawer.

Pop.

The sound wasn’t loud, but you felt it in your body, a deep, sudden release of pressure.

Warmth gushed down your legs.

You froze.

Jake, mid-laugh, stopped. “Did you— did you drop something?”

You looked down at your soaked pants. Then up at him.

“Oh my god.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Is that—? Is it happening?!”

“Yes! Jake, yes— go grab the hospital bag!”

James gasped, horrified. “You peed yourself?!”

“I didn’t pee myself, baby,” you said through gritted teeth as the first cramp twisted through your belly. “The baby’s coming.”

James blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

Jake was moving at light speed— or maybe no speed at all.

He dropped the bouquet. Nearly tripped over James.

Grabbed his phone, then the car keys, then forgot both again.

“Okay, bag— hospital bag, where’s the— where did we—where did you put it?”

“By the door, Jake!” you snapped. “Where it’s always been.”

He stumbled off, yelling back, “I knew that! I’m calm!”

“You’re not calm!”

James was clinging to your leg like a baby koala. “Is the baby falling out right now?”

“No,” you hissed, hand gripping the table as another contraction hit, sharp and fast. “But soon if we don’t move.”

“Should I call someone?” Jake shouted from the hall.

“Yes! Call Yunjin. She needs to come stay with James!”

“I’m already on it!” he yelled back, fumbling his phone.

Yunjin picked up after two rings.

“You’re gonna want to get here,” Jake said, voice too high. “It’s happening. She’s— her water broke. Like actually broke. It’s go time.”

You grabbed the phone from him as he rushed back in. “Yunjin, please— just get here.”

“I’m on my way, don’t panic,” she said, though you could hear the smile in her voice. “Tell James I’ll bring candy.”

“I’ll tell him if I survive.”

You handed the phone back to Jake, your hands trembling. “Get the car ready. I’ll get shoes.”

“You’re not getting anything. I’m carrying you.”

“Jake—”

“I’m carrying you,” he repeated, gently but firmly.

James watched the whole scene unfold like a movie, his eyes wide. “Will it hurt?”

You knelt down, wincing, brushing his cheek. “Yeah, honey. It’s going to hurt. Daddy’s going to be with me, don’t worry. you’re gonna be the best big brother ever.”

He nodded, lip trembling. “I’ll tell the baby that I love her.”

Jake kissed his forehead, voice thick. “You tell her that in person. We’ll be back with your sister soon.”

The hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights and quick footsteps and voices that felt like they were underwater. m

The pain hit in waves, and each time it crashed, you wanted to scream— but you didn’t.

Not yet. Not until it got worse.

And god, it got worse.

Nine hours of it.

Jake never left your side, not for a second.

You yelled at him at least three times.

“Stop talking,” you growled at him during hour five, when he was trying to distract you with some nonsense story about his first amateur fight.

He shut up. Immediately. Nodded like a soldier.

Later, when you were gripping the rail of the bed so hard your knuckles went white, you hissed, “I hate you.”

“I know,” he said.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Got it.”

“Wait, no— touch me again.”

He grabbed your hand without hesitation. “Right here.”

You screamed. He let you crush his fingers.

And when it finally happened,.

the world shrank to pressure and burning and breathless, broken sounds, you gave one last push and everything stopped.

Then—

A cry.

High and raw and brand new.

They placed her on your chest, and your hands shook when they curled around her tiny, wriggling body.

She was pink and warm and squalling like she was furious about the whole ordeal.

You sobbed.

Jake sobbed more.

Your forehead pressed to hers as you whispered, “Hi, baby. Hi, Jane… Hi, Jiheon.”

Jake kissed your temple a hundred times, his face wet with tears. “You did it. You did so good.”

“She’s so small,” you whispered.

“She’s perfect.”

You looked at her again, this little piece of you and Jake and everything that had ever been good between you.

You were exhausted, ripped open and aching, but she was here.

Your daughter.

And she was worth it all.

☆.

The world came back slowly.

Not in one clean breath, but in fragments, blinking against the dim hospital room light, the hum of machines, the sterile scent of disinfectant layered beneath something warm.

Familiar.

Jake’s cologne.

Your throat was dry, lips cracked, body heavy— wrecked didn’t even begin to describe it.

Your stomach ached with the aftershock of labor, your muscles trembling in the stillness, and for a moment, you couldn’t even tell what time it was.

Everything had blurred together into hours of pain, blood, cries, and the weight of her tiny body on your chest before darkness finally pulled you under.

But now—now it was night.

The sky outside the narrow window was ink-dark, the city lights dulled by the thickness of the glass.

You shifted just slightly, wincing at the soreness that radiated through your hips and spine, and turned your head.

He was there.

Jake was sitting in the corner chair beside your bed, hunched forward with a blanket cradled against his chest, shoulders curved inward like a shield.

His hair was a mess,, and his eyes were fixed on her with an expression so full of awe it punched the breath right out of your lungs.

He was crying. Quietly.

Not the dramatic, shaking kind of crying— just slow, steady tears, running along the curve of his jaw and down to his neck as he stared at his daughter.

“Jaeyun…” Your voice cracked like ice underfoot.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at you at first.

“She’s sleeping,” he whispered, brushing one callused thumb over her cheek, his voice so soft it barely stirred the air. “She has your nose.”

You watched him from the bed, your vision still cloudy, but yourr heart was awake now.

He looked so still, so unlike the chaotic Jake you’d known for years.

Not the boy who forgot his keys five times a week.

Not the man who cheered too loud at James’s school recitals. This was something different.

This was a father. Again.

You reached out with a hand that shook from effort. “Let me see her.”

Jake finally turned, startled like he hadn’t realized you were awake.

He sniffed, blinking hard as he carefully got up. “You’re awake,” he said, voice cracking. “God, you— are you okay? You fainted right after they took her. They said you were just exhausted, but you were out. I thought—” He paused. Swallowed. “I’ve been watching you sleep for hours.”

You blinked slowly. “You’re not supposed to say that like it’s romantic, stalker.”

That got a breath of laughter out of him, ragged and wet. He came to the side of the bed, kneeling so he could ease Jane down into your arms. “Here,” he murmured. “Hold her again.”

You adjusted your pillow, barely able to sit up.

But he helped, supporting your back, brushing the strands of hair away from your damp forehead. And then she was there, small and warm and impossibly real in your arms again.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered. “Hi, little Jane.”

“Jiheon,” Jake added softly. “That’s what I’ve been calling her. She likes it… i think. She keeps making this face when I say it— look.” He leaned in and repeated it again in a whisper, “Jiheon.”

Jane shifted slightly, scrunching her face before relaxing again. A barely-there smile tugged at Jake’s lips.

“You look like a dad of two now,” you murmured, brushing your finger along her hair. “There’s something different in your face.”

“I feel different.” He pressed his forehead to your shoulder and just breathed there for a second. “Like… more breakable.”

You rested your cheek on top of Jane’s head and closed your eyes. “You’re not. You’re stronger than you think.”

He pulled back and sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle either of you. “Do you remember what you said during hour seven?”

“Which part? I said a lot of things.”

“You said if I ever touched you again, you’d break my nose.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still stands. For a while.”

Jake grinned and leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Fair. I’ll wait.”

You both sat there for a while, in the stillness that only came in the dead of night, surrounded by beeping monitors and the soft breathing of your daughter.

After a while, he reached out and brushed the back of his finger over Jane’s tiny fist. “She’s got my ears.”

You snorted. “Poor girl.”

He laughed, pulling the blanket higher around your shoulders. “James is gonna love her.”

“He already does,” you said. “He kept talking to my belly like it was a walkie-talkie.”

Jake smiled again, softer now. “He’s gonna be the best big brother.”

You were quiet for a while.

Just breathing. Just holding her.

And him holding you.

Then, your voice cracked the silence, barely a whisper.

“Thank you.”

Jake blinked. “For what?”

“For giving me them.” You looked down at Jane. “For giving me you.”

His face crumpled a little. “You gave me everything back.”

☆.

Coming home was a blur of motion and scent and warmth—soft clothes, white noise, the lingering chill of February air clinging to your coats and hair as you stepped into the house with a car seat cradled between both hands.

Jane was still asleep.

That delicate, floating sleep only newborns seem capable of, where their tiny chests rise like feathers and fall again, their mouths puckering occasionally, eyelashes still damp against their cheeks.

Your arms ached from holding her, your legs felt like jelly, and your stomach was a quilt of stretched skin and healing muscle, but lord— you were finally home.

Jake carried the bags in with one arm and hovered behind you like you might fall at any second.

His hand was low on your back. “You okay?”

“I’m… tired,” you admitted, your voice raspy with lack of sleep and recovery, but your eyes were clear. “But yeah, I’m okay.”

“Good. I want this moment to be good.”

You looked over at him. “It will be.”

James had been waiting by the window.

The second you stepped inside, his feet came skidding over the hardwood floors in his socks, eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open.

“Where is she?” he breathed, like he was waiting to see a mythical creature.

Jake gently nudged the car seat toward him. “She’s sleeping. Be soft, okay?”

James crouched like it was some sacred ritual, his tiny fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.

He peeked in with a squint, nose wrinkling, face twisted in deep thought.

He blinked.

Then frowned.

“…She’s kind of ugly,” he declared.

Jake choked on a laugh, reaching to ruffle his hair. “Hey.”

“But it’s okay,” James continued with a shrug. “She’s a baby. I heard some people get plastic surgery when they grow up. She can do that if she wants.”

You pressed a hand to your mouth, stifling a snort. “She’s not ugly.”

“She looks like a wrinkly potato.”

“That’s cause she just came out,,” Jake said solemnly, kneeling beside him. “She’ll look better after some milk and sleep.”

James tilted his head, clearly unsure how to feel. “She smells like butt.”

You bent down beside them both, the ache in your legs sharp but ignorable.

Jane stirred a little, her mouth making a soft sucking noise, her hands twitching. “You smelled worse when you were born.”

James’s eyes widened like you’d just told him he was adopted. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Jake chimed in. “You pooped on me twice in the first week.”

James’ face lit up. “Can I hold her?”

“In a bit,” you said, brushing your fingers along his hair. “After she’s fed. And once we’re on the couch.”

He nodded, serious. “I’ll wait.”

☆.

The days passed like smoke curling around your head—soft and slow and smothering all at once.

Jane didn’t sleep unless she was on someone’s chest.

Your chest. Jake’s chest. Occasionally James’s, when he insisted on sitting perfectly still on the couch, puffed up with responsibility.

Your nights bled into mornings, your mornings into afternoons.

You could barely tell what day it was anymore. You were always either nursing, changing, soothing, or trying to catch a moment of quiet to breathe.

But even in the chaos, there were moments that glowed— small, quiet glimmers of peace.

James tiptoed more than he used to. He would pad into your bedroom at two a.m., rubbing his eyes, clutching his dinosaur plushie under one arm.

“Is she okay?” he’d whisper.

“She’s just hungry,” you’d whisper back.

Sometimes he’d crawl into the bed next to you and lie on Jake’s other side, close enough to reach for your elbow. He didn’t ask for lullabies anymore. Just your presence, closeness.

Sometimes he’d doze off again before Jane had even finished nursing.

Other times, he’d stay awake. Just watching.

“I think she likes when you sing,” he murmured one night.

You paused, fingers stroking Jane’s back. “You think?”

He nodded seriously. “Even if you’re a little out of tune.”

And Jake— Jake was different, this time.

The first time around, he’d tried. He really had.

But he was younger, more nervous, too rough around the edges, and there were nights when you’d cried in the shower because you were the one holding everything together.

But not now.

Now he was soft in the ways that mattered.

He remembered the towel you liked best and warmed it in the dryer before you bathed.

He memorized your medications, prepped your bottle without you asking.

He rubbed your feet while Jane fed, whispered affirmations when you broke into tears at 3 a.m. for no reason except that your body wasn’t yours and your brain was drowning and you missed sleeping for more than two hours at a time.

He wasn’t perfect.

He still forgot to put lids back on properly and he still knocked over the baby lotion bottle three times in the same week.

But he had learned you. Learned your limits. Your moods.

What words would help and which wouldn’t. He never made you feel like a burden. Not once.

And when you had nothing left to give— he gave you back to yourself.

You came down one night after a long nap you hadn’t even realized you’d taken, hair sticking to your forehead, your robe askew.

You expected disaster. Bottles unwashed, a screaming baby, maybe Jake asleep on the couch with James up way too late playing video games.

Instead, you found the living room lit in warm lamplight, quiet.

Jake was shirtless, Jane pressed to his chest in the baby wrap, bouncing slightly on his feet as he whispered a lullaby in half-Korean, half-english.

James was curled on the rug with dinosaurs his book, whispering the words to himself, a blanket pulled over his lap.

Your heart cracked open.

Jake looked up and smiled. “She just finished feeding. I pumped from the stash in the fridge, you looked like you needed rest.”

“I did,” you whispered.

“Go back up,” he said. “I’ll bring you tea.”

You hesitated. “I feel guilty.”

“Don’t. You gave her a whole body, we’ll take care of you now.”

You did cry then.

And when Jake wrapped you in his arms that night, you believed him.

You believed that this family, this messy, tired, beautiful family, was being held together not just by your hands, but by all three of theirs.

And that was everything.

☆.

Two years later, the kitchen smelled like strawberries and sunscreen.

It was a Sunday afternoon in early June, sun slanting through the window blinds and painting long, golden stripes across the tiled floor.

The fan hummed softly in the corner, spinning slow circles that barely stirred the air, and Jan e your little girl with her chubby hands and mismatched socks was sitting in her high chair, smearing strawberry juice across her cheeks like war paint.

Jake was crouched beside her, wiping her chin with one of the soft, floral-patterned cloths you insisted on keeping in the drawer.

His hair was still damp from the hose-outside chaos that had been an hour ago— James, laughing as Jake sprayed him down while Jane screamed and clapped from the porch.

Now everything smelled of damp grass and sweetness.

You were at the sink, rinsing a bowl, humming under your breath, tired but soft around the edges with that summer kind of fatigue that didn’t bite.

James sat at the kitchen table, arms folded, face twisted in a look of intense concentration, like he was on the verge of solving the meaning of life.

“Dad?” he said suddenly, sharp like a question he’d been chewing on all morning.

Jake looked over, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, bud?”

James tapped a finger against the table. “How did you and Mom meet?”

You froze mid-rinse, hand still under the stream of water.

Jake blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Why do you wanna know?”

James shrugged, suddenly bashful, eyes darting to the side. “Just curious.”

But you saw the pink flush in his cheeks.

The way he pressed his lips together.

You turned the water off, grabbing a towel, and leaned against the counter just to watch it unfold.

“Wait.” Jake narrowed his eyes playfully. “Did something happen at school?”

James groaned. “Noooo.”

Jake smirked. “Oh my god, it did. Who is she?”

James covered his face with both hands. “Dad, no.”

“She sits next to him,” you supplied, grinning into your towel. “Pretty little thing with the pigtails and glittery pencil case, right?”

James dropped his head to the table with a muffled moan. “You guys are the worst.”

Jake cackled, reaching out to flick his son’s ear. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you how we met, but only if you promise not to laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

James lifted his head, expectant. “Tell me anyway.”

Jake stood, walking toward the fridge to grab a handful more strawberries, before leaning his hip against the counter and settling into storyteller mode.

Jane babbled, still chewing her fruit with delight.

“Well,” Jake began, “your mom hated me.”

“What?” James blinked. “Why?”

You crossed your arms. “Because he was cocky. And late. Constantly.”

“I wasn’t that late.”

“You were twenty-two minutes late to our first study session.”

“Okay, one time—”

“Every time.”

Jake huffed dramatically. “Anyway, we were in college. Same class, I noticed her first. She had this oversized hoodie and earbuds in every time she walked into the lecture hall, and she never talked to anyone.”

“I was tired.”

“Exactly. So mysterious.”

James giggled.

“I tried to sit near her a few times,” Jake continued. “You know, see if I could catch her attention, but she never looked up. So I asked to borrow her notes.”

You raised a brow. “You mean you spilled coffee on your own notes and then cornered me after class.”

Jake grinned at James like it was a badge of honor. “It worked.”

James’ eyes were wide now, totally absorbed. “Then what?”

“She agreed to help me study,” Jake said, placing a hand to his heart like he was reciting poetry. “And the rest… is history.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, it took a while,” Jake added. “Your mom wasn’t easy, she made me work for it.”

“Darn right I did.”

“But then we started spending more time together,” he said. “And she started smiling more. Laughing, she used to pretend she didn’t like me, but I could tell.”

“I didn’t like you.”

Jake shot you a look, grinning. “Tell that to the time you skipped your morning class just to meet me for coffee.”

You scowled playfully. “That was one time. And you had a cold.”

“You brought me soup.”

“Because I’m not a monster.”

James cut in. “Did you kiss?”

Jake opened his mouth, smirking, his eyes shining as if to say and not just that.

You threw a towel at him. “Don’t you dare.”

Jake caught it, snorting. “Yes, we kissed. A lot.”

James made a face. “Ew.”

“And we fell in love,” Jake added, softer now, his smile turning real, almost quiet. “Like, the kind of love where you still want to see their face even when they’re mad at you. The kind where everything feels like home when they walk into the room.”

Your chest squeezed a little.

“She’s still my best friend,” he added. “Even when she makes fun of me for how many times I lose my keys.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s gotten better.”

“Only because you put a tracker on my keychain.”

James giggled again.

“And then,” Jake said, grinning now, “we had you.”

“Wait— how did that happen?” James asked innocently.

Jake froze. You shot him a warning glance. He paled.

“Uh—well, that’s a whole other story.”

James squinted. “Why?”

“Because it’s for grown-ups.”

“But—”

“Nope,” you said firmly, swooping in to pick Jane up from the high chair as she started getting fussy. “You’ll learn in science class.”

James groaned. “Ugh. But science is so boring.”

“Not always,” Jake said under his breath.

“Jaeyun.”

Jake raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay!”

Jane curled against your chest, sticky hands tugging at your shirt, and you kissed her forehead before shifting her to your hip.

“Is that really how you fell in love?” James asked quietly, looking between you both.

Jake looked at you, and you looked at him— and your heart did that warm, foolish little flip it had been doing since the first time he held your hand, since he first made you laugh until you cried.

“Yeah,” you said, brushing your fingers through James’s hair as you passed. “It really is.”

Jake came up behind you, his hand sliding to the small of your back. “Still in love, too.”

You looked up at him. “Even after I threatened to cut your head off if you gave me another baby?”

“Even then.”

James groaned. “You guys are so embarrassing.”

☆.

It was past midnight and the rain hadn’t stopped all day. It tapped gently against the window, like fingertips drumming over glass, soft enough now that it no longer sounded like thunder, but like a lullaby to the tired world.

The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlight that spilled in from between the curtains.

The warmth of the bed wrapped around you both like a cocoon.

The scent of rain still clung faintly to your skin from earlier— just from standing by the door too long, shoes soaked, children loud and chaotic and cooped up.

You were fast asleep now, curled beside Jake under the heavy blankets, your body drawn instinctively to his.

Your hand had found its way to his chest, fingers splayed just over where his heart beat steady.

He could feel your breath on his collarbone, soft and rhythmic, your nose cold against his neck.

He didn’t move. He never did, not when you laid like this.

He only let his arm fold around you tighter, holding you like something sacred.

His eyes didn’t close.

It had been a long day, sure— Jane had tried to flush her brother’s dinosaur down the toilet, James had gotten stuck halfway under the couch trying to retrieve a Lego piece.

But that wasn’t what was keeping Jake awake.

It was your sigh. The small one you let out just minutes ago, right before curling closer to him in your sleep.

It had sounded like comfort. Like home.

And that’s what triggered it.

That memory.

The one he couldn’t forget, even if he tried.

The one from before the house, before the kids, before everything.

The night he almost lost you.

It had been raining then, too. Harder than this. Sharper.

You stood in the middle of a soaked parking lot, your hoodie clinging to your skin like paper, hair plastered to your face, eyes wet with more than just the downpour.

You had just stormed off, away from him.

Jake had followed you out of the gym, his steps echoing behind yours, water sloshing in his shoes, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re not listening to me!” you shouted, spinning around to face him, voice breaking over the sound of the storm. “You never listen to me!”

“I do!” Jake yelled back, stepping closer, teeth clenched. “I always do! But you’re asking me to be someone I’m not!”

“I’m asking you to stop killing yourself in the ring every weekend!” you cried, your voice raw. “I’m asking you to choose something, anything, that doesn’t make me wonder if I’ll get a call saying you won’t come home!”

Jake’s jaw tightened.

Water ran down his face, indistinguishable from the tears in your eyes.

His chest heaved, soaked through, breath misting in the cold air.

“This is all I know,” he said. “Boxing is all I have.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping toward him. “You have me. You have someone who stands outside every goddamn fight praying you don’t bleed out, you have someone who waits up, and worries, and loves you so much it hurts.”

Jake blinked at you, and for a second, he looked like he couldn’t breathe.

And you shook your head. “But maybe that’s not enough. Maybe I’m not enough. Maybe this… us, was a mistake.”

The silence that followed made the rain sound louder. It filled the space between you like a wall.

Jake stepped forward, one slow step at a time, until he was standing in front of you, his hands shaking.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered.

You stared at him, your face trembling, your eyes full of everything you couldn’t say. “Jake—”

“I know I’m reckless, I know I’m a mess, I know I don’t always think. But you…” His hand rose, not touching you yet, hovering like you were a flame he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch. “You’re the only thing that ever made me want to slow down.”

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “I’m so scared of losing you.”

Jake’s hand finally reached you.

His fingers slid into your hair, soaked strands between his knuckles. He leaned in until your foreheads touched.

“I’m scared, too,” he said, eyes shut tight. “Of not being enough. Of being too broken to hold onto you.”

“You’re not,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You’re not broken.”

“I am,” he said, voice cracking. “But I’m better with you.”

The rain came harder then, a sudden gust slamming sideways into your bodies, but neither of you moved.

You were shivering. He was freezing.

The whole world felt like it was falling apart, but Jake looked at you like he’d found the eye of the storm.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t clean.

It was desperate and messy and full of everything you’d both been trying to say. His mouth found yours like he’d been drowning and just found air.

Your hands clung to his soaked hoodie, your body pressed to his like you’d never let him go.

Jake remembered how your tears had mixed with the rain, how his fingers gripped your waist too tight, how you’d gasped his name between kisses like it was a lifeline.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you’d whispered into his mouth.

“You won’t,” he’d vowed, breathless. “Not ever.”

And even back then, before promises and rings and babies with strawberry-stained mouths, he had meant it.

Now, in the warmth of your shared bed, he felt you sigh again.

Just a soft one. Almost imperceptible.

Your leg slid against his beneath the blankets, your head nuzzling deeper into the space between his shoulder and neck. Your fingers curled softly against his chest.

Jake swallowed hard. His hand moved to your back, rubbing in slow, gentle circles, his lips brushing your hair.

He breathed you in.

You were here. You were warm and whole and safe.

And so was he.

☆.

The light was soft when you stirred awake.

You shifted, your body stretching slow beneath the blankets, the cotton sheets warm from shared heat. And then you felt him.

Jake.

Pressed against your back, his chest bare, skin hot and solid.

His arm was around your waist, the other resting on the pillow beside him.

Your hand reached down, brushing over the blanket until you found his fingers resting over your stomach.

You laced yours through them, holding him there. And then you turned, slow and gentle, so you wouldn’t wake him. But he was already awake.

His eyes were open, dark under the faint shadows of morning. He was lying on his side, hair mussed from the bed, jaw dotted with the faintest stubble.

His eyes met yours right away.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“Hey.” His voice was husky, low from sleep… or maybe lack of it.

You frowned softly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “You didn’t sleep.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched you. As if he was trying to memorize the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes cast shadows beneath your eyes.

You let your palm slide down to cup his cheek.

“What’s on your mind?” you murmured.

He hesitated.

Then, finally: “Nothing I can say without sounding selfish.”

Your brows drew together gently. “Try me.”

But instead of answering, Jake looked down. And you followed his gaze.

The scars. They were always there— some faint and faded, some newer. One near his ribs from that one brutal match three years ago.

Another near his shoulder, still pinkish, like a memory that hadn’t finished healing

You reached out slowly, letting your fingertips trail over the ridges of old pain, old bottles.

He didn’t flinch. He never did, not with you. But his breath did hitch slightly, the tension in his body curling tighter.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the one just below his collarbone. “I love these,” you whispered.

Jake’s throat bobbed with a swallow.

“They’re ugly,” he muttered, half-hearted, like he’d already lost the argument.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “They’re proof you survived. Every one of them means you came back to me.”

Something in him broke a little at that. His mouth opened, maybe to argue, maybe to say something tender, but the words didn’t come. His hand came up instead, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over the apple of it.

“I thought about you last night,” he said softly. “Back when you almost left. Out in the rain…. that fight.”

You nodded, heart aching at the memory. “It was a long time ago.”

His hand slid from your cheek to your neck, fingers splaying out along the curve of it, then down your spine, slow and reverent. “I didn’t sleep because I kept thinking what if you had left. What if I’d pushed it too far, if we never made it here.”

You shifted closer, pressing your body to his fully, your forehead resting against his. “But I didn’t. I stayed. You fought for me.”

His lips touched yours then— barely. A brush, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

Even after all those years.

Your hand slid down between you, over the swell of his chest, your palm flat and warm against his heartbeat.

“Still fighting for you,” he whispered, eyes on yours.

And it was then, without another word, that you leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft at first. Slow. Like a secret.

Your lips moved over his with a quiet kind of hunger, not the desperate kind from that night in the rain, but something deeper.

The kind that comes after years of waking up next to each other. After babies. After late nights and early mornings and scars.

Jake kissed you back like he needed you. Like you were the only thing keeping him grounded in that moment.

His hand slipped under the fabric of your shirt, finding the skin of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could live between your bodies.

You pressed yourself to him, your hand roaming his torso, fingers tracing over his skin like you were memorizing the feel of him.

He let out a shaky breath against your lips, his hips shifting forward just enough for you to feel the truth of his want, hard and insistent against your thigh.

“I missed you,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw. “Even with you right next to me.”

You shivered under his mouth, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently to bring his face back to yours. “Then take it,” you breathed. “Take me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Jake rolled you onto your back slowly, carefully, his body hovering over yours, warm and heavy and familiar. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world and you let him, eyes fluttering shut, breath uneven.

His hands slipped under your shirt and you arched into his touch, letting him pull the fabric up and over your head. He looked down at you like you were art.

You tugged his mouth back to yours.

When he finally slid inside you, it was slow and careful. You both gasped— every time felt new, felt real, like the first and last and only time.

You clung to him, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist.

He rocked into you gently, his mouth finding every part of you he could reach: your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to yours.

“Always,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth.

The rhythm between you built slowly, nothing rushed. You moved together in sync, bodies finding each other like they were made to.

You moaned softly into his ear, hands trailing down his back, nails digging in just enough to make him shiver.

“Lord, I love you,” Jake breathed, pressing his hips deeper. “I love you so much it scares me.”

“I know,” you whispered, blinking through the haze of your pleasure. “I know, baby.”

You held on to each other through it all, the high and the fall, the quiet panting breaths after, the way your hearts beat wildly in sync beneath the mess of limbs and blankets.

After, when your breathing slowed and he was still inside you, arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your neck, you stroked his back softly.

You didn’t say anything. Just kissed the top of his head.

And somewhere down the hall, a floor creaked.

You both froze.

Jake groaned into your shoulder. “Ten dollars that it’s Jane.”

You smiled, lips against his hair. “Or James looking for cereal.”

Jake sighed. “We need a lock on this door.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, pulling the blanket over both your heads as if it could delay reality for just a few more minutes. “Later.”

The cafeteria buzzed around you—noisy, fluorescent, filled with the sound of trays clattering and people trying too hard to sound casual. Jake was nursing a carton of strawberry milk, lazily spinning it between his fingers. Sunghoon sat across from him, trying and failing to look like he wasn’t deeply regretting his protein bar.

Jake leaned over dramatically, voice pitched just loud enough to reach Sunghoon but still just out of your range. “Look at her,” he whispered, grinning. “In love. Disgusting.”

Sunghoon didn’t look up. “I give it two minutes before she makes us throw up.”

You shot them a look over your shoulder and tossed a crumpled napkin in their direction. “Shut up. I’m talking.”

Jake put on a high-pitched falsetto immediately. “‘Hi baby. No, baby, you hang up first. No, you.’”

Sunghoon chimed in, completely deadpan. “‘Babymuffin. Babylove. Babyback ribs.’”

You bit back your laugh and turned away, pressing the phone closer to your ear, trying to keep your voice soft. “No, I’m not ignoring you. I’m with Jake and Sunghoon.”

There was a pause.

Then, flat and cold: “…Again?”

Your stomach dropped. Just a little.

“I told you I’d be with them today,” you said. “It’s the championship game.”

“You said you’d try to come to my gig,” came the reply, sharper now. “You promised. But of course you’d rather play cheerleader for those two.”

“It’s not like that,” you said, your voice tightening. “I told you weeks ago this was important. They’ve worked so hard for this—”

“Jesus. Do you even care about me?” he cut in. “Or am I just the guy you date when your real boyfriends are busy?”

Your hand clenched around your phone. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re always choosing them. Every time. Like I’m your backup plan—”

“They’re my best friends.” You snapped now, barely keeping your voice down. “You knew that from the beginning.”

And that was when you noticed: the table had gone silent. Jake wasn’t spinning his milk anymore. Sunghoon’s jaw was tight. Both of them were watching you.

“And you’re supposed to be my girlfriend,” your boyfriend hissed through the line. “But I guess that means nothing to you.”

You stared down at the table.

Then, softly, with every ounce of control you had left: “You should know that Sunghoon and Jake are–.”

Click.

The line went dead.

The phone hit the table with a muted thud.

You didn’t look up. Not right away. Your arms crossed, your nails digging into your sleeves. Your heart pounded too fast, too hard, and it wasn’t even from the words. It was from how familiar this had started to feel. Like you were always apologizing for choosing the people who never made you feel like a second choice.

Jake’s voice came low, tight. “What’d that idiot say this time?”

Gone was the teasing lilt, the sunshine tone. He looked like he was one bad sentence away from marching across campus and settling it the old-fashioned way. Sunghoon nudged him under the table but Jake didn’t look away from you.

You finally glanced up, eyes tired. Your voice came quiet. “It’s your championship day. Let’s not ruin it.”

Jake held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary. His jaw flexed.

But he nodded.

For now.

—

You kept your arms crossed, head low, your gaze fixed somewhere on the cracks in the pavement. Not in a sulking way. Not even angry. Just… heavy. The kind of quiet where the world felt muffled, like someone had turned the volume down on everything.

Jake didn’t say anything. Not at first.

He just walked beside you in silence—his steps matching yours like second nature. Every few moments, the soft fabric of his hoodie brushed your sleeve, but he didn’t try to fill the quiet with noise. Just stayed close. Present. Like always.

Then, after a beat, he gently bumped your shoulder with his.

You didn’t look up, not right away. But you felt it. That familiar nudge. Like he was reminding you: hey, still here.

A few more steps passed before his voice came, light but careful.

“How many fingers am I holding up behind my back?”

You stopped walking.

Your breath hitched, just a little.

God. That game.

It used to be your thing. A childhood ritual for every scraped knee, every bad grade, every time you wanted to cry but didn’t. Jake would hold his hand behind his back and make you guess. If you got it right, you’d get a prize—usually something ridiculous. A neon sticker. A broken crayon. One time, a scribbled picture of you with superpowers and him as the hulk.

You hadn’t played that game in years.

But the second he said it, a small appeared on your lips.

You glanced sideways.

“…Seriously?”

Jake smiled. The kind that barely lifted one corner of his mouth—the one that felt like a secret. Like it was just for you.

“C’mon,” he said, eyes glinting. “Let’s see if you’ve still got it.”

You swallowed.

“Two,” you murmured.

Jake didn’t break eye contact. Just slowly turned and held out his hand behind his back, showing you—

Two fingers.

You let out the softest breath of a laugh. The kind that didn’t really sound like one. Just a shaky little puff of air. But it was enough to lighten your shoulders.

Jake grinned, triumphant. “Correct. Prize pending.”

You shook your head, a real smile threatening your lips now. “You still owe me for the time you cheated and held up zero.”

Jake’s eyes widened in mock horror. “That wasn’t cheating. That was high-level psychological warfare.”

“You made me do the chicken dance in front of my mom for a sticker.”

“You did it twice.”

“You said the first one lacked commitment.”

Jake was laughing now, soft and golden, and you couldn’t help it. You laughed too. Quiet. Cracked around the edges. But real.

The silence between you didn’t feel heavy anymore.

He tilted his head toward the lecture hall ahead. “Go grab a seat,” he said softly. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, already backing away. “Unless you’d rather have emotional support gummies.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was warm. “Coffee, please.”

Jake gave you a little salute—two fingers, same as before. “Coming right up, princess.”

You stood there for a beat too long, then finally made your way into the lecture hall, choosing a seat near the back. You slung your bag down beside you and reached into your pocket, fingers brushing something crinkly.

You frowned. Pulled it out.

Your favorite candy.

The exact brand. The exact flavor. Not something you’d had on you today.

Your breath caught.

Jake.

He must’ve slipped it into your pocket when he bumped your shoulder. Probably while you were distracted. Quiet. Thoughtful. Stupidly considerate.

You stared at the wrapper like it meant something. Like it said everything he couldn’t.

You tucked it into your bag gently, like it was something precious.

Outside, somewhere in a line too long for a Tuesday afternoon, Jake was probably ordering your coffee with extra sugar and exactly two pumps of vanilla.

Because of course he remembered.

Of course he always did.

And maybe you didn’t say it out loud.

But in that moment—you didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Because no matter what, you had Jake.

—-

The bleachers vibrated beneath your feet, alive with nervous energy. Late afternoon sunlight poured across the field in gold streaks, turning everything too bright, too cinematic. You stood at the railing beside Niki and Sunoo, fingers curled tight around the metal bar, heart pounding harder than the game announcer’s voice overhead.

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Are you seriously ditching my gig for those two idiot friends of yours?Again? Really?You’re always doing this.You say I'm important, but it’s always them.You’re not dating them. You’re dating ME.

You rolled your eyes.

There was no use replying. You’d tried. He never got it.

Jake and Sunghoon weren’t just friends.

They were everything. They were your history. They were your present. They were scraped knees and matching science fair disasters. They were the reason your parents felt safe sending you to college. They were Sunday family dinners and sleepovers that never really ended.

They were home.

And okay—maybe your gaze drifted toward Jake a little more than it should’ve lately. Maybe it always had. Not in a way you noticed at the time. Not in a way that meant anything.

Just… in a way. As a friend, cf course. He was just…always sweet. What could you do?

Your eyes found him instantly.

Jake—number 10.

Sunlight caught the edges of his hair, wind tugging at the loose strands near his ears. His jersey clung to him, damp with sweat, legs quick and sure as he shouted across the field. His eyes were locked in, his whole body moving with this reckless kind of energy that made him hard to look away from.

Not that you were trying to look away.

You shook your head and scanned the field again, trying to find Sunghoon—but your gaze found Jake instead.

Again.

The crowd roared as the clock ticked down. 2–2. Final minute. The tension in the air buzzed through your chest like a live wire.

“I can’t watch,” Sunoo muttered beside you, peeking between his fingers. “He’s gonna pass out.”

“Shut up,” Niki hissed. “It’s getting good.”

Your eyes tracked Jake’s every step. He had the ball now—legs moving like water, flowing past defenders like they weren’t even there. Sunghoon flanked beside him, silent and steady, drawing players away.

Then Jake cut sharp to the left.

A beat.

A breath.

And then he kicked.

The ball soared.

Time stopped.

It flew past the goalie—clean, sure—and hit the net with a glorious, perfect thwack.

Silence.

And then chaos.

The stadium erupted. Teammates swarmed the field, screaming, leaping, colliding into Jake like a tidal wave of celebration. People were crying. Someone was waving a flag. You might’ve blacked out for a second.

But Jake—Jake didn’t stay buried in the huddle.

He pulled himself out.

Looked up.

And saw you.

And then, he ran.

Straight through the chaos, through teammates and coaches and cheering fans.

Right to you.

“PRINCESS, DID YOU SEE THAT?!” he yelled, already grinning like he couldn’t contain it.

You didn’t even think.

You ran.

You jumped into his arms—legs around his waist, arms around his neck—and he caught you like gravity didn’t exist between the two of you.

He spun you around, both of you laughing, breathless and weightless in the middle of a stadium filled with noise.

“That was insane, right?!” he said, still spinning, still grinning like a madman.

“You’re insane!” you yelled back. “That’s my best friend!!”

He held you tighter for a second.

You barely noticed how close you were. How steady his hands felt against your waist. How natural it felt to be in his arms.

You didn’t think too much about the way your laugh curled into something softer as he smiled at you. Or how your fingers lingered at the back of his neck just a moment too long.

You were just happy.

And Jake?

Jake was still looking at you like you’d hung the stars yourself.

But then you saw him.

At the edge of the crowd.

Your boyfriend.

He was standing stiffly, guitar slung over his back, eyes dark. He looked right at you. Then at Jake.

Then back at you.

And you saw it happen—saw the confirmation of every suspicion he’d ever thrown at you. Every insecure question. Every argument. Every pointed “you’re always with them.”

His jaw clenched.

And then he mouthed it.

Two words. Sharp. Final.

We’re done.

And he turned.

—-

The door slammed open behind you with enough force to shake the picture frames.

You didn’t check to see if Jake and Sunghoon were behind you. Of course they were. You could hear their footsteps trailing in, less hurried than yours but tinged with the same confused urgency. Like golden retrievers caught in a rainstorm—uncertain, blinking, too loyal to run.

“I cannot believe he dumped me!” you snapped, flinging your bag onto the floor like it had betrayed you. “He. Mr. Can't-Name-Three-Films-By-Studio-Ghibli. Mr. ‘I think astrology is fake but also I’m a Scorpio so that’s just how I am.’”

You kicked your shoes off, one of them narrowly missing the umbrella stand.

Jake ducked.

Sunghoon raised his eyebrows and wisely stayed quiet.

“I mean,” you huffed, voice going up a pitch as you spun toward them, “he plays the same three songs on guitar and called Christopher Nolan ‘overrated.’ And he—that man-child with a Spotify playlist called ‘sad vibez’ and no vowels—broke up with me?!”

Sunghoon winced. Jake looked like he was watching a house on fire and wondering if throwing himself into it would help.

You threw your hands up in disbelief. “I was going to dump him! I had a list! A literal note in my phone! And this man—this emo scarecrow of a boyfriend—had the audacity to beat me to it?!”

You stormed to the living room and collapsed onto the couch like it owed you reparations, arms flung over your face as you let out a long, frustrated groan.

“I can’t believe this. He said I was emotionally unavailable. Me! The girl who went to all his stupid open mic nights and pretended his lyrics weren’t just stolen posts from 2018 Twitter in stupid long verses.”

In the hallway, Jake leaned toward Sunghoon.

“Should we, like… say something?”

Sunghoon didn’t even look away from you. “Absolutely not.”

Jake frowned. “You’re the stable one. You talk to her.”

“You’re the one in love with her.”

Jake made a wounded sound in the back of his throat. “That’s not—I mean—I’m—”

“You literally made her tea last night and wrote her name on the mug in sharpie like a loser.”

Jake whispered, “It was a nice mug.”

You sat up abruptly, glaring at them like a storm cloud with a vendetta. “HEY. Tweedle Dee. Tweedle Dum. Shut the hell up. I’m having a justified crisis.”

They both stiffened like they’d been caught shoplifting.

You threw yourself back onto the couch again, dramatically draping your arm across your face.

Silence.

Then—

“She definitely just called us Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,” Jake whispered.

“You’re Dum,” Sunghoon replied flatly.

“At least I didn’t cry watching Tangled.”

“…You said you wouldn’t bring that up again.”

“Then stop being Dum.”

You let out a guttural groan. “Can one of you just bring me ice cream or, like, a time machine so I can go back and tell myself to swipe left?”

Another pause.

Then quiet footsteps.

And a moment later, something cold landed in your lap.

Your favorite ice cream.

Jake didn’t say a word. Just sat on the floor in front of the couch, back leaning against it like it was the most natural thing in the world, head tilted slightly to look up at you.

He didn’t smile. Not fully. Just that soft, familiar curve of his lips that you’d seen a thousand times, always reserved for you. The kind that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t demand a response—just offered quiet presence.

Sunghoon dropped onto the floor beside him with a sigh, already scrolling through Netflix.

And you?

You breathed. For the first time all day, you breathed.

It didn’t erase the anger. Didn’t fix the betrayal. Didn’t un-stupid your ex.

But it made your chest ache a little less.

Because even in your most unhinged, spite-fueled, mascara-streaked moments—you still had this.

You had your boys.

—-

Your room was quiet, except for the low hum of the party a few buildings down—the bass thudding like a heartbeat through the floorboards, too far to join, too loud to ignore.

The fairy lights on your wall glowed soft and golden, casting little halos across your shelves, your pillows, the stack of unread books by your bed.

You sat cross-legged on your comforter, oversized hoodie bunched around your hands, hair damp from your post-meltdown shower. There was still a tightness in your chest, the kind that didn’t quite hurt, but hadn’t let you breathe fully in days.

Sunghoon stood behind you, a hairbrush in his hand.

“You sure you don’t wanna go?” he asked, gently easing the brush through the tangles near your crown.

You shrugged, slow and small. “And see him all over her? I’d rather chew glass.”

Her—being the bass player in your ex’s band. The one he swore was “just a friend” until he posted a ten-second Instagram story of himself shoving his tongue down her throat. Classy.

Honestly, you still didn’t know what you ever saw in that idiot.

Sunghoon sighed. You felt it more than you heard it—low and long, his breath ruffling a strand of your hair.

He didn’t say anything else. Just kept brushing, slow and steady, like he could detangle your hurt the way he was detangling the ends of your hair.

He always did this.

Ever since you were ten and crying after a costume mishap in the school play. He’d walked you home, sat you down, and—wordlessly—grabbed the brush from your desk. He’d been doing it ever since. Whenever your heart cracked, he patched it up strand by strand.

He even used your products now. Knew the exact amount of leave-in conditioner. Knew how to finger-detangle without tugging too hard. Knew when to talk—and more importantly, when not to.

You sat still, head tilted slightly forward, letting the rhythm lull you. The brush paused near the ends.

Then came the voice.

Quiet. Measured. A little softer than usual.

“He didn’t make you happy.”

You opened your mouth. But before anything could come out—

“Not once,” Sunghoon continued. “You bent so far backwards for him I was scared your spine would snap. And he never once met you halfway.”

You stared at your lap. Said nothing.

“I know it’s only been two days,” he said, letting out a little laugh, “but honestly? The air’s been easier to breathe without him around. Jake and I Fortnite danced to High School Musical in the living room earlier. Jake even tried to do a backflip.”

You snorted. Couldn’t help it.

Sunghoon grinned behind you. “Almost died. But I’ve never seen the boy look so free.”

You hummed, lips twitching faintly. “He wasn’t that emo.”

“He had stupid hair,” Sunghoon said flatly. “And he smelled like cigarettes and insecurity.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling.

“He called The Wind Rises boring,” you muttered.

Sunghoon gasped, mock horror in his voice. “Criminal. Unforgivable.”

He gently brushed the last of your hair over your shoulder, like a finishing touch. Then crouched in front of you, eye-level now.

And when he spoke next, the teasing was gone.

“You are the actual sun,” he said softly. “And he made you feel like a flickering lightbulb. That’s not love. That’s dimming someone just to feel taller.”

Your eyes stung, just a little.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. He never did, when it came to you.

“I hated him from the beginning. Jake started calling him ‘the ashtray’ after the second time we all hung out. Not even behind his back. Just… said it.”

That made you laugh—truly laugh—for the first time in days. You shook your head. “You two are mean.”

“We’re honest,” Sunghoon corrected, getting to his feet. “And we love you. More than that guy ever could.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him.

And he didn’t say anything more.

Didn’t need to.

You let your head fall back against the headboard and sighed. “Okay. If you keep monologuing in my ear like this, I’m never gonna change.”

“Change?”

“You want me to go to this stupid frat party, don’t you?”

He smirked.

“Get out,” you said, pointing at the door. “Shoo. Go do your weird little victory dance with Jake.”

He walked backward, ruffling your hair on the way like a proud big brother. “She’s back,” he sing-songed, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Not if you keep talking.”

He opened the door with a dramatic bow. “I’ll tell Jake you caved.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered even after he was gone.

And yeah, your heart was still cracked.

But it felt a little less sharp now.

A little easier to carry.

And when you looked at your reflection in the mirror, your hair brushed smooth, cheeks still warm from laughter—

You didn’t look like a girl trying to forget.

You looked like someone learning how to feel light again.

—

As soon as Jake stepped through the door, he barely made it three steps before he was swallowed by chaos.

“JAKE! JAKE! JAKE!”

A rush of frat boys and soccer teammates surged toward him, loud and reckless, lifting him up like some war hero. His legs kicked midair as they carried him toward the heart of the party, chanting his name with increasing volume.

“JAKE! JAKE! MVP! MVP!”

Fairy lights spun above him, casting halos over sweat-damp foreheads. The bass pulsed through the floor, the air thick with beer and adrenaline and championship glory. Jake laughed, a little breathless, a little panicked.

“No—no, I’m good, I swear—”

Then… you saw him. Your ex. And her.

They were near the kitchen—your spot. The one you always waited at after his gigs. The one where he used to pull you into those tired, post-show hugs and whisper how glad he was you came. Now? He was there with her. Arm thrown over her shoulder like it belonged there. Like it hadn’t been around you last week. She was laughing like she’d earned it. Like she hadn’t been “just a friend” two seconds ago.

And the worst part? He looked fine. Smiling. Relaxed. Comfortable.

You weren’t sad. You didn’t miss him. But god, you were angry.

He moved on like you were an old t-shirt. Like you didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t just made you feel like you were the problem for weeks on end. Like he hadn’t convinced you to shrink for him—and then left anyway.

You stood there for one second. Just long enough to feel the burn in your chest. Long enough for your hands to curl into fists at your sides. Long enough for the blood in your veins to scream Really? Already?

Then you turned.

Fast.

Didn’t look back.

You didn’t know where you were going, only that the party felt too loud and too quiet all at once. People brushing past you, drinks in the air, music thumping. And still, all you could hear was your own pulse.

“SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!”

You blinked—and somehow, it was your voice leading the chant.

Your heels dug into the floor. Your lip gloss was smudged. There was probably mascara under your eyes. You didn’t care. You didn’t want to care.

Someone handed you a shot. You didn’t ask what it was. You downed it like medicine.

It burned. But that was the point.

You slammed the glass down on the nearest surface. “ANOTHER!” you shouted, voice cracking, spinning in place. “Let’s go! If I’m gonna be replaced, I might as well be unforgettable!”

Someone whooped. Someone clapped. Someone handed you another.

You tossed it back.

You weren’t spiraling. You were burning.

And the only thing worse than being dumped… Was being replaced this fast. Like you didn’t even leave a dent.

You were angry.

Angry that he got to be fine. Angry that she got to stand where you used to. Angry that your hands still shook while his were busy holding someone else.

And yeah, you’d moved on too. You didn’t want him back. Not for a second.

But it still felt like something had been stolen from you.

And you needed control. Any kind.

So when someone handed you another shot, you took it. And when someone said, “You okay?” you laughed so hard it echoed. Loud, sharp, cracked.

“Never better,” you said, the words tilting sideways like your balance.

And then he stumbled toward you.

Tall. Drunk. Slurring your name like he knew you. Like he mattered.

“Hey,” he grinned, “you’re the girl Jake never shuts up about, right?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” he said, swaying. “In the locker room. He’s always like ‘she’s so funny, she does this scrunchy angry face when she’s mad,’ and like… he’s totally into you.”

Your stomach twisted—but your face didn’t budge.

“Cool,” you muttered. “Love being a conversation topic.”

“He thinks you’re amazing,” the guy said, nodding like he just solved world peace. “Hey—have you ever considered going bald?”

You stared. “Excuse me?”

He squinted. “I bet you’d look hot with a buzzcut. You have a strong jaw. That’s what matters, right?”

And maybe it was the alcohol. Or the smoke in the air. Or the ache in your ribs.

But you laughed. Loud. Too loud. And you grabbed his wrist.

“Got scissors?” you asked.

He blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

“Bring them. Let’s find out.”

He stumbled into the kitchen drawer and came back, holding up a dull pair of kitchen scissors like a prize.

You snatched them, raised them in the air. “Thank you, brave soldier,” you said dramatically. “Now go lay down before you die of alcohol poisoning.”

And you turned, marching up the stairs like a woman with a mission and a pair of scissors she had no business holding.

Jake was mid-conversation when Jungwon ran up, breathless.

“Dude. DUDE. Your girl—she just went upstairs. With scissors. Talking about rebirth.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

“She said something about French bangs and reinvention and then took the stairs like a goddamn hurricane.”

Jake didn’t even think.

He ran.

Bolted through the crowd, shouldered past two people doing body shots, and took the stairs two at a time.

Because he knew you.

He knew that look. That chaos. That split-second decision to feel anything other than the helpless, boiling anger clawing through your chest.

He remembered it from middle school, when someone said your braces made you look like a robot and you tried to cut them out yourself with nail clippers. He remembered it last year, when your cat died and you bleached your bangs at 3AM.

Jake had always known your brand of chaos.

And he had always shown up before it got too far.

Now, he shoved open the bathroom door with zero hesitation.

“Don’t—”

The words died in his throat.

Because there you were.

Standing in the middle of someone else’s bathroom, scissors in hand, eyes glassy and smile way too proud.

“Jakey!” you beamed. “I did it!”

He froze.

There was a pile of hair on the counter. Your bangs—if you could call them that—sat uneven across your forehead. One was short. The other… shorter.

One eye was half covered. The other? Wide, glassy, wild.

Jake covered his mouth with both hands.

“Princess,” he whispered.

“Do I look like Tyra Banks?” you asked earnestly.

Jake blinked. Took a step forward. Then another.

And slowly—so gently—took the scissors from your hand.

His voice dropped to a hush. Steady. Calm. Familiar.

“Hey,” he said. “Let’s put these down, yeah?”

You pouted. “But I wasn’t done.”

He gave you a small smile. “You were perfect before you even started.”

Your lips parted.

His eyes searched yours, scanning every flicker of emotion you were trying to bury beneath alcohol and eyeliner and rebellion.

“You don’t need to do this,” he said. “You’re angry. I get it. I swear I get it. But cutting your bangs at a frat party is not justice.”

You blinked. The world tilted slightly.

“He moved on,” you whispered. “Like I was nothing. Like I was just a placeholder.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. His grip on the scissors hardened.

“You were never a placeholder,” he said, voice sharper now. “You were the whole damn story. He was just a footnote.”

Your eyes welled, but no tears fell. Not yet.

“You’re angry. And you have every right to be,” he said, stepping closer, his hand brushing your cheek. “But don’t punish yourself because he couldn’t see your worth.”

Your lip trembled.

“You think I’m punishing myself?” you asked.

Jake smiled softly. “Princess, look at your bangs.”

You let out a snort. A real one. Ugly and sharp and full of sudden breath.

“I look like an art student who lost a bet.”

Jake laughed. “You look like you could start a girl gang and lead a revolution.”

His voice dropped again. Gentle. Unshakable.

“But you still look like you. And you look perfect.”

You didn’t know what possessed you, but your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Like holding onto something solid in the middle of a storm.

Jake leaned down, resting his forehead against yours.

“You don’t have to set yourself on fire to prove you're still burning,” he whispered. “You’re enough. Even when you’re mad. Even when you're messy. Even with gravity-defying bangs.”

Your breath hitched. The room stilled.

And finally, finally, your heart began to slow.

You closed your eyes.

And Jake just held you there.

Right in the middle of the chaos, in someone else's bathroom, with scissors on the counter and party noise below—

He held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like he’d always been the one who would.

—

The next morning came quicker than you wanted. Your head throbbed, your mouth tasted like the inside of a frat house, and your body ached in weird places. But none of that mattered.

Because the second you looked in the mirror— “AAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The scream tore through the apartment like a war siren.

Sunghoon shot upright in bed, blanket wrapped around his legs like a noose. “WHAT THE—?!”

Jake fell off the couch with a dramatic thud, landing in a heap of hoodie and boxers. “SHE’S DYING, SHE’S BEING KIDNAPPED, THE LOVE OF—”

Both boys sprinted down the hallway like the apartment was on fire.

They crashed into your room, out of breath, expecting blood or a ghost or at least an explosion.

Instead, they found you standing in front of the mirror, gripping your bangs in both hands like you could physically undo last night.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” you wailed, your voice cracking halfway into a sob. “WHY DIDN’T ANYONE STOP ME?!”

Jake froze.

Sunghoon stared.

“I told you we should’ve hidden the mirror,” Sunghoon muttered.

“We have a bathroom,” Jake hissed back.

You whirled around dramatically, face streaked with tears, eyes wide and watery, holding up a sad tuft of hair like it was a smoking gun.

“I ruined my life!”

Jake opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Because, truthfully?

Your hair looked like it had been through a war. A bad one. Like a rodent got stuck halfway through building a nest and gave up. It was uneven in four different directions. The bangs… bent at angles. You defied geometry. Possibly physics.

Sure, you looked pretty. Beautiful. Perfect, even.

But that was only because Jake was in love with you.

And love had a way of turning disaster into art. Even when the art looked like a sewer rat.

Sunghoon sighed and rubbed his face. “I’ll make pancakes.”

He turned and walked out without waiting for a response. Pancakes were your household’s official emergency protocol.

Jake stayed. Still in the doorway. Still barefoot and half-asleep, but trying really hard not to laugh and even harder not to love you more for looking like this and still somehow being the most you he’d ever seen.

You looked up at him with trembling lips, eyes full of absolute heartbreak.

“I look like I lost a fight with a Edward Scissorhands.”

Jake blinked. “C’mere.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You launched yourself at him like a flying koala, knocking him flat on his back. You landed in a tangled heap of limbs and cotton and regret, curled into his chest, face shoved against his hoodie.

“I’M UGLY!” you wailed.

Jake didn’t even flinch. He wrapped his arms around you, full-on bear-hug style, holding you like he was trying to glue your shattered pieces back together.

“No, you’re not,” he murmured.

You let out a sound that was half sob, half snort, and buried your face deeper into his chest.

“You’re not ugly,” he said again, voice quieter now. “You’re the cutest person I’ve ever seen with a rat’s nest on their forehead.”

You groaned. “I look like Coconut Head from Ned’s Declassified.”

Jake snorted. Actually snorted.

Which made you groan even louder and smack his chest half-heartedly.

“I’m never going outside again,” you mumbled.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “We’ll start a new civilization here. No mirrors. Unlimited pancakes. Sunghoon and I will scavenge for food outside, bring it back here to feed you and our rat children.”

You sniffed.

“I’ll knit you a beanie,” he added. “It’ll say ‘emotional damage’ in rhinestones.”

From the kitchen, Sunghoon shouted, “There’s only enough chocolate chips for one stack, so I’m taking nominations for who’s had the most public breakdowns in the past 24 hours.”

“I CUT MY OWN BANGS AT A FRAT PARTY!” you yelled into Jake’s hoodie.

“And we have our winner!” Sunghoon replied.

Jake chuckled beneath you, brushing a strand of hair gently out of your eyes—or at least tried to. One strand was… vertical.

You blinked up at him. “I want them gone.”

Jake smoothed his hand through the top of your hair. “Let me try to fix them?”

You squinted. “Can you?”

“No,” he admitted. “But if I mess it up, you’ll get to yell at me instead of yourself.”

You stared at him.

He gave you that stupid little grin—warm, patient, already yours.

You sighed. “Deal.”

Jake grinned wider, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. “Okay. Let me grab scissors, YouTube, and a whole lot of…uh…prayer.”

You smiled, soft and reluctant. But real.

Because even with tragic bangs, a hangover, and your dignity in shambles—

Jake made it all feel survivable.

Maybe even a little bit okay.

You were still in Jake’s lap, curled up like a broken barbie from a 6 year old with plastic scissors, when he sat up slowly, fingers brushing back your hair with more care than you thought anyone could ever use on someone so messily undone.

“Alright,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Let’s fix this rat’s nest.”

You sniffled, eyes puffy. “You mean my hair?”

Jake’s lips quirked. “Same thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Say one more dumb thing and I’ll cry again.”

He grinned and stood, effortlessly lifting you into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Jake—” you squeaked, clinging to him. “What are you doing?!”

“You’ve clearly lost your decision-making privileges. You’re emotionally unstable. And you keep sniffling like a baby bird,” he said matter-of-factly. “So, I’m airlifting you to your redemption arc.”

You buried your face into his hoodie. “You smell like detergent and protectiveness.”

“You smell like tequila and impulsive choices.”

He walked you into the bathroom and set you carefully onto the counter, warm hands steady at your waist as you adjusted your balance. The moment you were settled, he stepped between your knees without hesitation, reaching for the comb and scissors.

You blinked. Suddenly, the bathroom was a little too quiet. A little too warm. And Jake was a little too close.

“I’m gonna try to even these out,” he murmured, running his fingers gently through your bangs. “Try being the keyword.”

“I feel like this is where I die.”

“You look like a girl on the brink of a villain origin story.”

“Perfect,” you muttered. “Make me look dangerous.”\

As you sat still on the bathroom counter, knees lightly brushing his chest. Jake picked up the scissors again, his brows drawn tight in concentration.

He was taking it seriously. Too seriously. His tongue peeked out just slightly as he combed a section of your hair, eyes sharp, focused like he was performing life-saving surgery instead of fixing your tequila-fueled haircut.

You smiled—couldn’t help it. Because how was he still so cute, even now? Even while fixing the disaster you made of your bangs, looking like an overworked stylist with something to prove.

He tilted his head, snipped gently. Paused. Tilted again.

“Stop smiling,” he muttered, eyes still fixed on your hair.

“I’m not,” you said, definitely smiling.

“I can feel it.”

You laughed softly. “You’re just cute when you’re stressed.”

That made his hands falter. Just a little.

But he didn’t say anything. Just cleared his throat and kept going, slower now—more careful. Like he was stalling. Or maybe... savoring.

Jake leaned in just a little, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. “Hold still,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked. “What—”

“There’s a bit of hair on your face,” he murmured.

His hand came up gently, fingers brushing the side of your cheek as he tried to sweep away the tiny, stubborn strand that had clung to your skin. You froze.

Because Jake—without even thinking—tilted your chin up with one hand, and with the other, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered against your jaw, fingers grazing your cheek, and then staying there.

You froze.

Jake didn’t move either.

His hand remained cupped on your face. His thumb brushed your skin. And his eyes—God, his eyes were locked on yours like they were holding something he hadn’t meant to let show.

You could feel the shift in the air. Heavy. Quiet. Like the entire world was holding its breath, waiting.

His gaze flicked to your lips. Just for a second.

And then it flicked back.

But it was enough.

Your heart stuttered. Your knees curled inward, brushing his hips. He leaned in—slowly, almost unconsciously. You could feel his breath now. Feel the tension between you, burning like something fragile and explosive all at once.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

It was so close. One more inch. Half an inch. Less than that.

You could see the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. The way his jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

His forehead almost touched yours.

And just when you thought he might do it—just when your lips parted like they were waiting—

“GET YOUR DAMN PANCAKES!” Sunghoon’s voice echoed through the apartment like an accidental earthquake.

You jolted.

Jake stepped back too fast, hands dropping like they’d been burned.

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding.

“Right,” you said, hopping off the counter like it wasn’t shaking beneath you. “Breakfast.”

“Let’s go,” Jake said, voice too casual, too quick.

Neither of you looked at each other as you walked out of the bathroom.

But your fingers were still tingling.

And Jake’s heart was still lodged somewhere in his throat.—

The three of you were seated around the kitchen table. You sat across from Jake. The air smelled like sugar, butter, and unbearable tension.

Normally by now, you and Jake would’ve been locked in a battle of sarcastic wits, tag-teaming insults about Sunghoon’s tragic playlists or the sociopathic way he peeled his oranges.

But this morning?

Silence.

Sunghoon was the only one talking.

And he noticed.

“…So I told her, yes, I do moisturize, actually, and no, you can’t just borrow my $60 toner like it’s a sample at Sephora,” he said, pausing only to cut a triangle of pancake. “Anyway. These are the fluffiest pancakes I’ve ever made. Probably because I put love into them and not repressed rage, for once.”

You nodded absently. Jake let out a weird little hum like he was underwater.

Sunghoon squinted at you both.

He continued, tone flattening: “Also, I’m quitting college to become a juice bar cult leader. I’ll sell turmeric shots and emotional detachment.”

Sunghoon blinked slowly.

“…Hello?”

Silence.

He dropped his fork dramatically. “Okay. What is going on?!”

You and Jake looked up at the same time, startled like toddlers caught stealing cookies.

“You’re both being weird,” Sunghoon said, stabbing his fork in the air like a courtroom prosecutor. “Aren’t you usually bickering by now? Or pelting me with toast? Or roasting my skincare routine?”

You blinked. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Jake coughed. “Totally fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Sunghoon snapped. “You’re sitting there like someone died. Did the bang trauma finally kill your friendship? Was it the haircut? Did a ghost tell you to never speak again?”

Sunghoon turned to Jake. “And you. You haven’t insulted me once. Not even when I said I wanted to start a juice cult.”

Jake shoved pancake in his mouth. “I support your passions.”

Sunghoon froze.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Who are you two?!”

You and Jake exchanged a glance.

Sunghoon’s jaw dropped. “No. No. No—”

“What?” you said too quickly.

Jake sipped his coffee like it was spiked with sedatives.

Sunghoon pointed at both of you. “Something happened. I don’t know what. But if this is about some repressed ‘we accidentally almost kissed while trimming tragic bangs’ situation, I swear to god I will scream.”

You choked on your juice.

Jake muttered, “N–nothing happened.”

Sunghoon leaned back, crossing his arms like a dad about to issue consequences.

“Right,” he said. “And I’m emotionally stable.”

He stood suddenly and grabbed his coat off the hook by the door.

You looked up. “Where are you going?”

Jake jolted upright. “Wait—wait. What? Where ya goin’, man?” His voice cracked slightly.

Sunghoon didn’t even blink. “Out.”

Jake laughed nervously. “Nooo, don’t go. We’re having a good time. Bonding. Pancakes. Healing.”

“Yeah,” you said with a smile that definitely wasn’t panicked. “Stay. We can watch something. I won’t even make fun of you for picking a romcom from the 60s.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes.

“…You two are being so weird right now.”

Jake blinked. “What? No.”

“Totally normal,” you said simultaneously.

The tension between you and Jake buzzed like a power line. Sunghoon stared. You and Jake sat a full cushion apart on the couch, but somehow it felt like you were breathing the same air.

After a pause, Sunghoon grabbed the doorknob.

“I’m gonna get some more eggs, we ran out of them.” he muttered, and slammed the door behind him.

Silence.

One beat.

Two.

Then you and Jake both shot up and retreated to your rooms at the exact same time, slamming your doors like a choreographed sitcom exit.

You paced around your room.

Back and forth. Arms crossed. Hair bouncing (the parts you hadn’t murdered). You could still feel the ghost of Jake’s hand on your jaw.

Yes. Okay. Sure. You almost kissed him in the bathroom. But let’s review.

You were vulnerable.

You just got dumped.

Your bangs looked like they were cut by a raccoon with ADHD.

It meant nothing.

…Right?

You stopped and groaned into your hands. “It was the vulnerability. I was emotionally compromised and Jake’s dumb face got too close.”

You paused.

“…Jake’s dumb, pretty face…”

—

Late in the afternoon, you wandered into the kitchen with a bowl of greens and the vague desire to do something normal. Something quiet. Something safe. Your fingers moved on autopilot as you chopped vegetables—lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers—something about the rhythm calming the noise in your head.

Until you heard it.

The shuffle of feet down the hallway. That familiar cadence. Soft, unhurried. Jake Sim.

You paused mid-slice.

Jake walked in a second later, completely unaware you were already there—ramen in one hand, phone in the other, texting with his usual boyish ease. The hoodie he wore was slightly rumpled. His hair still damp from a shower. He looked so effortlessly himself it made your chest ache.

He looked up.

And froze.

Your eyes met for one long, breathless second. Too long. Too much.

Then he spun around so fast he nearly dropped the ramen.

He stood in the doorway, awkwardly half-turned, clearly debating whether bolting would make things better or worse. The silence was loud.

After a beat, he cleared his throat and forced himself to turn back.

“Cool,” he said, voice pitched an octave too high. “Great. Dinner.”

He grabbed a pot from the cabinet like it was a lifeline. Filled it at the sink with determined focus, pretending not to glance at you from the corner of his eye.

You turned back to your chopping. Tried to focus.

But the air in the kitchen had shifted—thicker now. Heavier. Like all that nearly-spilled affection from the bathroom was still clinging to your sleeves.

You could feel him next to you. Could sense every inch of space he left between you. Could feel every inch he didn’t.

Then you both reached for the stove.

At the same time.

Your fingers brushed.

You both flinched.

“Sorry—” you mumbled.

“No—you—uh—go ahead—” he said quickly.

It should’ve been fine. It was a stove. It was cooking.

But it wasn’t.

Now you were standing shoulder to shoulder, the side of his arm barely grazing yours every few seconds, and it was like touching static. Every brush sent sparks to your spine.

His noodles boiled. Your chicken sizzled.

And still, neither of you moved.

Jake kept stealing glances—tiny, fleeting ones, like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed to make sure you were real. You weren’t looking at him, but you felt him looking. You felt it like a pulse.

Your heart wouldn’t stop tripping over itself.

This is nothing, you told yourself. It’s proximity. It’s leftover tension. You’re vulnerable, fresh off a breakup. You’re not—

You reached for the pan.

Too close.

Your fingers hit the hot edge. Hard.

“Shit—ow!” you gasped, jerking your hand back.

Jake turned like he’d been shot.

“What happened?!” His voice was sharp with panic as he lunged toward you. “Are you okay?!”

“I just—I touched the—” Your words tumbled over each other as you blinked at your hand, already stinging and red, the skin rising into a welt.

Jake didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your wrist with both hands—gentle but urgent—and rushed you to the sink, flipping the faucet with his elbow. The cold water hit the burn and made you wince.

But you barely felt it.

Because all you could feel was Jake’s hands wrapped around yours. His thumb against your pulse. His breath too close. His panic louder than yours.

“You okay?” he asked again, eyes never leaving the burn. “Can you feel this? Are you dizzy? Why aren’t you saying anything—why are you—”

He stopped.

Because you were smiling.

Barely. Just the smallest curl at the corners of your mouth.

But it was there.

And so was he. Right there in front of you, looking like he was breaking apart from how badly he wanted to keep you safe. Like your pain physically hurt him.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

And suddenly, everything shifted.

Because in that moment—burning finger, cold water, trembling hands—you knew.

You were falling for Jake.

And maybe you had been for a while.

The realization made your chest tighten. Made your throat close. You looked at him and your heart skipped like it knew this moment mattered.

Jake helped you sit on the counter, still holding your hand like it might disappear. He moved carefully—so carefully—as he opened the first aid kit, his lips pressed together in a worried line.

He dabbed ointment on the burn with a lightness that made your chest ache. His brows furrowed as he wrapped the bandage, his thumb stroking the back of your hand like a whisper.

“You never pay attention,” he muttered, voice tight with concern. “Always spacing out. Always in your head. It’s like you want me to have a heart attack.”

“You make me worry so much it’s insane,” he whispered. Like he hadn’t meant to say it. Like it spilled out before he could catch it.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not when your pulse was roaring in your ears and his touch made you feel like you might float out of your body.

Then you heard it—quiet, almost to himself.

“God, you’re the only person in the world who makes me feel like this.”

“Like what?” You mumbled.

“Like I’m going fucking insane.”

Jake’s eyes widened a second too late. Like he’d only just realized he said it out loud.

You stared at him.

“…Say that again,” you whispered.

“I didn’t—” he started, panicking. “I didn’t mean—”

You slid off the counter slowly. Your hand still throbbed—but your heart was louder. Too loud.

You looked at him. And in his eyes, you saw everything.

The longing. The panic. The thousand things he wasn’t saying.

And then—

“If you’re gonna keep having slow-burn movie moments in the kitchen, at least don’t do it in the kitchen.”

You both jumped.

Sunghoon stood in the doorway, a grocery bag in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other. His eyebrows were already in judgmental orbit.

Jake stammered, “We weren’t—!”

“You were,” Sunghoon said, breezing past. “You were doing the eye thing.”

“What eye thing?” you asked, flustered.

“The longing one. With the breathing and the tragic backlighting. The tragic yearning...it’s disgusting.”

—

The BBQ joint was already full when you walked in—heat rising from tabletop grills, laughter spilling over like steam, the air thick with the smell of sizzling meat and farewell speeches. You stood at the entrance for a second, bag slung over your shoulder, your heart thudding a little faster than necessary.

You weren’t even sure why you’d come.

Sunghoon had bailed last minute, claiming a “group project emergency,” and you could’ve easily ghosted too. But something had pulled you here—maybe the closure, maybe the company, maybe the quiet, ridiculous hope that things might feel normal again. That you might feel normal again.

Your eyes swept the room, searching for a familiar face.

And there he was.

Jake, halfway across the restaurant, hunched slightly in his chair as he laughed at something someone said. His hair was a little messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His denim jacket hung on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up as he reached for the grill tongs, utterly unaware that he’d just knocked the breath out of you.

You took a step forward. Small. Tentative. A part of you hoping—aching—that maybe he’d seen you already. He saved you a seat.

But then you froze.

Because a girl slid into the chair beside him.

She was pretty. Confident. One of those girls who didn’t need to try to draw attention. She leaned in with ease, like they already knew each other. She laughed, tossed her hair, said something that made Jake glance over and smile—polite, soft.

Not your smile.

Your feet stayed planted. Your throat tightened, jealousy wrapping around your chest like a rope. You didn’t want to feel it. You didn’t even know what it meant. But there it was.

That empty chair had never not been yours before.

And now, suddenly, it wasn’t.

You blinked hard and turned on your heel, moving so fast it felt like fleeing. You didn’t care where you sat—anywhere but there. Anywhere but near him and her.

Jay looked up from his grill station just in time to see you drop into the seat next to him with the force of someone trying to bury a feeling. His eyebrows lifted, chopsticks paused mid-turn.

“Woah,” he said, startled. “Dramatic entrance. Everything okay?”

You forced a smile that didn’t quite make it past your cheeks. “Peachy.”

Jay looked unconvinced.

You stared hard at the sizzling grill in front of you. The sound of meat crackling felt louder than the conversations around you. Too loud. Too sharp. But not sharp enough to cut through the coil of emotion in your chest.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Jake glance your way. Brief, unsure. You didn’t look back.

Instead, you reached for a piece of lettuce like it wronged you in a past life and stabbed your chopsticks through it.

Jay watched you for a moment, then cautiously leaned in. “Sooo... wanna tell me why you look like you’re about to wrestle that cabbage?”

You didn’t answer.

Because on the other side of the table, Jake was laughing again. Soft. Casual. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t been on the verge of kissing you in a bathroom two weeks ago. Like he didn’t used to look at you first when he walked into a room.

But today, he didn’t.

He looked at her.

Something sharp twisted in your gut. Something bitter.

Jealousy, maybe. Or disappointment.

Not that he was talking to someone else.

But that he let her sit there. That he gave away your spot like it never mattered.

Your jaw clenched. You shoved the lettuce into your mouth like it was responsible for your emotional spiral.

Jay winced in sympathy. “So… no comment?”

“None.”

“Cool, cool. I’ll just assume you’re possessed and move on.”

He turned back to the grill, wisely choosing not to push further. You didn’t notice, but your shoulders stayed tense. You didn’t speak. You didn’t breathe right. Your fingers picked apart a piece of grilled pork until it was unrecognizable.

Across the table, Jungwon raised his voice.

“Hey! Let’s talk about the class’s power couple!”

You looked up mid-chew. Wrong move.

“Jake and her, obviously!” he said, pointing at you both with a grin like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You nearly choked on your lettuce. “Yang Jungwon, I will throw this piece of meat in your face if you don’t–”

Jay coughed into his drink. “Here we go.”

Jungwon beamed. “What? You’re always together. It’s, like, a known thing.”

Someone else piped in. “It’s true. Jake’s always doing the sweetest things for her. Didn’t he bring you bubble tea for a whole week when you got your wisdom teeth out?” 

“And didn’t he carry your whole bag once when your wrist hurt?” 

“And hold your umbrella even though he was getting soaked?” Everyone at the table nodded, laughing. Agreeing. Smiling at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You flushed.

Jake stayed quiet.

Still across the table.

Still next to her.

And still not looking at you.

The realization hit slow and hard—like a wave you’d tried to outrun finally catching your heels.

Everyone saw it.

Everyone had always seen it.

Except you.

Until now.

Your throat felt dry. Your chest felt hollow. And your skewer? Obliterated. You stabbed through the last piece of beef with more aggression than necessary.

Jay leaned over and whispered, “You’re gonna set off the smoke alarm if you keep grilling that poor meat.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the chair he used to save for you wasn’t yours anymore.

And for the first time—you realized how much that seat had mattered.

You didn’t even realize how tightly your hands were gripping your chopsticks until your knuckles turned white. Your jaw ached from how long you’d been clenching it. Everyone at the table laughed at something you didn’t hear, and it felt like you were underwater—sound muffled, air thick, eyes locked on your untouched plate.

You hadn’t meant to care so much.

It was just a chair.

Just a seat at a dinner party.

But it was your seat. The one he always saved without asking. The one he used to pat with a grin like, "Reserved for royalty." The one where your jacket used to end up without thinking, your chopsticks already unwrapped by the time you sat down.

So seeing someone else sitting there—smiling like she belonged there—felt like stepping into a memory and realizing it didn’t remember you back.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

You weren’t together. Not really. Not even close.

But god, that seat had never been up for grabs before.

You slid into the open spot across the table like it didn’t burn, even though every movement felt like betrayal. Like you were betraying yourself by still hoping for something you couldn’t even name.

And then, he tapped your shoulder.

You stiffened immediately, already knowing it was him.

Jake.

The very air changed when he was around. Lighter, tighter, like it had more weight and less oxygen at the same time.

“Hey,” he said, voice easy. Too easy.

You didn’t look at him.

Tap.

“Princess.”

You froze.

Your throat tightened.

Because Princess used to be the softest thing in the world. A tease. A comfort. A reminder that he knew you, saw you, adored you in all the quiet ways he never said aloud.

But now?

It felt… different. Tainted.

It didn’t land the same when your chair was already taken. When he’d let someone else into the only space you thought was sacred.

So you didn’t turn.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t soften.

He hesitated—like he felt the shift, too.

“Hmph,” you crossed your arms like a child.

Jake’s voice dropped, lower this time. “Why are you mad at me?”

You still didn’t answer.

He let out a slow breath and walked around the table instead, crouching beside your chair like a boy trying to pick up something broken.

Your gaze stayed glued to your half-torn napkin.

“Is it… about the seat?” he asked, voice gentler now. Like maybe he already knew the answer. Like he knew exactly what that seat meant.

Your silence answered for you.

Jake swallowed hard.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he murmured. “She sat down before I even before I realized you were coming. I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”

“To what?” you cut in, quiet but sharp. “Replace me?”

Jake flinched.

You regretted it instantly. But not enough to take it back.

Because that seat—that tiny, stupid thing—meant something. And tonight, he let someone else take it like it didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “I should’ve waited for you. I should’ve saved it.”

Your hands tightened in your lap. “Forget it.”

“Princess,” he said again, softer now. Pleading. Like maybe if he said it right, it would mean the same thing it used to.

But it didn’t.

Not tonight.

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

And he looked wrecked. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. Just quietly ruined. Like he hadn’t realized how deep this cut would go. Like he was only just now understanding what he’d done.

You turned away before it could get worse.

Before your face could say too much.

Jake didn’t move.

Didn’t say another word.

Just sat there beside you like he would’ve done anything to rewind the night and start over.

But some things you couldn’t undo.

You were chewing in silence, half your brain stuck in a loop of spiraling thoughts and the other half… fully aware of Jake beside you. The way he kept glancing at you every few seconds. The way his leg bounced under the table like he had something to say but didn’t know how to say it.

You shifted in your seat.

He didn’t look at you, but he nudged your knee gently with his.

Then came his voice—soft, tentative, like he was knocking on a door he wasn’t sure he was allowed to open.

“I still owe you a prize.”

Your head turned.

Jake was already half smiling. That crooked, boyish smile that always cracked something open in your chest.

You blinked. “…What?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“…Two,” you whispered.

Jake turned, hand still hidden behind his back—and slowly revealed two fingers.

Your breath hitched. Just barely.

He smiled wider now, eyes lighting up like he’d been holding that hope in all night.

“Correct,” he said gently. “Which means…”

Jake stood up suddenly, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Wait here.”

You blinked again. “What? Where are you going—?”

He was already walking off, dodging servers and plates of steaming food. He made a beeline toward the front of the restaurant where the owner stood at the counter, scribbling on receipts.

From your seat, you watched him gesture animatedly. He pointed to a pen. Then to a napkin. The owner blinked, clearly confused, but handed him a small notepad and a black pen.

You watched Jake furrow his brows, crouching at a little side table and scribbling furiously, tongue poking out slightly as he focused. His shoulders hunched like he was working on something important. 

He returned a minute later, cheeks flushed with effort, pen still tucked behind his ear like an afterthought.

Without saying a word, he slid the paper toward you.

“Your prize,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

You looked down.

It was a drawing.

A bad drawing.

Stick figures, crooked lines, and a questionable attempt at your haircut—short, jagged bangs that stuck out at odd angles, cartoonishly captured in the most chaotic way possible. You almost laughed.

But then your eyes caught the words scribbled underneath:

‘Even with that haircut, you’re still the prettiest girl in the world.’

Your breath hitched.

You looked up.

Jake was pretending to sip water, very invested in the contents of his cup.

Your fingers tightened around the edges of the paper.

“…You’re such an idiot,” you whispered.

His gaze finally flicked to yours.

And even in the low lighting of the restaurant, you saw it.

The softness.

The hope.

The fear.

Like he didn’t know how you’d take it—but he meant every word anyway.

Your throat was suddenly too tight. 

You didn’t say anything else.

You didn’t have to.

Because you were still holding the drawing. 

—

You slipped your bag over your shoulder, the strap digging slightly into your coat as you muttered a quick goodbye to Jay and Jungwon. They teased you on the way out—of course they did.

The air outside hit your face like a wall. Sharp. Cold. Honest.

You exhaled, breath clouding in the dark. The city lights blurred into little golden halos around you as you wrapped your scarf with clumsy fingers, your hands still shaky from the night. From everything.

And then—

“Wait—hey!”

You turned.

Jake.

He was jogging after you, his jacket flapping open behind him, cheeks flushed red from the heat inside meeting the cold outside. His hair was a little windblown. His eyes found yours like they always did—easily, like home.

You blinked, lips parting. “What are you—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” he asked, breath puffing in the cold. He slowed beside you, steps syncing with yours before you even answered.

You paused, your fingers still tangled in your scarf.

“…Weren’t you still talking to her?” you asked softly. Softer than you meant to. Your voice barely carried.

The silence stretched between you.

Then, wordlessly, Jake reached for your scarf.

You froze.

“Here,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours. “You always do it too tight.”

He didn’t wait for permission. His hands moved gently, expertly—unraveling the mess you’d twisted, smoothing the soft fabric like he’d done it a hundred times. Like muscle memory.

His knuckles grazed your jaw as he tucked the ends in.

You held your breath.

And when you finally looked up, he was already watching you.

You, wrapped in the coat he gave you. In the scarf he’d fixed. In the silence he hadn’t tried to fill with anything other than quiet care.

“I’d rather be walking us home,” Jake said gently. Not a question. Not even a request.

And still—you let him.

The two of you walked slowly, the glow of streetlamps casting long shadows across the pavement. 

Jake was rambling beside you—something about Jungwon’s tragic karaoke and lettuce on a grill—but your mind was somewhere else entirely.

It was on him.

It was on every version of him.

On all the times he showed up when he didn’t have to. On all the gentle, quiet ways he loved you without asking for anything back.

On the umbrella he always tilted toward you.

On the bubble teas and playlists and dumb printed emoji sheets.

It hit you so hard you physically stopped walking.

Jake didn’t notice until he took two more steps and realized your footsteps had vanished.

“—and I swear, if he ever touches a mic again—wait, hey, you okay?”

He turned around.

You stood there, frozen in place, eyes wide and glassy like you were realizing something you couldn’t un-realize.

Jake’s face shifted instantly.

“W-What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping forward, concern flashing across his face. “Did I say something? Are you—”

You didn’t answer.

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him—just like that. No hesitation.

You pressed your cheek against his shoulder, arms looping around his back like you needed to hold something steady. Like he was the only thing steady enough to hold.

Jake stilled.

Completely.

And then his arms came around you.

Slow. Firm. Certain.

You felt his hand press gently into your back, the other cupping the back of your neck like he was trying to piece you back together with touch alone.

Your voice cracked when it came out.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His breath hitched. “Tell you what?”

“That you’ve been in love with me.”

Silence.

Jake went still again. His hand flexed slightly against your back.

You pulled back just enough to see him—your hands still clutching his coat, his eyes wide, mouth parted, heart in his throat.

“That would’ve made everything so much simpler,” you said, voice trembling. “Maybe I wouldn’t have dated that idiot. Maybe I would’ve chosen you. A long time ago.”

Jake looked stunned. His lips parted like he wanted to say something—but you didn’t let him.

“I thought you were just being nice,” you whispered. “I thought… you saw me, maybe, like a sister. I didn’t know…you–”

His brows drew together. Something deep and aching passed across his face.

“I’m sorry,” you went on. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it. You’ve always been there. Always. And I never looked at you the way I should’ve. Not until it was too late.”

Jake stared at you like you’d just knocked the air out of him.

And then.

He cupped your jaw with both hands.

Thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks. Fingers resting gently, reverently, like you were porcelain. His eyes were locked on yours, searching. Burning.

And then he leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t tentative.

It was everything he’d held in.

Years of friendship, of quiet pining, of every moment he almost let it slip and didn’t—it all spilled into that one kiss.

His lips found yours with a kind of desperate relief. Like coming home. Like breathing after drowning. Like maybe, finally, he didn’t have to hold it back anymore.

Your hands curled into the front of his coat. You tilted up into him, breath catching as he deepened the kiss—his hands sliding into your hair, one curling at the nape of your neck, the other still cupping your jaw like he couldn’t bear to let go.

His lips moved, with tenderness, with the kind of aching care that made your knees weak and your chest full to bursting.

When he finally pulled back—just barely—you were both breathless.

Your noses brushed.

His hands didn’t move.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes still closed, as if he couldn’t look at you and survive it.

“You didn’t have to see it back then,” he whispered. “I loved you anyway. I always have.”

You closed your eyes.

And kissed him again.

Because you didn’t need to say it yet.

You were already saying it in every breath.

And Jake?

Jake held you like he’d waited his whole life to because well…he did.

Because maybe you hadn’t fallen first.

But you were falling harder now.

You barely made it halfway down the street before you stopped again—just to kiss him.

It started soft.

His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheekbone as your lips pressed to his, slow and testing, like you were still trying to figure out how this all worked now. How it was real. His nose brushed yours. Your fingers curled in the collar of his coat, tugging him just a little closer.

You took three steps.

Then stopped again.

This time his hands slipped lower—one landing on your hip, the other skimming the small of your back as he leaned in again, mouth warm and insistent. His kiss deepened, lips parting against yours, breath catching in his throat as your fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged, just a little.

“Jake,” you mumbled against his mouth, your nose nudging his cheek, “we’re literally in public.”

He didn’t move away.

Just smiled against your lips. “Not my fault you’re addictive.”

You rolled your eyes.

And then kissed him again.

Longer. Slower. Your body pressed into his chest as his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. He tasted like cinnamon gum and the cold air between you. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before his lips found yours again, open and hungry now.

By the time you reached your building, the two of you were fully drunk on it—on each other.

He had you backed up gently against the brick wall by your door, your back hitting it with a soft thud. His hands braced either side of your head. Yours slid down his chest, fingers dragging across the buttons of his jacket before slipping underneath and fisting in his hoodie.

His forehead rested against yours, your noses brushing.

“I can't believe I get to do this now,” Jake whispered, breathless, lips still ghosting over yours. “Like this. With you.”

You smiled, whispering back against his mouth, “I should’ve kissed you years ago.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his mouth dipping lower, kissing along your jaw before finding your lips again. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to fall in love with you like this.”

Your arms curled around his neck. You were just about to pull him back in when—

“OH MY GOD. MY EYES!”

You both jerked away.

Jake turned first, one hand still protectively on your waist. You peeked around his shoulder, blinking through the haze of hormones and heat.

Sunghoon.

Standing frozen a few feet away, grocery bag in hand, jaw dropped so hard it could’ve cracked the sidewalk.

“SERIOUSLY?!” he shouted, voice breaking with disbelief. “MY ONE NIGHT OUT?! THIS IS WHAT I COME HOME TO? TONGUE WRESTLING? ON THE DOORSTEP?”

You immediately hid your face in Jake’s shoulder, laughing so hard you nearly collapsed.

Jake just grinned. “You’re just jealous you’re bitter, old, and single.”

“I LIVE HERE, YOU FERAL ANIMALS.”

You peeked up, cheeks burning, still giggling like a teenager. Jake reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers like he’d been doing it forever. His thumb traced slow circles on your skin.

Jake giggled, stepped in, slow and sure, until there was barely an inch between you. His hand let go of yours only to slide around your waist, pulling you in until your chest brushed his. His other hand found your jaw again, thumb grazing your cheekbone.

And then he kissed you. Again. Harder this time.

Behind you, Sunghoon made an actual gagging noise. “CUT IT OUT! This is why I prayed for your downfall, Jake.”

Jake just tugged you toward the elevator, still holding your hand.

—-

You barely made it into the apartment before Sunghoon yelled from his bedroom, voice muffled through the door:

“I’M NEVER WASHING YOUR LAUNDRY AGAIN.”

You and Jake burst into laughter, tripping over each other as you kicked off your shoes, still tangled in giggles and flushed skin and stolen kisses.

Jake followed you straight to your room, still holding your hand like it was his favorite thing in the world. His other hand? Firm on your waist. His mouth? Absolutely relentless.

The second the door clicked shut, he was on you again—his lips warm and insistent against your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. He kissed you like he couldn’t stop, like he didn’t want to stop, like he was mapping every inch of you with his mouth.

You laughed breathlessly, leaning back against the wall as his hands framed your face and his mouth finally, finally met yours again—deeper this time, slower but more demanding, like he was memorizing you.

“Jake—” you gasped between kisses, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes, “we have class at eight tomorrow.”

He didn’t even blink. Just leaned back in and kissed you again, his thumb brushing along the underside of your jaw as he tilted your face up to him. “I don’t care,” he whispered against your lips.

You barely had time to respond before his mouth crashed into yours again, open-mouthed, his hand sliding from your cheek down to your waist, gripping just tight enough to make your knees weak. Your fingers threaded into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer as your back hit the door, and you swore you felt the room spin slightly.

When you finally broke apart, panting, your lips felt swollen, kissed raw. Your heart was racing.

“So,” you murmured, dazed and breathless, “does this mean we’re… dating?”

Jake blinked, cheeks flushed, lips red. Then he grinned, cocky and breathless. “Are you asking me out?”

You rolled your eyes, still pinned between the wall and his body, smiling despite yourself. “It’s the least I could do, considering I didn’t realize you were in love with me for, like, a decade.”

Jake laughed—a low, husky sound that made your stomach flip. He leaned in again, brushing your lips with his, soft and slow this time. “You don’t owe me a single thing,” he whispered, one hand still at your waist, the other stroking your cheek like you were something fragile.

Then—just like that—he kissed you again. Harder. Messier.

He angled your chin just right and slotted your mouths together in a way that made you exhale a broken sound against his lips. His tongue teased against yours, slow and devastating, and when you whimpered into the kiss, he tightened his grip on your waist like he couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t just kissing anymore. It was kissing like gravity didn’t exist.

“Gosh,” he murmured against your lips, breath ragged, “I can’t stop. You’re like—” kiss “—a drug or something.” Kiss. “A really addictive one.”

You giggled mid-kiss, your hands sliding up into his hair. “You’re insane.”

And then SLAM.

Your bedroom door flew open like a jump scare.

Jake jumped away from you like you’d just been caught stealing a national treasure.

Before either of you could process what was happening, Sunghoon stormed into the room, dragging Jake into a headlock mid-sentence.

“WHAT THE—!” Jake shrieked.

You collapsed onto the wall, laughing so hard your knees buckled. Sunghoon grumbled something incoherent as he dragged a flailing Jake down the hallway like a sack of potatoes.

“I’m trying to sleep,” Sunghoon barked. “And instead I get moaning and giggling through my wall like I’m living in a romcom directed by Satan.”

Jake was breathless. “I wasn’t even going tor—”

“Yeah, yeah, pipe it, dumbass.”

Sunghoon slammed Jake down onto his bed and slammed the door behind him like it owed him peace.

You were still giggling in the hallway when Sunghoon’s door creaked open again. He stepped out looking 800 years tired, hoodie wrinkled and hair in chaos.

“And you!”

He pointed at you.

You stood straighter.

He stared. Then sighed.

“…Sleep well,” he muttered.

But just as he turned away, he mumbled under his breath: “God, you’re so happy it’s disgusting.”

And you were.

You were dizzy, breathless, borderline giddy.

Disgustingly happy.

And it felt perfect.

—

You laid in bed, the blanket tucked snugly beneath your chin, heart still racing from the absolute whirlwind that had been your night. Your lips were still tingling. Your cheeks ached from how much you’d smiled. Everything inside you buzzed, giddy and light, like you were a teenager with her first real crush.

Only this wasn’t a crush.

This was Jake.

You giggled into your pillow, kicking your feet beneath the covers, limbs wriggling like your body had no idea how to contain this much happiness.

Then—

Ping.

Your phone lit up beside you.

Jake 💙 i miss u already hehe

You let out an actual squeal, smacking your pillow with both hands, grinning like a complete lunatic.

God.

You’d never felt like this before. Not even with your ex. Not even close. This was warm. This was exciting. Safe. Stupid and lovely all at once.

This was Jake.

Still smiling, you typed back quickly, almost shy:

can u sneak back in?

You held your breath, eyes glued to the typing bubble.

But before it even disappeared—you heard it.

The quiet creak of a door unlocking.

You bolted upright.

Heart stuttering, you threw off your blanket and padded toward your bedroom door, cracking it open just enough to peek into the hallway.

And there he was.

Jake.

In pajama pants and a hoodie, hair tousled and fluffy, tiptoeing across the hallway like some cartoon burglar. His socked feet made no sound, but his face was full of mischief, lit up with a secret smile like this was the best part of his whole night.

He looked up and spotted you, then quickly pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shhh,” he whispered, a ridiculous grin tugging at his mouth.

You had to bite down on your knuckle to keep from laughing. He was impossible.

He reached your door in two quiet steps, gently pushing you backward into your room with both hands on your shoulders, like you were something delicate.

Just as he was about to step in—

SLAM.

Sunghoon’s door burst open like he was a horror movie jump-scare.

Jake froze.

You froze.

Both of you turned slowly, like kids caught red-handed raiding the snack cabinet.

Sunghoon stood in his doorway, hair sticking out in ten different directions, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, expression one hundred percent done with everything.

Jake opened his mouth, already guilty. “We—”

“Go. To. Sleep,” Sunghoon said flatly. His voice had the kind of force only a sleep-deprived man could deliver. “You absolute rabbits.”

You immediately clamped a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter as Jake stepped back like a scolded puppy, both hands in the air.

“Okay okay! We’re sleeping!” he whisper-yelled as Sunghoon groaned, rubbed his temples, and slammed his door shut again.

The second it clicked closed, Jake leaned down toward your door and whispered with a grin:

“Tomorrow night, I’m climbing through your window.”

You giggled, heart racing again, and whispered back, “You better.”

And he did.

PARK JONGSEONG

you became famous overnight all around your college when your face hit the news headline— “college girl saved from local monsters by the city's superhero, spiderman.”

“so, how was the experience?” you get startled by the sudden voice beside you, almost dropping the books in your hand. shutting your locker close, you meet the eyes of park jongseong aka jay— leaning against his own locker, wearing one of those oversized hoodies with a cocky grin.

“nothing special,” you shrug, leaning against your locker too as you scoff, “not big of a fan.” “really?” jay scoffs, inching closer until he towers above you easily. his dark hair locks fall gently over his forehead, making your mouth gape.

“you say spiderman is not all that,” he angles his head sideways, cupping your face between his hands— leaning in just enough for his hot breath to fan over your face, “then why were you so clingy to him last night? you sure didn't want to let go, doll.”

you could feel blood rush up to your face, making it flush before jay. you chuckle, whispering, “but how did you know that?” just like that, jay realises he messed up, his spider-suit peeking under his hoodie.

SIM JAEYUN

“—and the correct option is c,” jake pushes his thick rimmed glasses up his nose bridge, “did you get it?”

“yeah, i got it,” you sigh, your attention nowhere but your boyfriend, who’s neck is still damp from swinging around the city, saving people.

“does spiderman help other girls with their homework too?” you sigh, cocking your head to one side. “no?” jake is caught off guard, his eyes widened as he pulls you on his lap, “only you, i promise.”

before you can stop yourself, you grab the collar of his hoodie and pull him in. jakes eyes widen behind his glasses, but he soon eases into the kiss, one hand cups your cheeks as he leans into you. your stomach flips as he giggles into the kiss, caressing your cheeks.

you back just a little, your forehead pressed to his. “does he kiss other girls too?”

jake laughs, his glasses fogged, “only if she’s you.”

PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon quickly pulls you into the janitors closet, banging it shut as he pushes you against the wall. “shut up,” he pleads, all sweaty and out of breathe in his spider-suit, “please just everybody can hear you—”

“i wasn’t even going to say anything,” you lie, gripping onto his biceps as they brace next to your head, bodies too close to each other in the cramped place, “why did you think revealing yourself as spiderman to me was okay?”

sunghoon sighs, he knew that changing into civilian clothes right before college was risky. and of course, out of all people, you happened to see him in the hallways. “just—promise me,” he huffs, leaning in to see your face better in the dark, “you won’t tell anyone, alright?”

“and why do you think i wouldn’t?” you smirk, eyes glinting with mischief as they meet sunghoon’s confused ones.

“seriously?” he hisses, his patience running thin as he grits his teeth, “y/n you better—” “park sunghoon is spi—!”

he doesn’t let you finish the sentence, he leans forward and slams his lips on yours, pulling you into a hurried, angry yet a soft and delicate kiss. he cradles your head with his hand, the other sliding down to your waist. “shut up,” he breathes as he pulls away, chuckling at your flushed face which he loves.

KIM SUNOO

as you’re about to circle around the block towards the alleys to reach your apartment, a fwip sound interrupts you— and suddenly you’re being held up in the air by your waist.

“what the— sunoo?” you almost scream as sunoo only laughs, swinging you onto a building’s rooftop like it’s nothing.

“you almost screamed,” sunoo laughs, pulling up his mask just up to his nose, “you’re so cute.”

“you almost gave me a heart attack,” you complain, smacking his arm playfully as he laughs. “i missed you,” he says, slowly pulling you closer on the rooftop, slow and cool wind caressing you both, “it’s so hard to not see you all the time.”

you giggle in his arms, and sunoo pushes a strand of your hair behind your ears, “can i kiss you?”

“you don’t have to ask,” you finally give him his much needed permission, and sunoo leans in for a kiss amidst the busy night life he secretly watches over.

YANG JUNGWON

you quickly shut the door to your room behind you, facing your boyfriend who’s busy changing into civilian clothes.

“look away!” jungwon blushes as his eyes meet yours. he’s halfway through a plain white shirt, his abdomen exposed.

“what did i tell you about barging into my family gatherings?” you almost shout, slapping jungwon's forearm. “ouch,” jungwon whispers, “but did you see your messages? you told me to save you—”

“not when i said my whole family is here!” you sigh, plopping down flat on your bed and jungwon quickly wears his shirt. before you can say anything, jungwon hovers above you, pressing soft pecks on your lips and neck.

“i need to make sure you're alright,” he smiles in the most gentle way which makes your heart melt, and pull him closer by his collar. “i love you,” he whispers against your lips, kissing it slow.

“i love you more,” you chuckle. “no, i do!” he protests, pulling back to see your face. “no jungwon, you know that i love you more—”

“is somebody there?” a familiar voice floats in from outside your door, probably a relative. “i saw someone in there.” jungwon's face cringes as he looks at your furious one.

NISHIMURA RIKI

riki winces as you press a feathery kiss just above the bruise blooming on his cheek. “does it hurt?” you ask.

“not when you're kissing them,” riki teases, pulling you closer on his lap as he wraps his arms around you, “i want you to kiss all my bruises—”

“i told you not to mess with them,” you complain, an irritated pout forming on your face as you caress riki’s cheek. “you’re spiderman, not a fighter, they are stronger than you.”

“you hurt me more, doll,” riki leans into your touch, smirking as he mumbles, “i still took all of them down though.”

“that's not the point riki,” you sigh, retracting your hand from his cheek, at which he winces again, “i don't want you to get hurt all the time.” riki sighs into your palm, using both of them to cup his own face, “you’re so hot when you’re angry,” he snorts, biting his lip.

“can you please stop—” riki doesn't waste a second listening to your lectures as he pulls you in by your wrist, lips clashing into a heated kiss, which slows down eventually. you pull back first, an unsure and strict expression on your face.

“if it means getting hurt everyday because of you,” riki kisses your wrist, “then so be it.”

스루 ܃ for @flwrstqr ! love ya so much, mwah 💌

"Before I hand these back," Professor Martinez says, silencing the murmurs, "I want to discuss the grade distribution."

He clicks to display a graph on the projector screen. The curve looks normal enough, with a significant peak around the B-range.

"As you can see, the class average was 78.4," he continues. "We had a standard deviation of approximately 12 points. However—" he pauses, adjusting his glasses, "—we also had two outliers."

The next slide shows the same curve with two dots far to the right of the main distribution. Your throat tightens with a familiar tension.

Jake's eyes meet yours across the lecture hall. His expression is casual, but you recognize the intensity in his gaze. This is what it's always been like between you two: a silent acknowledgment of the competition that's defined your college experience.

"Our top two scores," Professor Martinez announces, "were separated by only half a point."

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

You see Jake sit up straighter, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light as he leans forward. Even from across the room, you can see the flash of white teeth as he grins confidently. His friends nudge him, already assuming victory.

"Mr. Sim scored an impressive 98.2," Professor Martinez says, and a ripple of impressed murmurs spreads through the lecture hall.

Jake's golden-boy smile widens as he accepts congratulatory shoulder pats from his friends. He hasn't looked at you yet, clearly believing he's finally done it—finally beaten you.

"And Ms. L/N—" Professor Martinez pauses, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, "—scored a 98.7."

The half-point difference might as well be a chasm.

Jake's smile freezes in place, his dark eyes immediately seeking yours as the realization hits him. He's lost. Again. By the slimmest of margins.

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile before looking down at your notebook, pretending to be humble about your victory. But inside, you're savoring the moment. It never gets old, watching the golden boy settle for silver.

After class, you take your time gathering your materials, accepting quiet congratulations from a few classmates. Unlike Jake, you don't have an entourage. You have acquaintances, study partners occasionally, but your focus has always been on achievement rather than popularity.

As you make your way up the steps of the lecture hall, you sense someone behind you. You don't need to turn to know who it is—you can tell from the expensive cologne and the sudden hushed whispers of nearby students watching the university's academic rivals in proximity.

"Congratulations," Jake says, falling into step beside you as you exit into the hallway. His voice carries none of the warmth it does when he's with his friends. "Half a point. Must be nice."

"It is," you reply coolly, clutching your midterm paper with its red 98.7% circled at the top. "Maybe next time."

Jake stops walking, forcing you to stop too unless you want to seem like you're fleeing. You turn to face him, noting the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead despite the late afternoon humidity that has your own hair frizzing at the edges.

"There's always the final," he says, his voice lowering into something almost like a threat. "And the Harrison Fellowship application is due next month. Midterms are just one battle."

You raise an eyebrow. "A battle you lost."

Something flashes in his eyes—not anger exactly, but frustration mingled with something else. Challenge, perhaps. Determination.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying just enough for a few passing students to slow down, sensing drama between the two top students.

"Never said it was," you reply with a sweet smile, hugging your perfect test paper to your chest.

Jake maintains eye contact for a moment longer than comfortable, then breaks into the easy, charismatic smile that's plastered across half the campus publications. The sudden shift is disorienting, his intensity disappearing behind his golden-boy mask so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there.

"See you in Advanced Statistical Methods tomorrow," he says cheerfully, as if your competition is just friendly banter. "Front row as usual?"

"Where else?" you respond, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

He winks—actually winks—before turning to join his waiting friends, who immediately surround him like a protective bubble of popularity. You watch him go, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach is just the satisfaction of victory, not a reaction to those dark eyes or that practiced wink.

One of Jake's friends says something that makes the whole group laugh, and you catch Jake glancing back at you before joining in. Something about his expression makes you uneasy, like he's not quite done with this interaction.

You shake off the feeling and head toward the library. The Harrison Fellowship application won't write itself, and you'll need to maintain your perfect GPA if you want to beat Jake Sim for that too.

What you don't realize, as you push through the heavy library doors, is that Jake is watching you go, his mind already formulating a plan that has nothing to do with studying—and everything to do with making sure you don't beat him again.

-

Jake closes his apartment door behind him and leans against it, loosening his tie with a frustrated jerk. The congratulatory words from his friends still ring hollow in his ears. Second place. Again.

"Damn it," he mutters, tossing his backpack onto the couch. His roommate looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess. You didn't beat her again?"

Jake shoots him a glare that would silence anyone else, but Ethan has been his best friend since orientation week. He's immune.

"Half a point," Jake says, collapsing into an armchair. "Half a freaking point."

Ethan whistles. "That's close, though. Closest you've gotten."

"Close doesn't get me the Harrison Fellowship," Jake snaps, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time all day. "Close doesn't get me into Stanford. Close is just another word for failure."

"Dramatic much?" Ethan chuckles, turning back to his computer.

But Jake isn't listening anymore. He's staring at the ceiling, where he's pinned his vision board—Stanford acceptance letter (photoshopped, for now), Harrison Fellowship certificate (also photoshopped), summer internship offer from Goldman Sachs (real, but he turned it down for a research position), and a cutout from last semester's dean's list (where your name appeared just above his).

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms.

"I need to change tactics," he says, sitting up straight.

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

Jake jumps up and begins pacing, energy suddenly radiating from him. "I've been trying to beat her on a level playing field, but that's clearly not working."

"So what, you're going to cheat?" Ethan frowns.

"No, nothing like that," Jake says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm going to... distract."

Ethan closes his laptop, now fully invested in the conversation. "Distract how?"

Jake's smile grows wider, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to ask her out."

Ethan stares at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. "You're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Jake says, grabbing his planner from his backpack and flipping it open. "Think about it—if she's spending time with me, that's less time studying. If I can get under her skin, disrupt that perfect focus..."

"That's cold, man," Ethan says, though he sounds impressed. "Even for you."

Jake shrugs, already jotting down ideas. "It's not personal. It's strategic."

"And what if she says no?" Ethan challenges.

Jake looks up, his signature confidence returning. He runs a hand through his hair, instantly restoring it to its usual perfection, and flashes the smile that got him voted "Most Likely to Succeed" three years running.

"No one says no to Jake Sim," he says with a wink.

Over the next hour, Jake crafts what he considers the perfect plan. He maps out your study schedule based on when he's seen you at the library. He notes your usual coffee spots, your preferred study locations, even which days you attend office hours. He's been your competition long enough to know your habits.

"Phase one: casual coffee," he mutters, writing it down. "Phase two: study dates. Phase three: actual dates."

Ethan watches with growing concern. "You know, most people just ask someone out because they like them."

"I do like her," Jake says absently, still planning. "I like beating her."

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

"And what happens when midterms are over? When you've gotten what you want?"

Jake looks up, genuinely confused. "Then I end it, obviously."

Ethan shakes his head. "You're going to fall on your face with this one, Sim."

"Watch me," Jake replies, holding up his planner with a flourish. Every hour of the next two weeks is now color-coded and annotated with his "Distraction Campaign."

He's never been more excited about a project in his life. The Harrison Fellowship is as good as his. And the look on your face when he finally beats you? He can already imagine it, can already feel the sweet satisfaction of victory.

What Jake doesn't account for is the possibility that his perfect plan might have one fatal flaw: himself.

-

The next morning, you're settling into your usual spot in the library's northeast corner—the one with the perfect combination of natural light and distance from foot traffic—when a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision.

"Americano, extra shot, light room for cream. That's your usual, right?"

You look up to find Jake standing there, holding not one but two cups of coffee, dressed in a blue button-down that makes his eyes seem impossibly dark in comparison. His hair is artfully tousled, and he's wearing the smile that graces the university's promotional materials.

"How do you know my coffee order?" you ask, suspicious.

Jake shrugs, sliding the cup toward you. "I notice things."

"Like my study schedule?" You glance pointedly at your books, then back at him.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." Jake pulls out the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. "I was thinking we could study together for the Advanced Statistical Methods final."

You nearly choke on your first sip of coffee. "Study together? You and me?"

"Why not? We're the top two students. It makes sense."

It makes absolutely no sense. You and Jake have been academic rivals since freshman year. Studying together would be like a gazelle inviting a cheetah to dinner.

"What's your angle?" you ask bluntly.

Jake places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Can't a guy just want to collaborate with a fellow academic?"

"A guy, yes. You? No."

His smile shifts into something more genuine—smaller but reaching his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm serious. Professor Rivera's finals are legendary. Even I could use some help with time series analysis."

God, I'm good, Jake thinks, mentally congratulating himself. The humble approach is working perfectly. A little vulnerability, a touch of self-deprecation, and she's already softening. Time series analysis? Please. I memorized that chapter last week. But she doesn't need to know that. Step one of the Distraction Campaign is officially in motion.

Against your better judgment, you agree. You tell yourself it's because you can keep an eye on him this way, maybe even figure out his study techniques.

By the fourth study session, you're beginning to regret your decision. Not because Jake is unpleasant company—quite the opposite. The problem is that nothing gets done when he's around.

"So if we apply the Durbin-Watson statistic here—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Jake's phone buzzing for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all as he checks the message. "Study group chat. They're trying to figure out where to meet later."

"You have another study group today?" you ask, exasperated.

"No, tonight's the Alpha Delta Pi mixer. I'm helping set up." He flashes that campus celebrity smile. "You should come."

"Pass," you say, trying to refocus on your notes. "Some of us prioritize academics."

"All work and no play," Jake tsks, leaning back in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidentally? You can't tell.

"Can we please get back to time series analysis?"

"Sure, sure," he concedes, but within minutes, he's tapping his pen rhythmically against the textbook, creating a distracting beat.

You grab the pen from his hand. "Jake. Focus."

He grins. "Sorry. Did you know you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating? It's cute."

The comment throws you so completely that you lose your place in your notes. Jake takes advantage of your momentary disorientation to check his phone again.

"Don't you have a system?" you ask, frustration mounting. "A study schedule? Notes? Anything?"

Jake laughs. "I have a photographic memory. I just need to read through something once."

You stare at him in disbelief. "That's..."

"Unfair? Yeah, I know." He winks. "But we all have our strengths. Mine's memory. Yours is..." he gestures vaguely, "...being intensely organized, I guess."

You narrow your eyes, not sure if you've been complimented or insulted.

The pattern continues for a week. Jake shows up at your study spots with coffee, snacks, or once, inexplicably, a small potted cactus ("It reminded me of you—prickly but low-maintenance"). He asks insightful questions just often enough that you can't justify kicking him out, but he constantly interrupts with texts, stories, or unnecessary observations.

"Did you know the librarian at the front desk used to be a professional ballerina?" he whispers, leaning so close you can smell his cologne. "She performed with the National Ballet for ten years before blowing out her knee."

"Fascinating," you mutter, trying to ignore how his proximity makes your heart rate pick up. "Can we please focus on the practice problems?"

"I was focusing," Jake protests. "I finished the set fifteen minutes ago."

You glance down at his paper. Sure enough, all twenty problems are completed, with work shown in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

Jake shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "Photographic memory, remember? I read the chapter once."

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, frustration boiling over.

His expression softens into something unreadable. "Maybe I like the company."

You don't have a quick response for that.

-

The day before your Advanced Statistical Methods final, Jake suggests studying at his apartment "for a change of scenery." Against your better judgment, you agree.

You arrive to find his roommate Ethan headed out the door.

"You must be the competition," Ethan says with a knowing smile. "Good luck." He shoots Jake a look you can't interpret before leaving.

Jake's apartment is surprisingly neat, with an unexpected number of books lining the walls. You'd pictured a bachelor pad with pizza boxes and sports memorabilia, not this adult space with actual furniture and framed art.

"What? Did you think I lived in a frat house?" Jake asks, reading your expression with annoying accuracy.

"Kind of," you admit.

"I'm more than just the campus golden boy, you know." There's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before.

The study session starts out productively enough. You quiz each other on formulas, and Jake makes flash cards that actually help clarify a complex concept you've been struggling with.

Then, in the middle of explaining autocorrelation, Jake suddenly says, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

Before you can answer, he's on the phone ordering, and somehow twenty minutes disappear into a conversation about the best pizza toppings (you: mushroom and olive, him: Hawaiian, which leads to a heated debate about pineapple as a legitimate topping).

When the food arrives, Jake insists on taking a study break. One episode of a show turns into three. When you finally check your watch, it's 11 PM, and you've accomplished maybe a third of what you planned.

"I should go," you say, gathering your notes.

"It's late. I can walk you home."

"I live in the north dorms. It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"Exactly. Perfect opportunity to quiz each other on regression analysis."

You want to say no, but he's already grabbing his jacket.

The night air is cool, and Jake walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. True to his word, he quizzes you on formulas as you walk, and you're begrudgingly impressed by how much he actually knows.

At your dorm entrance, he hands you a final flash card. "Last one."

You take it, squinting in the dim light. Instead of a formula, it reads: "Coffee tomorrow morning before the final? 7 AM?"

You look up to find him watching you intently, his usual confident smile replaced by something more hesitant.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," you say slowly. "I have a morning routine before exams."

"Part of which includes coffee, right? I'll bring it to you. No study talk. Just caffeine and moral support."

You should say no. This whole "friendship" with Jake has already cut into your study time more than you'd like to admit. But there's something in his expression that makes you pause.

"Fine. But if you're late with my coffee, all bets are off."

His smile returns full force. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As you head into your building, you realize with a start that you've actually enjoyed spending time with Jake. Not that you'd ever admit it to him.

What you don't see is the way Jake's smile transforms into a triumphant grin as soon as you're gone. He actually pumps his fist in the air like he's just scored the winning touchdown.

"Phase two: complete," he whispers to himself, pulling out his phone to text Ethan. THIS IS TOO EASY, he types, adding three crying-laughing emojis. She's actually letting me walk her to her dorm. Tomorrow I'll sabotage her entire morning routine.

He strolls back toward his apartment, checking items off his mental Distraction Campaign list. Yet somewhere between his self-congratulation and plotting tomorrow's coffee delivery (he plans to be precisely seven minutes late—just enough to throw off her exam prep but not enough for her to give up waiting), he realizes he's humming.

Jake Sim doesn't hum. But here he is, practically skipping down the sidewalk, because he's seeing you again in less than twelve hours. For the plan, he tells himself firmly. Obviously just for the plan.

-

The Statistical Methods final comes and goes. Despite Jake's best attempts at sabotage, you still manage to edge him out by two points. His frown when Professor Rivera announces the scores is brief but noticeable before he slips back into his golden boy persona, all easy smiles and gracious congratulations.

"This calls for a celebration," he says afterward, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom.

"Me beating you again?" you ask with a smirk.

"Our combined brilliance," he counters smoothly. "Dinner tonight? I know a place off campus that makes incredible pasta."

You hesitate. The study sessions were one thing—you could justify them as academic. But dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a date.

"I have to start my research paper for Political Economics," you say, which is true. The paper isn't due for two weeks, but your color-coded semester planner has tonight blocked off for outline development.

Jake's smile doesn't falter. "Perfect. I'll bring takeout to the library. Which section will you be in? The third-floor carrels or your usual table by the east windows?"

It's unnerving how well he knows your study habits.

"Fine. East windows. 7 PM." You shake your head, wondering when exactly you started agreeing to Jake Sim's proposals so easily.

Jake arrives at 6:58 PM with two bags of food that smell so divine you immediately realize how hungry you are. He pulls up a chair beside you—not across the table where a study partner would sit, but close enough that your elbows occasionally brush.

"I got you the mushroom ravioli," he says, unpacking containers. "And garlic bread. And tiramisu."

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

Jake grins. "You mentioned it during our pineapple-on-pizza debate. I pay attention."

The food is incredible, and despite your intentions to eat quickly and get back to work, you find yourself lingering over dinner, drawn into Jake's animated story about his disastrous first college party.

"So there I am, completely soaked, holding this stranger's pet iguana, while the campus police are knocking on the front door," he concludes, and you're laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth to avoid disturbing other students.

Jake reaches out and gently moves a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "It was bothering me."

Perfect, Jake thinks, noting how you momentarily freeze at his touch. One small touch, ah-ah-ah! Another step in my master plan. He mentally checks off another item on his distraction checklist, feeling rather pleased with himself for how easily you've been thrown off your focus.

You clear your throat and turn back to your laptop, suddenly very interested in your research paper outline. "I should really get back to work."

"Of course," Jake says, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls out his own laptop. "I've got some reading to do anyway."

Every few minutes, he shifts in his seat or sighs or taps his fingers on the table, each movement pulling your attention away from your work. You're about to snap at him when he leans over to look at your screen.

"Your outline structure is impressive," he says, genuinely. "I never thought to organize political theories that way."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you find yourself explaining your approach. Before you know it, an hour has passed discussing political philosophy instead of writing your outline.

"You're doing this on purpose," you accuse, suddenly realizing his game.

"Doing what?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence.

"Distracting me."

Jake places a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Can't I just enjoy intellectual conversation with the smartest person on campus?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Seems to be working so far," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, determined to ignore him. It works for approximately five minutes before he slides a folded piece of paper in front of you.

Curious despite yourself, you open it to find a surprisingly good sketch of you concentrating on your work, complete with the small furrow between your eyebrows that he'd mentioned before.

"When did you do this?" you ask, startled.

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" The question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Jake's cocky smile falters for a moment. "Beating you, apparently."

There's a hint of genuine frustration in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. For a brief moment, the golden boy facade slips, and you catch a glimpse of something more complex beneath—ambition, insecurity, determination all mixed together.

Before you can respond, he stands up. "I should let you work. But first..." He hesitates, then plunges ahead. "Would you go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Not studying. Not takeout at the library. A real date."

You stare at him, speechless. This isn't part of your carefully planned semester. Dating Jake Sim doesn't fit anywhere in your color-coded schedule or your academic goals.

"Why?" you finally ask.

His smile returns, but it's different somehow—less practiced, more nervous. "Because I like you. Because you're the only person on campus who doesn't buy into my whole..." he gestures vaguely at himself,"...thing."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, then raise an eyebrow. "What 'thing'? Your dick?"

Jake's eyes widen in shock before he bursts out laughing, a genuine, unpolished laugh that's nothing like his carefully cultivated campus-celebrity chuckle.

"No! I meant—" he gestures vaguely again, still laughing, "—the whole golden boy persona. The Jake Sim Experience™."

"Oh," you say, fighting a smile. "I thought you were just being weird."

You should say no. Every logical part of your brain is screaming to reject this distraction from your goals.

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

Jake's face lights up with genuine surprise, as if he expected rejection. "Friday? 7 PM?"

"I have to work on my—"

"Political Economics paper, I know," he interrupts. "But even you need to take breaks sometimes. I promise to have you home at a reasonable hour, and I'll even help you with research on Saturday."

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

"Okay," he echoes, looking so genuinely pleased that you momentarily forget this is Jake Sim, campus golden boy and your academic rival.

He gathers his things, still smiling. "I'll text you details."

As he walks away, you try to refocus on your outline, but your mind keeps drifting to Friday night. It's just one date, you tell yourself. What harm could it do?

-

Back at his apartment, Jake crosses off "Step 7: Secure actual date" from his Distraction Campaign list with a flourish.

"She actually said yes?" Ethan asks, looking up from his video game.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jake tosses his backpack on the couch and collapses next to it.

"Because she's smart enough to know better?"

Jake throws a pillow at his roommate. "The plan is working perfectly. I've already cost her at least ten hours of study time this week. By the time the Harrison Fellowship application is due, she'll be so off her game I'll finally beat her."

"And you're still convinced this is just about winning?" Ethan asks, pausing his game to give Jake a knowing look.

"What else would it be about?"

Ethan snorts. "You sketched her, man. You never sketch anyone."

"It was part of the distraction," Jake insists, but he finds himself pulling out the second drawing he made—the one he didn't give her, the one that captures her mid-laugh, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.

"Right," Ethan says, noticing the drawing. "Just make sure you know which one of you is actually getting distracted here."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm totally focused. You should hear my internal monologues when I'm with her. I literally count every successful distraction tactic like I'm Count Dracula or something. 'One missed study hour, ah-ah-ah! Two coffee dates, ah-ah-ah!'"

Ethan stares at him for a beat. "Yeah, right. Because that's not what love sounds like at all."

"Right?!" Jake agrees enthusiastically. "It's pure strategy. Nothing else."

Ethan face-palms. "That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"Whatever." Jake waves him off, completely missing the point. "You'll see when I win the fellowship and she's wondering what happened to her perfect GPA."

-

Friday arrives faster than you anticipated. You spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit—something casual enough to maintain your dignity but nice enough to acknowledge this is, in fact, a date.

When Jake knocks on your door at precisely 7 PM, he's brought his A-game. Designer jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his forearms, and that calculated smile that's gotten him through every social situation since puberty.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes doing an appreciative sweep that makes you momentarily self-conscious.

"So do you," you reply, because it's true, even if you wish it weren't.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small Italian place tucked away on a side street downtown, far enough from campus that you're unlikely to run into other students. It's intimate without being overtly romantic, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting.

The conversation flows surprisingly well. Jake is charming when he wants to be, asking questions about your hometown, your family, your childhood dreams. You find yourself laughing at his stories, drawn in by the way his face lights up when he talks about his first debate tournament victory.

This is going perfectly, Jake thinks, watching you smile at something he's said. Phase three proceeding exactly as planned. Every minute she spends with me is a minute not spent on the Harrison application. By this time next month, that fellowship will have my name on it.

His internal victory lap continues through dessert, especially when he catches you staring at his mouth while he tells a story about his freshman year roommate.

After dinner, Jake suggests a walk along the riverfront. The night is cool but not cold, and the path is lit by old-fashioned lampposts that cast a golden glow on the water.

"So," Jake says, walking close enough that your hands occasionally brush, "this was nice."

"It was," you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

"We should do it again sometime," he suggests, stopping by the railing overlooking the river.

"Maybe," you say, unwilling to concede too easily. "I do have a lot of work to do on my fellowship application."

Jake takes a step closer, exactly as he'd planned during his pre-date strategy session with Ethan. "The fellowship isn't for another month," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Plenty of time for both work and... other things."

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

It's meant to be calculated—the perfect mix of confidence and restraint, designed to leave you wanting more, to occupy your thoughts when you should be focusing on academics. But something unexpected happens when his lips meet yours.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, Jake forgets the plan entirely.

Your response, the soft sound you make as your hands find his shoulders, the way you taste like the tiramisu you shared for dessert—it short-circuits his strategic thinking. When you pull back slightly, he follows, chasing your lips without conscious thought.

"That was..." you begin, sounding slightly breathless.

Jake quickly regains his composure, mentally adjusting his strategy. This is even better than I planned. She's completely flustered.

"Just the beginning," he finishes with a confident smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "If you want it to be."

You narrow your eyes slightly, as if trying to figure him out. "What's your angle, Sim?"

"No angle," he lies smoothly. "Just enjoying the moment."

You don't look entirely convinced, but when he leans in again, you meet him halfway.

-

Over the next week, Jake implements what he privately calls "Operation Kiss Distraction." The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity—physical contact prevents academic focus. And it works every time.

On Monday afternoon, you're reviewing notes for Professor Wright's Macroeconomics seminar when Jake slides into the chair beside you, coffee in hand.

"How's it going?" he asks, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"I need to finish these notes before—"

He silences you mid-sentence with a kiss, soft and deliberate. Your protest dissolves as his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward his. By the time he pulls away, you've forgotten what chapter you were reviewing.

"Before what?" he asks innocently, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"I... don't remember," you admit, and Jake's smile is nothing short of triumphant.

On Wednesday, you're in the library's reference section, surrounded by economics journals for your fellowship research. Jake finds you there, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before you even realize he's arrived.

"How did you find me?" you ask, trying to maintain your focus on the article you've been highlighting.

"I always know where to find you," he murmurs, his lips moving to the sensitive spot below your ear. The highlighter slips from your fingers as he works his way along your neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Jake," you protest weakly, "I have to finish this research."

"In a minute," he promises, turning your chair to face him. His kiss is deeper this time, more insistent. Your hands find their way into his hair as he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the shelves. The solid weight of the books behind you contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours, his mouth hot and demanding.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. Jake's usual perfectly styled hair is mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with something that looks like genuine desire.

"See? Just a minute," he says with a grin, though it's been at least fifteen.

You try to remember what journal article you were reading, but your mind is blank, filled instead with the lingering sensation of Jake's mouth on yours.

-

By Friday, you've developed a Pavlovian response to his presence—one look from Jake across a room and your pulse quickens in anticipation. He knows it too, using it to his advantage.

During a study group at his apartment, he waits until the others are engrossed in problem sets before leaning close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

You shouldn’t go. You have work to do. But two minutes later, your book is forgotten, and you’re following him anyway.

The moment you step inside, Jake is on you. He shoves you against the counter, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and insistent. His hands are already under your sweater, fingers skimming up your sides, making you shiver at the contrast of his heat against your skin.

“We shouldn’t,” you pant as his teeth scrape against your collarbone, his grip tightening on your waist. “Everyone’s right there.”

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower.

A moan slips out before you can stop it as he sucks a deep mark onto your throat, his tongue teasing the bruised skin before moving lower. His hands wander, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing over your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly over the thin fabric. “Already wet for me?”

Your breath hitches as he rubs slow, teasing circles, the pressure making your thighs shake. He chuckles, dark and low, before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers sliding against your slick folds.

You grip his shoulders as he works you open, curling his fingers just right, his pace unrelenting. Your body arches against him, desperate for more, but he doesn’t let up—doesn’t stop marking you, doesn’t stop driving you closer to the edge with expert precision.

“Cum for me,” he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”

And you do—your climax crashes over you, your body shuddering as his fingers continue their slow, torturous strokes, dragging it out until you’re barely holding yourself up.

He finally pulls back, admiring the deep red bruises blooming across your neck and chest, the way your body still trembles in the aftermath. He smooths a hand over your thigh, smirking as you struggle to catch your breath.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the study group, cheeks flushed, legs weak, lips swollen from his kisses. You pretend to focus, but you can still feel the ghost of his fingers between your thighs, the bruises throbbing like a silent confession.

Jake follows a minute after, looking impossibly composed, except for the self-satisfied smirk he can’t quite suppress.

Another productive session, he thinks, eyes flickering to the marks on your skin. She’s falling further behind every day.

-

The next Tuesday, after an especially intense makeout session that leaves you both disheveled and breathless, Jake captures your hands in his, expression suddenly serious.

"I've been thinking."

Your stomach tightens. Is this where he admits the whole thing has been a calculated distraction? That none of it meant anything?

"We've been doing... whatever this is... for a couple weeks now," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm in a way that makes it hard to focus. "And I think we should make it official."

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

"Be my girlfriend," he says, flashing that perfect Jake Sim smile that's graced countless campus publications. "Properly."

It's the logical next step for his plan, he tells himself. Girlfriend status means more of her time, more distraction, more control over her schedule. It's strategic brilliance, not genuine desire. The flutter in his chest when she smiles up at him? Merely satisfaction with his own cunning.

"Okay," you agree, and he kisses you again, mentally checking off another item on his master plan.

Phase Four complete, Jake thinks triumphantly. This fellowship is as good as mine.

What Jake doesn't acknowledge, even to himself, is how often he finds himself thinking about you when you're not around. How he's started skipping his own study sessions to meet you. How his friends have noticed his GPA slipping while yours somehow remains steady.

"Dude, you missed the entire Econ study group yesterday," his friend Matt points out after class. "We're two weeks out from finals."

"I had something more important to do," Jake says, thinking of how you'd smiled against his mouth when he surprised you outside your afternoon lecture.

Matt looks skeptical. "More important than maintaining your GPA for the Harrison Fellowship? You've been working toward that since freshman year."

Jake shrugs it off, but the comment nags at him. Has he possibly overcommitted to his distraction strategy? Is he risking his own academic standing in the process?

He resolves to recalibrate, to find a better balance between distracting you and focusing on his own work. But that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to text him asking if he wants to meet at the library.

Just an hour, he promises himself. I'll kiss her senseless for an hour, then go back to my apartment and work on my application.

The hour turns into three, and he doesn't get any work done that night.

The pattern continues. Each time Jake thinks he's the one in control, each time he mentally tallies another successful distraction, he fails to notice how his own academic focus is slipping. How his perfectly organized planner is suddenly full of your name instead of study reminders. How he's started dreaming about you instead of his acceptance letter to Stanford.

-

"The plan is still on track," he insists when Ethan questions him. "She's completely distracted."

"And you're not?" Ethan asks pointedly, gesturing to Jake's phone that he's checking for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Of course not," Jake scoffs, hastily putting his phone face-down. "I'm laser-focused on victory."

"Right," Ethan drawls. "That's why you've written her name in your planner instead of 'study for Econ final'?"

Jake slams the planner shut. "That's... strategic. So I remember when we're meeting to... implement distraction tactics."

"And the fact that you've started wearing cologne to the library?"

"Psychological warfare."

"You missed basketball with the guys to help her carry books."

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

"You turned down Jessica Miller—who you've had a crush on since freshman orientation—because she asked you out on the same night you were supposed to see the protagonist."

"Commitment to the mission."

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper from Jake's desk and unfolds it. "And this poem?"

Jake snatches it away, cheeks reddening. "Research! I'm researching what kind of sappy stuff might further distract her."

"Uh-huh. And you've set her text tone to a special sound because...?"

"So I know exactly when my target is messaging me," Jake explains with the confidence of someone completely deluding himself.

"You literally have a framed photo of her on your nightstand."

"That's just to... remind me of the enemy."

Ethan throws his hands up in exasperation. "You planned your entire class schedule around hers for next semester!"

"Advanced strategic planning," Jake insists, even as he absently doodles her initials on his notebook margin. "The long game."

The truth—which Jake is nowhere near ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real conversations, his perfect plan has developed a fatal flaw:

He's falling for you. And he doesn't even realize it.

-

Jake wakes up in a cold sweat, staring at the calendar on his wall. Three weeks until the Harrison Fellowship deadline, and his plan is working too well—on himself.

"I need to recalibrate," he mutters, grabbing his planner. "Time for phase five: Total Disruption."

After a hurried breakfast, he texts Ethan his new strategy while walking to class.

"You're digging yourself deeper," Ethan replies immediately.

"Watch and learn," Jake types back with the unfounded confidence of a man about to step on a rake.

He implements the new tactics that very afternoon. When you mention needing to study at your apartment that night, Jake suggests studying together, kisses you until you agree, then "accidentally" falls asleep on your couch. By the time you wake him at 2 AM, neither of you has done any work, but he counts it as a win.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs sleepily, using one of his new strategic pet names. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname but let it slide. "You should go home and get some actual sleep."

"Or I could stay," he counters, pulling you down for another kiss. "Save myself the walk across campus."

It works. You let him stay, and Jake falls asleep feeling smug about another night of study time successfully sabotaged.

What he doesn't anticipate is waking to find you already up, quietly typing at your desk, wearing his sweatshirt from the night before.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you say without looking up. "Hope you don't mind I borrowed this. It's comfortable."

Jake stares, momentarily forgetting his master plan because something about seeing you in his clothes makes his chest feel tight. "I... no, that's... it looks good on you."

"Thanks," you reply, still focused on your laptop. "I made coffee. I've been up since six working on this fellowship essay. Having you here actually helped me focus—I didn't want to wake you by going out to the library."

Jake's smug feeling evaporates. "You've been working for three hours already?"

"Mmhmm. You're cute when you sleep, by the way. Very peaceful. Not at all like when you're awake and plotting world domination."

He's not sure which is more disconcerting—that his sleepover tactic completely backfired or that you called him cute.

The next day, he tries a new approach. While you're in the bathroom during a study session, he quickly closes all fifteen tabs on your laptop, thinking it will set your research back significantly.

You return, notice immediately, and sigh. "Did you close my browser?"

"Oh, did I?" Jake feigns innocence. "Sorry, I was just checking something and must have hit the wrong button."

"It's fine," you say, pulling out your phone. "I was using the cloud sync feature. See?" You tap a few buttons, and all fifteen tabs reappear on your laptop screen. "Everything's backed up automatically. Handy, right?"

Jake's smile feels brittle. "Super handy."

His attempt to hide your textbooks the following week is thwarted when you casually mention that you primarily use the e-book versions anyway. "They're searchable," you explain, showing him how quickly you can find specific information. "Much more efficient."

The emergency ice cream date he arranges the night before your Political Economics paper is due—which should have derailed your writing schedule—somehow turns into a productive discussion about Keynesian theory that actually helps you refine your thesis.

"This is exactly what I needed to tie my argument together," you tell him excitedly between bites of rocky road. "You're a genius, baby."

The casual endearment catches Jake so off guard that he chokes on his ice cream.

"You okay there, Jakey?" you ask, patting his back as he coughs.

"Fine," he wheezes, face red. "Just... went down the wrong way."

You continue using the nickname throughout the evening, each "Jakey" hitting him like a physical blow. It shouldn't affect him—it's just a name—but something about the affection in your voice when you say it makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream.

By the time he walks you home, Jake is thoroughly confused by his own reactions. This isn't part of the plan. None of it is.

The clothing swap attempt is perhaps his most spectacular failure. After a particularly heated make-out session at his apartment, Jake deliberately puts his t-shirt in your bag and hides the one you wore over.

"Can't find my shirt," you say, rummaging through your things the next morning.

"That's weird," Jake replies, feigning confusion. "Maybe it got mixed in with the laundry?"

"Probably," you agree easily, grabbing one of his shirts from his drawer. "I'll borrow this one, okay? I'm already running late for Richardson's lecture."

Jake watches in disbelief as you pull his shirt on, gather your books, and kiss him goodbye. The shirt is too big, sliding off one shoulder, but instead of looking disheveled, you somehow make it look deliberate and stylish. When you walk into lecture twenty minutes later, he overhears two girls complimenting your outfit.

"Isn't that Jake Sim's shirt?" one whispers. "They must be serious."

The comment shouldn't please him. It's supposed to be about making you late, not about public confirmation of your relationship. Yet he finds himself smiling anyway.

-

The text message barrage during your Advanced Economic Theory seminar is Jake's next carefully plotted distraction. He sets alarms for precise intervals, determined to make your phone buzz continuously throughout Hammond's lecture.

8:05 AM: Morning. Left a coffee on your desk. Hope Hammond doesn't bore you to death today.

8:13 AM: Still thinking about last night. The way you gasped when I touched you there...hard to focus in class right now.

8:19 AM: Prof Wilson just used your elasticity argument from last week. Didn't credit you though, the bastard.

8:24 AM: thinking abt you in that tiny red dress of yours, suddenly my dicks stood up like a perfectly inelastic supply curve

8:31 AM: Found that article you needed for your paper. I'll trade it for dinner tonight. Thai place just opened downtown.

8:36 AM: You look so good in that blue sweater. Even better when I was taking it off you yesterday.

8:42 AM: Remember what we did in the library stacks last week? I keep picturing you pressed against those books, trying not to make a sound.

8:47 AM: Study at my place tonight? Ethan's gone till morning. We can actually be loud for once. I love it when you're loud.

8:52 AM: The hickey I left on your inner thigh still there? Maybe I should check personally after class.

8:55 AM: Just realized I still have your underwear from Tuesday. You can have them back... or not. Your call.

The messages continue, alternating between casual conversation starters, blatant attempts to tempt you away from academics, strategic pet names (Jake has privately ranked their effectiveness, with "princess" at the top), and the memes he's carefully selected as backup distractions.

But when class ends, you emerge looking perfectly composed. "Phone on silent," you explain when he casually asks if you got his texts. "I always silence it during Hammond's lectures. He's strict about interruptions."

"Right," Jake says, deflated. "Smart."

"But I did see them after class," you continue, linking your arm through his as you walk across the quad. "The memes were funny. Nice distraction technique."

Jake glances at you, trying to gauge whether you're annoyed about the explicit messages.

"So..." he ventures, "the other texts didn't bother you?"

"Bother me? No." You give him a sly smile. "Though I'm pretty sure Hammond would've had a stroke if he'd seen what you wrote about perfectly inelastic supply curves."

Jake feels his face warm slightly, which is ridiculous because he's not the type to blush. "I meant every word."

"I know you did." You lean closer. "And yes to dinner tonight. Though I already found that article myself."

"I meant what I said about my place too," Jake says, his voice dropping lower as a group of freshmen pass by. "Ethan really is gone all evening."

You pretend to consider it. "I do have that study block scheduled..."

"I'll make it worth rescheduling," he promises, mouth close to your ear.

"You always think you're so irresistible, don't you, Jakey?" you whisper back.

There it is again—that fluttering in his stomach at the nickname. It's getting harder to ignore, especially the way it sounds so natural coming from your lips. Jake doesn't understand why his calculated pet names feel like strategic maneuvers while yours feel like treasured endearments.

"We'll see," he says, already thinking of ways to make you forget all about your study schedule tonight. Maybe he'll wear that shirt you like, the one that brings out his eyes. Maybe he'll suggest dessert after dinner. Maybe he'll use that cologne you always seem to lean in for.

Jake's so busy plotting his next move that he doesn't notice the knowing smile on your face—or the flash drive in your bag containing a nearly completed fellowship draft that you've been working on during the hours he thinks you're distracted.

-

Three days later, Jake implements what he considers his most strategic move yet: the extended weekend getaway. Under the guise of a romantic surprise, he books a cabin at a lakeside resort two hours from campus for the weekend before a major economics presentation you both need to prepare for.

"No internet," he tells you with what he hopes is a charming smile. "Just you, me, and nature for two days."

To his surprise, you seem genuinely excited. "That sounds perfect! I've been so stressed with all these deadlines. A break will help clear my head."

"Exactly," Jake agrees, already imagining how far behind you'll fall without internet access or your usual study materials. "It'll be... relaxing."

They arrive Friday evening, and Jake is pleased to discover the cabin is as rustic as advertised. No WiFi, spotty cell service, and blissfully isolated from neighboring cabins.

"It's beautiful," you say, walking onto the small deck that overlooks the lake. The setting sun casts everything in a golden glow, including your profile as you lean against the railing.

Jake finds himself staring, momentarily forgetting his ulterior motives. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Beautiful."

You turn and catch him looking, and something in his expression makes you smile in a way that creates a strange tightness in his chest.

"So," you say, walking back to him slowly. "What should we do first in our internet-free paradise?"

Jake has a detailed plan for keeping you thoroughly distracted all weekend. It involves hiking, canoeing, cooking together, board games, and strategic makeout sessions whenever you mention anything remotely academic.

What he doesn’t plan for is how the isolation amplifies everything between you. Without the constant interruptions of campus life, without the pressure of appearing a certain way for classmates or professors, something shifts.

-

Friday night, you build a fire in the small stone fireplace, and Jake uncorks a bottle of wine he brought specifically to lower your academic defenses. One glass turns into two, which turns into lazy kisses on the couch that grow increasingly desperate, increasingly needy.

Your hands slip under his sweater, dragging over warm, taut skin, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. When you tug it over his head, he helps you, throwing it aside like it’s useless, like all he needs right now is you. Then he does the same with your shirt, his hands immediately returning to your skin, sliding up your sides, his rings cold and teasing against your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at you, pupils blown. His hands roam, fingers grazing over your bare stomach, thumbs brushing up to your tits, teasing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. He groans, head tipping back for a second as if he’s trying to compose himself, but it’s useless. He’s already too far gone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, unfiltered. It’s not calculated—just a raw, messy confession that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back down, kissing him deeper, harder, tongue sliding against his as you push up against him. He moans into your mouth, low and needy, gripping your hips as you press closer.

“Bedroom,” you whisper between kisses, and he barely nods before hauling you up, hands firm under your thighs as he carries you there.

The cabin’s lone bedroom is small, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way firelight spills across your skin, making you look almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

But he does touch you.

He lowers you onto the bed, spreading you out beneath him, then he’s kissing his way down, taking his time, dragging his lips over your collarbone, your stomach, leaving a path of heat in his wake.

And then he’s between your thighs, spreading you open, eyes dark, his rings a sharp, cool contrast against your burning skin.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “Look at you, baby. So fucking wet.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers through your slick folds, the sensation heightened by the hard, unrelenting press of his rings against your sensitive skin.

“Jake,” you whisper, thighs twitching as he spreads your folds with his fingers, watching the way you glisten in the dim light.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re dripping. You want me that bad?”

You nod, gasping when he drags his thumb over your clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The metal of his rings makes it colder, sharper, and the sensation sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Need to taste you.”

Then he dives in, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, hard.

You cry out, hands immediately burying in his hair, gripping tight, and Jake—Jake fucking moans so loud into you it vibrates through your whole body.

“Oh my god—Jake,” you whine, head falling back as he keeps going, licking, sucking, absolutely devouring you like he’s starving.

He groans again, his hips grinding into the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you, and the desperate, wrecked sounds coming from him make you even wetter.

Then he slides two fingers inside, and you swear you see stars.

“Holy fuck,” he pants against your thigh, thrusting his fingers in and out, his rings catching against your slick heat with every movement. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus, baby.”

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt, and he moans again, practically whimpering against you as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Listen to her,” he groans, voice shaking, fingers plunging deeper, faster, wetter. “Fucking talking to me, baby—your pussy’s talking to me—”

You sob his name, hips grinding against his mouth, and he loses it, sucking harder, fingers working even faster. The sounds are obscene—wet, messy, loud—but he loves it, loves how ruined you are, how ruined he is.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips slick with you. “Gonna make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”

Your whole body tightens. The heat in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, thighs shaking as you come, clenching hard around his fingers.

Jake moans so loud it’s almost embarrassing, almost filthy the way he reacts to your pleasure like it’s his own.

He keeps moving, working you through it, voice a wrecked, desperate mess of praise. “That’s it, that’s my good fucking girl—holy shit, you feel so good—”

You whimper, body twitching from oversensitivity, and he finally slows down, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He groans as he licks them clean, eyes dark and half-lidded as he stares at you.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s lining himself up, pressing in, and the moment he pushes inside, his head drops back and he lets out the most wrecked, filthy moan you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He sounds like he’s falling apart, like this is undoing him completely. His forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged. “Oh my god, baby, you feel—” He exhales sharply, shaking. “I can’t—I need to move—”

“Do it,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.

He groans as he starts thrusting, deep and slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you feel wrapped around him. But then you moan, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he breaks.

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard, deep, the bed creaking with every movement.

And he’s so loud.

Every thrust rips another filthy moan from his throat, another wrecked gasp, another desperate curse as he loses himself completely.

“God, you’re so loud,” you tease, voice breathless but smug, knowing full well how completely undone he is.

His response is immediate—he gets louder. A shameless, broken groan rips from his chest, his head tipping back, fingers digging into your hips.

“You—fuck—” His voice cracks, his thrusts turning erratic. “You’re gonna—gonna make me—”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, staring right into his dark, blown-out eyes.

Jake fucking breaks.

He lets out the filthiest, most desperate moan you’ve ever heard, his whole body shaking, his hips snapping against yours one last time as he spills inside you, burying himself deep, filling you up with everything he has.

After, he collapses against you, still shuddering, breath uneven, lips brushing over your skin as he whispers something you can’t quite hear, something too soft, too raw.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a distraction. But as you drift off to sleep against his chest, Jake stays awake, staring at the ceiling, completely, utterly fucked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

-

Saturday morning, Jake wakes to find you gone from the bed. Panic spikes through him momentarily before he hears movement in the kitchen. He pulls on sweatpants and pads out to find you at the small stove, wearing nothing but his button-down shirt from the night before, making pancakes.

"Morning, angel," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without conscious thought. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and is rewarded with a smile that does strange things to his heart rate.

"Morning, Jakey," you reply, turning to kiss him properly. "Sleep well?"

That nickname again. He should hate it—it's childish, diminutive—but when you say it, it feels like some private treasure between you.

"Very," he says, and means it. "Those look good."

"Blueberry pancakes. I found some berries in the fridge."

Jake blinks. Cooking breakfast together was on his distraction agenda, but you've already taken the initiative. He'd planned to get up early, hide your phone to prevent you from checking emails, and control the day's activities. Instead, he slept later than intended, and you seem perfectly content in this tech-free environment he designed to frustrate you.

After breakfast, you suggest a hike, another item from his distraction checklist that you've somehow adopted as your own idea. The fall morning is crisp and clear, perfect for exploring the trails around the lake.

"I needed this," you say as you walk hand in hand along a pine-scented path. "I've been so focused on the fellowship and finals that I forgot what it's like to just... breathe."

Jake feels a twinge of guilt. "You have been working really hard."

You squeeze his hand. "We both have. That's why this weekend is so perfect. A chance to reset before the final push."

The guilt intensifies. He's been working hard, yes, but not as hard as he should be. Not as hard as you. His grades have slipped over the past few weeks, his focus increasingly fragmented between his academic goals and his fixation on sabotaging yours.

The hike leads to a small clearing overlooking the lake. Without discussion, you both stop to admire the view. You lean back against Jake's chest, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively, resting his chin on top of your head.

It's peaceful. Simple. For a few minutes, Jake forgets about fellowships and competition and distraction strategies. He just exists in this moment with you, and it feels bizarrely right.

"Thank you for planning this," you say softly.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, the pet name now coming naturally.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. "I like when you call me that," you admit.

"Yeah?" Jake tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like when you call me Jakey."

The admission surprises him as much as it seems to please you. You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet, and something in Jake's chest aches.

The moment is interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. You both look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should head back," Jake says, taking your hand. "Looks like rain."

You make it halfway to the cabin before the skies open. By the time you reach the porch, you're both soaked through and laughing. Jake pulls you inside, where the remains of the previous night's fire have left the cabin pleasantly warm.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jake suggests, voice thick with heat, his smirk widening when he sees your eyes darken.

You don’t hesitate. Your soaked jacket hits the floor with a heavy plop, followed by your drenched shirt, clinging to your skin before you peel it off.

“Race you to the shower,” you tease, already backing toward the bathroom.

Jake growls low in his throat, tearing off his own clothes as he follows, jeans hitting the floor as he stalks after you.

The moment you step under the spray, hot water cascading down, he’s on you—pressing you against the cold tiles, kissing you deep, messy, hungry.

His hands roam your slick skin, fingers trailing up your waist, over your tits, down your stomach—gripping, groping, claiming. The sharp chill of his rings against your heated body sends a shudder through you.

Then you reach for his hand, dragging it to your mouth. Holding eye contact, you wrap your lips around his middle and pointer finger, sucking slow, obscene.

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching against your stomach, eyes blown wide as he watches you drag your tongue up the length of his fingers before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, voice wrecked, and suddenly his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot, desperate. “Turn the fuck around.”

You obey without hesitation, pressing your hands flat against the tiles, arching your back just enough to tempt him.

Jake grips your hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing—

And then he slams inside.

“Fuck!” His moan is loud, raw, unfiltered, tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

You gasp, gripping at the tiles as he stretches you open, splitting you apart. He barely gives you time to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has you wailing.

“Louder,” he growls, voice shaking as he bites down hard on your shoulder, his hips snapping against you. “Fucking scream for me, baby.”

Your moans rise in pitch, gasping and broken, but it’s not enough for him.

“Fucking louder,” he snarls, gripping your chin and turning your head slightly. “Let everyone fucking hear what I’m doing to you.”

And fuck, that does it. You wail his name, voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate, and Jake fucking snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, loud, no shame, no restraint. “That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck, you’re so loud for me, fuck, fuck—”

His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing your clit in harsh, fast circles. “Come on, baby—come for me—fucking scream for me while I ruin this little pussy—”

Your body locks up, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your moans turning into sharp cries as you come hard, clenching down so tight around him.

Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck—ngh—”

His voice shatters, his thrusts turning wild, his hands gripping your hips hard as he slams into you one last time and spills inside you, hips twitching, letting out the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—” His head tips back, mouth hanging open, the filthiest, most obscene moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up.

He keeps thrusting, whimpering, riding it out, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, panting so hard he’s practically breathless.

Silence. Just the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, the water pounding down over you both.

Then—Jake laughs, breathless, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“Well.” His voice is wrecked, rough. “Guess I should’ve made you scream my fucking name sooner.”

-

Afterward, wrapped in the cabin's fluffy towels, you curl up together on the couch to watch the storm through the large windows. Jake pulls a blanket over you both, and you nestle against his side, fitting perfectly.

"This is nice," you murmur, already sounding half-asleep. "Just being here with you. No competition, no pressure."

Jake feels a fresh wave of guilt. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

Eventually, you doze off, your head on his chest, one hand curled possessively on his stomach. Jake strokes your hair absently, listening to the rain and your steady breathing, trying to ignore the growing realization that he's no longer sure what game he's playing—or if he's playing one at all.

That evening, Jake cooks dinner as planned, but the romantic meal meant to keep you from studying now feels like something he wants to do for you rather than to you. He finds himself putting extra effort into the pasta sauce, adding spices he knows you like, opening the better bottle of wine he'd brought as a backup.

You set the small table by candlelight, and when you sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily—not about classes or the fellowship, but about childhoods and dreams and favorite books. Jake learns more about you in one dinner than he has in three years of competitive observation.

"I want to make a difference," you tell him when he asks about your post-graduation plans. "Economics isn't just about markets and money to me. It's about understanding systems that affect real people's lives."

"That's... actually really cool," Jake says, surprised by his own sincerity.

"What about you?" you ask. "Why economics?"

Jake opens his mouth to give his standard answer—the one about prestigious job opportunities and his father's expectations—but what comes out is something closer to the truth.

"I'm good at it," he admits. "And being good at things has always been important to me. Maybe too important."

You reach across the table to take his hand. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to excel."

"There is when it's the only thing that matters," Jake says quietly, the words emerging from some honest place he usually keeps carefully locked away. "When you'll do anything to win."

You study him for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me that this whole relationship was just an elaborate scheme to distract me from winning the fellowship?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Jake stares at you, mouth actually dropping open. "What—how did you—"

"Please." You roll your eyes. "The timing was painfully obvious. You suddenly wanted to 'study together' right when applications opened? The constant texts during lectures? Accidentally closing my browser tabs? Hiding my books? The weekend getaway with 'no internet'?" You make air quotes with your fingers. "I've been onto you since day one, Jake Sim."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, completely thrown off script. "I—well—shit."

"Did you actually have a written plan? Like an actual document called 'How to Sabotage Her Academic Career'?"

Jake winces. "It wasn't called that exactly, but..."

"Oh my god, you did!" You start laughing, which confuses him even more. "Let me guess, you had phases? Codenames? Did you rank your distraction techniques by effectiveness?"

His silence confirms it all.

"You stupid dumb fuck," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I knew everything from the very beginning. Every single move. And you thought you were being so clever."

Jake stares at you for a moment, then his expression shifts from embarrassment to something closer to amusement. His lips quirk up at the corners.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, though his tone makes it abundantly clear he's not sorry at all. He leans forward, lowering his voice. "But I'm also not at all because honestly? Fucking you, being with you is so fucking enjoyable that I don't care what I did to get here."

"Are you serious right now?" You're caught between outrage and reluctant admiration at his audacity.

Jake shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The plan was stupid, sure. But it got us here. And here..." he reaches for your hand across the table, "...is pretty damn good."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him, though you don't pull your hand away.

"I know," he grins, completely missing the criticism. "So, do I need to grovel, or can we skip to the part where you forgive me because you've been playing me just as much as I've been playing you?"

After dinner, you curl up together in front of the fireplace with the second bottle of wine. The storm continues outside, rain pattering against the windows, making the cabin feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," you challenge, your head in Jake's lap as he plays with your hair.

He considers for a moment. "I almost transferred after freshman year."

You sit up, surprised. "Really? Why?"

"Because of you, actually," Jake admits. "You beaten me in every class we shared, and I'd never... I wasn't used to being second best. I thought maybe I wasn't cut out for this university after all."

"What changed your mind?"

Jake meets your eyes. "Pride. Stubbornness. I couldn't let you win like that."

"So you stayed just to beat me?" You sound more amused than offended.

"I stayed to prove I could," Jake corrects. "And then it became about more than that. About actually learning, actually growing. Having you as competition made me better."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You make me better too, you know. You push me to work harder, think differently."

The kiss deepens, wine and confessions making you both bolder. Before long, you're straddling his lap, the blanket fallen to the floor as his hands grip your thighs.

“Take me to bed, Jakey,” you murmur against his ear, voice dripping with heat, but your body is soft, pliant against him.

Jake groans, gripping your thighs tighter before standing, lifting you with ease, your legs locked around his waist. His arms wrap securely under you as he walks the short distance to the bed, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he can’t stop touching you.

The bed creaks as he lowers you onto it, but instead of diving in like usual, he hesitates. Hovering over you, eyes dark, his fingers trailing over your ribs, your stomach, up to your collarbones.

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

Jake peels your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, his mouth reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. He lingers at your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs—leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

And you do the same, taking your time dragging your hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense under your fingertips. You push down his briefs, freeing him completely, and the way his cock twitches in anticipation makes your thighs press together.

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

The stretch, the heat, the way his hips press flush against yours, leaving no space between you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a wrecked, trembling breath escaping him as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, his body shaking like he’s about to fall apart.

You feel everything—every pulse, every twitch, every inch of him pressing so deep inside you it makes your breath hitch.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice soft, fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He’s still hiding—head tucked against your neck, panting against your skin, avoiding your eyes like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

“Jakey,” you murmur again, voice lilting, teasing. “Baby, look at me.”

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

“Ow—what the fuck?” he sputters, head snapping up.

And you take advantage of his shock—grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his body stiffening above you.

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans, completely mesmerized, and instead of thrusting, instead of moving at all—he just stares. “Holy shit.”

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

“SORRY!” He grins, voice breathless, but his eyes don’t leave your chest. “It’s just—you look so fucking good—”

“You dumbass, I said look at me,” you growl, yanking his chin up—forcing his eyes back on yours.

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

Eyes locked on yours, he lowers himself, lips grazing over your collarbone, trailing lower—lower—until his mouth finallycloses over your nipple.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you moan, your back arching into him as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud.

Jake groans, low and deep, sucking hard, his lips wrapping around the soft flesh, but his eyes never leave your face.

“That’s it, baby—” His voice is thick, raspy, hot against your skin. “Wanted my fucking eyes? You got ’em.”

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

The way he’s sucking on your tits, so focused, so intent, his hips starting to rock against you in slow, deep thrusts—never breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna watch me, baby,” he breathes, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over your skin between every filthy suck. “Gonna watch me fucking ruin you.”

You whimper, clenching hard around him, and his groan vibrates against your breast.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes, voice breaking. “*You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—ngh—fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You’re a mess now, panting, gasping, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, biting just hard enough to make you cry out. “Scream for me, baby—let me fucking hear you.”

And you do.

You moan his name so loud, your body shaking beneath him, and Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck— baby—fuck, you’re gonna make me—ngh—”

His hips snap forward, pace turning desperate, his breath coming in wrecked, gasping moans as he buries himself inside you, his cock hitting so deep it makes your vision blur.

“Come with me,” he pleads, voice wrecked, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Fuck, please,”

The coil snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing around him so hard it has Jake shouting.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

His whole body trembles as he spills inside you, his hips twitching, his moans so loud, so filthy, his eyes still locked on yours even as he completely falls apart.

His thrusts stutter, erratic, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until he’s completely drained, panting, shaking, forehead pressed against yours.

A few moments pass, the air thick with heat and heavy breathing.

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

“Did you really fucking smack me?” he murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, breathless, fingers still buried in his hair. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t a goddamn tit guy.”

Jake grins. “Guilty.” He kisses your collarbone, then your throat, then your jaw. “But can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, legs still locked around his waist. “Just shut up and hold me, Jakey.”

And this time—he does.

"I think I'm falling for you," he says quietly, the words slipping out in the darkness before he can consider their implications.

You're silent for a moment, and Jake holds his breath, suddenly terrified. Then you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I know," you say with a small smile. "Your distraction campaign has been pretty obvious."

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I've been competing with you for three years. I know how your mind works." You trace his jawline with one finger. "What I couldn't figure out was when it stopped being a strategy and started being real."

"I'm not sure I know either," Jake admits. "Maybe it was real from the beginning, and I just didn't want to admit it."

You lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet. "For what it's worth, I'm falling for you too. Even though you're still a competitive jerk sometimes."

"And you're still an academic show-off," he retorts, but he's smiling as he pulls you back down against his chest.

As you drift to sleep in his arms, Jake realizes with a start that he hasn't thought about the Harrison Fellowship once all evening. More surprisingly, he doesn't care.

-

Sunday morning brings clear skies and the reluctant awareness that their weekend escape is coming to an end. Jake wakes to find you already up, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with your laptop open.

"I thought there was no internet here," he says, sitting up groggily.

"There isn't," you confirm. "But I downloaded all my research documents before we left. I've been working on my fellowship application."

Jake blinks, his brain still foggy with sleep. "You... what?"

You glance at him over your shoulder. "I've been up since six. Thought I'd get some work done before you woke up."

"But this was supposed to be..." Jake trails off, realizing too late what he's about to admit.

"A way to keep me from working on my application?" you finish, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured that out about five minutes after you invited me."

Jake groans, falling back against the pillows. "Am I that transparent?"

"Only to me," you assure him, closing your laptop and crawling up the bed to kiss him. "And I came anyway, because I wanted to spend the weekend with you. But I'm still going to win that fellowship."

"You're terrifying," Jake informs you, pulling you down for a proper kiss. "And impressive."

"I know," you reply with a smirk that reminds him exactly why he's been obsessed with you for three years.

They spend their final morning at the cabin making love once more before reluctantly packing up to return to campus. The drive back is comfortable, your hand resting on Jake's thigh as he drives, the radio playing softly in the background.

As the campus comes into view, Jake feels a strange reluctance to return to reality—to classes and competition and the looming fellowship decision. The weekend has changed something fundamental between you, but he's not sure how it will translate back to real life.

"What now?" he asks as he pulls into a parking space outside your dorm.

You turn to face him, expression serious. "Now we both work our asses off on our applications, ace our finals, and see what happens. No sabotage, no distractions."

"And us?" Jake asks, surprised by how much your answer matters to him.

"Us is separate from the competition," you say firmly. "I want to be with you, Jake. But I'm still going to try to beat you in every class."

Jake laughs, relief washing over him. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

You lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary. "See you tomorrow, Jakey. I've got a fellowship application to finish."

As he watches you walk away, Jake is struck by the realization that for the first time since freshman year, he doesn't care if you beat him. He just wants you both to succeed.

-

Back at his apartment, Ethan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing.

"Oh man, you've got it bad," he says, shaking his head. "What happened to 'Total Disruption'?"

Jake collapses onto the couch with a groan. "It all backfired. Spectacularly. She knew what I was doing the whole time."

"No shit," Ethan says, not even looking up from his game. "Everyone knew. You weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean everyone knew? I was totally subtle!"

Ethan pauses his game and turns to face Jake, exasperation written all over his face. "Dude. You literally canceled a meeting with your fellowship advisor because she texted asking if you wanted coffee. You've been walking around campus with this dopey smile for weeks. You drew her. Multiple times."

"That was part of the plan!" Jake protests.

"The plan you spent more time talking about than actually studying for the fellowship you supposedly care so much about?"

Jake opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, but here's the thing—"

"No," Ethan holds up a hand. "Here's the thing. You're in love with her. You have been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years, who knows?"

"I just realized it today," Jake admits quietly.

"TODAY?" Ethan throws his hands up. "Oh my god. I literally told you this would happen the day you made your stupid plan! Day one, I said, 'You're going to fall for her,' and you said, 'No way, it's purely strategic.'"

"I didn't think—"

"Obviously!" Ethan's practically shouting now. "You've been so busy convincing yourself this was all some master scheme that you completely missed what everyone else could see from a mile away."

"It wasn't that obvious," Jake mutters defensively.

"You FRAMED a PHOTO of her! It's on your NIGHTSTAND!"

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

"Oh my GOD, will you STOP?" Ethan throws a pillow that hits Jake square in the face. "Just admit it. The great Jake Sim, master strategist, completely played himself."

Jake is silent for a long moment, then sighs heavily. "Fine. You were right. I played myself. I fell for her. Hard. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Ethan deadpans. "So what's the plan now, Romeo?"

Jake stares at the ceiling, thinking about your parting words. About competition and companionship, about winning and wanting.

"The plan," he says slowly, "is to stop planning so much and just... see what happens."

"Revolutionary," Ethan rolls his eyes. "What about the fellowship?"

Jake sits up, a new determination settling over him. "I'm still going to try to win it. But not by sabotaging her—by actually earning it. And if she wins instead..." He pauses, surprised to find he means what he's about to say. "Then she deserves it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Sim?" Ethan asks, though his sarcasm has softened slightly.

Jake's phone buzzes with a text from you. He checks it immediately, a smile spreading across his face at the message: Missing my Jakey already. Study date tomorrow? I'll bring the coffee if you bring those amazing notes from Richardson's lecture.

"Case in point," Ethan says, watching Jake's expression change. "Completely whipped."

"I am not—"

"Just answer your girlfriend and spare me the denial," Ethan cuts him off, turning back to his game.

Jake ignores him, typing back: It's a date, princess. I'll even let you borrow my sweatshirt again.

Your reply comes seconds later: Bold of you to assume I was planning to give the first one back.

The warmth that spreads through Jake's chest at your message is undeniable, as is the realization that his perfect plan has completely, utterly, wonderfully failed.

Because the truth—which he's finally ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real connections, Jake Sim has done the one thing he never planned on:

He's fallen in love with his greatest rival. And he couldn't be happier about it.

fin.

and right now the house was too quiet. not in a peaceful way, but in that heavy, suffocating way that settled after an argument. you both said things you didn’t mean, and he ended up crying. jake always cried during fights. he hated it, tried so hard to hold it back, but he could never help it.

you were sitting on the couch, watching a movie, one you had been watching with him before everything went wrong. your eyes were glued to the screen, pretending to care about what was happening on it, but really, you couldn’t focus.

then you heard the faint sound of footsteps coming from the hallway. you didn’t look up, keeping your gaze fixed on the screen, you knew it was jake. you already saw his messy hair from the corner of your eye, his face poking around the corner of the living room, just enough to make sure you saw him. he didn’t say anything right away, just stood there, watching you with those puppy eyes of his. you didn’t look at him. you couldn’t.

he sighed softly, so soft you barely heard it, and took a slow step into the room. his shoulders were slumped, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, clearly unsure of what to do next.

he shifted closer, then gently slid down to sit beside you, his leg brushing against yours. “i… i don’t like when you’re mad at me..” he mumbled, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. his head dropped to your shoulder, his hair brushing against your skin. you could feel the subtle tremble in his body, the way he leaned into you, needing your comfort, even though you were still angry.

you didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. your shoulder relaxed, just enough for him to rest there without feeling rejected. but even with that small gesture, he still felt uncertain, still felt like he wasn’t allowed to hold you the way he wanted to.

his fingers twitched against your arm before hesitantly gripping onto the sleeve of your shirt, his hold weak, like he was afraid you’d shake him off. he sniffled softly, his breath uneven, and when he spoke again, his voice was so quiet, so broken, it made your chest ache.

“i’m sorry..” he whispered again, barely audible, like he was running out of strength to even say the words. his face buried deeper into your shoulder, and that’s when you felt it. the faint dampness of his tears soaking into your sleeve.

he was still crying. maybe he never really stopped after the argument, just hid away in the bedroom, curled up and upset until he finally couldn’t take the distance anymore.

his body curled into yours instinctively, his arms hesitating before wrapping loosely around you, his grip weak, desperate. “please don’t ignore me…” his voice cracked this time “i hate the silent treatment. it makes me feel like… like i’m in time-out.”

his words wobbled, thick with tears, his breath uneven as he sniffled against your skin.

god, he was so pretty when he cried. his lips were parted, glossy from where he had nervously chewed at them, his big, watery eyes peeking up at you through damp lashes. his cheeks were flushed, his whole face soft and open, so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

you sighed, your fingers twitched before you finally gave in, reaching up to cup his cheek, and he melted instantly, his entire body going boneless against you like he had been waiting for that touch.

“you’re not in time-out, jake.” you murmured, still a little firm, but gentler than before. “but you did piss me off.”

he nodded quickly, his curls bouncing against your shoulder. “i know.” he mumbled, still sniffly, still so soft and needy. “but i don’t wanna be mad at each other anymore. can we just… can we be okay now?”

he looked up at you then, eyes big and pleading, so impossibly pretty, and you sighed, feeling the last of your frustration slip away.

instead of answering, you leaned down and kissed his cheek. just a quick press of your lips, light and fleeting. but then he made this tiny, breathless sound, like he couldn’t believe you were kissing him after all that, and it made something in you soften completely.

so you did it again. and again.

a little kiss on the tip of his nose. then one on his jaw, lingering just slightly. then another right at the corner of his mouth, where his lips were still wobbly from crying.

jake blinked up at you, dazed, his breath stuttering like he didn’t know what to do with himself. and then, without thinking, he surged forward, pressing his face against yours, clumsily chasing after your lips.

his kisses were messy, desperate, all over the place. he kissed your cheek, your chin, your forehead—anywhere he could reach. his hands were gripping at your waist now, still shaky but holding on a little tighter, like he never wanted to let go.

“i love you..” he mumbled between kisses, his voice still stuffy from crying. “i love you, i love you, i love you—”

you laughed softly, tilting his face up so you could kiss him properly, slow and sweet, until he sighed into your mouth and melted against you completely.

he made this tiny sound against your lips, something between a sigh and a whimper. his hands trembled where they clung to you, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of your shirt.

“missed you..” he whispered between kisses, his nose bumping against yours. “hated being away from you…”

“i was right here, jake,” you murmured, your fingers slipping into his curls, gently scratching at his scalp. he shivered under your touch, melting even further into you.

“no..” he sniffled, shaking his head against your skin. “felt too far.”

you sighed, kissing the top of his head, feeling the way he practically purred at the affection. he was always like this, too soft, too clingy, too desperate for closeness, especially after a fight.

“you’re so dramatic..” you muttered, but your arms wrapped around him anyway, pulling him even closer.

jake had blinked at you, wide-eyed and startled, before breaking into a grin that mirrored your own.

"hi," he had said, a little breathless from hauling moving boxes. "you live here?"

"yep!" you had chirped, still bouncing on the balls of your feet. "my dad and i live on the floor below you! that means we’re neighbors forever now, you’re going to be my best friend."

"forever?" jake had echoed, his brows furrowed confused by your excitement, with a hint of unsurety. 

“yeah!” 

“he doesn’t want to be friends with you, lets go” his mom stated plainly, tugging on his hand, leading him up the steps of their new apartment and home. 

you had stood there, watching as jake was pulled away, the excitement still buzzing in your chest despite his mom’s words.

he doesn’t want to be friends with you.

but you knew better.

because when jake had turned back—just before disappearing through the door—he had looked at you, his lips pressing together like he was holding something back.

and then, just before his mom pulled him inside, he had smiled. small, fleeting, but real.

the next day, you found him waiting outside your door, hands stuffed into the pockets of his too-big hoodie.

“hey,” he mumbled, rocking back on his heels.

you blinked. “hi?”

jake hesitated before glancing around, as if checking to make sure no one was watching. then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of chips from his hometown, holding it out to you.

“for you,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

your childish heart swelled, and without thinking, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside.

from that moment on, jake had become a constant in your life.

─── ♡

YOU COULD’VE SWORN JAKE LIVED AT YOUR APARTMENT FLOOR MORE THAN HE DID HIS OWN. not that you minded, and not that his mom noticed, too absorbed in blaming him for everything that had gone on in his life. she figured he was off being a model student.

your dad had taken him in as a son after he cried out to him at night many years ago about how his divorced parents were too busy fighting and forgot to pick him up at school. how his mom threatened to leave the house, and blamed it on him, and he heard it through the door while his parents were fighting again about who got to keep him for the weekend. how he was tormented every single day, coming home to a home where his mom gave him an upset and empty stare. 

he had set up the spare guest room as a safe place just for him, cooked warm meals, even paid for schooling activities.

at first, jake had been hesitant to accept it. hesitant to accept love in a way that didn’t feel conditional, hesitant to believe that someone would do something for him without expecting perfection in return.

but your dad never asked for anything. never demanded jake to be better, or to prove his worth. he just... let him be. let him exist in a home where he wasn’t walking on eggshells, where he wasn’t a constant disappointment.

your home had soon become his home, and the apartment floor above where his mom lived became just a visiting place whenever he needed a legal guardian signature for some stupid form.

his mom never seemed to like you for some reason, though you wouldn’t let it bother you. your dad always made sure to let you know that not everyone needs to like you. though, her glaring looks at you throughout the years growing up always irked you.

and little by little, jake allowed himself to settle in.

after a while, his mom ended up leaving him in your dad’s care, occasionally sending checks, occasionally coming back from the east coast to “checking in on her only son” before disappearing again.

but a part of him never stopped looking over his shoulder. never stopped waiting for the moment everything would be ripped away again. and when the moment finally came, neither of you were ready for it.

so there you were on the first day of senior year, tugging jake out of his bed with a grin. 

"c’mon, you’re gonna be late,” you whined, yanking at the blankets he had wrapped around himself like a human burrito.

jake groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow. "five more minutes."

"nope, no more minutes, you’re already pushing it." you tugged harder, finally managing to pull the blanket off, revealing his disheveled hair and squinted eyes.

he let out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing his face before shooting you a glare—one that lacked any real heat. "why are you so chipper this morning?"

you grinned, rocking back on your heels. "because it’s senior year jake. i survived eleven years of this, i’m ready to start a new me and never get pushed around again,"

jake raised a brow at that, finally sitting up. "never get pushed around again? what, are you planning a revolution or something?"

you scoffed, crossing your arms. "no, i just mean i’m done letting people walk all over me. it’s senior year, jake. i refuse to go out being known as the pushover."

he gave you a long look before shaking his head with a small smile. "yeah, sure. just don’t go picking fights you can’t win."

"please," you waved him off. "i don’t pick fights, jake. i just stand up for myself."

but by lunchtime, you were already dangerously close to proving him right.

─── ♡

IT STARTED OUT SIMPLE ENOUGH. just some guy from your history class running his mouth about jake when he wasn’t there to defend himself.

you had passed by the cafeteria when you overheard his name. curiosity had made you pause, but what made you turn around completely was hearing the sneering tone in which it was said.

"he acts like his life's so hard," one of the guys scoffed, shaking his head. "like, you live in the nicest neighborhood here. quit acting like you’re some tragic hero."

another one laughed. "bet he milks that whole oh, i basically live with my friend’s family thing for sympathy points."

your blood boiled. seething with rage. it’s one thing to let people talk shit about you, but about jake was insane to you. jake, the sweetest boy who couldn’t even tattle on a kid who hit him back in elementary school because he was afraid of what would happen to him.

"you don’t know anything about him," you said before you could stop yourself, stepping into their view.

the guys turned, raising their brows at you. "oh? jake’s little guard dog," the first one said, voice dripping with amusement. "should’ve known you’d pop up."

“do not go around talking shit right now about jake,” you turned around, pointing a finger at the one who began. “you don’t know how hard he has it, zip it,”

the second guy scoffed. "please. we all have problems. he just makes his everyone else's."

"he doesn’t—"

"what, you gonna cry about it?" the first guy mocked, stepping closer. "or maybe you’ll go running to him so he can fight your battles?"

by now, a small crowd had started to form, students pausing to watch the scene unfold.

you stood your ground, refusing to back down. "i don’t need anyone to fight my battles."

"then prove it," he challenged, stepping even closer, his tone dropping. "or are you all talk?"

before you could process what was happening, a strong arm suddenly slung over your shoulder, pulling you back slightly.

"man, you guys just love running your mouths, huh?"

your whole body relaxed the moment you recognized the voice.

jake.

he had appeared out of nowhere, his expression calm but his eyes dark with warning.

the guys hesitated, the confidence in their stance faltering just a bit.

"what, cat got your tongue now?" jake said, his voice steady, controlled. but you knew him well enough to hear the sharp edge behind it.

"we were just talking," one of them muttered, suddenly less bold.

jake let out a short, humorless laugh. "yeah? funny how that talking only happens when i’m not around.”

jake turned to you then, his arm still around your shoulder. "what the hell was that?"

"i was just—"

"—picking a fight," he finished for you, raising a brow. "after this morning?"

you huffed. "i wasn’t picking a fight. i was defending you."

he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "you don’t have to do that."

"yes, i do," you shot back. "you always have my back, why can’t i have yours?"

jake stared at you for a long moment before his expression softened. with a small squeeze to your shoulder, he muttered, "next time, wait for me to be there first, yeah?"

and somehow, that sat with you longer than it should have.

─── ♡

LATER THAT FALL IS WHEN COLLEGE APPLICATIONS CAME ABOUT. though, this shouldn’t have been as much of a pain in the ass as it was.

you and jake had already talked about it, planned it out months ago—neither of you were going out of state. you’d stay local, find a school that worked for both of you, and that was that. simple. easy. no unnecessary complications.

except the counselors didn’t seem to get the memo.

“you’re seriously not considering any ivy leagues?” mr. davis, jake’s assigned counselor, asked, staring at him like he’d just committed a crime. “with your grades and extracurriculars, you could easily get into any top-tier school.”

you could see the way jake’s jaw tensed, his fingers tapping against his knee. “i’ve already decided where i want to apply.”

mr. davis sighed, leaning back in his chair. “jake, i get that you want to stay close to home, but you have options.”

you sat beside jake, arms crossed, watching as he nodded along to the same speech he’d already heard at least five times this month.

“is this to do with… her? maybe this is just a conversation we should have. i know she’s here for your comfort, but let’s have a conversation with just the two of us,”

jake's fingers stilled against his knee. his jaw tightened, but his expression remained unreadable. you, on the other hand, felt your own irritation spike.

“i’m here because i care about his choices,” you said, your tone sharper than intended. “and we’ve already had this conversation a hundred times. he’s not changing his mind.”

mr. davis gave you a tight-lipped smile before turning back to jake. “jake, i understand loyalty. but college is about your future. you shouldn’t be limiting yourself for anyone else.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but jake beat you to it.

“this isn’t about anyone else.” his voice was calm, firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “this is about me. i know what i want, and i know what makes me happy. i don’t need an ivy league school to prove anything.”

mr. davis sighed, clearly exasperated. “all i ask is that you think about it, at least apply and leave the option open,”

the tension in the room was suffocating, but jake was already heading for the door. you followed without hesitation, not bothering to acknowledge mr. davis as you stepped out.

as soon as you were in the hallway, jake let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair.

“maybe he’s right. just apply, doesn’t mean you have to accept, it can’t hurt right?” 

jake shot you a look, his lips pressing into a thin line. "it can hurt," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

you frowned, tilting your head. "how?"

he let out a dry chuckle, leaning against the row of lockers. "because if i apply, you’re gonna be all alone, and you would hate that, i know it."

“besides, you know our college has a med program that’s just fine, and i’ll get a good job and pay your dad back, and make sure he can retire from his restaurant in good condition,” he continued on. you didn’t know what to say. every fiber of you itched for him to stay, but what if you were holding him back despite the teasing in his tone.

you swallowed hard, shifting on your feet. "jake, you don’t owe my dad anything."

he sighed, shaking his head. "i know. but he did so much for me, and i want to make sure he’s taken care of."

your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice. you had no doubt jake meant every word—he’d always been like this, always putting others first, always thinking about everyone but himself.

“but what about you?” you asked softly. “what do you want?”

he hesitated. "i want to stay." his voice was steady, unwavering. "i want to go to school here, be around the people who matter to me. that’s not me settling, it’s me choosing."

you bit your lip, the weight of his words settling over you. you wanted to believe him. really believe him. but there was still that gnawing feeling in your gut—the fear that maybe, just maybe, you were being selfish for letting him.

"jake…"

he bumped his shoulder against yours, a small grin tugging at his lips. "stop thinking so hard. i already made my choice."

you exhaled, forcing yourself to nod. "okay."

"okay?"

"yeah," you said, more certain this time. "okay."

because if jake was sure, then you would be too.

─── ♡

THE END OF THE FIRST QUARTER SOON AROSE, with exams wrapping up in a hurry, in order to get seniors prepared for their college applications. 

the hallways were buzzing with stress—students clutching test papers, muttering formulas under their breath, or frantically comparing essay notes. teachers weren’t any better, pushing deadlines and grading late into the night.

you and jake had slipped into a quiet routine, spending late nights at the library, sharing snacks over half-finished personal statements, and quizzing each other on random trivia. despite the chaos, there was a strange comfort in it—something about knowing you weren’t going through it alone.

“i swear if i have to write one more paragraph about my ‘defining moment in life,’ i’m dropping out,” you muttered, pushing your laptop away and slumping onto the table. “i’m sick of writing scholarship essays,”

for a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the buzz of the library filling the space between you. jake tapped his fingers against the table, staring at his own laptop, before speaking.

“i applied,” he said, voice even.

you blinked, caught off guard. “what?”

“to yale,” he clarified, glancing at you. “figured it couldn’t hurt to have something in my back pocket. though, my mom called last night, she asked about college, for once. told me i should apply just to see”, he took a pause to sip from his can of chilled soda. “my mom said she’d be proud to have a son who went there, and i don’t know, maybe i should just apply to see. ”

and with that your heart sank a little bit. not even to hear that he would consider yale, but to hear him still hoping for his mom’s approval even after the many nights he’d spent under her mental torment. 

“though realistically, even if i get in, i don’t think that’d even be good enough. state college is still 1000x better than that rich snobby college. it’s you and me forever, don't worry.”

with that you put together whatever coherent thoughts you had appropriate for the situation and stifled out a laugh, “yea, you’re too good for them anyways, this town needs a doctor that’s as wicked smart as you anyways,” 

“what’s your plan after college?”

you stretched your arms above your head, leaning back in your chair with a satisfied sigh. “after college? i’m opening a dessert café.”

jake blinked, caught off guard. “just like that?”

“yep,” you said, popping the ‘p.’ “i’ve thought about it for a while, and honestly, it’s perfect for me. no strict deadlines, no corporate misery—just good vibes, good desserts, and a cozy little place for people to escape for a bit.”

he smirked, sipping his soda. “so, you’re really committing to the soft life, huh?”

“obviously,” you shot back. “why stress myself out when i can spend my days baking cute pastries and making people happy?” you leaned forward, eyes gleaming with excitement. “picture it, jakey. chiclighting, comfy seats, shelves lined with little trinkets and plants. the smell of fresh strawberry chiffon in the air. a menu that changes with the seasons—strawberry shortcakes in the spring, spiced apple tarts in the fall. maybe even special limited-edition desserts for holidays.”

jake chuckled, resting his chin on his palm. “you’ve really thought this through.”

“of course i have.” you grinned. “that’s a real surprise that you have anything planned, even better that you remember it,” he smiled.

“hey! i’m getting better.”

jake gave you a flat look. “you called me yesterday because you thought you left your keys at the library, and they were in your bag.”

“okay, well, no one’s perfect.” you crossed your arms, huffing. “besides, that’s what you’re here for. to keep me from falling apart.”

his teasing expression softened just slightly. “yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. “guess i am.”

the weight of his words lingered for a beat, a quiet understanding hanging between you. but before you could dwell on it, jake suddenly stood up, ruffling your hair in the process.

“c’mon, let’s go,” he said, grabbing his bag. “it’s late, and if you pass out from exhaustion, i’m the one who’s gonna have to carry you home.”

you groaned but followed him anyway, falling into step beside him.

“you wouldn’t actually carry me,” you teased.

“guess we’ll never know,” 

you shoved his arm lightly, and he shoved you back, a playful push-and-pull that felt like second nature. and as you walked out of the library together, the world outside dark and quiet, you realized that no matter where the future took you both, jake would always be there.

just like he always had been. forever.

─── ♡

WINTER SOON CAME AROUND, with your birthday always being a prominent date marked on the family calendar with a bright neon pink star surrounding the date each year. jake for some reason always seemed to make it a bigger deal, buying you gifts from his hard earned money from his part time, though you weren’t one to say no to birthday gifts.

the three of you gathered around the family dining table with a homemade cake, filled with joy, always being a fond memory growing up.

winter break soon came, and with that, just like the two of you spent it like you did every break. 

by day the two of you were inseparable—wandering through the small town, finding whatever new adventure awaited the two of you. by night, jake was buried in his textbooks, meticulously studying for exams, while you sprawled across his bed, scrolling on your phone or sketching rough ideas for your future café.

he never told you to leave, and you never tried to.

it had become routine—jake staying up until ungodly hours, highlighters scattered across his desk, while you dozed off in his bed like it was your own. and every morning, without fail, he would wake you up with a sigh, nudging your shoulder.

"alright, time to go back to your actual room,” he’d say, pulling the blanket off of you.

you’d groan, burying your face into his pillow. “five more minutes.”

"that’s what you said yesterday, now get off my sheets,” jake grumbled, but there was no real annoyance in his tone—just the usual exasperation laced with something softer.

eventually, he’d give up and let you sleep for a little longer before finally shoving you out with a mutter, “another day of fun awaits, let’s go.”

winter break always felt like a time capsule—like no matter how much things changed, this part of your life never did. it was comforting, knowing that even as college applications loomed over your heads, even as the future felt like a moving target, you still had this.

but then, almost without warning, the last winter break the two of you would spend ended and school started again. occasional three day weeks were spent with the two of you wasting no time, and when valentines day came around, the two of you began your annual tradition of trading homemade chocolates with each other, because really. who else were you gonna spend stupid holidays like this with?

winter melted into spring, and soon enough, april arrived. college decisions had come out, and the marathon of opening your college acceptance letters in one night was fun. the two of your life long plans to go to the same college and even dorm together were finally coming true.

you still had him.

until suddenly, you didn’t.

the news came in the middle of one of your usual nights. jake was at his desk, flipping through notes, and you were curled up on his bed, doodling in the margins of your café concept notebook when his phone rang.

you barely paid attention at first—he got calls sometimes, usually from his dad, sometimes his older relatives. but this time, his whole body tensed when he saw the caller ID.

his mom.

he hesitated before answering, his voice clipped when he said, “hello?”

you couldn’t hear what she was saying, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. jake’s grip on his pen tightened, his shoulders drawing inward. his responses were short—"okay," "yeah," "I understand"—and you had never seen him look so distant.

when he finally hung up, the silence stretched too long.

"jake?" you sat up, worry creeping into your voice.

he exhaled, staring down at his desk like he was trying to burn a hole through it. “my mom heard that i got into yale and she wants me to move back to east coast, finish high school there. then go to yale,”

the words hung in the air like a slow-building storm.

"what?" you blinked, swinging your legs off the bed. “why—why now?”

jake shook his head, fingers gripping the edge of his desk. "she said it’s time. that i’ve had my fun playing house, but i need to be with my real family now." his voice was tight, bitter, and you knew him well enough to recognize the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

your stomach twisted. "but we are your real family," you said quietly.

he let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. "i know."

“when does she want you to move?”

“end of this month.” 

you swallowed when you heard no joke in his tone. you waited, hoping, praying to see him burst out into laughter and say “just kidding,” but there was nothing.

silence settled between you, thick and suffocating. the two of you had spent years carving out a life together, one where he wasn’t just a guest, where your dad never made him feel like he owed anything. but to his mom, it had always been temporary.

─── ♡

YOUR DAD HAD COME TO TERMS that he was basically losing his son. you on the other hand? it was like losing your other half. the other half of what made you, you. 

the person by your side through all the trouble you had gotten each other in when you were younger, gone in a snap.

jake put on a smile trying to finish off his last days in california with you, but each night shutting you out so you wouldn’t have to see him packing his belongings, because he knew that would hurt you more than it hurt him.

the morning that he left, you weren’t even awake. you had your alarm for 6am sharp, ready to see him off, but he was gone at 5am. this time protecting himself from hurting more so than you. 

you couldn’t lie and say you didn’t feel hurt when you didn’t even get to say goodbye that morning. though you knew you would’ve done the same thing. if you had said goodbye that morning, it would’ve made it all too real. more real than he was willing to accept.

the rest of the school year felt numb without jake. of course you had other friends to hang out with, but it was never quite the same. the only thing keeping you sane were the nightly video calls with him that made it feel like he was still an inch closer home. to your home. 

the two of you graduated on your own times, facetiming on the day of since you couldn’t fly to see each others. jake cheering the loudest for you through the phone your dad held up, and you cheering for him through the phone held up by whatever new friends he had managed to make in that time.

in the summer, the two of you made plans to meet up, jake could come back for the summer and spend fleeting time with you, but plans abruptly got shut down when his mom signed him up for yale’s incoming freshman program.

the news hit you like a ton of bricks. you had made so many plans for that summer, imagining long days spent catching up, hanging out in your favorite spots, reliving those memories that felt so far away. but suddenly, those plans felt as fragile as paper, ripped apart by the weight of jake’s mom’s decision.

"she's doing it again," you muttered to yourself, the phone pressed tightly to your ear as jake’s voice crackled on the other end.

"i know," he said, his tone weary, like he had expected this would happen, but still couldn't quite accept it. "i didn't even get a say in it. i was looking forward to coming back, but now it’s like... i don’t even have a choice."

the months that followed were a blur. as fall crept in and the school year started, you found yourself caught in the rhythm of classes, assignments, and all the usual chaos. the early mornings and late nights became a routine—until a message from jake would light up your screen, just enough to remind you that he was still out there, still a part of your world, even if it was through a phone screen.

his texts started off strong, even on your birthday during winter, which was the first time you’d heard from him in what felt like weeks.

“happy birthday, yn!! i hope today’s amazing, even though i’m not there to celebrate with you. i’ll make it up to you when i’m back. promise.”

you smiled at the message, feeling a bittersweet warmth settle in your chest. it wasn’t the same as having him there, but it was something. you knew he was still trying, still holding onto the connection you two had. or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

but as days turned into weeks, the calls grew shorter. the messages were spaced further apart. every time you reached out—asking how he was doing, or if he was settling in okay at yale—his replies became more curt, more distant.

you tried not to think about it too much, tried to keep yourself distracted with school and everything else that came with being a senior. but whenever your phone buzzed, you couldn’t help but hold your breath, half-hoping it was him, half-fearing it was just another empty promise.

it hurt. it really did.

you kept texting him, kept hoping that something would change, that he’d realize how much you missed him, how much you needed him to stay just a little bit closer.

“hi jakey it’s been a hot minute hru?”

he replied after a few hours, as usual.

“yeah, just a lot of work. i’ll text you later.”

you stared at the screen, willing your heart to stop aching. it wasn’t that he didn’t care—it was just that... he wasn’t the same person you used to know. or maybe you weren’t the same person either.

you ran your fingers over the screen and typed out another message, then deleted it, not sure how to even begin anymore. you couldn’t keep chasing someone who was already slipping away, but you weren’t ready to let go either.

as the months faded into each other, you realized you had been holding on to something that wasn’t really there anymore, at least not in the way you had imagined. you weren’t ready to admit it to yourself yet, but the truth was starting to settle in.

maybe some things, like people, just weren’t meant to stay forever.

─── ♡

SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY, both of you stopped trying. even the ‘family’ groupchat between your dad, jake, and you went silent. every once in a while your dad would text the groupchat with a random facebook meme essentially saying he missed the two of you, with you ‘haha’ing the message and jake not even responding.

as soon as the school year started, it ended. then summer came about and that’s when jake would text bits and pieces about his life on the opposite coast with his new friends.

when you found out your birthday fell during winter break this year, you were ecstatic. for once, both of your breaks aligned perfectly, and it felt like fate giving you one last chance to reclaim what had been slipping away. you had texted the group chat immediately, excitement buzzing through your fingertips.

your dad had been thrilled, already talking about how he couldn’t wait to see jake again, and for the first time in a long time, jake seemed genuinely excited too.

“booking my flight home i promise i’ll be there”

it felt like a weight had lifted. things weren’t the same, but maybe—just maybe—this would be the thing to bring you back together.

but as the weeks crept closer to winter break, something shifted again.

jake started taking longer to reply. the excitement in his messages dulled. and then, a few days before he was supposed to fly back, you got the text.

"i’m so sorry, yn. something came up, and i don’t think i can make it."

when the day came around, with your dad and you at the now empty family dinner table with a white frosted chiffon cake, candles lit, it somehow felt gloomier. you stared at your phone, waiting for even a text. yet after a few minutes, nothing. 

you a wave of tears waiting to form, but you promised yourself yourself cry on your special day. your nose stung, and your throat burned. your dad quickly taking notice and keeping the thoughts away by playing his rendition of happy birthday on the guitar he’d been picking up ever since the two of you had left for college.

a year passed. then two. you sent messages here and there—updates about your life, little things you thought he’d still care about. but replies took days, sometimes weeks. eventually, you stopped trying so hard.

by the third year, you realized you didn’t even know what his life looked like anymore. you weren’t sure what his favorite food was now, if he finished his undergrad like you had or when he had free time, if he ever thought about coming home.

by the fourth, you stopped checking if he had seen your messages. by that time you moved back to your small town and opened that dream dessert cafe at the old building unit that used to house the noodle house you and jake used to always go to.

by the fifth, you didn’t text him at all, though it was easy not too when your days were caught up taking care of the business and catering to the younger generations that would come in to take photos with the constantly rotating seasonal menu.

your dad asked about him sometimes, still talked about jake like he was family, like he would come back one day and things would be the same. you just smiled and nodded, but deep down, you knew the truth.

jake wasn’t coming back. not really.

by the sixth year, the memories of him started to blur. you still thought about him sometimes—when you heard a song that reminded you of those summer nights, when you passed by places you used to go together. but it didn’t hurt the way it used to. it was more like remembering a dream you had a long time ago, one that had faded at the edges.

and by the seventh year, you had phased him out completely.

you didn’t hate him. you weren’t even angry anymore. he had simply become a part of your past—someone you used to know, someone who had meant everything to you once.

but that was a long time ago. and you had learned how to live without him.

─── ♡

“CAREFUL WHEN CLOSING OUT TONIGHT, there’s been some shady white lexus that hangs around at this time, call me if anything happens,” your co-manager giselle calls out as she shuts the door behind her. 

it was the fifth year of owning your business and you really couldn’t have been any more proud of yourself. things were falling into place for the business, and you were to beat that five year mark for when small businesses go bankrupt. 

you smiled hearing her concern and began prepping the cakes and tarts for the next day. 

the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft clatter of trays filled the cozy bakery as you worked, hands moving on autopilot as you piped delicate swirls of frosting onto a batch of cupcakes. the scent of vanilla and caramelized sugar lingered in the air, comforting in a way that reminded you why you had built this place from the ground up.

five years. it still didn’t feel real sometimes.

you had spent so many sleepless nights wondering if you’d make it this far, worrying over finances, suppliers, and keeping up with customer demand. but here you were, not just surviving—thriving.

the quiet of the shop was peaceful, but giselle’s warning echoed in the back of your mind.

a white lexus. hanging around.

you weren’t the type to get easily paranoid, but something about it left a strange feeling in your gut. shaking it off, you turned your focus back to the tray in front of you, finishing up the last batch before stepping back and stretching out your arms.

just as you were about to wipe down the counter, the soft chime of the front door startled you.

you glanced up at the clock—11:15 p.m.

too late for customers.

your heart picked up speed as you reached for the rolling pin beside you, gripping it tightly as footsteps echoed through the shop.

"we’re closed," you called out, keeping your voice steady, though your fingers curled a little tighter around the wooden handle.

the footsteps paused. then, a voice you hadn’t heard in years filled the space.

"yn?"

your breath hitched.

there, standing under the dim glow of the bakery lights, was jake.

older, different, yet somehow still the same.

he looked like a stranger in familiar skin. his hair was slightly longer than you remembered, and he carried himself differently—more put together, but with an air of hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged here anymore. 

his suit, unbuttoned once from the top, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, gave him a polished yet tired look, like he had come straight from a long day of work. but what unsettled you the most was the way his eyes softened when they met yours—like he had been searching for you all this time.

he took a step forward.

“do not take another step closer.”

your voice came out sharper than you intended, laced with a warning that made him halt immediately.

jake’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “yn, I just—”

“if you take another step, I’ll file a police report for harassment and stalking. giselle told me about that white lexus and i swear to god if that’s yours i’ll actually just go ahead and file it.”

to say that your dad was very shocked and concerned to be called to the police station by you to watch you attempt to file a police report on the boy he’d once called son was beyond an understatement. 

eventually he managed to talk you out of it by bribing you with your favorite homemade meals and a promise to at least hear jake out before making any final decisions.

begrudgingly, you let it go—for now. but that didn’t mean you were going to make it easy for him.

─── ♡

THE WEEK AFTER, YOUR PHONE BUZZED AND YOU picked it up to be met with disappointment.

“i got ur new number from dad, can i come pick you up after your work with dinner? what time do you close at?” the text rang in. you showed it to giselle with a groan,

you showed it to giselle with a groan, setting your phone down on the counter as you wiped your hands on your apron. she glanced at the message, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her coffee.

“that’s… bold,” she said with a half-smirk. “you’ve got to be kidding me. after everything?”

“i really don’t know what he wants now,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “i should just ignore it, right?”

giselle hesitated before speaking. “i mean… it’s up to you. but i’ll say this—he’s not the same person who left all those years ago. he looks different, talks different. maybe this is his way of trying to make things right. i don’t know.”

“gigi it’s been 7 years. who actually chooses to disappear and reappear after 7 years?” you sigh taking a sip from your hard worked iced apple tea. 

“apparently sim jake that’s who. i heard he’s a doctor doing his residency and the hospital nearby. yunjin texted me saying theres a new cutie who transferred into her team,” she hummed pulling up her phone showing a screenshot of jake’s instagram. 

“go figure, of course he’s finishing out his dream of being a doctor,” you absentmindedly mumble as you look through his instagram feed from giselle’s phone. and if there’s one thing to take away when looking at it, is that he’s been having one hell of a lot of fun in the years where he never reached out to you.

you stared at his instagram feed, feeling an odd mix of frustration and sadness. his life had clearly moved on in the way he always wanted, but it was like he’d completely forgotten about the part of him that once belonged to you.

you leaned back against the counter, not knowing how to respond. you felt like you had to answer jake's message. you weren’t the same person who would’ve waited around years ago, but still, that old familiarity tugged at you. "i guess i’ll meet him, but definitely not today," you said quietly, more as an attempt to make sense of things than a decision to rekindle anything.

“i close at 7, don’t wait on me”

throughout the day, meeting back up with jake was all that lingered on your mind. meeting up with him after all this time is crazy. it’s been 7 years of him barely contacting you and all of a sudden he wants back in?

after you had closed up shop, you began getting ready for the new day ahead, whipping up the batter for a new set of fresh cakes, preparing fillings, and testing out new drinks recipes.

by the time you finished preparing everything for tomorrow’s orders, the sky outside had grown darker, and you were about to head home for the night. you locked up the bakery and stepped outside into the crisp night air, breathing it in like it might clear your mind.

as you turned the corner, your heart skipped a beat. there, just a few steps away from the entrance, was jake. sitting on the cold concrete outside your bakery. but what struck you most was that he wasn’t just sitting—he was asleep, hunched over with his head resting on his knees, his body curled up against the chill of the night.

your steps faltered, your breath catching in your throat. you didn’t know what to think. part of you felt an irrational rush of concern, but another part of you wanted to shake him awake and ask what the hell he thought he was doing.

you walked closer, your feet moving on their own. when you stopped just a foot away from him, you let out a soft breath, too startled to speak.

jake stirred slightly, his head lifting for a moment before he blinked up at you, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

"jake? what the hell are you doing out here in the cold?" you asked, your voice coming out more accusatory than anything. you hadn’t expected to see him like this. you hadn’t expected anything from him, really.

he yawned sleepily, “i thought you said you closed at 7?” 

“yeah and then i have to prepare stuff for the next day, i told you not to wait for me,” you said sternly, though at this point it was pure concern that he had been out in the cold with a box of food beside him.

“oh, well i’m here now,” he smiled, with sleep in his eyes, just grateful to be seeing you.

“come inside,” you finally said, voice quieter. “it’s freezing out here.”

the two of you sat in silence at two of the chairs you pulled out. you could feel the tension in the air, thick and heavy, as you set the chairs down, motioning for jake to sit across from you.

“you really didn’t have to wait out there,” you said quietly, unable to keep the frustration from your voice. “i mean, it’s been so long, and you just show up like nothing happened?”

jake shifted in his seat, and he let out a long sigh. “i know,” he started, his voice heavy. “i didn’t think this through, okay? but i... i couldn’t leave without talking to you. i thought if i came here, if i just showed up, maybe i’d have a chance to explain. to make things right.”

“so what now?” you asked, your voice quieter than before, the sharp edge of anger softening a little. “you just expect me to open up and let you back in? like nothing ever happened? jake, i moved on and got a life, the one i always wanted back when we were in high school just this time it’s without you.”

jake shook his head quickly. “no. i don’t expect that at all. i don’t expect you to just forget everything and pretend like things are fine. but i want to try. i want to show you that i’m not the coward that ran away and prioritized my mom over you.”

you stared at him, torn between wanting to push him away and wanting to hear more. you hadn’t realized how much of your anger had been a shield to protect yourself from the hurt. the hurt of losing someone you thought you’d never have to lose.

“i don’t know what you want from me,” you muttered, your hands tightening around your cup of coffee. “you disappeared without a word for years, jake. that’s not something you just get to erase with some apology. i’m not sure i can just forgive you that easily.”

jake nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “i don’t want you to forgive me easily. i know it’s not that simple. but i’m here, and i want to prove to you that i’m not going anywhere this time.”

the silence stretched between you two, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you both just sat there, the past years of hurt and confusion hanging heavy in the air. but despite the weight of it all, there was something oddly comforting about having him here, even if just for a moment.

“you’re gonna have to earn the forgiveness back you know that right?”

jake looked down, nodding solemnly. "i know. i’m not asking for it to happen right away, or even for it to happen easily. i just... i want to show you that i can be someone you can trust again. that i'm here, for the long haul, this time."

you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as you observed him closely. "trust is earned, jake. not given just because you show up one night after disappearing for seven years. you can’t just expect things to go back to the way they were."

“i swear, i have my shit sorted, im back for good. im not gonna leave again. i swear.”

─── ♡

JAKE WAS SEEMINGLY MORE COMMITTED TO PROVING IT THAN EVER FOR SOME REASON. jake, the typically patient man, hell he went through years of schooling and is still in it to become a doctor, was on the edge of his seat. itching to find time to make it up to you.

jake knew he couldn’t rush this. he couldn’t just show up and expect everything to be okay, like the years of silence didn’t matter. he knew it mattered. and it wasn’t just about the hurt—he had spent the last seven years replaying the mistakes he’d made, wondering if he could’ve been better, if he could’ve done more. what gnawed at him the most was how much he had missed out on—how much he still felt for you.

he had always liked you. always. but back then, he was young, impulsive, and reckless. he had his dreams, his priorities. and at the time, he chose his mom’s expectations over the one person who had always been there for him—you. he realized now how selfish that was, how blind he’d been to the feelings he had for you, to the connection that had been right in front of him.

now, though, he wasn’t going to make that same mistake again. he was older, more aware of the weight of things. he wanted to do it the right way this time, take it slow, show you that he could be the person you needed, not just the person who had hurt you.

it was a rainy evening when jake showed up again. he had just finished a long shift at the hospital, his scrubs wrinkled, his eyes tired. he had been trying to sneak in an hour or two of sleep whenever he could, but it was always on the backburner. he didn’t care about sleep anymore. not when there was a chance to make things right.

he had something for you this time, something different.

"hey," he greeted, standing just outside the bakery as you worked behind the counter. "sorry I’m late... busy day."

you didn’t look up immediately, still focused on the dough in front of you. “it’s fine,” you said, your voice distracted but not cold. 

jake smiled to himself. the small talk was almost comforting. "actually, i have something for you," he said, stepping into the shop and placing a small bouquet of flowers with a torn out notebook page tied to it.

you eagerly untied the note to see what was inside, and as you unfolded the torn page, you felt a rush of nostalgia hit you. it was a told out page, the edges faded and crinkled yet the picture in the center an old drawing from when you first became friends, with text on the bottom reading ‘yn and jake bffs forever.’

you paused, your heart catching in your chest as your fingers traced the faded lines of the drawing. the memory of that day—of the two of you sitting in the corner of a school cafeteria, laughing and drawing together, sharing secrets and dreams for the future—came rushing back.

“you kept this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you looked up at jake, trying to process it all.

he shifted uncomfortably, his eyes tired but soft. “yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “i guess I thought it was important. i didn't really know what to do with it... but i wanted to bring it to you. remind you of who we were before everything got complicated.”

"why now?" you asked softly, your gaze lifting to meet his. "after all this time?"

jake shifted again, his fingers tracing the seam of his scrub jacket. there was a quiet hesitation in his eyes, like he was choosing his words carefully, or maybe deciding how much of the truth he should let slip. “because it was always there. i’ve just... been too stubborn to see it until now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. it wasn’t a full answer, but there was something in his tone—something more than regret—that made your chest tighten. a part of you wanted to call him out for waiting so long, but another part of you—one you hadn’t expected to resurface—was just glad he was here now.

as much as you wanted to be upset at him, yell at him, continue telling you off, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be upset any longer. at your core, all you wanted was the jake you had known forever, returned back to you.

you let the thought hang there, not quite sure what to do with it. instead, you reached for the bouquet he had brought, lifting it slightly as if to change the subject. "these are nice. thank you."

jake’s smile softened, and he shrugged, though there was a spark of something more in his eyes. "it's nothing. just... thought you'd like them."

you nodded, the conversation drifting into an easy, comfortable lull. but there was a change in the air now—something tentative, something that neither of you was fully ready to acknowledge yet. the space between you was different, as if a new kind of understanding had started to form, and neither of you was quite sure what it would look like in the end.

you glanced at him, and for a moment, you didn’t know whether to smile or look away, but you couldn’t help the soft pull of something—maybe hope, maybe curiosity—lingering in your chest.

─── ♡

IT ALMOST FELT NORMAL the way the two of you went back to being stuck at the hip. not in the way you had been before, when everything was simple and effortless, but in a new, tentative way. like you were both testing the waters, unsure of where the boundary lines were anymore, but unwilling to let go of the comfort that came with having each other around.

oftentimes jake would drive to visit during his lunch hours even if it meant for 5 minutes.

you found yourself, surprisingly, looking forward to his visits, even when they came after long, exhausting days. sometimes, you’d catch him just watching you while you worked, a look in his eyes you couldn’t quite decipher but didn’t mind. he didn’t rush to fill every pause with words. instead, he seemed content to sit beside you, a quiet presence.

and as much as you tried to avoid it, you couldn’t deny the way your chest seemed to tighten whenever he glanced at you that little bit longer, or how your thoughts would wander to him long after he left, even when you tried to focus on other things.

"you know," jake said one evening, his voice breaking through the comfortable silence, "i was thinking about that one cake design you drew when we were kids. the one with the little animals? you said you were going to make it someday. for your bakery."

you paused mid-icing a cake, your hands stilling at the memory. it had been a simple sketch—a tiny bear holding a cake on its back, with frosting and sprinkles that looked more like magic than reality. "yeah, I remember that," you replied, your voice soft. "I always thought it would be cute to make a little collection of those—cakes inspired by childhood drawings."

jake smiled, leaning back in his chair. "well, you’ve got one customer here. whenever you get around to it."

one afternoon, as you wiped your hands on your apron, you noticed jake standing by the counter, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips. there was something different in the way he looked at you today. maybe it was the way his eyes lingered just a little longer or how he seemed more relaxed than usual, despite the chaos of his busy day.

"you're looking more tired than usual," you commented as he set his coffee down, wiping his hands on his pants. "when’s the last time you actually rested?"

he gave a tired chuckle. "a few days ago. but, you know, sleep doesn't exactly fit into a doctor's schedule."

you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "maybe you should make it fit, for your own sanity."

jake shrugged, but his eyes softened. "yeah, yeah. I’ll get around to it. but honestly, I’d rather be here."

the words caught you off guard. you glanced up at him, trying to gauge whether he was being serious, or if it was just the exhaustion talking.

"here?" you asked, a little surprised. "you're a little crazy if you'd rather be here than... well, anywhere else. you're a doctor now, jake. you've got a lot on your plate."

he met your gaze steadily. "i know. and I'm not complaining about it. but being here, with you, even for a few minutes, makes it all a little easier."

"well, I appreciate the visit," you said, breaking the silence, the familiar comfort of your banter returning. "but I still think you need some sleep."

he laughed softly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "i'll sleep when I can. but for now, I'm good. besides," he paused, as if deciding whether to say the next part, iI'm just glad we’re talking again."

there was something in his voice—something unspoken but deeply felt—that made you pause. it wasn’t the usual playful tone jake had when he teased or joked around. it was more sincere, more serious. and for a second, the line between friendship and something else felt thinner, more fragile than ever.

you gave him a small smile, a little unsure of how to respond, but grateful for the quiet honesty between you. "me too," you said softly.

─── ♡

IT HAD BEEN A FEW DAYS SINCE YOU LAST SAW JAKE. he hadn’t visited as often, and every time you sent him a message to check in, he would always respond with a quick "busy at the hospital" or "swamped with work." you didn’t think much of it at first—he was, after all, a doctor, and you knew how demanding his job could be. but when his responses started getting shorter, and you noticed he didn’t show up during his lunch break like he normally did, something in your gut told you that something was wrong.

you hoped the same thing wouldn’t be happening once over again, praying that he didn’t just up and leave like he did before.

it wasn’t until your dad texted in the group chat that you pieced it together.

“siri text jake only, i’m coming over with soup jake.”

you stared at your phone, rereading the message a couple of times. something felt off. jake hadn’t mentioned anything about being sick, and you hadn’t heard from him in days—not even a quick visit during his lunch break like usual. a creeping sense of concern twisted in your stomach.

why didn’t he want to tell you that he was sick?

you rushed over to his apartment which you had only seen once after he moved in, hesitant to visit after everything had happened in the past.

you unlocked the door with the spare key he gave you, telling you to come visit whenever, even if he wasn’t home, and took a deep breath before swinging the door open.

“jake?” you called out, flicking the light on from the switch in the doorway.

from the living room, you heard a soft groan, and there he was, sprawled out on the couch, covered in blankets, looking like he hadn’t moved in hours. his face was pale, and there was a noticeable flush on his cheeks, evidence of the fever that had kept him away.

"you’re not supposed to be here," jake muttered, his voice hoarse, barely louder than a whisper. he tried to sit up but winced, his body clearly protesting the effort.

you couldn’t help but smile despite yourself, shaking your head as you made your way to the couch. "well, tough luck," you said, sitting next to him, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. "you’re stuck with me now."

his eyes softened, and he let out a quiet chuckle, though it quickly turned into a cough.

"you’re such a pain," you teased gently, settling under the blankets next to him, your shoulder brushing his.

jake glanced over at you, the edges of his lips twitching as he let out a slow breath. "i didn’t want you to see me like this," he confessed, his voice quieter now. "didn’t want you to think i was weak."

you smiled softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. "i’m not going anywhere, jake," you whispered.

“sorry i didn’t tell you im sick,” he mumbled, his voice low and tired. "i didn’t want you to worry, and i thought it’d pass. but guess i was just avoiding all the things i should’ve said."

you frowned slightly, shifting so you could look up at him more clearly. "jake, you don’t have to hide things from me, especially not something like this. you’re not alone. not anymore."

his eyes met yours, and in that moment, there was a quiet understanding between the two of you. the kind of understanding that came from years of friendship, of shared silence and unspoken words.

"i know," he said softly, squeezing your hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you. "i’m just… i’m still figuring things out, you know? everything’s different now, and i’m scared of messing it up again. scared of losing you, yn."

you tilted your head, considering his words for a moment. "you’re not going to lose me," you replied, your voice gentle but firm. "so no more running anymore okay? not because of your mom or being sick or whatever okay?"

he nodded, swallowing hard, his eyes never leaving yours. "i’m not going anywhere this time," he promised, his voice a little stronger now, though still hoarse. "i’m staying right here with you, through all of it."

there was a moment of quiet, where all the noise of the world outside seemed to fade into nothing. just the two of you, tangled up in blankets, close enough to feel each other’s heartbeats.

you smiled softly, a warmth spreading in your chest. "promise?"

“i promise i’m yours, forever,”

─── ♡

TO SAY YOUR DAD WAS SHOCKED WHEN HE WALKED IN holding a container of his soup in a takeout bag to see the two of you cuddled up on the couch was an understatement.

you both heard the door open, and jake immediately tensed, his eyes darting toward the hallway where your dad stood, frozen in the doorway.

"uh…" your dad started, blinking rapidly, clearly unsure of what to make of the situation. "this is… a surprise."

you quickly sat up, pushing the blanket off you as you tried to keep things from getting too awkward. "dad, it’s not what you think—"

"no need to explain," your dad interrupted, raising a hand in mock surrender, his face breaking into a grin. "i just brought some soup. figured i’d drop it off since jake's feeling under the weather."

"you’re not mad?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

your dad chuckled softly, walking over to the coffee table and setting the soup down. "mad? no, i’m not mad. just surprised, that’s all." he shot a glance at jake, who was sitting up straighter, looking mildly embarrassed. "honestly, i’m just glad to see you two working things out."

you gave your dad a wide-eyed look. "working things out?"

he shrugged, unbothered. "it’s been obvious for a while, you know. you two have always been like this, just needed to figure it out on your own." he smiled and shut the door behind him allowing the two of you your space.

over the next weeks things between you and jake felt effortless again, but in the best way. it was like a quiet understanding settled between you two—like you had both stepped back into your rhythm, only this time, there was something more to it.

it was a saturday morning when he showed up at your cafe, a little earlier than usual, with a grin plastered across his face.

"morning, pretty girl," he said as he leaned against the counter, eyes soft and playful as he watched you work.

you rolled your eyes at the nickname, but your lips curled into a smile anyway. "you’re here early. don’t tell me you’re getting sick again."

"nah," jake replied, shaking his head as he leaned in closer stealing a quick kiss from you across the counter. "just wanted to see my angel before the day gets crazy. plus, i thought you could benefit from seeing me,” he smirked with confidence.

it was a simple moment, one that felt like it belonged to the two of you alone. the noise of the cafe around you seemed to fade, leaving only the warmth of the moment, the quiet understanding between you two that you had found something real and lasting.

as the day went on, the customers came and went, but you and jake were content just to be near each other. every glance, every word, every touch was a reminder of how far you had come—together, at your own pace, but now, with no hesitation in sight.

every second with him was a lingering reminder that he was yours, forever.

the popcorn’s stale, the water is from a murky tap concealed under the plastic lid of a styrofoam cup, and jake can’t even drink the room temperature beer because he has a fight in an hour.

not that many people will be paying attention to his bout anyway; most spectators are only here to watch the reigning champion, bang chan, maul the next poor guy’s face in. which is probably why his fights are always at the end of the night, to ensure the maker’s (criminals) of the underground ring can suck as much money out of the crowd as they can. you’d think they’d figure out that offering some decent food would bring them more cash, but jake figures some criminals become law breakers by simply being dumb as fuck— so he digresses.

“shit, here they come, bro.” heeseung says, effectively calling jake over to lean against the balcony railing, having an upper view of the whole ring. jake knows exactly what heeseung’s vague words mean as he watches the ring girls file out from a side door, putting more weight on his forearms as he leans further, trying to spot your unmistakable figure— which is permanently ingrained into his mind at this point— amongst all the other women and bright spotlights.

“there’s yours,” heeseung points, directing jake’s eyes to you just as you bend over to squeeze between the rope barriers and step into the ring, getting an eyeful of your ass in those tight, red booty shorts.

you walk across the ring floor like it’s a catwalk, flashing a flirty smile as you and the other girls hype up the crowd, keeping them engaged before the next two fighters are announced. and damn, are you engaging; jake’s watched you more than enough to see you know how to make heads turn, how to stand out amongst all the others. your silhouette flashes behind jake’s eyelids when he blinks, he has the intervals of your swaying hips memorized, and his hand seems to always fall into that same rhythm when his cock is gripped between his fist; your voice flows like liquid-sex, and he imagines how his name would sound coming off your tongue, how you’d sound begging and crying as he stretches your sweet cunt around him— his fingers, his tongue, his cock.

but as you now lift a sign up with big, bold numbers, announcing the start of a new match, jake is reminded of the bitter reality that he’ll probably never have the chance to hear you yell out anything other than ‘round one!’— with no sexual connotation attached to the meaning.

the bitterness only deepens when you step off the ring’s platform and chan immediately sweeps you up into his arms, bulging muscles pressing into your flesh; then you disappear, chan leading you up the stairs to the very same balcony view heeseung and jake watch from— but on the opposite side, so close yet so far. your eyes never meet jake’s stare before you’re taken inside one of the rooms, intended for boxer’s to ‘warm up’, but are more often than not used to get high and have sex; which is probably what the two of you are about to do, have a good luck fuck before chan’s fight— not that the bastard needs anymore luck than he already has.

“the fuck you mean mine,” jake replies to heeseung, biting his lip in annoyance before turning his head away from your direction and to his friend. “she hasn’t even noticed my existence.”

“you practically drool a puddle when you look at her, maybe one day she’ll slip in it and fall on your dick.” heeseung smirks, wrapping his blistered knuckles in gauze, the poorly healed wound breaking open again after the bout he had earlier— but hey, he won, and got a little bit of chump change for it.

“you’re insane.” jake complains, rolling his eyes— but when he turns away from heeseung, he knows it’s to hide a humored smile.

“not even half as much as you.” the older rebuttals, slapping jake on the shoulder and turning him towards the room they stand just outside of. “now come on, you need to get ready. you’re on after this one.”

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

“could you be a doll and go get us more drinks?” heeseung asks the half naked girl sitting on his lap.

he and jake (plus no-name ring girl) sit in a smoky room of the underground facility, getting high and drunk after another night of fighting in the ring like they usually do.

jake is feeling good, having won a bout against another boxer that was more well known, the spectators having mostly bet on his opponent; but jake beat his ass by— well, a landslide might be too generous, he does have a split lip and a bruise darkening on his temple— but he won, gaining not only more confidence in his skills, but also pushing his rank up a little bit. he hopes by the next fight he has, he’ll have a few more people cheering for him, putting money on his name. (and hopefully getting more money for it than the measly 30 dollars he’s been getting.)

“and can you check the fridge first?” jake adds on, the girl getting up from heeseung’s lap slowly, fuck me eyes flashing at the older before she looks over to jake and nods with a wink.

“sure, as long as i get a tip after.” she jokes, making heeseung bark out a laugh at the explicit pun just as she disappears out the door.

“oh, she wants it.” heeseung remarks with unbridled cockiness.

“she doesn’t want ‘it’, she wants yours.” jake corrects, breathing in his joint before sitting it down on the dirty ashtray.

“she wants both of ours.” heeseung rebuttals, eyes turning dark as they look at jake, prompting. “you in?”

at the question, jake exhales, smoke tendrils swirling out from between his lips; the high soothes his aching muscles, the minor injuries he gains from every fight.

“i dunno know, man.”

“come on, stop being emo!” heeseung whines, tone starkly changing from the lustful one he had seconds ago.

“pussy’s pussy, even when it’s not y/n’s, you know.” he rhetorically asks.

“i just don’t feel like it, bro! don’t even feel like moving.”

heeseung’s eyes roll in annoyance at his friend who’s practically become celibate over a girl that probably doesn't even know his name. he just doesn’t get it. “i doubt you’d have to. take one look at those toned thighs and tell me she wouldn’t ride it into the fucking sunset—“

“fresh out of booze.” the girl announces as she suddenly returns, unknowingly interrupting heeseung.

“even the warm kind?” jake complains.

“yeah,” she answers, returning to sit between the two of them on the couch, jake noticing how she makes sure she has a part of herself touching the both of them. “chan took all the rest, apparently.”

“of course he did.” jake remarks roughly, taking another hit from his joint to hopefully soothe his sudden growing annoyance. “mr. ex pro gets everything.”

“can you stop bitching? you just won against an upper rank, be happy!” heeseung groans, wrapping his arm around the girl’s shoulders to push at jake.

“ex pro?” she repeats, crossing her legs and turning on her hip to put a hand on jake’s chest; he knows she’s just giving him a window to rant in the hopes of getting in his pants, but he doesn’t even care, the alcohol and building resentment he’s had for bang chan making his lips loose.

so jake tells her everything about chan’s controversial past;

he was decently big in the boxing world, continuous wins, his attractive face, and charisma making him skyrocket in popularity. but after failing a drug test in which he tested positive for multiple drugs that fell under the physical enhancement category, he was suspended from professional boxing for a year. bang chan made a statement that the drugs were only taken at parties and never in the duration of an upcoming fight— but it was his words against social media, without any of his own proof and a few dirty dating scandals and rumors attached to it. quickly, articles and x posts were flooding in, his name dragged through the absolute mud that he ‘doped’, and his title as a successful, hard working pro was no more.

of course, a few of his fangirls are probably still sticking around— but all the viral spread died down once chan took things underground, hiding from the public eye.

“oh my god, i didn’t know that.” the girl says, genuinely shocked; jake can tell, not only from her widened eyes, but from how her suggestive rubbing over his chest stopped once he really started getting into the grit of it all.

(heeseung’s about to explode from annoyance and sexual frustration, the hot chick’s attention now completely glued to jake’s rambling and not on his dick.)

“it’s fucked,” jake continues. “he’s got this whole thing rigged to his advantage. how is it fair that he gets to fight in that shitty ring when he’s got a professional background? he gets all the money, all the glory, and all the girls! i don’t even need all that, all i want is y/n, but of course out of everyone— she’s the one he chooses to have as his arm-candy after every win— every undeserved win.”

“undeserved?” another voice speaks— which jake immediately knows isn’t heeseung, because there’s an australian accent to it, and there’s only one other aussie in this god forsaken underground, which means—

“chan!” the girl smiles, flirty attitude right back on when she sees him looming in the doorway, which jake foolishly didn’t notice was left open.

she gets up from the couch, sauntering over to chan’s other arm, while you hang off the other.

“you think my wins are undeserved?” chan all but growls, teeth visibly gritting, like he’s a rabid dog about to lunge and attack at any given moment.

heeseung’s not at all worried about getting his dick wet anymore and entirely panicking inwardly at the notion that he’s possibly about to see his friend get pummeled— which means he’s about to get pummeled too, because that’s what friends do.

and jake? well, yeah, he’d like to take a swing at chan— but in the ring, surrounded by spectators who can testify of his murder— not in a dirty room filled with smoke and most likely years worth of dna stained into the couch.

he stands, because the tense moment urges him to get up off the couch where he’s cornered. “uh— uhm, i…”

chan is walking right up to get all in jake’s face before he can even finish his stuttering, heavy breaths puffing into his face like he’s facing an angry bull.

in that small moment, jake asks himself the question of if he’d rather grovel the ground and kiss chan’s ass for forgiveness like everyone else does, or stand his ground; and call him crazy, but when his eyes break chan’s uncomfortable, challenging stare for just a moment and he meets your gaze instead, jake decides he’d rather die than kiss up to chan— ever, but especially in front of you.

“y’know what, man? yeah.” he states, surprised at himself by the strength and confidence in his voice.

veins on the side of chan’s neck bulge, his jaw tensing as his seething glare sends daggers from his eyes and right into jake’s.

“i could k.o. you in two seconds, bitch.” he spits, jake’s expression hardening as his competitiveness that got him into boxing in the first place begins to rear its head.

“wanna go, right here? think you can beat my ass in front of these pretty ladies, show them how ‘undeserving’ i am?”

“chan…” jake hears you whisper, his range of vision skewed when all he can see is chan’s flaring nostrils. “it wouldn't be a fair fight, he’s— he’s high.”

as if he’s just now noticing the smoke permeating the room or jake’s surely pinkened eyes, chan smirks and lets out a scoff, finally taking a step back.

“s’fine, i’d rather have an audience watching when i knock you out cold anyway.”

“wh— what? what do you mean? he can’t—“ heeseung starts in a panic, but jake’s already made up his mind, pissed off by chan’s threats and how he tries to belittle him in front of you.

“i’m up for that.” jake agrees. “fighting you in the ring, that is. we’ll see who wins.”

the smirk on chan’s lips only widens, like he sees jake’s blood on his hands already, hears the cheers from the crowd. “great. i’ll take it up with the matchmaker.”

and just like that, chan is gone, dragging you and the other girl with him, leaving a blue balled heeseung and jake— who’s upcoming, early death hasn’t hit him yet.

“so…” heeseung speaks up after a very long stretch of silence.

“what do you want written on your gravestone?”

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

after the tense standoff chan just had to invoke, he leads you and your coworker to ‘his’ room that the owner of the underground rigged up all nice for his number one champion; the walls are covered with a fresh coat of paint— keeping in mind, they’re probably just as grime covered as the rest, and the paint color is an ugly shade of ‘shrek’s vest’ brown— but the led strip lights lining the ceiling help with the atmosphere, casting the room in their pinkish-purple glow; and of course chan asked for a large bed to put in the room, the large piece of furniture almost taking up the whole floor space.

but what’s left of the limited square footing, a couch was able to be squeezed into— and that’s where you sit, drinking the unneeded amount of alcohol chan had while dodging his advances to kiss you; you know it would turn into him wanting a threesome with you and the other ring girl, and you’re really not in the mood right now; you already fucked before his match, and after his angry little tantrum, you’re just…turned off.

you’re only lightly buzzed, but chan and your coworker don’t hold back until they’re drunk off their asses. it doesn’t take long until they’re sloppily making out in front of you, the girl moaning out as she grinds against chan’s lap.

chan doesn’t even pause the make out session as he blindly leans a hand against the coffee table, attempting to get up and carry the girl to his bed— but the action causes an empty beer bottle to fall, shards of glass bursting and glittering across the floor.

“seriously, guys?” you groan, hearing only giggles in return as chan makes a second clumsy, drunken attempt at standing up; he’s successful, but narrowly misses the sharp fragments on the floor.

“fucking shit!” you exclaim, getting up to pick the glass up yourself before one of the idiots severely hurts themselves; but you forget that you’re a little intoxicated too, and as you collect the pieces into your hand, trying your best to ignore the moans and slapping of skin coming from behind you— a delicate corner of glass slices into your palm, causing you to gasp and look down to see blood traveling quickly down your wrist.

“really.” you whisper to yourself, rolling your eyes.

you’re quick to collect the rest of the pieces, mainly because hearing chan and that girl fuck is kind of annoying, but also because you don’t really want to be dripping blood everywhere.

exiting and shutting the door of the room, you fast-walk down the hallway, down the rickety metal stairs, and past the boxing ring; reaching the main entrance hall, you drop the glass into a nearby trash can and open a closet door, knowing it contains a first aid kit.

you’ve just begun wiping the streak of blood off your forearm when you hear footsteps ringing off the metal steps of the stairs, a figure revealing themself at the end of the hall.

“oh, hello.” you say, feeling the need to keep your voice somewhat soft as it carries down the echoing hallway.

it’s that guy from earlier, the one chan called a bitch and promised to knock out cold. you don’t know his name— you don’t know most of the boxer’s names, honestly; chan likes to keep you closer to him and away from them. it was hot at first, his seeming ‘possessive’ streak; but lately it seems more like he’s possessive over you as an object, a trophy to show off his ego;

you find that a lot less sexually thrilling and much more insulting.

“hey, i uh…i was just leaving.” he says, pointing past you to the two-door entrance. “are you hurt?”

squinting his eyes thanks to the poorly lit hallway, he decides to come closer, stopping once he’s standing right beside you.

“oh, shit.”

“yeah,” you smile, somewhat awkwardly, feeling caught at being witnessed injured. but you suppose it shouldn’t be a big deal to him, he deals with injuries all the time. “got it from a beer bottle.”

“damn, those cuts suck.” he sympathizes, evidently from experience. “here, lemme see.”

taking your hand into his gently, he comes closer to assess the damage, taking the bloodied gauze from your uninjured hand and placing it on the closet shelf for the time being.

you watch as he grabs a new gauze pad from the kit— pretty, long fingers brushing the pad over your cut, soaking up the blood and cleaning it as best he can without running it over the dirty tap water or using rubbing alcohol, which would be too harsh.

he’s quite skilled in dressing your mild wound; it impresses you despite already having the thought that he’s dealt with this millions of times. the way his hand gently holds yours, his brows furrowing in concentration and plump lips pursing, the genuine care he uses as he applies antibiotic cream and wraps your hand in a bandage— it unexpectedly makes your heart…flutter.

“there we go. that feel okay?” he asks, soft accent whispered so closely to your face that it makes goosebumps rise against your skin, hoping he won’t notice it.

“yeah..” you reply just as reverently, eyes staring into each others. a long few seconds drawl of the two of you not saying anything, just..looking— until his gaze lowers to your lips, and you do the same.

the slow, sensual bite he gives to his pink bottom lip as he checks you out has your core awakening with a pulse, and just before you can let your pussy control your actions— red seeps out from a thin slit on his mouth.

“you’re— you’re bleeding.” you say somewhat urgently, the hazy look in the guy’s eyes disappearing at your warning, lifting his wrist to wipe at his lip.

“fuck. forgot about that.” he says offhandedly, looking down at the blood smear left on his hand. “it’s fine, usually just heals on its—“

he’s forced to stop talking when you raise a delicate finger to apply ointment to the cut, your heart beating faster when the plush of his bottom lip is pushed enticingly along with the gentle movements of your ministrations.

you’re only able to feel like you can breathe again when you finish and pull away, putting only a small distance between you.

“…thanks, y/n.”

he whispers— again, in that sexy ass accent that sends such a thrill down your spine; unlike chan’s, which you’re realizing doesn’t have the same effect on you anymore.

“no problem. i should be thanking you— um..”

“jake.” he supplies. “my name’s jake.”

“thank you, jake.” you smile, grateful for his kindness.

“well..uh,” he fidgets, eyes landing on the bloodied gauze before picking it up and successfully tossing it into the trash can, putting his hands inside his pockets afterward.

“i guess i should go. you don’t need a ride, do you?” jake makes sure, fully ready to offer up a seat in the uber if you do.

“no. no, i’m fine. probably just gonna go upstairs and make sure i got all the glass cleaned up before leaving.” (and that those two horny drunks haven’t created some other sort of hazard.)

“okay, but make sure you use a broom this time, yeah?”

“promise!” you smile, holding up your hands for emphasis.

jake returns the smile before walking past you and down the remainder of the hall, giving you one last glance before exiting out the door.

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

“you’re a grade ‘a’ fucking idiot.” heeseung chews out jake— when he’s supposed to be spotting him on the bench press. “have you seen that man’s arms? he could pound you into a thin liquid.”

“okay, dude— when i said ‘motivate me’ during training, this isn’t really what i meant.” jake breathily growls between reps, sweat beads clinging to his neck and dripping down his bare chest.

“do you even have a plan? ‘cause it seems to me like you’re just letting your pride get ahead of you. sorry that i like you better alive and breathing.”

huffing in exhaustion and minor annoyance at having to stop in the middle of a set to comfort his friend, jake’s lips push together in a thin line as he raises and sits the barbell back on the rack, sitting up and wiping the sweat off his forehead with a nearby towel as he speaks.

“stop worrying. chan’s bigger, sure, but that’s all he relies on. i’m fast and methodical, i think things out. he doesn’t. also, there’s countless clips on the internet of his fights that i can watch and study, learn his habits and weak spots. that’s something he doesn’t have on me.”

jake can see heeseung processing his words, eyes looking off as his brows lightly furrow; jake is pretty confident that he’s convinced him.

“see? just have some faith in me, bro.” the younger smiles, winding up the towel in his hands before whipping it to crack on heeseung’s thigh— but he reacts quickly and grabs the white material by its end, slicing it through the air to hit a cowering jake on his back.

he tuts teasingly afterward, wagging a finger as he grins. “see that? that was loser shit. work on that.”

“shut the fuck up,” jake laughs, getting up from the bench; his smile morphs into a wince as he slowly stands on his feet, moving a hand to his back.

“damn, maybe i didn’t warm up enough.”

“ah man, i don’t think doc’s in today.” heeseung says, ‘doc’ being the very sketchy, definitely not licensed massage therapist for the underground. but he’s a nice guy, or at least jake thinks he is. he’s not gonna go searching for his public records online though, in case it would change his opinion. he’d rather be ignorant. (besides the issue that he doesn’t even know his actual first name.)

“want me to get the massage roller?”

jake nods at heeseung’s offer, rotating one arm while trying to get rid of the ache in his shoulders.

heeseung opens the closet door of the workout room, moving around random equipment for a while before letting out an annoyed sigh.

“s’ not here. someone probably brought it up to a room and didn’t put it back. i’ll go look for it.”

“thanks, bro.” jake nods, heeseung repeating the action in return before walking out of the room.

walking over to lay on his stomach over the massage table, jake groans at his stiff muscles, feeling the aftermath of how hard he’s been pushing himself to train for the upcoming fight with bang chan; he’s…slightly nervous, despite his outward nonchalance around heeseung— but he also finds himself rather confident, oddly enough; because jake knows when he gets inside that ring, he’s gonna give it 100%, and whether he wins or fails, he’ll be proud of himself. (and who knows, maybe the crowd will see and appreciate that too— either that or they’ll point and laugh and jake will be the butt of every joke for a few weeks, but he can live with that.)

jake’s just taken a slow inhale in an attempt to ease the ache of his back and ab muscles when he feels hands on his shoulders, working the stiffness there with firm rubs.

“ah, fuck.” jake groans, eyes squeezing shut at the somewhat pleasurable pain.

the heel of the two hands lean forward, applying deep pressure against either side of his back before going slowly down to the dip of his spine.

“shit, heeseung. when’d you get so good at this? usually you’re kinda shit at it.”

“maybe it’s better because i’m not heeseung.” a voice speaks, jake’s eyes flying wide open as he’d recognize that sultry tone anywhere.

“y— y/n? what are you doing here?” he asks, sitting up on his elbows and somewhat forcing you to pause your ministrations as his posture has changed.

“i work here?” you cock a brow with an amused smile— and, fuck, why do you have to look so sexy when you do that. “there’s gonna be a few fights tonight.”

“oh, right. well, y— you don’t have to—“

“lie down, jake. i’m telling you, my hands can work some magic.”

(oh, he has no doubt they can— but he’d rather them work some magic on his cock, not his back.)

“okay, okay.” he says instead, giving in and laying back down, turning his head to the side.

your hands spread open as you work down jake’s sides again, fingers barely curving over his waist and feeling the ripples of his abs. jake tries to contain a low groan.

“so, i actually wanted to talk to you about something.” you start, and jake swears your voice drips with suggestiveness, but he can’t be sure if that’s true or if your fingers feathering over his hard muscles are just making him think with his dick.

“yeah?” he asks, but unbeknownst to him, the rough texture of his voice as you hit a tender spot on his back has your thighs wanting to clench; jake’s skin is glistening with sweat, highlighted by the room’s lights and dripping over the hills and valleys of his hard earned muscles; every time your fingers feather over the edges of his abs, your heart beats a little faster, and his low resting sweatpants are just as distracting.

still, you try to keep your tone collected with just a subtle underline of teasing.

“i heard what you said in the warm up room, right before chan interrupted.”

how the fuck can you expect jake to recall anything when your soft hands are feeling up his back? his teeth are about to pierce his bottom lip with how hard he bites it, trying to contain the ungodly sounds that want to escape— but when your hands make their way to the nape of his neck, kneading the flesh before curling around the dark tendrils of his hair and lightly scratching through his scalp, just once— he doesn’t care to try and cover up the breathy growl he lets out, because now he’s sure that you’re purposely teasing him.

jake’s eyes open just as you remove your fingers from his scalp, moving them back down to his lats like nothing happened, yet you feel like prey that’s just been caught by a predator with the way jake so unabashedly stares at you, big brown eyes now dark and calculating. you must have a look that gives way to your inward surprise at the sudden switch of power, because jake’s lips raise into a smirk that looks absolutely ravenous.

“and what was that, y/n?” he drawls lowly, sending a shiver down your spine.

“um..th— that,” your gumption has all but been sucked out of you, along with the air in your lungs; the room is thick with tension, and it’s enough to have your brain foggy and words slow to produce on your tongue.

“c’mon, love.” jake croons with a sharp smile, like a wolf luring a rabbit into its open jaws, gleaming teeth and all; and you walk willingly into the trap, letting jake cup your jaw and lead you closer by it.

you’re reminded that jake is a boxer: dangerous, lethal and cunning. as you stand before him with his eyes drinking in your body in your tiny uniform— thin, red spandex sports bra doing nothing to hide your tits, shorts hugging every curve and crevice of your ass— making you feel small and vulnerable, you wonder if this is any comparable to how his opponents feel in the ring. you desperately regret not watching his matches, imagining how much hotter he must look when he’s all worked up over a fight, eyes angry and aggressive as he throws punches, sweat clinging to his muscles and dripping down the curve of his adam’s apple— maybe even a bit of blood coloring his pretty face, he looked so fucking sexy with that split lip—

“tell me what you came in here to say, hm?” jake encourages again, pulling you back to reality— the reality that his veiny hands are applying light pressure to your jaw, looking up at you with a hungry gaze.

“you said that..that all you want is…me?” you manage out sheepishly, cheeks burning; jake’s smirk only deepens at your sudden meekness.

“yeah, that’s right, baby. i want you. so fuckin’ bad.”

your blood feels like fire running through your veins, jake’s words setting your body into flames, wanting to let it— him, consume you.

you bite your bottom lip and jake’s eyes immediately follow the movement.

“well, if you win the fight…” you pause, a bit of your usual playfulness coming back as seduction coats your tongue. “i’ll be more than just your arm-candy for the night.”

jake huffs under his breath in disbelief, lightly shaking his head. “you’re such a tease, aren’t you?”

you flash him a dirty little smile before the rough padding of his fingers suddenly pinch your ass, pulling a small noise of surprise from your lips that has jake chuckling, cockiness dripping off his tone.

the familiar, obnoxious sound of footsteps clanging against the metal steps of the stairs has your lax body stiffening, jake’s hold on your jaw tightening before letting go all together.

“heeseung,” he mumbles, looking at the open archway of the workout room; you’re not sure if it’s said to you or himself, but you’re slipping away from the loose hold his arm has around your hips and sneaking hurriedly out of the room and down a darkened hall before the other man can spot you.

“i could only find the smaller one, so—“

heeseung pauses, hand held massage roller in his hold as he stares at jake, who is laying down on the table: sweaty, lightly panting, and…hard.

“um, hate to break it to you, bro, but i am not willing to give you a happy ending massage. i don’t care how stressed you are.”

“hee, shut the fuck up!” jake shouts, thoroughly embarrassed and kind of annoyed as he gets up from the table to grab his sweat towel and cover the bulge in his sweatpants with it. “i don’t want you to!”

“well what am i supposed to think when i walk in here and you look straight from a porno!?”

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

your heart beats just a bit faster than usual and your focus is never fully engaged as you do your job, announcing rounds and keeping the crowd engaged in between each bout— because you know with each punch that’s thrown, every win and subsequent loss, it’s getting closer to chan and jake’s fight; and no matter how much you want to believe in him, how much you do, you can’t shake the nervousness that clings to your bones.

it’s just about time; you can feel the energy surging from the direction of the bleachers, electricity sparking in the air that sends goosebumps across your flesh and an uneasiness in your stomach. the spectating crowd sounds almost as bloodthirsty as chan looks as you watch him come out from the sidelines, everyone cheering and hollering when they see him, anticipating the fight between a reigning champion and quickly improving— yet somewhat unknown rookie.

from the opposite end of the arena, you see jake emerge with heeseung standing close by his side; they share a look, the older gives an encouraging few pats to his shoulder, and then jake is walking forward to meet you— the girl who quite literally is standing right in the middle of this whole ordeal.

“hey,” he smirks, all charming and sexy as his eyes sparkle at you.

you do your best to smile back, but somehow he already knows your expressions well enough to see that something’s off.

“hey, what’s wrong?” jake asks, brows immediately furrowing in concern as he takes a step closer, the space between your bodies almost disappearing entirely as his white wrapped hands raise to hold your face, calloused thumbs brushing over your cheeks soothingly.

“i’m..i’m just nervous…don’t want you to get hurt.” you confess in a whisper. “it’s not that i think you can’t win, it’s just that i—…i care about you.”

the last sentence uttered makes heat rush to your face, hands raising to hold onto jake’s forearms for further reassurance as you shyly look up from the floor to his eyes.

jake’s gaze only makes you want to squirm more under his attention— that dark, hungry look that you’re dying to become more familiar with glazing over his orbs and causing his eyelids to lower in that way that makes you feel small and helpless and so good— good enough for you to feel your panties start to dampen.

“don’t worry about me, baby.” jake begins, voice dropping in volume and deepness as your skin begins tingling— not in anxiety this time, but in arousal.

he leans closer to the side of your face, until you can feel his plump lips against the shell of your ear, intentionally grazing them from the top and slowly all the way down, hot breath ghosting over your skin as he whispers.

“just worry about that pussy, cus’ i’m gonna absolutely wreck it after i win this fight.”

your lips part for a small intake of air, lightly gasped as jake bites down on your lobe before pulling away to stare into your eyes. you’re about to say something back when another voice coming from behind you breaks the moment.

“you must have some huge balls, sim, thinking you can come into my ring and not get the ass beating of your fucking life.” chan gloats, glare burning into jake’s skull before his eyes drop to his hands, which still rest on your body; you know the reason his lips twist in disgust is because of his ego, pissed at the thought of a rookie taking away his favorite little plaything.

“yeah, i do have huge balls—“ jake begins. “to go with my huge dick.”

the surprised laugh you were struggling to hold back at the beginning of his sentence instantly vanishes by the end of it, your eyes going wide at the man’s confident claims as your previous nerves have all but disappeared thanks to his sweet and sultry words of comfort, now replaced by poorly contained lust.

“just ask y/n after tonight.” jake winks at you, chan looking as though he’s about to boil over with rage.

“the fuck you mean—“

“get your mouthguard on, it’s starting!” heeseung appears out of nowhere, said item in his hand as he hurries to help jake put it on. as if on cue, the loud voice of the announcer echoes through the speakers, you turning your head to see the man standing in the middle of the ring with his mic raised to his lips.

with one last look, jake turns his back to you and hops over the ropes of the ring, going to stand at his designated corner while chan does the same.

the lights of the arena go low, the brightest spotlight shining on the boxers as the announcer finishes his introductions and the referee gestures for you to follow him into the ring. you grab your sign, holding the board up high that signifies the starting of round one as you saunter to each side of the ring. multiple eyes stare at your body, the way you pop your hip out every time you wave the sign; a few high whistles and hoots come from the crowd— but all you care about is jake’s stare, which stays on you even as the referee has him and chan standing in the middle of the ring, quickly going over the rules.

you hop out of the ring right as the referee has the two boxer’s bump fists, chan giving a cold stare to jake that screams he does it out of obligation and far from friendly competition.

when that familiar ding of the bell rings and the fight officially starts, the atmosphere turns tense and electric once again.

chan’s the first to initiate, because he always is— but jake doesn’t back down, facing the champion with his fists raised and eyes focused, piercing and ready for whatever the other will throw at him.

it’s fast paced and aggressive from the start, there’s no warming up or taking things slow; punches are thrown and the both of them are going at each other without a moment in between. so far, neither has gotten a direct hit in that hasn’t been blocked by the other— until jake goes for a lower jab, catching chan off guard as he delivers a powerful punch to his gut.

you gasp, the crowd reacting similarly as jake takes a step back to anticipate chan’s next move— but that proves to be a mistake, the ex pro not even taking a moment to recover from the hit before landing a punch right across jake’s cheek.

that’s when all hell breaks loose.

each minute seems to drag for an eternity, the final 12th round seeming like an unreachable number as both men reign down what seems like an equal amount of hits on each other, yet jake seems to bleed more as chan continually goes for a head shot; blood stains the corner of his mouth, a bruised cut forms at the side of his temple— and yet you can help but find it so fucking hot; jake doesn’t even look thrown or concerned at all. clear confidence is shown through his body language and with every move he makes, which are tactical and intelligently thought out, while also being quick. chan just throws his punches around carelessly, like an angry bull with no other thoughts than aggression and greed.

it’s clear no one can tell who’s going to win, which is an occurrence that’s never happened before during one of chan’s matches. everyone is on the edge of their seat and you’re holding your breath, waiting for the bell to ding one last time and a winner to be announced.

the eleventh round ends and jake returns to his corner for the minute long rest period. you take the chance to run up to his side, leaning against the ring’s ropes as heeseung slips between them with a towel and bottle of water that he hands to jake.

“since when are you a fucking bleeder, why are you bleeding so much?” heeseung questions sternly, though you can tell it’s just out of concern for his friend.

jake takes a swig of water, swallowing it down as you try not to stare at how his adam’s apple bobs with the action, his neck beaded with pearls of sweat. “i don’t know, man. his punches are just— so fucking hard. but i'm doing good, just gotta get a good enough hit in for the judges to vote for me.”

“you better.” heeseung growls, dabbing up the trickle of blood that makes its slow way down jake’s forehead. “the last thing we want is a tie, and if you don’t pull through now, that’s what it’s gonna be—“

“jake,” you interrupt heeseung’s nagging, the boxer turning his head to meet your eyes; jake’s chest glistens in sweat beneath the bright lights, firm pecs even more accentuated by them— while his split lip raises in another slow smirk— and you have to try and keep your mouth from watering, because why the fuck are you finding the blood on his mouth and perspiring muscles so hot and not incredibly concerning? you’re supposed to feel worried right now, not like you need to be held back from jumping his bones in front of the whole audience.

before your stupid, horny brain can come up with any words of encouragement— the bell rings again, realizing you forgot to even carry around the sign announcing the final round as jake squares up and heeseung ducks out of the ring.

jake leans to press one quick peck to your unsuspecting lips, chuckling at your dumbfounded look and winking at you.

“for good luck.” he simply states, and then heeseung is pulling you away from the ropes for your own safety—

but not before you’re close enough to hear the taunt that jake throws chan’s way.

“c’mon, bang. said you’d knock me out cold, didn’t you, mate?”

you swear you see chan’s eyes flash red, a guttural shout of frustration and adrenaline tearing through his throat as he lunges at jake.

jake reacts— not in the way anyone is expecting, because he dodges chan’s advancement…and then he dodges it again. the crowd— everyone is confused. the fight has been a rather confrontational one throughout its duration so far, so why does it seem jake is running away from chan now?

with each punch and lunge that jake swerves and avoids, chan becomes more and more visibly angry, the boxing ring turning into a dance floor of sidesteps and ducking.

“what the fuck are you doing, man!?” heeseung shouts by your side. “times almost out!”

at heeseung’s words, your heart stops, raising your head to look up at one of the shitty screens that’s hung off the balcony’s railing.

thirty seconds.

jake has thirty seconds before the match is over— and with the avoidant tactics he’s used for all of this round, you’ve watched enough fights to know that the judges won’t be voting him as the winner.

the crowd starts to chant: chan’s name, jake’s name, or along with each number as the timer counts down. the noises mix all together until you feel as though you’re sinking underwater— and all you can hear is your own heavy breaths and beating heart.

“jake…” you whisper to yourself, too quiet for anyone to hear, nevertheless the man himself. “what are you doing?”

but then, unlike the other times jake has dodged chan, this time he turns on his heel in the last moment, facing the side of chan’s head as the other doesn’t realize he’s in a vulnerable position. jake reigns down punches like never before, going in as hard and fast as he can while chan moves to face jake and get out of the vulnerable spot he was in— but it doesn’t matter; chan’s concentration and aggression looks to be thrown off as he wasn’t expecting jake’s sudden switch in tactic; with each punch that jake sends to his skull, chan fails to properly block every one— until he stumbles and falls to the ring floor.

the crowd erupts, and so do you and heeseung, the both of you staring with wide eyes as the referee hurries to crouch by chan’s side; he yells loud enough for everyone to hear, counting to ten before his hands raise above his head in an ‘x’, and the announcer’s voice rings loudly through the speakers.

“that is it! a clean, k.o. victory!”

staff immediately flood the ring, and everyone’s ecstatic. judges congratulate jake, heeseung squeezes in to pat him on the back and take his mouthguard and check on him, and someone is talking to a dazed chan.

“jake!” you call, a wide smile on your face as you run up to cling onto the ropes again, the crowd too boisterous and crowded for you to insert yourself into the ring. but as always— jake would know your voice anywhere.

he locks eyes with you through the crowd, pushing through until he’s close enough to reach out towards you; the next thing you know, you’re being lifted by his arms, up and over the rope barrier before being hugged into his chest and spun around.

“you did it!” you squeal happily between laughing. “you won!”

“told you you didn’t need to worry about me.” jake smiles as his spinning comes to a stop, resting you on your feet gently.

you can’t help but reflect his expression, arms raising to wrap around the back of his neck, about to kiss him— but just over the view of jake’s shoulder, you see a looming, unsteady form pushing roughly through the crowd—

and then you catch the glimpse of those dark eyes again, so angry they almost glow red.

“j— jake!” you try to warn, pointing to the quickly approaching chan behind him, who’s already pulling his arm back like he’s going to punch jake in the back of the head.

you’re still in jake’s arms as he turns, one hand lifting to block chan’s fist just before it cracks into his skull. chan’s wrapped knuckles land on jake’s palm as he curls his fingers around chan’s hand to keep him from attempting to advance further, everyone falling into a hush at the scene—

and that’s when you see it;

crumbled pieces of a light gray substance begin to fall out from chan’s busted hand wraps, your eyes widening as jake watches with bewilderment at the small chunks that fall against the floor.

“is that…” jake mumbles, shock evident on his face before he roughly tugs chan’s fist down from being raised in the air, ripping the gauze of his hand wrap further open; there, in between the layers of gauze is a thin coating of plaster, just enough to harden some of the gauze and make for a stronger hit.

“it’s fucking plaster!” heeseung yells, having walked up while jake was inspecting chan’s gloves. “no wonder jake was bleeding more than usual.”

heeseung looks ready to beat chan to a pulp himself, but luckily a few men move to stand between the two, a few trying to calm heeseung down while the others carry a woozy chan out of the arena completely.

“hee, bro, don’t even worry about it. i’m completely fine, and i won! pulled through for you, didn’t i?” jakes smiles care freely, one hand going to his friend’s shoulder while the other remains on your waist.

heeseung takes a second to process the moment, looking at jake’s happy expression and the way you gaze at him proudly.

“yeah…yeah, you did, man. i’m proud of you.”

“thanks, hee.” jake’s smile slowly turns into a smirk. “we can decide how we’ll blow the prize money later, yeah?”

he leans down, nose nudging into your hair as he whispers in your ear, low enough for only you to hear. your heart beats faster again, the thrum between your legs returning.

“because i believe a certain little ring girl made a promise to me for tonight. right, baby?”

ㅤㅤ──────────────────────

jake’s pressing his strong, bare chest against you the whole way up the metal stairs, hands all over your body and lips on your neck as if he can’t wait another moment.

he’s guiding you towards the direction of the room he usually smokes in, but you stop him, turning around to face him with a hand pressed to his chest (which you do to try and bring him a bit back down to earth, but it only proves to distract you with how firm his muscles are underneath your fingertips).

“ch— chan’s room, we should use chan’s room. it has a bed.” you struggle to say, almost enough to be embarrassed with how you’re already practically panting— if it weren’t for how badly you want him.

“okay, yeah. show me where it is.” jake rumbles, voice throaty and possibly sounding even more affected than yours.

you grab his hand and lead him down a hall, not taking long before you stop in front of a door.

“this it?” jake asks, and the moment you give a responding ‘yes’ he’s pushing you up against the door, lips sloppily working over yours and impatient tongue slipping inside your mouth while you can hear his hand fiddling to turn the doorknob.

“fuck, been imagining how your lips taste for so long.” he groans hotly against your skin, causing your stomach and pussy to flutter with how desperate jake sounds, thighs clenching at the thought of him fantasizing about you.

“yeah?” you breathe just as the door clicks open, jake’s arm wrapping around your waist as he backs you into the room, not even bothering to look behind him as he slams the door shut; your bodies are instantly bathed in a magenta glow from the strip lights, the highs and lows of jake’s jawline and muscles accentuated as he devours you with his eyes— the same thing you’re doing to him.

“yeah, been imagining you in a lot of ways..” he remarks darkly, almost to himself as he takes slow steps towards you, making you feel like stalked prey in the best way as you let him back you up, closer and closer to the bed.

“what kind of ways?” you question, tone soft yet underlying challenging, asking for it.

“too many ways to show you in one night, but i’ll try anyway.” jake smirks, all sharp and hungry; a tingle runs down your spine before your calves hit the frame of the bed, falling onto the comforter with a gasp as jake looms right above you, eyes raking over your body once again.

“have i ever told you how much i love you in this uniform, these tiny, sorry excuse for shorts?”

his knee digs into the mattress, positioning himself to cage you below him. one finger slips beneath the band of your shorts, pulling it back and letting go so it will snap against your skin; he chuckles at your light flinch in reaction, the way your thighs squeeze together again as the sting makes your pussy clench around nothing.

“j— jake, don’t you think you should rest a little first, have a drink of water? you just finished an hour long fight.” you worry; you may be incredibly horny and desperately want him to fuck you into the mattress until there’s an imprint of your bodies left, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t still concerned for his well-being.

“the only thing i wanna drink is in between these thighs.” the man dismisses easily, lowering himself until he’s laying on his stomach and your bent legs are framing his head; he grips them firmly, pressing his face against your clothed pussy before breathing in deeply.

“jake!” your face burns, almost sounding scolding at the way he so shamelessly breathes in the smell of your cunt, animalistic and gross; but you like it, and the last thing you want is for him to stop.

“fuck,” he sighs, the air of it brushing against your inner thighs and leaving goosebumps.

jake sits up on his knees, unfastening the velcro strap of one hand wrap before working on removing it so he can properly touch and feel your skin against his palms. it’s almost inhuman how hot he looks— above you with brows furrowed in concentration, muscles flexing without even trying as he unwraps the gauze, pronounced veins trailing down his forearms and hands; then you notice the bulge in his loose fitting boxer shorts— and its big, reminding you of his earlier implications of being ‘huge’ down there. (not that you needed a reminder. how could you ever forget?)

jake’s huff pulls you back to reality, looking up from his crotch to see a cocky, shit-eating grin on his face, realizing you’ve been caught staring at his covered dick.

“like what you see?” he teases— and as if that isn’t enough to make you simmer in hot embarrassment, he makes it worse when he raises his other still-wrapped hand to his mouth, taking the velcro strap of it in between his teeth before ripping it open.

oh, fuck him.

“did you seriously get hard just from smelling my pussy? that’s pretty pathetic, jake.” you bite back, a sassy spark in your eyes.

the second hand wrap is tossed to the floor just like the first one, jake lowering again to brace himself against his elbows on either side of your head as he stares into your eyes.

“oh, baby, i was hard the moment i walked into the arena and saw you.” he confidently admits, hand creeping up your neck to grip your jaw; his fingers are gentle against the bone, a soft flutter in your stomach turning into a burst of arousal when jake’s gaze suddenly hardens, holding you roughly in his hand.

“but call me pathetic one more time and i won't even fill that pussy. i’ll fuck into your folds until i bust and cover you in my cum but you’ll never get my big cock stretching your little hole unless you act like a good girl. got it?”

“y— yes, jake. m’sorry.” you whimper.

he seems to accept your apology, pressing another wet kiss to your lips before telling you to strip.

your eagerness shows as you quickly take off your shorts and sports bra, noticing how closely jake stares at the thong you’re wearing but resisting the small urge you have to tease him and peel them off slowly.

he settles between your legs again once you’re completely bare, fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs as he unabashedly stares at your pussy.

“tried to make fun of me getting hard when you’re this wet? why, baby? tell me what’s got you this worked up.” he demands, breath ghosting over your clit, full lips so close to where you need them— yet he doesn’t move, thumbs making little circles against your inner thighs but never edging any closer.

“liked..liked seeing you fight, looked so hot.”

“really?” he laughs, almost in amused disbelief as he shakes his head. “you like seeing me all sweaty and bloody? is that what you mean?”

you’re eyes squeeze shut as you nod your head, so ashamed yet unable to keep from staring at jake laying between your thighs for too long.

“yes.” you manage to verbally answer, looking for mercy, trying to conjure it from the man with a needy tone and begging eyes.

“that’s nasty, y/n.” jake demeans, but his tongue graces through your folds with one firm, flattened lick. “starting to make me think you’re as dirty as i am.”

you gasp when he finally stops teasing and properly mouths at your pussy with his lips, savoring the taste of your wetness on his tongue and replacing it with his spit. he softly sighs in satisfaction at your flavor, using two fingers in the form of a peace sign to spread your lower lips further open. you fail to contain the way your body starts to lightly squirm, hands beginning to pull at the sheets as jake spreading you open exposes your warm center to the air— and it's only made worse when he blows teasingly against your clit, smirking at your responding whine before sucking it into his mouth.

“oh, fffuck.”

jake hums at your pretty voice compromised by pleasure, flicking his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves before delving back down to your leaking hole.

“feels good, baby?” he asks, but you’re unable to answer as he presses three fingers in between your glistening folds, getting them all slicked up.

“jake?” you shakily ask, anticipating what you hope is coming, entrance pulsing in impatience and need.

“gotta get you nice n’ stretched for my cock, don’t i, baby? promise you, i’m bigger than what you’re used to.” jake answers, your brain clouding over with dirty lust at the subtly petty words he says— like he’s a little jealous over the meaningless arrangement you and chan had. had; because he’ll never get to have you again— and after jake, you have a feeling you won’t want to give it to anyone else.

a moan breaks through your throat when jake pushes one long finger inside your cunt, mouth going back down to lick and suck at your flesh.

jake’s ‘under control’ persona starts to slip, eyes fallen shut and heavy breaths turning into drawn out, deep sighs as he gets lost in the taste, warmth, and wetness of your pussy; his finger fluidly moves in and out of you, a second appendage joining it when jake feels your walls greedily suck and squeeze around them tightly, in need of more. a small but growing pressure develops in the middle of your pelvis, trying to will your parted mouth closed by biting your bottom lip, moans and sighs consistently spilling from them.

jake groans against your clit, the vibrations along with his watering mouth and swirling tongue stimulating you further as the man starts to grind his hips into the mattress, hard and throbbing just from your pussy in his mouth.

when the third finger is pushed past your entrance your expression crumbles in pleasure, the delicious stretch of his thick fingers only a taste of what’s to come when he finally gives you his cock. your hands turn frantic, the sheets not enough to fold onto anymore as they unconsciously move to pull at jake’s fluffy head of hair, pushing him further into your pussy as your hips begin to move in waves against his suckling lips and pistoning fingers.

“shit— that’s right, pull my hair.” jake growls, speaking quickly and in mumbles as he can’t even seem to bear being apart from your cunt for long, unless to mumble dirty words against your clit.

“god, you look like such a slut, riding my fingers like that.”

the pressure inside of you grows and grows, jake’s fingers curving perfectly, as if he’s quite literally coaxing your climax out of you with encouraging little movements. your own pants, jake’s heavy intakes of breaths through his nose as he remains attached to your pussy, and the creaking of the bed from the desperate grinding of your own hips as well as jake’s— it’s all so good, too good.

“i— i’m..please, need to—“ you attempt, words so much harder when jake’s fingers in your pussy seems to jumble up all the thoughts in your mind.

“do it. cum in my mouth.” he grants, and it’s like his words are now you’re new law; immediately you’re spilling over with a cry, wet slurps of jake drinking up all that you give him and your own pounding heartbeat the only thing you can hear anymore as your eyes squeeze shut, magenta light glowing past your eyelids.

you’re still panting like a pornstar by the time jake forces himself off of your cunt, detaching his lips from your sensitive clit with a thick string of saliva that breaks as he sits up, hurrying to take off his shorts and jerk off his cock in his hand.

and yes, he wasn’t lying; it is, in fact, fucking huge— not to mention pulsing with need from his humping against the mattress and dripping with precum.

“c’mere, baby, c’mere. put it in your mouth.” he urges, clearly on the brink of his own high as he moves to sit beside your head, fisting his cock viciously in his bunched fist. you sit up on your elbows and turn your face to take him in your mouth, jake’s hand tangling messily in your hair to guide you; you relax your throat as best as you can, finding your air supply short as you haven’t even caught your own breath yet— but the feeling of jake’s slick shaft gliding past your lips, pushing you roughly down to his hilt as your nose squishes against his pelvis— you love it all, and so you find yourself enjoying the slightly dizzying effect of choking on jake’s big cock.

“yeah, that’s right.” jake pants, veined knuckles turning white with how tightly he clenches his fingers, hardly even needing to push your head down as you gain a rhythm, bouncing your willing little mouth up and down his thick shaft.

you take a risk and resist the guiding motions of his hands in your hair, moving up to his tip to give it a little extra attention, suctioning your lips around it and swirling your tongue while looking up at him with the prettiest gaze you can manage.

“fffuck— nasty bitch. you’re gonna make me cum.”

you whine in response— and it’s absolutely pornograghic, but you don’t care; you want him to fill your mouth so bad.

jake starts thrusting into your drooling mouth with animalistic grunts, both hands now in your hair as he uses you just how he wants you. your face is being fucked, you’ve just learned that jake’s a ‘head pusher’, and that you love sucking on his fat cock just as much as he loves to eat your pussy.

maybe you died and made it to hell— because heaven could never be this nasty.

“close— cumming!” jake warns, and then his cock is pumping his load onto your tongue, filling your mouth and down your eager throat.

“good girl, goood fuckin’ girl, y/n.”

once jake has let you swallow it all down, he pulls out of your mouth with a wet pop, you making sure to turn the licking of your lips into a show as you savor his cum.

jake laughs breathlessly, brushing some of the hair out of your eyes. “yeah, you’re definitely nasty, baby.”

“fuck me!” you whine, rocking your body side to side like a brat— but really you’re just trying to entice him with the way your boobs sway along with the movement.

“hold on.” jake says, like he’s in just as much of a hurry to be inside of you as you want him.

he leans towards the nightstand at the side of the bed, opening a drawer and trifling around for something with his hand.

“this guy’s gotta have condoms in here.” he mumbles to himself.

“no! m’ on the pill, just fuck me raw,” you pout, laying it on thick when jake raises his head from looking down into the drawer to gawk at you.

“i think i just fell in love.” he breathes, making you beg further as you’re too horny to even joke around right now.

“please, jake!”

“okay, okay. fuck, so whiny when you want cock, huh?”

“not want. need.” you correct, a little bit of shame coming back to you as your cheeks burn with heat— but you’re sure that will all disappear again the moment his cock breeches past your entrance.

“flip over then.” jake orders gently, tapping your hip.

“prop up on your knees…yeah, that’s it, baby.” he praises, butterflies erupting in your tummy as you arch your back for him, getting a whispered expletive and groping hand on your ass in response.

jake positions himself behind you, running his tip up and down your wet folds as if he really needs more lubricant when you’re both so gross and horny.

“sure you want it raw?” jake stalls, teasing.

you practically scream in frustration.

“yes, jake! god— how fucking hard is it for you to just—“

his cock slamming inside of you in one go is plenty enough to shut you up, feeling as though he’s deep enough to be prodding into your guts.

“don’t get snippy at me, slut. you got what you wanted, yeah? this big dick inside your nasty cunt, now stop being a brat and fucking take it.”

the sounds that barely squeeze out from your tight throat come from deep within your chest, jake’s hand squeezing firmly around the back of your neck to keep your body steady as he pounds into you from behind.

he’s rock solid despite already cumming once, hard cock forcing your walls to accept him in as he molds you to his shape.

you’re already quivering, pathetic and drooly and loud as your sensitive pussy is overwhelmed by how good it feels to be fucked by jake.

despite your better judgment to try your best to reel yourself in and make it last— you’re rocking back against him, hips bouncing off his pelvis as he watches what you’re doing, hands moving to feel the way your skin ricochets off the slam of his thrusts.

“hell yeah, baby. fuck back on it.” jake grits through his teeth.

at some point, as if the boxer couldn’t fuck you any better— he does; his hands push at the small of your back, curving your spine deeper as your hips tilt to a different angle. the breath feels knocked out of you the next time his hips roll against your ass, cock reaching your g-spot and making your toes curl and mouth open in a broken cry.

“jake— jake, jake!” you repeat like a mantra, and jake is so glad how wrong he was— how wrong he was to think that he’d never hear you screaming his name or feel your hips and the way your pussy grips around his cock; you sound better than he could ever have imagined, and feel an infinity times better than his hand.

everything’s wet: jake’s cock shlicking in and out of your hole, your pussy that practically splashes onto his balls with every slap— so jake isn’t surprised when you start begging.

“f— feel it, m’ about to cum. please, please let me.”

“think i found your sweet spot, didn’t i, baby?” jake asks rhetorically, chuckling airily at the way you’re full-body trembling.

you turn your head against the pillow, hair a mess, drool sticking to the corners of your glossy lips, and eyes sparkling with tears of pure need; you look like an absolute cock drunk wreck, and jake’s eyes almost roll to the back of his head from how sexy you are.

“need it so bad, jake. please. gonna— c— can’t do it,” you slur, tongue heavy in your mouth as all your energy seems to have been put into not cumming.

jake’s fingers run up your spine, and if you weren’t so out of it, you’d notice how shaky his own touch is.

“go ahead, baby. i’ll give you another nice big load inside this pussy after, okay?”

“yes, yes!” you cry, not resisting your bodily urges the next time his tip bruises into your g-spot.

your body melts into the mattress and you feel as though you’re not in your full body as you reach climax; you can’t feel anything other than the raw pleasure that jake gives you— you’re just a hole, you’re just a pussy for his cock to fuck and use, and you’re just the rush of juices spilling out from your hole, creaming all over jake and your own legs, staining the sheets.

“that’s it, oh shhhit. good girl, keep fucking going. come on.” jake coos, thumb sneaking down to rub at your clit as you continue to squirt— and he wants to wring absolutely every drop out of you.

“j— jakey, s— sensitive. hurts.”

“i know, baby. i know. just gonna give you my cum, okay? you want it, don’t you?” jake coos, sweet yet degrading, like he’s talking to a puppy.

“yes, wan’ it! cum in me, jake!”

“shit, you got it, baby. you got it.” he growls, fingers never stopping the circles they rub into your clit as his hips flinch in rhythm, pressing deeper and slower into you as he finally releases with a drawn out, throaty moan.

this time when your eyes close, they roll to the back of your head, seeing white instead of magenta as the feeling of jake’s warm cum filling your fucked-raw pussy has you reaching another high.

you gush around jake’s cock, less than the first time but still plenty enough to have him in shock and so, so turned on.

when you come back down to earth, jake is holding you against his chest, fingers rubbing up and down your arm soothingly.

“hey, baby. you back now?” he asks gently, voice caring and soft.

“not quite,” you joke tiredly, yet you feel absolutely amazing. “but almost.”

“yeah, id imagine squirting a waterfall will do that to you.” jake giggles.

“okay, fuck you. you already won the match, reigning champ. do you gotta brag about that too?” you playfully roll your eyes, leaning more into his side despite your mock annoyance.

“yeah. i do, actually.” jake answers matter-of-factly, not mentioning how much he likes you calling him ‘reigning champ’— because he has a feeling if he did, you wouldn’t be so willing to say it again.

you fondly sigh, letting the man pull you closer against him as you take a moment to rest in the moment of silence.

the usual distant sound of people downstairs is too faint to hear, making you wonder how long you were going at it for. your eyes roam around the room, thinking of how chan has hardly any personal items in the space other than furniture and leftover beer bottles or glasses.

“think they’ll let chan fight in the ring again after he cheated?” you ask curiously.

“the owners probably don’t give a shit, but i’d be surprised if chan even shows his face here again after tonight. the crowd would probably beat him up before i could even get to him.” jake answers.

“guess that means this room is yours now, huh?” you smile— which turns into a laugh as you watch jake’s expression turns to surprised realization.

“oh, yeah…yeah! sweet!” he beams, turning to his side as well to face you more directly; you’re caught off guard by how…cute he looks like this, hair a little tousled with ridiculously fluffy bedhead, eyes sparkling and round with excitement. you already knew he was cute, but now he almost resembles a puppy, and you’re reminded that there’s so many sides to jake you haven’t even gotten to know yet, and you’re eager to explore them.

“hey, y’know what we should do?” jake begins playfully.

“what?” you giggle, unable to resist how infectious he is.

“commemorate the room by going twelve rounds.”

that shit-eating grin is back, and you’re half purely terrified while the other half is terrified at how your pussy thrums with interest again— so easily.

“are you fucking kidding me, jake?”

“it’s not a proper fight unless there’s twelve rounds or someone k.o.’s!”

“we had sex, not a fight. and my soul practically left my body earlier, i think that counts as a k.o.!”

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Your stomach tightens, but not from hunger—not entirely. It’s exhaustion, or frustration, or both, a familiar cocktail of feelings that churns in your gut. You press a hand to your stomach, willing it to stay quiet. The small victories matter now, even if they’re as simple as keeping quiet.

“Figures,” you mutter, wiping your hands on the knees of your tattered jeans. The word feels heavy in the thick silence of the abandoned community building you’ve been calling home—a makeshift fortress that’s only just kept you alive for the past year.

The windows are boarded up with planks you scavenged from nearby wreckage, letting in only the faintest cracks of moonlight, casting fractured shadows on the walls. The small corner where you sleep is enclosed by a barricade of furniture you've managed to tie together with ropes and scraps of cloth you’ve gathered. It’s not perfect, but it’s held so far.

Outside, the telltale groans of the undead float through the night air, mingling with the distant sound of screams and breaking glass. You’ve learned to tune it out, to pretend that the world hasn’t fallen apart.

But every so often, when the noises grow too close or too many, the illusion shatters, leaving behind a pit of fear in your stomach that no amount of fortification can fill.

You lean back, letting your head hit the wall. The cracks in the paint catch against the rough weave of your jacket, the sound gritty and small. Your mind drifts back to that fateful day, the day everything went to shit.

You’d only been living in Seoul for a month, you were barely unpacked, just starting to memorise the labyrinth of subway lines, the shortcuts to your university. University acceptance had felt like the first step towards something bigger, something brighter. You can still see your parents’ faces, lit with pride, when you shared the news. Getting into a university in Seoul—it’s like gaining instant bragging rights for life.

Except now, none of it matters. Those things out there couldn’t care less about your alma mater, whether you’re earning a six-figure salary or pulled from the gutter. To them, you’re just another meal on legs—flesh, blood, and bone all blending into the same, mindless craving.

You’d always thought you’d know what to do in a zombie apocalypse. Every movie and survival guide said the same thing:

Avoid the cities. Get out fast.

So when the news started to break, you didn’t hesitate. You grabbed a bag—essentials only—and set out, determined to make it back to your parents in the province. You didn’t even pause to think about how impossible it might be.

But the city had other plans. You hadn’t even made it ten blocks before the streets were overrun. A tide of chaos, of screams and shoving bodies—alive and not—forced you off course.

The community building was a last-ditch refuge, its doors flung open to anyone desperate enough to run for them. You’d barely made it inside before the barricades went up. It wasn’t the plan, but then again, nothing about survival ever is.

At first, it felt like a haven. There were enough supplies to keep everyone fed—if barely. Dozens of survivors shared the space, most of them too old or too scared to leave. The rations were thin, one meal a day if you were lucky, but it was enough.

You and a handful of the younger survivors took turns venturing out, gathering what you could from nearby shops and houses. It wasn’t much, but it worked.

For a time.

When the convenience store was stripped bare, you moved to the supermarket. When that was picked clean, you ventured further. Each trip took you deeper into danger, the risk growing with every step. Supplies dwindled. The fear grew sharper, harder to ignore.

People started to die—some to the undead, others to hunger, and still others to the kind of cruelty that only surfaces when survival is on the line.

You learned quickly that it wasn’t just the zombies you had to fear. You’ve seen it firsthand: the way desperation changes people.

At first, it was small things—arguments over ration sizes, whispers of distrust. But then the small petty arguments turned into fights, and fights turned into bloodshed.

One by one, people either left to take their chances elsewhere or fell victim to the chaos within. A high school student, he had barely turned eighteen, stabbed a man over a tin of peaches. A woman abandoned her own mother to save herself when the barricade was breached.

Survival strips away more than flesh—it strips away the pretence of civility, leaving only the raw, animalistic instinct to endure at any cost. It’s not just the undead that keep you awake at night—it’s the memory of what people are capable of becoming.

So when the barricade failed during a particularly viscous storm and you’d barely escaped with your life, you dragged what little you could salvage to this corner of the building, patching up the holes as best as possible. Alone, because it was safer that way.

Now, alone in the faint light of your makeshift fortress, the weight of it all presses down on you. The loneliness, the hunger, the constant, gnawing terror—it’s all too much. But you shove it aside, because there’s no room for weakness here.

Weakness gets you killed.

Your stomach growls again, insistent, and you grit your teeth. You’ll have to go out again soon. The thought sends a chill through you, but there’s no other choice. Survival doesn’t wait for fear to subside.

Taking a deep breath, you stand and reach for your weapon—a rusted crowbar that’s seen more use than you’d like to admit. Tomorrow, you’ll go out again, search for food, risk what’s left of your life to keep it from ending.

For now, you sit in the dark and listen. To the groans. To the screams. To the sound of your own ragged breathing. And try not to dream.

A loud thunk from below jolts you awake, not that you were fully unconscious in the first place. Your entire body goes rigid as you strain to listen. Another thunk. Then a scrape, like something heavy being dragged across the ground floor. Your mind races—it could be the wind, or maybe another scavenger. Or it could be them.

Your grip on the crowbar tightens as you slowly push yourself off the floor. You tiptoe toward the staircase leading down to the lobby. The wooden stairs creak under your weight as you inch down them, and you wince at each sound. They might as well be gunshots in the stillness.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you reach the landing and peer into the dark hallway beyond. Shadows shift and flicker in the faint moonlight filtering through cracks in the boarded-up windows.

The dragging sound comes again, closer this time, and your grip tightens until the ridged metal of the crowbar bites into your skin. Then, a growl echoes from the darkness. Low. Guttural. Not human.

You back up instinctively, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum. Your foot catches on a loose piece of debris, and you stumble, barely catching yourself on the railing. The noise you make is small but loud enough to stir the growling into a frenzy. The shuffling grows faster, more erratic.

They’re coming.

“Shit,” you hiss under your breath, scrambling back up the stairs. You’ve rehearsed this scenario a hundred times in your head. Go to the second floor. Block the stairwell. Wait it out. It’s worked before, but something tells you this time is different. There’s too much noise, too many of them. And you’re already running low on supplies.

By the time you reach the top of the stairs, the first figure emerges into the faint light below. Its flesh hangs from its bones in sickly, yellowed strips. Empty eye sockets seem to bore into you as it lets out a chilling moan. Behind it, more shadows lurch into view, a grotesque parade of decay and hunger.

You’re out of time.

Slamming the door to the stairwell shut, you shove a heavy desk against it and wedge the crowbar beneath the handle for good measure. The door shudders almost immediately under the weight of their assault, the moans and growls growing louder with each passing second. You back away, your mind racing for an escape route.

Your eyes dart to the boarded-up windows. It’s a long drop, but there’s a fire escape just a few feet out of reach. If you can break through the boards and make the jump, you might stand a chance. It’s a gamble, but so is staying here

And if you’re being honest, you’d rather plunge to your death than be torn apart limb by limb.

Grabbing a chair, you smash it against the nearest window. The wood splinters and cracks, but it holds firm. Behind you, the door creaks ominously as the barricade begins to give way. Desperation fuels your next swing, and the boards finally snap, leaving a jagged hole just big enough to climb through.

You don’t think—you just act, hauling yourself up and out onto the narrow ledge outside. The cold night air hits your face, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside. Below, the fire escape beckons. You take a deep breath, brace yourself, and leap.