Multi-fandom Fangirl

“Exactly.”

“You have no taste. You lack… enlightenment.”

“I have standards. And I lack nothing,” he shoots back, flashing that grin that should come with a warning and a government-issued permit.

While you aren't truly mad, you try to pretend, but then he starts singing. Purposely loud and off-key, twisting the lyrics into something ridiculous to make you laugh.

Absurdly, it works.

By the time you stop for gas, you’re not speaking to him. Not because you’re actually mad, but because he knows he’s charming, and you refuse to reward that.

You lean against the car while he pays, scrolling your phone like you’re deeply invested in something.

He comes back with snacks. “It was the last one,” he says, holding out your favorite chocolate like he’s presenting a tribute to a mildly hostile queen. “Peace offering.”

You don’t take it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Still doing this?”

“I don’t negotiate with men who insult Sleep Token.”

“Alright,” he nods thoughtfully, "but I didn't insult them. I just chose not to listen to them." With a smug grin, he unwraps the chocolate and takes a bite.

Your head snaps up. “You did not!”

“Oh, I did,” he says, chewing slowly. “And wow. This is really good. Shame you’re missing out.”

You snatch it out of his hand so fast it would impress a magician.

He laughs, head tipped back slightly, sunlight catching on his sunglasses, a bead of sweat on his throat drips down into the collar of his shirt.

It hits you, sharp and inconvenient. You like him. Not just in a ‘this is fun’ casual way. You like him in the 'this feels dangerous and real' whole-lot-terrifying way.

Great. Fantastic. Brilliant timing.

You shove the chocolate into your mouth like it will choke the realization.

The teasing settles into something softer once you're back on the road. Windows down, music lower, the world stretching out in long, lazy miles.

You’re turned slightly toward him, one leg tucked up under you. He has one hand on the wheel, the other on your knee, loosely holding your fingers while his thumb smooths over your knuckles.

“You’re staring,” he says casually.

“I’m not.”

He glances over, smirking. “You’re doing it right now.”

You look away immediately. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he challenges.

You hesitate, just for a second, but it's enough for him to notice because usually you’d accept the challenge by kissing him to stop the charm and smugness from leaking out.

His demeanor shifts, no longer teasing, but curious. “Something on your mind?”

“Just thinking,” you shrug.

“Dangerous.”

“Please. I think all the time.”

Jake chuckles. “And I usually end up in the dog house.” He pulls your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “What’s on your mind?”

You don’t answer because the truth is sitting right there, heavy and impatient at the back of your throat, like a tickle that you can’t clear away but has decided, inconveniently, that now is good enough.

You should ignore it. You should swallow it down. You should absolutely not say anything while he’s driving seventy miles an hour.

So naturally you say, “I think I’m in love with you.”

The car jerks to the side, but only slightly. Years of training keep him in control, but the mood shifts.

Pulling your hand from his, you clap it over your mouth like it will physically grab the words and shove them back in.

“I,” you start, voice muffled. “I didn’t. That just...”

He’s too calm. “You’re in love with me?” he repeats, not looking at you.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Like what? Out loud?”

“Jake.”

Finally, he glances over, the look on his face isn’t panic or confusion, it’s warm and soft, and it makes your stomach drop in an entirely new way.

“You picked a hell of a time,” he says.

“I know,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I was going to be cool about it. Maybe wait until we weren’t in a moving vehicle. Face to face.”

“Bold strategy.”

“Shut up.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, then looks back at the road. A beat passes. Two. Three. You brace yourself for the deflection, the gentle letdown.

“I was going to say it first.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What?”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just casually rearrange your entire emotional framework. “Been trying to figure out when. Didn’t think blurting it out at the Hard Deck or between gas stations was the move, but...”

"You’re kidding.”

“I don’t joke about stuff like that.”

“You literally just ate my chocolate out of spite.”

“That was different, that was war.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. A small, disbelieving, half-hysterical laugh. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious.” He reaches over, his hand finding yours, giving it a steadying squeeze. “I love you.”

Your heart tries to somersault out of your chest. “I love you too.”

Jake smiles at you. “You’re still not touching the aux,” he adds.

"Hey," you protest, "I just confessed my love...”

“Doesn’t mean I trust your playlist.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re in love with me,” he shoots back, grinning smugly.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten around his anyway. “Yeah, unfortunately for me.”

Jake laughs, and you turn to hide your smile.

You stopped at the same gas station on the way back to Fighter Town, and Jake had emerged with a magnet of your favorite chocolate bar. It lived on the fridge in the apartment you shared with Jake until you left. Now it lives on your fridge.

Hugging a coffee mug, you stare at the faded souvenir, wondering how it all came to this. Funny how a cheap magnet could become a token for a life you no longer have. You kept it because throwing it away felt too much like admitting your relationship was over.

“Hey.”

Jake’s voice startles you from your reverie, and you twist to see him leaning against your bedroom door. Shirtless and beautiful and rested. The dark circles and redness his eyes had worn last night are nearly invisible.

“Morning.”

His eyes move beyond your shoulder, and when that boyish smile appears, you know he's seen the magnet and had a brief flash of the same memory that sent you spiraling into the past. His smile fades faster than yours had, and the silence that follows is heavy, filled by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city waking up.

Neither of you can pretend last night didn’t happen, and neither of you knows what happens next.

Jake scratches the back of his neck. “I still think Sleep Token sucks.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You still have no taste.” You take one last look at the magnet, then move to grab another mug from the cupboard.

“Do you regret it?” Jake blurts at your back.

“What?”

He’s at your side before you’ve set the mug down. “Do you regret it?” he asks again, “Not last night or this morning or whatever.” He frowns, shaking his head like he’s trying to shake his thoughts into order. “Us. Do you regret us?”

“No,” you say softly, “I don’t regret any of it.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “I know last night doesn’t magically fix anything, and I don’t expect it to," he winks, "although I was in top form."

You roll your eyes, chuckling, “There he is.”

“Seriously,” he sighs, taking your hands, “can I come back tonight? Or tomorrow maybe?”

“Jake.”

“I don’t mean,” he gestures vaguely toward your bedroom. “Well, okay, maybe I mean that a little, but that’s not what I’m asking.” He takes a deep breath. "I’m asking if I can come back and have dinner with you? Can I call you when Rooster does something stupid today? Can I send you videos of dogs doing cute stuff? Can we go to dinner and you steal my fries when I specifically told you to order your own?”

Your eyes well with tears because you miss all of those seemingly trivial things. “Stolen fries taste better.”

He chuckles but brushes his thumb over your knuckles, and it seems to ground him. “I know we can’t just pretend nothing happened. I know I hurt you, and there are things we need to talk about. What I’m asking is,” he smiles weakly before dropping his gaze to where your hands are joined. “Can we start over?”

“Start over?” The hitch in your breath draws his attention back to your face.

“Not all the way over." The gravity in his tone contrasts with the glint in his eyes. Lifting his chin toward the refrigerator, he asserts, “I’m not sitting through the Sleep Token phase again.”

“It wasn’t a phase.” Your attempt at sterness is thwarted by the involuntary curl of your lips.

It seems to ease the tension in him. The urgency in his voice is gone. “I don't want to erase how this began or pretend we haven’t loved each other,” he sighs, “or ignore that I screwed this up.”

He squeezes your hands, searching your face as he seemingly searches for words. The vulnerability in his expression is so rare that your body reacts with a sharp stab in your chest.

“We’ll go slow this time, like normal people.”

“We’ve never been normal people.”

“That’s true.” He grins. “Just... let me take you on a date tonight?”

“A date?”

“Yeah. It's been a long time since we've done that. So let me take you on a real date.” He rolls his eyes, smirking, “I’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

You gasp. “Wow”

“I know. Huge personal growth.”

Your laugh feels lighter than any you’ve managed in months. Jake watches, hopeful and terrified.

“One date,” you agree.

His grin arrives slowly, bright as the rising sun.

A/N 2: I'm sure I'll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don't miss it.

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Our turn.

He feels sick. The Dagger Squad doesn’t invite people in out of politeness. Fanboy’s squeeze of the week isn’t invited. Rooster’s new girlfriend hasn’t passed the test yet because they only invite people they love. It’s more than a squad, it’s a family. Jake isn't the only one who's lost you. They have too. They’ll never forgive him. He’ll never forgive himself.

“I assumed they knew.”

“Coyote knows.” Jake sighs. They probably all know by now, but he has neither confirmed nor denied. No one has asked him directly because he hasn't been around to let them. He isn’t hiding the breakup, but not talking about it helps him keep the illusion that it isn't real. He takes a sip of his coffee, and his chest tightens. It’s perfect, exactly how he takes it. It’s not been long enough for you to have forgotten, but something about the fact you remembered cuts deeper than it should.

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Afraid they’d uninvite you?”

“They would.” Jake huffs. “They tolerate me. They love you.” He pauses, biting his tongue, but decides he has nothing to lose and says it anyway. “We all do.”

“Jake, don’t.”

“Don’t love you or don’t say it?” he asks.

The regret hits hard. A moment ago, he thought leaving would be best for both of you. Now, he's afraid you’ll make him go.

You close your eyes. “Please don’t.” The plea in your voice is worse than anger. He can survive anger because it means there is somewhere for all this hurt to go, but you just sound tired.

“It took me months to build the courage to leave.” A tear slips free, landing on the rim of your cup. “Then weeks of fighting the longing not to.” Your eyes finally meet his. “None of this is easy, Jake.”

“I know.” He rubs a hand down his face. “But I won’t apologize for how I feel either.”

You sigh, wiping the dampness from your cheek as you stand. Moving to the kitchen, you busy yourself with washing out your mug, a way of gaining some distance from him.

With your back to him, voice nearly inaudible, you state, “I haven’t told anyone either. Saying it out loud made it too real.”

His eyes flit around the apartment, at the life you're making. “If I’d known…,” he says just as quietly, staring at the book, “If I'd known the last time I kissed you was gonna be the last time. I would’ve taken more care.”

You turn and lean against the countertop, tears flowing freely, as he looks back in your direction. His vision blurs, and the first tear slips from the corner of his eye. “If I’d known the last hug was the last one, I‘d have held on a little longer.”

The sound you make is heartwrenching.

He blinks to clear his vision.

Your fingers flex around the counter's edge. Your lip trembles.

“You can h-hug me now.”

Jake swears his heart has stopped. Wondering if he misheard or if he’s just so desperate that he’s making it up, he remains still.

“P-please,” you say a little stronger with a watery, nervous laugh.

Jake stands so fast his chair nearly tips over. He rounds the table, and you take a step to meet him. The moment his arms wrap around you, everything in him breaks. “I miss you.” Voice cracking, he laments, “I love you, and I’m sorry.” Squeezing his eyes closed, he tightens his embrace. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Weeks of denial, of regret, of trying to quell the ache by pretending it wasn’t there, vanish. This is all he needed. You. He buries his face against your neck as your fingers curl tighter into the material of his shirt.

For the first time since you left, neither of you is pretending you’re okay. It won't magically mend what was broken or spontaneously forgive the mistakes made, but it's a beginning.

A step forward to move through the grief. Together.

Part 5 - Coming very soooooon

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The roads are empty at this hour, and with no destination in mind, he rolls the windows down, letting the cool breeze soothe his heated skin, as he meanders around the town. Not sure how long he's been driving and barely paying attention to traffic signals, he's startled at the next turn to find he's on your street.

Parking across the street from your apartment complex, he lets out a humorless laugh. “You're pathetic, Seresin."

This is ridiculous. He wonders if he's crossed into stalking territory. Yet, instead of leaving, he sits there, staring at the warm glow of lamp light through a tiny crack in the partially drawn curtains.

Most of the other windows are dark. Their occupants are likely asleep, like most normal people would be at this hour. You might be too. He lost track of how many times he would find you asleep with a book draped over your lap, or lying open on the floor where it fell.

He remembers a time when you couldn’t sleep unless he was home. Nestled on the couch, you'd be half asleep, fighting your exhaustion, waiting for him. He'd carefully scoop you up, and you'd curl into his chest with a sigh. It was always the same conversation on the way to the bedroom.

"Why didn't you go to bed?"

"It's too quiet without you. I need to hear your heartbeat."

Maybe that's why he can no longer sleep. He no longer has the comfort of not only your warmth, but the slow, steady rhythm of your heart under his ear when he needs it.

Jake white-knuckles the steering wheel and beats his head against the headrest, trying to dislodge the memory. His next thought only increases his frustration. You might be sleeping better without him and the disappointment he brings.

With a disgruntled huff, he grips the gear shift, but the buzzing of his phone makes him freeze. He dumbfoundedly stares at the notification when he pulls it from his pocket. There's a text message …from you. It's short enough that he doesn't have to unlock his phone.

Can’t sleep?

Heart hammering in his chest, he looks up at the building. Even if he didn't know which apartment you lived in, he would know the familiar silhouette watching him, haloed by light.

He continues staring until another message appears.

You used to have a problem with showing up.

He did, and apparently, now he has a problem with leaving. This isn’t helping either of you, and the last thing he wants is to cause you any more pain. He unlocks his phone, trying to formulate a response, but those three tiny dots appear before he has a chance. So he waits.

You’re a stealth pilot. Sitting with your headlights on is a rookie move, Lieutenant.

The laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Come upstairs, Jake.

He can practically hear the sigh in the words as the next text drops.

Doors unlocked.

This time, there's no hesitation in responding.

On my way.

Part 4 - The Last Time - The first step to move forward is sometimes painful.

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The shower eases the tension in your muscles, washing away the road weariness and residual anger. The fact that you used up all the hot water feels justified, until it turns acidic and hollow. You don't like fighting with Dean.

While keeping the weapons clean and in top working order is important, you know that cleaning the guns is a stimming behavior for him. You hope the task and the time you spent in the bathroom were enough to calm him so that he'll at least talk to you.

Poker-faced and still sitting at the table, Dean is now focused on cleaning your gun. You take it as a good sign.

"Wanna grab some dinner?" You ask hopefully, watching for any indication that he's beginning to soften.

"Not hungry."

Stubborn jackass.

"Seriously? How long are you going to pout?"

That at least gets him to look at you.

Waving a hand over the pieces of your handgun, "I'm not pouting. I'm busy," he gives you a look like you're missing the obvious.

With a huff, you toss your dirty clothes on the bed, then shove your feet into your boots, not stopping to tie them. "Fine," you spit, swiping the key off the table as you pass. Yanking the door open, you step into the golden evening light. The resounding crack of angrily closing another door is satisfying, even if it is childish.

Gary's locking the station door as you pass. Smiling, you give him a little wave. He calls out, halting your angry march away from Dean.

"Hey. Sorry if I got your fella all worked up. I, uh, overheard some of your argument …afterward." With a sheepish look, he scratches the back of his neck. "I was gonna come out and help ya, but thought it might make things worse. Anyway, uh, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Lifting a hand, you point between you and the motel. "He's not my …" Realizing it doesn't matter, you shake your head and give him a friendly smile. "Not your fault. He's got a lot going on—overworked, tired, stressed out."

Gary hums in understanding, and you pull your thoughts up short.

Why am I defending him?

"Honestly. He's really just got a stick up his ass about the car." The words taste sour before they even leave your lips.

Everything you had said earlier truly had been in jest. You hadn't meant to hurt Dean's feelings or make him angry. He knows that you love Baby nearly as much as he does—nobody could love her as much as Dean—and that you would never want her altered in any way, which makes his continued ire even more frustrating.

"Alright, well," Gary's laugh draws your attention back to him, "hope he makes it up to you properly." The conspiratorial wink and then the waggle of his bushy eyebrows play up his implication.

Choking on the breath you just took, you squeak out, "Th-thanks." Spinning on a heel, you take a couple of quick steps before turning back. Face still flushed, you haltingly ask, "Do …do you …Where's the best place to eat around here?"

"That would be the Roadside Bar & Grill," he responds without hesitation, "but it's a few miles down the road." He looks around and tilts his chin up to where the Impala now sits. "Guessing he's not gonna let you drive her for a while?"

"No." A surge of sadness hits. Rarely given the chance to drive her before, you've probably lost privileges for life now. Kicking a small rock away, you weakly smile at the man. "Well, thanks. I'll find something closer."

Giving you a sympathetic look, he offers, "If you don't mind being seen with a scruffy-ass old man, I was just headed there myself. You could ride with me."

You shouldn't. The only weapon you have on you is the small knife sheathed in your boot. The world is safer now, but sometimes people are worse than the monsters. The brothers will be pissed when they find out—Sam will lecture you for days, and Dean …well, he's already not speaking to you, so that won't change.

You spare a glance at the Impala just as your stomach grumbles loudly. Chuckling, you look back at Gary, "It would be my honor to be seen with you."

Sitting close to the stage, your fingertips dance on the table top to the beat of the latest song you requested. Gary had bailed, saying he was too old to keep up and needed to head home. You declined his offer of a ride back, and he left only after you promised to call Dean when you were ready to leave. That had been two, or maybe three hours ago—you've lost track of time—but you have no intention of calling Dean.

Getting back to the hotel is a later problem. Alcohol and a little flirting with the hot band members are much more appealing than going back to an under-air-conditioned room with a sulking Winchester, who is most definitely angrier at you now for leaving without telling him where you were going, and without your gun.

You're not a child. You can take care of yourself. He's the one acting like a child. Being a baby about Baby. You laugh at your little joke, then mumble, "The car ride home is gonna suck."

Tossing back your shot, the bass player catches your eye as you set the empty glass down, dispelling further thoughts of the stubborn-headed lout. With a coy smile, you slide off the barstool and move closer. Keeping eye contact, he dances his way over to you, doing a quick slap pop of a chord before removing his cowboy hat and bending to place it on your head. He winks, and you lick your lips, swiveling your hips with the pulse of the guitar.

Dean would love this band. They've done an exceptional job covering all his favorite songs.

Stop thinking about him!

With a huff, you spin too quickly and trip on a still-untied boot lace. A large hand grips the back of your arm, keeping you from face-planting the floor. The touch is familiar, but not as familiar as the scent of his cologne. Once you get your footing, you plant a hand on the top of the hat as you look up at him.

He's soooooooo tall.

"Deeeeeean! You're here!"

Though he's fuming inside, Dean can't help but smile as you look up at him with those bright, sparkling eyes and giggle.

Then a second later, your entire demeanor shifts, and you pull your arm from his grip.

"Wait. You're here."

"Yeah. For a while now."

"What?" Taking a couple of steps back, you're now glaring. "How'd you find me?"

He shifts to keep one eye on you and one on the stage. The tattoo-covered musician you'd been flirting with steps to the edge of the platform as he continues to play, and Dean shoots him a warning look. The dude hesitates, then nods toward you and points to his head.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Despite your protest, Dean removes the hat from your head and hands it to the wanna be bassist, mumbling, "Yeah, that's right. Be more worried about your fugly hat than the woman you were ready to take advantage of. Loser.”

Dean continues to glare as the poor excuse for a musician heads back toward his bandmates to finish the set. JPJ would be pissed about the way the guy handled "Ramble On".

"OW!" The punch to his arm brings his attention back to you.

"I asked you how you found me?" Fingers curled into fists and planted on your hips, you glower at him. "And why'd you take my hat?!"

"Gary," he rubs his arm, muttering, "and it wasn't your hat."

"You didn't punch him, did you?"

"What? No!" Trying to follow your train of thought, he waves at the stage as he squats to lace up your boots. “You just saw me give it back to him. I didn't touch the guy."

"Not him! Gary." One of your hands abruptly lands on the top of his head as you pout, "You didn't hurt him?"

"No. I didn't hurt him." Shaking off your hold on him, he stands.

"Good!" You lean off balance, but catch yourself by gripping the table. "He was just joking, too." Smile returning, your eyes widen. "He's a really funny guy."

"I know." Pulling out his wallet, he tosses a couple of bills on the table, then nods to the bartender who's also been keeping an eye on you. Placing a hand on your back, he ushers you toward the door.

"You do?"

"Mhmm."

You stumble and grip a belt loop. His hand slides to your waist.

"How?"

"He pulled up as I was getting ready to come look for you. He apologized, we talked a little bit, and he told me where you were."

"Snitch."

Dean chuckles, "He was worried about you." Voice a little lower, he pushes the door open and adds, "So was I."

Blinking up at him, you squint an eye closed and scrunch your nose, like it will help you see him better. It's adorable.

"You were?"

"Yeah." There's more he wants to say, but it can wait until you're sober.

Instinct makes him pull you against his side when you suddenly stop, but you push away with a huff and turn to face him.

"WAIT! If you've been here f-for a while, why didn't you come talk to me?"

Matching your pace, he keeps you within reach as you continue to step backward. You come to a wobbly stop, correcting your stance before he has a chance to help. Then something seems to break inside you. Tears pool on your bottom lashes, glistening in the beam from the overhead street light.

"You're still mad at me." You nod, believing the statement to be true.

"I'm not-"

Before he can finish, you rush forward to grip the front of his shirt and plead, "Please don't be mad at me anymore. I didn't mean to hurt you. I really didn't."

The palm hitting his cheek stings a little, but your skin is warm, soft, and your fingertips tickle his ear. Closing his eyes, he allows himself to lean in and savor the touch for a brief, precious moment. When your hand slips down the front of his shirt before falling away, he reminds himself not to read into it because you're three sheets to the wind. "I know," he soothes, placing his hands on your shoulders. "Now let's get you back to the hotel so you can sleep this off." Turning you to face the car, he's startled by your shout.

"BABY!" Slipping from his hold, you rush to her side, laying your head against the window and spreading your arms over her frame. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it. I love you."

Dean shakes his head, laughing as you apologize to his car. He's never actually seen you this drunk and wonders if he can get whiplash from your emotional swings. After a few minutes of you snuggling with her, he finally intervenes.

"Alright, that's enough, Drunky McDrunkerson," he peels you off the car, and you fall back against his chest laughing, "time to go."

"I love you."

"She knows."

"No. I love you." You tilt your head, wearing a lazy smile and adoring eyes.

His pulse hitches, and his brain momentarily short-circuits. Quick to lock the feelings down, he states as casually as possible, "I love you, too. Now, let's go."

"NO!"

Christ, you're quick despite being plastered. Arms out, body pressed against the door, you look at him like you're daring him to push you aside. Throwing his hands up, he takes a step back to let you ramble about whatever you seemingly need to get off your chest now.

"I LOVE you. Like deep," a hand comes to your chest, and you poke at your heart, "from here. Real love. And it …it makes me sad when you're sad or angry, and I can't fix it. I can't …I can't hug you or touch you like I want, 'cause it would be weird. 'Cause you don't feel the same."

The tears return while you're talking, causing his chest to tighten as his breath stalls. Pressing his lips together, he silently repeats, "She's drunk. She's drunk. It's just the alcohol talking." But drunk words are sober thoughts. He's not sure if he believes that.

Then it's like your face explodes with glee. "But you just said you love me. So, you love, love me, too. Right?"

Staring dumbfounded into your hopeful gaze, the words lodge in his throat. Then you straighten, your eyelids flutter, and you topple forward.

"Whoa." Wrapping an arm around you, he holds you against his side, "I gotcha," as he opens the passenger door. Placing a hand on the back of your head as you finally let him ease you into the seat, he tucks your legs in when you don't move any further.

Thankfully, his reflexes are still intact, as your fingers narrowly miss being crushed when you stick your hand out to prevent him from closing the door.

Eyelids heavy, you hiccup, "Y …you did …didn't answer my …my question."

Grabbing your wrist, he places your hand in your lap and pats it, hoping that's enough of a trigger for your brain to keep it there. "Good?" he asks, shaking his head as you wiggle to get comfortable.

Eyes closing, you lean against the headrest and hum, "Mhmm.

Brushing a finger along your jaw, he states quietly, "If you remember to ask tomorrow, I'll tell you." "I'll remember," you promise on a whisper back.

Double-checking that all your limbs are out of harm's way, he closes the door and briefly presses his hand against the hood. His stomach lurches as he rounds the rear of the car, but he breathes a plea to Baby that you will.

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“Exactly.”

“You have no taste. You lack… enlightenment.”

“I have standards. And I lack nothing,” he shoots back, flashing that grin that should come with a warning and a government-issued permit.

While you aren't truly mad, you try to pretend, but then he starts singing. Purposely loud and off-key, twisting the lyrics into something ridiculous to make you laugh.

Absurdly, it works.

By the time you stop for gas, you’re not speaking to him. Not because you’re actually mad, but because he knows he’s charming, and you refuse to reward that.

You lean against the car while he pays, scrolling your phone like you’re deeply invested in something.

He comes back with snacks. “It was the last one,” he says, holding out your favorite chocolate like he’s presenting a tribute to a mildly hostile queen. “Peace offering.”

You don’t take it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Still doing this?”

“I don’t negotiate with men who insult Sleep Token.”

“Alright,” he nods thoughtfully, "but I didn't insult them. I just chose not to listen to them." With a smug grin, he unwraps the chocolate and takes a bite.

Your head snaps up. “You did not!”

“Oh, I did,” he says, chewing slowly. “And wow. This is really good. Shame you’re missing out.”

You snatch it out of his hand so fast it would impress a magician.

He laughs, head tipped back slightly, sunlight catching on his sunglasses, a bead of sweat on his throat drips down into the collar of his shirt.

It hits you, sharp and inconvenient. You like him. Not just in a ‘this is fun’ casual way. You like him in the 'this feels dangerous and real' whole-lot-terrifying way.

Great. Fantastic. Brilliant timing.

You shove the chocolate into your mouth like it will choke the realization.

The teasing settles into something softer once you're back on the road. Windows down, music lower, the world stretching out in long, lazy miles.

You’re turned slightly toward him, one leg tucked up under you. He has one hand on the wheel, the other on your knee, loosely holding your fingers while his thumb smooths over your knuckles.

“You’re staring,” he says casually.

“I’m not.”

He glances over, smirking. “You’re doing it right now.”

You look away immediately. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he challenges.

You hesitate, just for a second, but it's enough for him to notice because usually you’d accept the challenge by kissing him to stop the charm and smugness from leaking out.

His demeanor shifts, no longer teasing, but curious. “Something on your mind?”

“Just thinking,” you shrug.

“Dangerous.”

“Please. I think all the time.”

Jake chuckles. “And I usually end up in the dog house.” He pulls your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “What’s on your mind?”

You don’t answer because the truth is sitting right there, heavy and impatient at the back of your throat, like a tickle that you can’t clear away but has decided, inconveniently, that now is good enough.

You should ignore it. You should swallow it down. You should absolutely not say anything while he’s driving seventy miles an hour.

So naturally you say, “I think I’m in love with you.”

The car jerks to the side, but only slightly. Years of training keep him in control, but the mood shifts.

Pulling your hand from his, you clap it over your mouth like it will physically grab the words and shove them back in.

“I,” you start, voice muffled. “I didn’t. That just...”

He’s too calm. “You’re in love with me?” he repeats, not looking at you.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Like what? Out loud?”

“Jake.”

Finally, he glances over, the look on his face isn’t panic or confusion, it’s warm and soft, and it makes your stomach drop in an entirely new way.

“You picked a hell of a time,” he says.

“I know,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I was going to be cool about it. Maybe wait until we weren’t in a moving vehicle. Face to face.”

“Bold strategy.”

“Shut up.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, then looks back at the road. A beat passes. Two. Three. You brace yourself for the deflection, the gentle letdown.

“I was going to say it first.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What?”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just casually rearrange your entire emotional framework. “Been trying to figure out when. Didn’t think blurting it out at the Hard Deck or between gas stations was the move, but...”

"You’re kidding.”

“I don’t joke about stuff like that.”

“You literally just ate my chocolate out of spite.”

“That was different, that was war.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. A small, disbelieving, half-hysterical laugh. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious.” He reaches over, his hand finding yours, giving it a steadying squeeze. “I love you.”

Your heart tries to somersault out of your chest. “I love you too.”

Jake smiles at you. “You’re still not touching the aux,” he adds.

"Hey," you protest, "I just confessed my love...”

“Doesn’t mean I trust your playlist.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re in love with me,” he shoots back, grinning smugly.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten around his anyway. “Yeah, unfortunately for me.”

Jake laughs, and you turn to hide your smile.

You stopped at the same gas station on the way back to Fighter Town, and Jake had emerged with a magnet of your favorite chocolate bar. It lived on the fridge in the apartment you shared with Jake until you left. Now it lives on your fridge.

Hugging a coffee mug, you stare at the faded souvenir, wondering how it all came to this. Funny how a cheap magnet could become a token for a life you no longer have. You kept it because throwing it away felt too much like admitting your relationship was over.

“Hey.”

Jake’s voice startles you from your reverie, and you twist to see him leaning against your bedroom door. Shirtless and beautiful and rested. The dark circles and redness his eyes had worn last night are nearly invisible.

“Morning.”

His eyes move beyond your shoulder, and when that boyish smile appears, you know he's seen the magnet and had a brief flash of the same memory that sent you spiraling into the past. His smile fades faster than yours had, and the silence that follows is heavy, filled by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city waking up.

Neither of you can pretend last night didn’t happen, and neither of you knows what happens next.

Jake scratches the back of his neck. “I still think Sleep Token sucks.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You still have no taste.” You take one last look at the magnet, then move to grab another mug from the cupboard.

“Do you regret it?” Jake blurts at your back.

“What?”

He’s at your side before you’ve set the mug down. “Do you regret it?” he asks again, “Not last night or this morning or whatever.” He frowns, shaking his head like he’s trying to shake his thoughts into order. “Us. Do you regret us?”

“No,” you say softly, “I don’t regret any of it.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “I know last night doesn’t magically fix anything, and I don’t expect it to," he winks, "although I was in top form."

You roll your eyes, chuckling, “There he is.”

“Seriously,” he sighs, taking your hands, “can I come back tonight? Or tomorrow maybe?”

“Jake.”

“I don’t mean,” he gestures vaguely toward your bedroom. “Well, okay, maybe I mean that a little, but that’s not what I’m asking.” He takes a deep breath. "I’m asking if I can come back and have dinner with you? Can I call you when Rooster does something stupid today? Can I send you videos of dogs doing cute stuff? Can we go to dinner and you steal my fries when I specifically told you to order your own?”

Your eyes well with tears because you miss all of those seemingly trivial things. “Stolen fries taste better.”

He chuckles but brushes his thumb over your knuckles, and it seems to ground him. “I know we can’t just pretend nothing happened. I know I hurt you, and there are things we need to talk about. What I’m asking is,” he smiles weakly before dropping his gaze to where your hands are joined. “Can we start over?”

“Start over?” The hitch in your breath draws his attention back to your face.

“Not all the way over." The gravity in his tone contrasts with the glint in his eyes. Lifting his chin toward the refrigerator, he asserts, “I’m not sitting through the Sleep Token phase again.”

“It wasn’t a phase.” Your attempt at sterness is thwarted by the involuntary curl of your lips.

It seems to ease the tension in him. The urgency in his voice is gone. “I don't want to erase how this began or pretend we haven’t loved each other,” he sighs, “or ignore that I screwed this up.”

He squeezes your hands, searching your face as he seemingly searches for words. The vulnerability in his expression is so rare that your body reacts with a sharp stab in your chest.

“We’ll go slow this time, like normal people.”

“We’ve never been normal people.”

“That’s true.” He grins. “Just... let me take you on a date tonight?”

“A date?”

“Yeah. It's been a long time since we've done that. So let me take you on a real date.” He rolls his eyes, smirking, “I’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

You gasp. “Wow”

“I know. Huge personal growth.”

Your laugh feels lighter than any you’ve managed in months. Jake watches, hopeful and terrified.

“One date,” you agree.

His grin arrives slowly, bright as the rising sun.

A/N 2: I'm sure I'll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don't miss it.

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You snort.

He points the butter knife at you, smiling. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m going to, you’re being beaten by breakfast.”

He turns back to the counter with the grave focus of a man defusing a bomb. His hands, tanned and capable enough to make your skin remember things instantly by just watching him work, drag the butter across the toast in uneven trenches.

And there it is again. That tiny shake. That little waver in his hands.

Barely noticeable if you hadn’t watched those same hands confidently guide steel through the clouds, gentle at your waist, reverent against your skin in the dark.

“Bradley.” You step close.

“Mm?”

“You’re nervous.”

It happens again, the slight shake of his hands.

“I am not.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

He tries for casual, but it falls short. “That is slander.”

“You’re buttering toast like you’d waterboard Hangman for pissing you off.”

You move beside him, hip brushing his. He stills immediately.

The great Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw, king of easy smiles and laid-back confidence, is suddenly very interested in the countertop again.

You soften. “Why are you nervous?”

He exhales once through his nose. “Because.”

His pause is too long. “Compelling answer.”

“Because,” he says again, quieter this time, “I really like you.” He keeps talking, eyes glued to the knife in his hand. “And I know I’m supposed to be cool and casual this morning, maybe even charming or say something funny.” He sets the knife down. “Instead, I’m in your kitchen with my hands shaking over dairy products.”

You stare at him. Then you laugh, not at him, but from the sheer unbearable sweetness of it all.

His head drops. “And now she’s laughing.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. “You’re just unbearably sweet, and I don’t want to mess this up, so now I’m nervous.”

His head lifts at that, surprise chasing the embarrassment off his face.

“You?”

You huff a laugh and step between him and the counter. “Yes, me. Shocking development, I know.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He’s trying to fight it, but it's slow and warm and dangerous to your ability to think straight.

“I thought you were the calm one.”

“I was, right up until I saw you standing in my kitchen looking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a problem.”

That earns you a real grin, the confident, bright enough to rival the morning sun smile. “A problem?” he asks, sounding a little too proud.

“A serious one.”

He steps closer, crowding into your space until your back presses into the counter behind you. His hands settle at your waist, no waver remaining in his touch. “Good,” he mumbles. “I’d hate to be the only one having a crisis before coffee.”

He dips his head, nose brushing yours, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don’t. This kiss is different than the ones in the dark.

Last night had been heat and hunger, months of stolen glances snapping under pressure. This is slower, softer, the kind of kiss that says this isn’t fleeting, this is the real deal.

He makes that sound again, the same rough one from last night that ruined you as he moves from your mouth to your neck.

The toaster pops a second slice into the air, and you both jolt.

Bradley groans into your shoulder. “I hate that thing.”

“You’ve flown combat missions, and you're letting breakfast defeat you.”

“Worth it,” he says, lifting you onto the counter before kissing you again.

His hands are steady now, roaming and exploring again.

The toast goes cold. The coffee never gets poured. Neither of you is troubled by it.

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Standing in the bedroom, he looks around. The apartment is clean, but it's empty …dreary. No colorful blanket is draped over the end of the bed, the single plant on the kitchen windowsill you left behind is beyond saving, and the bookshelves in the living room are nearly empty. He smiles, thinking about your meticulous organization process for them, but it makes his chest tighten. The traces of your life here may have been erased from the apartment, but his mind recalls them in vivid detail.

He's not ready to deal with it.

Yanking open the closet door to grab his gym bag, a box crashes against his shoulder, contents spilling onto the hardwood as it lands at his feet.

"Shit!" Rubbing his shoulder, he stares down at the mess and shakes his head, choking back a laugh. In his attempt to escape the memory of you, the box he’d packed with the things you'd forgotten physically assaults him.

He had scribbled “STUFF” on it in sloppy, angry writing, shoved it into the closet, and blocked it from his mind.

Crouching, he picks up a bottle of lotion with hair ties in various colors stretched around the bottle, then a paperback with dog-eared corners, a magnet he found while sweeping the kitchen, and several small trinkets. All get shoved back in the cardboard container. Your favorite purple hoodie taunts him from a few inches away, but a glint distracts him as he reaches for it. Resting against the floorboard is a tiny gold hoop.

He stares for a moment, then picks it up and stands. The memory hits him before he has a chance to toss it in with the other items. Flipping it between his fingers, he sinks onto the edge of his bed.

He'd found it tangled in the sheets and had torn apart the room when you realized its match was missing as well. You’d laughed at him the entire time.

“Babe, it’s just an earring, not a search and rescue operation.”

These aren’t forgotten items. These are the proof of the life you tried to live with him.

His eyes land on the hoodie, and before he fully thinks it through, it’s in his hands—a terrible idea because it smells like you.

Jake closes his eyes, “Damn it,” and lies back on the bed with the garment covering his face.

Though you don't feel quite ready, you agree to meet him. Neutral ground of a coffee shop halfway between your new place and base. Ironically, you moved closer but are so much further apart.

He's almost unrecognizable, not different, but tired …defeated. Jake Seresin is always put together, hair perfect, shirt pressed, cocky grin loaded and ready to fire. Today, he looks rough, as if someone had pulled a string to fray the edges.

Forever the gentleman, despite his normally smug armor—or whatever this is—he stands when you approach and waits for you to sit before sitting back down.

“Hey.”

You hate that your heart still squeezes at the sound of his voice. “Hey.”

Silence follows the greeting, like an awkward third party.

Jake eventually clears his throat and gestures to a chair nearby. “I have some of your stuff.”

“Oh, thanks.” You stare at the box, unsure of what else to say.

“The place is pretty empty." He tries to laugh, but it turns to a sigh as he scrubs a hand down his face. "I didn’t realize how much of you was there, and how little of me.”

Not able to meet his gaze, you fumble in your pocket for a moment. “I have something for you, too.” Pulling out the engagement ring, you slide it across the table.

“No.” Jake stares at it and looks like he might be ill.

Suddenly, breathing feels weird, and you want to take it back.

“Jake.”

“No.” When his eyes finally meet yours, panic seems to bloom in their depths. “It's yours. I don't want it back.”

You spent months twisting the ring around your finger while you ate dinner alone. While you slept alone in an empty bed. While you waited for calls. Your throat tightens, deep down, you didn't really want to give it back, but it's the right thing to do.

“You know what kills me?” He's averted his gaze back to the ring. “I kept thinking you left because you stopped loving me.” His jaw tightens. “You didn’t, though, did you.”

It's not a question, and even if it was, you aren't prepared to answer. “Jake.” You don't want to do this anymore. It feels like a jet is sitting on your chest. It hurts.

Jake continues as if you hadn't spoken. “You were building a life for us, a home, and I was too damn busy acting as if we’d always have time.”

It takes a conscious effort not to reach for him. It's exactly what you’d been begging him to understand. You didn't need flowers or promises. You just wanted him to be present. To give input on the small, mundane decisions that help create and sustain a partnership, like what color to paint the walls, choosing a fabric for the curtains, or picking a couch that you both like.

Tears blur your vision. “I wore it because I loved you, Jake. I took it off because I needed to love me too.”

His shoulders sag further, his features shifting into a numbness that's almost tangible, and you blink back tears. Jake cautiously picks up the ring, like he's afraid it might cut him.

Sliding his hand across the table, he stops short midway, fingers curling back. “I don’t know if I missed my shot,” he hoarsely whispers, “but if I did, I need you to know I finally see it. I see you.”

The words cut deep because six months ago, they would have prevented this exact scenario.

Part 3 - 2AM - Jake can’t sleep, autopilot takes him to the one place he shouldn’t be.

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Faded shapes dot the walls where pictures and decor once hung. The refrigerator's surface is bare. No longer cluttered with Polaroids and old notes suspended by kitschy magnets. Cabinet doors stand open, hollow like spent missile shells, void of the very thing that gave them purpose.

In the middle of it all, you're bent over a box, smiling, his old Naval Academy shirt hanging loose on your shoulders. Tape dispenser in your hand like a gun, shooting directly into his chest at the screech of sealing boxes.

“Hey.”

Hey. As if he’d just come from work to find you reading your favorite book, like there wasn’t a man currently carrying your life down three flights of stairs.

Jake drops his duffel to the floor and cautiously sets the groceries down on the counter—bread, beer, the coffee creamer you like—ordinary things.

“What’s all this?”

The question comes out rougher than intended. The way you delay a response, securing the tape with the heel of your hand, tightens his chest.

Still not looking at him, you move to seal another box, then finally reply, “You know what this is.”

Jake laughs once under his breath. Short. Disbelieving.

“No. I don’t.”

You lay the tape gun on top of the box and finally turn your attention to him. He wishes you hadn't. There’s something devastating in the fact that you don’t seem angry or upset. You look tired.

“I took the job, Jake. I signed a lease three weeks ago.”

Three weeks. How had he not known? Because, of course, he didn’t know. He’d been gone more than he’d been home. Training, deployments, he’d accepted a teaching job too.

“You could’ve said something.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly. “I did.”

He remembers now. Every “Not now, baby.” “I’m sorry, baby.” Every promise to talk later that dissolved into another deployment schedule or another night when Jake pretended he didn’t see the distance growing between you.

“You decided to do this while I was away?”

“You’re always away lately.”

“You knew I was coming back today.”

You shrug. No yelling or theatrics. It's worse than if there were screaming. “The last seven times, seven, you said were coming home, you called to say something else had come up. A day turns into a week, a week into a month.”

He looks around the apartment again, really looks this time. He doesn’t recognize the coffee table beside the armchair where you like to read or the lamp atop it. How long had that been there? How long had it been since he’d been home?

The empty bookshelf. The missing pictures. The absence of you is everywhere because he’d never lived here, not really.

A slow horror starts crawling across his skin. This isn’t impulsive. This isn’t a fight.

Another mover shuffles through the scene, carrying more boxes. He wants to yell at them to stop, for everyone just to stop and give him a damn minute, but he knows it's futile.

You’re already gone.

“So this is it? You’re not even gonna fight for us?”

You shake your head, looking up at the ceiling, and he knows you're fighting back tears. “That’s just it, I have been. I’ve been fighting so damn hard, but I can’t keep begging you to notice me, to put us first, just once.” Sighing, you angrily swipe at the falling tears. “I’m tired, Jake. I’m done.”

It's not the leaving, or the boxes, not even the tears, it's the exhausted sigh, because he’s never seen or heard that before.

Jake crosses the room before fully thinking. “You want me to notice you?” he says, voice sharp with panic. “Baby, I see you. I’m here.”

“No,” you whisper. “That’s the problem, you’re always halfway out the door even when you are here." Holding up your left hand, you look him square in the eye. "You put this on my finger, but you’re always too busy to take the next step. I’ve tried...” Your voice shakes. “I passed up two promotions to be here with you. I’ve put my life on hold for you, for us. I can’t anymore.”

Jake stares at your hand while the truth swirls in the air along with the dust motes.

He loves you. Everyone knows that. Hell, you know that. But love unattended starts to warp and rust, like an unkept engine. Until it finally breaks beyond repair.

Part 2 - I See You - Jake returns a box of your belongings.

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Our turn.

He feels sick. The Dagger Squad doesn’t invite people in out of politeness. Fanboy’s squeeze of the week isn’t invited. Rooster’s new girlfriend hasn’t passed the test yet because they only invite people they love. It’s more than a squad, it’s a family. Jake isn't the only one who's lost you. They have too. They’ll never forgive him. He’ll never forgive himself.

“I assumed they knew.”

“Coyote knows.” Jake sighs. They probably all know by now, but he has neither confirmed nor denied. No one has asked him directly because he hasn't been around to let them. He isn’t hiding the breakup, but not talking about it helps him keep the illusion that it isn't real. He takes a sip of his coffee, and his chest tightens. It’s perfect, exactly how he takes it. It’s not been long enough for you to have forgotten, but something about the fact you remembered cuts deeper than it should.

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Afraid they’d uninvite you?”

“They would.” Jake huffs. “They tolerate me. They love you.” He pauses, biting his tongue, but decides he has nothing to lose and says it anyway. “We all do.”

“Jake, don’t.”

“Don’t love you or don’t say it?” he asks.

The regret hits hard. A moment ago, he thought leaving would be best for both of you. Now, he's afraid you’ll make him go.

You close your eyes. “Please don’t.” The plea in your voice is worse than anger. He can survive anger because it means there is somewhere for all this hurt to go, but you just sound tired.

“It took me months to build the courage to leave.” A tear slips free, landing on the rim of your cup. “Then weeks of fighting the longing not to.” Your eyes finally meet his. “None of this is easy, Jake.”

“I know.” He rubs a hand down his face. “But I won’t apologize for how I feel either.”

You sigh, wiping the dampness from your cheek as you stand. Moving to the kitchen, you busy yourself with washing out your mug, a way of gaining some distance from him.

With your back to him, voice nearly inaudible, you state, “I haven’t told anyone either. Saying it out loud made it too real.”

His eyes flit around the apartment, at the life you're making. “If I’d known…,” he says just as quietly, staring at the book, “If I'd known the last time I kissed you was gonna be the last time. I would’ve taken more care.”

You turn and lean against the countertop, tears flowing freely, as he looks back in your direction. His vision blurs, and the first tear slips from the corner of his eye. “If I’d known the last hug was the last one, I‘d have held on a little longer.”

The sound you make is heartwrenching.

He blinks to clear his vision.

Your fingers flex around the counter's edge. Your lip trembles.

“You can h-hug me now.”

Jake swears his heart has stopped. Wondering if he misheard or if he’s just so desperate that he’s making it up, he remains still.

“P-please,” you say a little stronger with a watery, nervous laugh.

Jake stands so fast his chair nearly tips over. He rounds the table, and you take a step to meet him. The moment his arms wrap around you, everything in him breaks. “I miss you.” Voice cracking, he laments, “I love you, and I’m sorry.” Squeezing his eyes closed, he tightens his embrace. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Weeks of denial, of regret, of trying to quell the ache by pretending it wasn’t there, vanish. This is all he needed. You. He buries his face against your neck as your fingers curl tighter into the material of his shirt.

For the first time since you left, neither of you is pretending you’re okay. It won't magically mend what was broken or spontaneously forgive the mistakes made, but it's a beginning.

A step forward to move through the grief. Together.

Part 5 - Coming very soooooon

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Our turn.

He feels sick. The Dagger Squad doesn’t invite people in out of politeness. Fanboy’s squeeze of the week isn’t invited. Rooster’s new girlfriend hasn’t passed the test yet because they only invite people they love. It’s more than a squad, it’s a family. Jake isn't the only one who's lost you. They have too. They’ll never forgive him. He’ll never forgive himself.

“I assumed they knew.”

“Coyote knows.” Jake sighs. They probably all know by now, but he has neither confirmed nor denied. No one has asked him directly because he hasn't been around to let them. He isn’t hiding the breakup, but not talking about it helps him keep the illusion that it isn't real. He takes a sip of his coffee, and his chest tightens. It’s perfect, exactly how he takes it. It’s not been long enough for you to have forgotten, but something about the fact you remembered cuts deeper than it should.

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Afraid they’d uninvite you?”

“They would.” Jake huffs. “They tolerate me. They love you.” He pauses, biting his tongue, but decides he has nothing to lose and says it anyway. “We all do.”

“Jake, don’t.”

“Don’t love you or don’t say it?” he asks.

The regret hits hard. A moment ago, he thought leaving would be best for both of you. Now, he's afraid you’ll make him go.

You close your eyes. “Please don’t.” The plea in your voice is worse than anger. He can survive anger because it means there is somewhere for all this hurt to go, but you just sound tired.

“It took me months to build the courage to leave.” A tear slips free, landing on the rim of your cup. “Then weeks of fighting the longing not to.” Your eyes finally meet his. “None of this is easy, Jake.”

“I know.” He rubs a hand down his face. “But I won’t apologize for how I feel either.”

You sigh, wiping the dampness from your cheek as you stand. Moving to the kitchen, you busy yourself with washing out your mug, a way of gaining some distance from him.

With your back to him, voice nearly inaudible, you state, “I haven’t told anyone either. Saying it out loud made it too real.”

His eyes flit around the apartment, at the life you're making. “If I’d known…,” he says just as quietly, staring at the book, “If I'd known the last time I kissed you was gonna be the last time. I would’ve taken more care.”

You turn and lean against the countertop, tears flowing freely, as he looks back in your direction. His vision blurs, and the first tear slips from the corner of his eye. “If I’d known the last hug was the last one, I‘d have held on a little longer.”

The sound you make is heartwrenching.

He blinks to clear his vision.

Your fingers flex around the counter's edge. Your lip trembles.

“You can h-hug me now.”

Jake swears his heart has stopped. Wondering if he misheard or if he’s just so desperate that he’s making it up, he remains still.

“P-please,” you say a little stronger with a watery, nervous laugh.

Jake stands so fast his chair nearly tips over. He rounds the table, and you take a step to meet him. The moment his arms wrap around you, everything in him breaks. “I miss you.” Voice cracking, he laments, “I love you, and I’m sorry.” Squeezing his eyes closed, he tightens his embrace. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Weeks of denial, of regret, of trying to quell the ache by pretending it wasn’t there, vanish. This is all he needed. You. He buries his face against your neck as your fingers curl tighter into the material of his shirt.

For the first time since you left, neither of you is pretending you’re okay. It won't magically mend what was broken or spontaneously forgive the mistakes made, but it's a beginning.

A step forward to move through the grief. Together.

Part 5 - Coming very soooooon

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

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Steve pulls Wanda out of the way of the charging brute, lumbering up the steps. “You’re wasting time,” he grits out.

“Rogers, I swear if you did something.”

“She isn’t here. Hasn’t been here in over two weeks.”

“When did you last speak to her?” Dante questions.

“Last night,” Steve answers. He warned that the meeting could be a trap, she'd laughed, and he could picture the eye roll that followed. “What happened at the meeting?”

“Nothing. Went to plan. It was simple. Easy.”

“Too easy?” Steve asks.

Dante purses his lips. “You think it was a setup?”

“They could have followed you. Waited until you peeled off, and she continued. Caught her off guard.”

Dante’s ringing phone halts any further theorizing. He answers with a curt, “Yeah?”

Steve focuses, wanting to hear the full conversation.

“We got the car and a body.” Steve’s heart stops until the caller adds, “It’s not one of ours. Looks like she put up a fight.”

A grim relief calms him for a moment, one of your enemies but not you. Hearing the location before Dante hangs up, he declares, “I’m coming with you."

Dante hesitates for a moment before growling. “Fine.”

The first one to fall is a low-level soldier. The second was killed execution style after refusing to give up information. The third body to drop finally gives them the secondary location where they took you.

Steve’s already moving before Dante gives the order to his men.

Rain hammers against the windshield. The countryside blurs in streaks of green and brown. Every second feels stolen, every mile feels impossible. He keeps hearing your voice, confident and amused.

“I’m not made of glass, Rogers, and my men are tough.”

God, he hopes you are too.

The windshield frames a farmhouse collapsing in on itself, surrounded by overgrown fields. Steve is out of the vehicle before it stops rolling. Fresh tire tracks lead around the back. He doesn’t wait for the others, rushing into the house, eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary—any sign of you.

Nothing.

Reaching the back of the structure, he glares through a broken window pane, contemplating his next move. An animal darts across his line of vision, drawing his attention to a trampled area of grass, surrounding a rain-soaked patch of recently overturned dirt.

His breath falters, and he hisses out a strangled, “NO,” as if he can change reality through sheer refusal. Breaking into a run, the door doesn’t survive the collision—wood and metal explode outward from the force of his shoulder, the rotted wood wall crumbles as the ceiling caves in on itself.

Steve doesn't even notice, shouting for the others as he drops to his knees and begins to dig. His bare hands tear through earth, mud cakes beneath his fingernails, and stones rip skin from his knuckles. He doesn't hear the others, doesn't slow his pace even as more hands join the fray, because his world is washed in a sepia haze, like the old silent movies.

Minutes stretch into a lifetime, but not far beneath the surface, a thud sounds… hollow wood. The outline of the box emerges from the dirt—a crudely built coffin.

For one terrible second, nobody moves, nobody breathes. It’s been hours. Have you been trapped all this time?

Then Steve lunges forward. Pressing the tips of his fingers between warped slats, he yanks a board free. Wood groans and splinters as he continues his assault on the container. The opening frames your pale, tear-streaked face. Despite the noise of the box being destroyed and the shouts of your name, you remain motionless, and he fears that he’s too late.

Then a gasp, a cough, and a wheezing intake of breath as you frantically scramble upright.

Steve makes a sound somewhere between a relieved sigh and a laugh. Pushing the hair out of your eyes, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing a streak of dirt from your chin. “Hey, hey, look at me.”

Another choked breath, eyelids fluttering and squinting. “S- Steve?”

It's barely above a whisper, voice hoarse, but the hit of relief loosens his chest. “Yeah, it’s me. I'm here.”

Placing a shaky hand over his, you lay your head on his shoulder, whispering. "Thank you."

By the time he lifts you from the mess of wood and mud, the rain has eased to a drizzle. Someone drapes a blanket over your shoulders, Dante presses a bottle of water into your hand, then hovers close by.

Steve sits beside you on the open tailgate, one hand fixed firmly on the small of your back. The other rests on your thigh. Dried blood paints the creases of his knuckles, dirt still packed beneath his fingernails, evidence of how he saved you.

You've been staring at them for a while now, a finger lightly drawing shapes on the back of his hand. You haven't said much other than to order a hit on the person who ordered the one on you.

“You need to see a doctor.” He frets.

“I will.” You sigh, taking another sip of water. “How’s my hair?”

A few of your men bark surprised laughs, but Dante's quick to reply, “It’s terrible, boss.”

Steve shakes his head. “You were buried alive, and you’re making jokes?”

Your shoulders lift in a weak shrug. “When you say it out loud, it sounds worse.”

Dante’s phone rings, but he sends you a worried look before answering, “I gotta take this,” he says, slowly edging away, “I’ll be just over here.”

“I’m good, D.” You give him a weak smile.

“I got her,” Steve says, nodding for him to go.

Dante answers, his expression immediately changing with a promise of violence in the tense greeting, “Give me something."

Steve responds in kind when you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

“You already said that, but you're welcome.”

There are too many eyes, and you release his hand far sooner than he wants. If he thought you'd let him, he'd carry you to the passenger seat, drive you back to the safe house, and take care of you for the rest of the evening, or maybe a few days.

With a freer intake of breath, you plaster on a smile. “I told you so.”

Steve frowns. “Told me so?”

“I told you having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”

Steve chuckles. “Does that mean I’ve paid back my debt?”

“Not even close.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 /

@imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library /

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My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

Our turn.

He feels sick. The Dagger Squad doesn’t invite people in out of politeness. Fanboy’s squeeze of the week isn’t invited. Rooster’s new girlfriend hasn’t passed the test yet because they only invite people they love. It’s more than a squad, it’s a family. Jake isn't the only one who's lost you. They have too. They’ll never forgive him. He’ll never forgive himself.

“I assumed they knew.”

“Coyote knows.” Jake sighs. They probably all know by now, but he has neither confirmed nor denied. No one has asked him directly because he hasn't been around to let them. He isn’t hiding the breakup, but not talking about it helps him keep the illusion that it isn't real. He takes a sip of his coffee, and his chest tightens. It’s perfect, exactly how he takes it. It’s not been long enough for you to have forgotten, but something about the fact you remembered cuts deeper than it should.

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Afraid they’d uninvite you?”

“They would.” Jake huffs. “They tolerate me. They love you.” He pauses, biting his tongue, but decides he has nothing to lose and says it anyway. “We all do.”

“Jake, don’t.”

“Don’t love you or don’t say it?” he asks.

The regret hits hard. A moment ago, he thought leaving would be best for both of you. Now, he's afraid you’ll make him go.

You close your eyes. “Please don’t.” The plea in your voice is worse than anger. He can survive anger because it means there is somewhere for all this hurt to go, but you just sound tired.

“It took me months to build the courage to leave.” A tear slips free, landing on the rim of your cup. “Then weeks of fighting the longing not to.” Your eyes finally meet his. “None of this is easy, Jake.”

“I know.” He rubs a hand down his face. “But I won’t apologize for how I feel either.”

You sigh, wiping the dampness from your cheek as you stand. Moving to the kitchen, you busy yourself with washing out your mug, a way of gaining some distance from him.

With your back to him, voice nearly inaudible, you state, “I haven’t told anyone either. Saying it out loud made it too real.”

His eyes flit around the apartment, at the life you're making. “If I’d known…,” he says just as quietly, staring at the book, “If I'd known the last time I kissed you was gonna be the last time. I would’ve taken more care.”

You turn and lean against the countertop, tears flowing freely, as he looks back in your direction. His vision blurs, and the first tear slips from the corner of his eye. “If I’d known the last hug was the last one, I‘d have held on a little longer.”

The sound you make is heartwrenching.

He blinks to clear his vision.

Your fingers flex around the counter's edge. Your lip trembles.

“You can h-hug me now.”

Jake swears his heart has stopped. Wondering if he misheard or if he’s just so desperate that he’s making it up, he remains still.

“P-please,” you say a little stronger with a watery, nervous laugh.

Jake stands so fast his chair nearly tips over. He rounds the table, and you take a step to meet him. The moment his arms wrap around you, everything in him breaks. “I miss you.” Voice cracking, he laments, “I love you, and I’m sorry.” Squeezing his eyes closed, he tightens his embrace. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Weeks of denial, of regret, of trying to quell the ache by pretending it wasn’t there, vanish. This is all he needed. You. He buries his face against your neck as your fingers curl tighter into the material of his shirt.

For the first time since you left, neither of you is pretending you’re okay. It won't magically mend what was broken or spontaneously forgive the mistakes made, but it's a beginning.

A step forward to move through the grief. Together.

Part 5 - Coming very soooooon

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.

Alternatively follow my library blog @princessmisery666-library - I only post my fics.

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore 

/ @imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @leigh70 / 

@letsbys-library / @shanimallina87 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / 

@xoxabs88xox / @dempy / @atarmychick007 / @kmc1989

Steve pulls Wanda out of the way of the charging brute, lumbering up the steps. “You’re wasting time,” he grits out.

“Rogers, I swear if you did something.”

“She isn’t here. Hasn’t been here in over two weeks.”

“When did you last speak to her?” Dante questions.

“Last night,” Steve answers. He warned that the meeting could be a trap, she'd laughed, and he could picture the eye roll that followed. “What happened at the meeting?”

“Nothing. Went to plan. It was simple. Easy.”

“Too easy?” Steve asks.

Dante purses his lips. “You think it was a setup?”

“They could have followed you. Waited until you peeled off, and she continued. Caught her off guard.”

Dante’s ringing phone halts any further theorizing. He answers with a curt, “Yeah?”

Steve focuses, wanting to hear the full conversation.

“We got the car and a body.” Steve’s heart stops until the caller adds, “It’s not one of ours. Looks like she put up a fight.”

A grim relief calms him for a moment, one of your enemies but not you. Hearing the location before Dante hangs up, he declares, “I’m coming with you."

Dante hesitates for a moment before growling. “Fine.”

The first one to fall is a low-level soldier. The second was killed execution style after refusing to give up information. The third body to drop finally gives them the secondary location where they took you.

Steve’s already moving before Dante gives the order to his men.

Rain hammers against the windshield. The countryside blurs in streaks of green and brown. Every second feels stolen, every mile feels impossible. He keeps hearing your voice, confident and amused.

“I’m not made of glass, Rogers, and my men are tough.”

God, he hopes you are too.

The windshield frames a farmhouse collapsing in on itself, surrounded by overgrown fields. Steve is out of the vehicle before it stops rolling. Fresh tire tracks lead around the back. He doesn’t wait for the others, rushing into the house, eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary—any sign of you.

Nothing.

Reaching the back of the structure, he glares through a broken window pane, contemplating his next move. An animal darts across his line of vision, drawing his attention to a trampled area of grass, surrounding a rain-soaked patch of recently overturned dirt.

His breath falters, and he hisses out a strangled, “NO,” as if he can change reality through sheer refusal. Breaking into a run, the door doesn’t survive the collision—wood and metal explode outward from the force of his shoulder, the rotted wood wall crumbles as the ceiling caves in on itself.

Steve doesn't even notice, shouting for the others as he drops to his knees and begins to dig. His bare hands tear through earth, mud cakes beneath his fingernails, and stones rip skin from his knuckles. He doesn't hear the others, doesn't slow his pace even as more hands join the fray, because his world is washed in a sepia haze, like the old silent movies.

Minutes stretch into a lifetime, but not far beneath the surface, a thud sounds… hollow wood. The outline of the box emerges from the dirt—a crudely built coffin.

For one terrible second, nobody moves, nobody breathes. It’s been hours. Have you been trapped all this time?

Then Steve lunges forward. Pressing the tips of his fingers between warped slats, he yanks a board free. Wood groans and splinters as he continues his assault on the container. The opening frames your pale, tear-streaked face. Despite the noise of the box being destroyed and the shouts of your name, you remain motionless, and he fears that he’s too late.

Then a gasp, a cough, and a wheezing intake of breath as you frantically scramble upright.

Steve makes a sound somewhere between a relieved sigh and a laugh. Pushing the hair out of your eyes, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing a streak of dirt from your chin. “Hey, hey, look at me.”

Another choked breath, eyelids fluttering and squinting. “S- Steve?”

It's barely above a whisper, voice hoarse, but the hit of relief loosens his chest. “Yeah, it’s me. I'm here.”

Placing a shaky hand over his, you lay your head on his shoulder, whispering. "Thank you."

By the time he lifts you from the mess of wood and mud, the rain has eased to a drizzle. Someone drapes a blanket over your shoulders, Dante presses a bottle of water into your hand, then hovers close by.

Steve sits beside you on the open tailgate, one hand fixed firmly on the small of your back. The other rests on your thigh. Dried blood paints the creases of his knuckles, dirt still packed beneath his fingernails, evidence of how he saved you.

You've been staring at them for a while now, a finger lightly drawing shapes on the back of his hand. You haven't said much other than to order a hit on the person who ordered the one on you.

“You need to see a doctor.” He frets.

“I will.” You sigh, taking another sip of water. “How’s my hair?”

A few of your men bark surprised laughs, but Dante's quick to reply, “It’s terrible, boss.”

Steve shakes his head. “You were buried alive, and you’re making jokes?”

Your shoulders lift in a weak shrug. “When you say it out loud, it sounds worse.”

Dante’s phone rings, but he sends you a worried look before answering, “I gotta take this,” he says, slowly edging away, “I’ll be just over here.”

“I’m good, D.” You give him a weak smile.

“I got her,” Steve says, nodding for him to go.

Dante answers, his expression immediately changing with a promise of violence in the tense greeting, “Give me something."

Steve responds in kind when you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

“You already said that, but you're welcome.”

There are too many eyes, and you release his hand far sooner than he wants. If he thought you'd let him, he'd carry you to the passenger seat, drive you back to the safe house, and take care of you for the rest of the evening, or maybe a few days.

With a freer intake of breath, you plaster on a smile. “I told you so.”

Steve frowns. “Told me so?”

“I told you having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”

Steve chuckles. “Does that mean I’ve paid back my debt?”

“Not even close.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 /

@imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library /

@stoneyggirl2 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox /

@dempy / @kmc1989 / @figurantedefilme / @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.