Lo

It's Monday morning, 8:15 a.m. The air in the lecture hall is fresh. The windows are still open, even though it's noticeably colder outside. Autumn has begun, and the first leaves are already falling from the trees. You're sitting in your usual seat in the second row, right by the window.

You're prepared, as always. Criminology is more than just a subject for you. It's your thing. And yes, you're good at it. One of the best, according to your professor. But you simply have a good memory, and it's easy for you to find the connections. You love what you do.

Professor Hartmann is a great professor. Old-fashioned, but smart. And strict. He challenges his students, never going easy on you. You respect him and like his teaching style. But a few weeks ago, in one of his lectures, he said that he is soon retiring because of health reasons. The announcement came unexpected.

Since then, no one knows who will replace him. No information, no photo, no name – just an email from the student council with the vague sentence “We're looking forward to a fresh, modern perspective in the Criminology department." And then... he enters the room.

You don't know whether you notice his voice or his face first. Maybe both at the same time. "Good morning. I'm Dr. Spencer Reid. I'm excited to be exploring criminology with you starting this semester - with an eye on the reality out there,” he says when he comes in.

He's tall, slim, with an almost outrageously casual elegance. Shirt, dark brown blazer, sleeves slightly rolled up. His hair is messy and curly. And his eyes... those eyes. You can't look away. Your heart is beating faster. What the hell is wrong with you? You usually never get distracted, especially not because of a man.

You’re one of the students who always writes everything down, who thinks along, analyzes, asks critical questions. But at this moment? You have no idea what he's saying. Something about the history of profiling, you think. Or is it forensic psychology? You look at your notebook. Empty. Your pen lies there. Untouched.

As he explains the semester's outline, your gaze keeps wandering to him. Not just because he's handsome - that's almost beside the point. It's the way he moves, the way he speaks. The way he treats the topics as if they were alive. As if he weren't just teaching them, but understanding them on a whole other level. He's smart. And not just "I have a doctorate" smart.

And you? You sit there, as if hypnotized. Completely distracted. Your mind is racing. You don't know what to do. The semester hasn't even really started yet, and you know you're in trouble.

-

Since that first Monday, something has changed. You still arrive on time, sit in your usual seat, prepared and yet it happens every time. As soon as he enters the room, your mind is blank. Not blank-blank, but full – with the wrong thoughts.

His lecture on perpetrator typologies? Fascinating. His explanations of psychological casework at BAU? Impressive. You want to listen, you want to think along, but all you do is look at him. The way he walks around the room. The way he sometimes speaks too fast because his mind is apparently faster than his words.

He's a genius. Not in that exhausting way, but in the way that fascinates and leaves you speechless. And he's not even arrogant about it – just completely absorbed in what he's doing.

You're lost in your thoughts. More and more often, you find yourself watching his hands as he writes something down. Or how his voice changes when he talks about difficult cases. It’s more quiet, more serious, with an expression you only have when you've seen things you'll never fully forget.

You understand the content but there's this discrepancy between knowledge and performance now. You don't lose track. You trade it for thoughts that have nothing to do with the class but rather with him. In the third week, you're unprepared for the first time. It's not a disaster, but you haven't finished reading the case study. And you hate it.

You hate not being able to concentrate as much anymore. Not being properly prepared. But you've been too busy trying to explain to yourself what's actually going on with you and how to get yourself back on track.

-

It’s another Monday morning and the room fills with nervous murmuring. Spencer is standing at the front of the desk, handing out the marked exams. You don't even want to know what grade you got. The subject actually suited you. You knew the answers - at least until you looked up for a moment and saw him roll up the sleeves from his shirt. That was enough to completely distract you.

You wait, trying not to let on, but your gaze keeps wandering to him. You're trying really hard to ignore him. But it's not working. As he places your exam on your desk, he gives you a quick nod. You can barely look at him. When you glance at the grade, the infatuation immediately disappears.

You understand the material. You used to be the best. But lately, your mind seems to be more focused on your professor than on studying. You shove the papers into your bag and are about to head for the door when you hear your name. You freeze. His voice hits you like an electric shock. You slowly turn around.

"We need to talk about your exam. Let's say around 3 p.m in my office?” he asks. You feel hot. Not from fear but because your mind immediately runs through a thousand scenarios. You nod. "Yeah, sure," you mumble, trying to hide your blush. "Fine," he says and smiles before he goes back to his papers.

-

Now you're standing in front of the building. Third floor, left corridor. Room 3.17. His office. It's 2:56 p.m. You arrived way too early, hiding in the library for ten minutes, but now you're here. You take a deep breath and try to stay calm. Your heart isn't cooperating. This is just a conversation. Maybe he wants feedback. Maybe it was just a bad exam. Maybe he's noticed how you look at him in every lecture - then you have a problem.

You push your hair back from your face and knock. "Come in." You press the handle and step inside. He's standing at the window, just turning around. Shirt, sleeves rolled up. And oh god, he’s wearing glasses. Your brain is on strike. "Hello," you say. Or do you think that? No, you're really saying it. Luckily, your voice sounds more stable than you feel.

He nods at you. "It's great to have you here. Please sit down." You take a seat, put down your bag, and try not to appear nervous. He sits down and folds his hands. "I wanted to talk to you about your exam," he begins calmly. "You were one of Professor Hartmann's strongest students. According to him, your contributions were precise and analytical. He specifically praised you." You nod.

"That's why your grade surprised me," he says. "The analysis was superficial. And I wouldn't have expected those mistakes from you." You want to say something. An explanation. But your mouth remains dry. So you just nod. Then he asks, "Is there anything going on in your life that distracts you from studying?" You look at him. A moment too long. Your lips part. But what are you trying to say?

That he’s the reason? That your head is chaos every time he enters the room? You swallow. "It's nothing bad," you say quietly. He raises an eyebrow, tilts his head. He's analyzing you. Reading you. "Good," he says. "Then let's change that. I think there's more to you than this grade shows." His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. You nod and try to avoid his eyes. Sitting here, alone with him, in his office - it makes you nervous.

For a moment it is quiet and you are about to say that you should leave now when he speaks up again. "You know, it's not hard to see that you were a little... distracted." Your heart races and your eyes widen. Oh no. You know you've just given too much away. "Don't worry," he continues. "I understand. Thoughts sometimes take on a life of their own. Especially when you're sitting across from someone so... fascinating."

Fascinating. The word echoes in your head. You feel like he knows exactly what he's doing. And you have no idea how you'll ever get out of this. He leans back and looks at you, a small smile on his lips, while you almost feel like he's secretly wondering how much longer you'll last without blushing with embarrassment.

He raises an eyebrow, as if trying to read you - as if he's already read you. "Or did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice?" Your heart skips a beat. Heat crawls up your neck. Too late. Your eyes give you away and he sees it. He continues leaning back ever so slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. It’s a slow, calculated move, as if he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, how he’s doing it. And you have no idea how you’ll escape this, or if you even want to. He watches you as though he’s already playing a game you don’t know the rules to. His lips curl slightly, a hint of something almost teasing. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you. "I wonder..." His voice lowers and he leans closer to you, "What exactly occupies that pretty little head of yours... to the point where you almost forget how obvious it all is."

He lets the words hang in the air, like a challenge or a threat. And as you hold your breath, you realize: you’ve already lost. The only question is whether you’ll admit it - or if he’ll make you. Your breath hitches, barely audible, but it’s enough. His eyes flicker. He looks pleased. Not surprised. Like he was expecting it, like he was hoping for it. 

You try to speak, to say something, but you can’t get a word out. He stands up, walks around his desk and comes closer to you. You can smell the faint trace of coffe and books. You blink once and suddenly he’s in your space, hovering just at the edge of touch, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. He doesn’t touch you, that would make it too easy.

“I think,” he says slowly, every word deliberate, “you like pretending you still have control.” His gaze drops for the briefest second and when it meets yours again, it’s different. Full of lust and desire. “But you gave that up the second you lied to me.” You feel your heart beating faster and faster.

He leans in, mouth near your ear now. “The question, sweetheart, isn’t whether I noticed,” his breath is warm, intoxicating, “it’s what I’ll do now that I have.” Something inside you unravels. His lips linger against your ear, resting there like he belongs there, like he’s earned the right to touch you this way. And maybe he has. Maybe that’s the most dangerous part: how natural it feels now, to have him this close, this deep under your skin.

You exhale shakily as his hand trails lower, fingertips ghosting along your thigh, teasing, never quite where you want them, where you need them. Your hips shift instinctively, seeking more, but he only smirks, dragging his mouth down your neck, each kiss deliberate, maddening. "Still holding on?" he murmurs, voice rough, lips brushing just below your collarbone.

You want to challenge him. Tell him he hasn't won. That you're still in control. But the words never make it past your lips. Because his hand finally slides exactly where you need him, and your body arches into his like it was made for this moment. A quiet curse slips from your mouth, caught somewhere between surrender and desire, and he drinks in the sound like it's a reward.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded and burning. "Say it. Say you want this." And you do - god, you do -but your pride clings to silence even as your body betrays you, trembling beneath his touch. He leans in again, this time pressing his lips to yours, his breath uneven, his control clearly thinning.

“Why don’t you get up and lock the door for me, sweetheart?” he asks and that’s the moment you give in. You've dreamed about it so often, so why not take the chance and make it come true? Besides, you're too much turned on right now to leave. It’s wrong, you know that - he’s your professor after all - but you don’t care. You want him. You need him.

So you get up and quickly lock his door. When you turn back to him, he's leaning against his desk, grinning. "See, it wasn't that hard to listen to me, was it?” he says and motions for you to come closer. Your heart has never beat as fast as it does now and when you feel his lips on yours again, you could swear that it is bursting with excitement.

He doesn't stop kissing you, even as he shifts, fitting his body more fully against yours, like he's been waiting for this moment far longer than he'd ever admit. His hand slides behind your knee, lifting your leg to wrap around his hip, guiding you into him with aching precision. The friction alone draws a gasp from your lips-and his in return. "You feel that?" he growls softly, teeth grazing your jaw. "That's what you do to me."

There's no space left between you now and you cling to him, hands roaming, greedy, nails dragging under his shirt and down his back just enough to make him hiss through his teeth. Then he moves, a slow roll of his hips that sets every nerve in your body alight. It's maddening, torturous. “Oh god, Professor. I - I need more.” He slides his hand up your thigh slowly, stopping where you need him the most.

“Then beg for it,” he says. “What?” you ask, confused. “You heard me. Beg for it. Beg me to touch you, to fuck you, to ruin you,” he says and smirks. “I’m not going to beg,” you say, annoyed that he’s not giving you what you want so bad. “Then I won't fuck you, it's that simple. And I don’t think you want that, do you?” he asks you and pushes against you. You can feel how hard he is and it drives you crazy.

“I hate you,” you hiss out, grinding against him in order to release some friction. He grabs your hips and holds them still before leaning down to whisper in your ear. “No, you don’t. And now, be good girl and beg. If you keep making this difficult there won’t be much time left for me to fuck you and that would be such a shame, considering I wanted to take my time to worship you like you deserve it,” he says.

You didn’t think it was possible, but these words turn you on even more. You need him, now, everywhere. You push your pride aside and look up to him through your lashes, roaming your hands over his chest and opening the first buttons of his shirt while maintaining eye contact. “Please, Professor. I need you to touch me. I need you to fuck me. Please make me come on your cock,” you say and he looks pleased.

“See, that was not hard, was it?” he asks but you ignore him. He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat - anywhere he can reach. "You're mine now," he breathes, hips grinding more against you, slower, enough to leave you trembling. "Every inch of you,” he says before he finally slips his hand up your skirt again, grazing your clit through your panties. You shiver.

His hand tugs at your panties before he pulls them to the side, sliding a finger through your folds. “Now look at that. You’re already soaked,” he says with a smirk and slips a finger inside you, while his thumb circles your clit. You moan out loud and his other hand covers your mouth immediately. “Shh, sweetheart. You have to keep quiet for me if you don’t want us to get caught,” he says.

The thought makes you clench around his finger and he chuckles. “Interesting. You like the idea of getting caught, don’t you?” he asks and pushes another finger in. You bite down on your lip in order to stay quiet because he is right - you don’t want to get caught. Not here, not now. But the thought definitely turns you on. “Answer me,” he says, pumping his fingers faster. “Y-yes, I - I do.”

Your legs begin to shake and you hold onto his arms in order to still stand up straight. He notices your struggle and lifts you up so you sit on his desk. He finally takes your panties off, stuffing them in his pocket. You spread your legs wider for him and he looks pleased at the sight in front of him. “Please fuck me, Professor. I need you so bad,” you whine but he shakes his head.

“Not yet. I have to taste you first,” he says and leans down, his head disappearing between your thighs. He wraps his arms around your thighs to keep you close to him before he leans forward and places a kiss on your cunt. You can feel his breath on you and reach for his hair, pulling him closer against you. Then his tongue finally makes contact with your cunt, flicking over your clit first. You gasp out loudly, tugging at his soft, brown curls and looking down to him.

Seeing your Professor down on his knees, between your thighs is a sight you will never forget. He eats you out like he wants to draw every last sound out of you. And he does. When he finally starts to push his tongue into you, he drinks all your whimpers and moans in like they're fuel, like they prove something, and in the way he watches you, you realize that this isn't just about lust. This is control. Intimacy. A claiming.

He adds his fingers again and the pleasure becomes too much. Your toes are curling and you can feel your orgasm approaching. Spencer can tell that you’re close too. He sucks at your clit again and your mind goes blank. But then he suddenly pulls back. You pant and give him an angry look. “What are you doing? I was close,” you breath out, already fucked out. “I know. But I decided I’m not letting you come yet,” he says.

“Asshole,” you hiss through gritted theeth and he shakes his head in disappointment. “That's no way to talk to your professor. It looks to me like I need to give you a lesson in respect,” he says. “I -“ you begin but he already pulls you from the table before turning you around and bending you over it. He pulls down your skirt in one quick motion before his hand roams over your ass.

You turn around to look at him, to snap at him, to tell him you hate him for doing that but you can’t because his hand is coming down onto your ass, spanking you. You didn’t expect that but it turns you on immensely. “Count and take your punishment like a good girl,” he says. “O -one,” you breath out and feel a wave of excitement washing through you. He was really not lying when he said he’s making all your dreams come true. Because as much as you hate to admit it, this is what you dreamed about too.

His hand comes down again and you feel the sharp pain again. But it feels good. You didn’t think it’s even possible but every minute with him turns you on even more. You push against him to show him you want more, feeling his hard cock again. “Oh you are enjoying this, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he asks and you nod. His hand comes down again and you continue counting. After ten strikes he decides that you have enough.

“That’s it, you took it like a good girl for me,” he says and leans down to kiss your neck gently. It’s a sweet, caring moment and it makes you feel safe with him. However, you’re still turned on, especially after he punished you like this. “Will you fuck me now?” you ask him eagerly and he laughs. “Of course, sweetheart. You think I don’t want to feel your pretty pussy wrapped around my cock?” he says and begins to open his pants.

When he finally pulls out his cock your eyes widen. He is big, way bigger than you always expected. He strokes his cock a few times and you watch him with a hungry look in your eyes. If you weren't so turned on right now, you'd be embarrassed about how much you want him, need him. But you don’t care, who blames you? He's hot and smart, the perfect combination.

He comes closer and finally slides his cock through your folds, hitting your clit and teasing you yet again. “Just - just fuck me already,” you hiss out through gritted teeth. When he stops you quickly add a “Please, Professor” and he praises you. “Good girl, that’s what I wanted to hear.” Then he finally pushes in.

It feels even better than you expected. You can’t help but moan out his name loudly. “Shh, quiet sweetheart,” he reminds you and you nod. He’s right. You don’t want anyone to find out or worse, get interrupted right now. Not now, when you finally have him.

He starts to pound into you and your eyes roll back in pleasure. The sensation of him inside you drives you crazy. Low groans fell from Spencer's lips when one of his hands moved to your clit, rubbing rough circles. The way you move with him, the way your body responds, open and aching and utterly undone - that's your surrender.

And he feels it. You can tell in the way he growls your name like it's sacred. “You look so good like this, completely fucked out by your Professor,” he says and his pace falters, deepens, roughens. The rhythm between you spirals into something frantic, raw-beautiful in its chaos. The kind of connection that blurs the line between pleasure and need. Between dominance and devotion.

When he hits the right spot over and over again and trails his hand down to circle your clit, you completely lose it. You clench around him and he knows you’re close. He almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. He pushes deeper, increasing his pace until he’s close too. But instead of making you two come together, he pulls out. “What the fuck are you -“ you start but he shifts, pulling you up from his desk to push you on your knees. “Open,” he says and you obey, taking his cock in your mouth to swallow his cum.

You think he has something else planned for you, convinced he still wants to make you come but when he finished and starts to put himself together again you give him a questioning look. “What are you doing?” you ask him. “As you can see, we’re done, sweetheart. I’m putting myself back together. My office hours start soon. You have to leave now,” he simply says and sits down at his desk. “Are you fucking serious?” you ask furiously. “I didn’t even come,” you say.

“Only good girls - good students - get to come. And you haven't been that lately. Show me you're getting better, focus on your exams, get a better grade the next time and you'll get what you deserve,” he says with a smirk on his face and you are so angry, so frustrated that you can’t get a word out for about a minute. Then you have an idea.

He’s not playing fair, but you can do that too. “I can just report you, you know,” you say. You never plan to do that, but he doesn’t need to know that. He looks up and laughs before getting up from his chair, walking around his desk and slowly approaching you again. Your whole body is shaking with anger, frustration and pleasure. “You can, but you won’t,” he says with a grin on his face.

The feel of something touching your shoulder cracks the tension. Your head turns. Felix. Despite your annoyance, Felix's sudden appearance at your side has you easing. He leans forward, pressing a kiss against your cheek near the corner of your mouth. "I was looking for you."

You smile, placing your hand over the one Felix still has on your shoulder. "You seemed busy, decided to take a lap."

He brushes his thumb against your shoulder. "Never too busy for you, darling." Felix has a way of making things that should feel just polite sound genuine. "How're you doing?"

"Farleigh's being mean."

"Didn't let her smoke." Farleigh explains flatly, taking the joint back from the girl. "After the way you reacted last time, it wasn't worth it."

Felix squeezes your arm. "That true?" You're not given a chance to respond. "You know how you get. Especially after drinking." You blink at him, eyes wide and lips pressed together. "Don't give me that look." It's too gentle to be a scolding. "We can smoke when you're sober, if you want."

You're not one to crave getting high too often. There's a sluggishness to it that you have to be in a certain mood for. But something about smoking with Felix, in his room with the window open and the two of you lounging like the only things that matter are what's within arm's reach, is unbelievably soothing.

Even in your current state, you're fully aware of the fact that you're getting the better end of the deal. But with Farleigh's smug comment and that random girl that laughed still paying attention, you don't feel comfortable agreeing in front of everyone.

"You're looking for an excuse to argue." Ugh. The way he reads you is almost eerie. You press your lips together to keep from giggling, watching him carefully. You shake your head, a flimsy attempt at denial. "Yes." Felix leans closer, grinning. He drapes an arm around your back, pulling you against his chest. " I can see it in your eyes."

"My eyes are innocent."

His freehand moves to hold your chin, angling your head to better look you in the eye. He's focused, exuding more concentration than the moment warrants. That's the thing about Felix, crowded room or empty dorm, it doesn't matter. He has a talent for making anyone feel like the only person in the world.

"Hm," he hums, "You pass." Despite coming to a conclusion, he makes no effort to move away from you. "Want to get another drink?"

You nod, "Yeah."

"C'mon, then." He drops one arm, waving a halfhearted goodbye to Farleigh before guiding you forward.

Felix keeps an arm around your shoulders as you maneuver through the chaos of the party. It's instinct to accept his lead, a part of you more glad for it than usual. You're starting to feel fuzzy, and with Felix guiding you, it's safer to accept the sensation.

"Oh my god!" A squeal and then your name.

You turn your head, eyes landing on a familiar face from your lit class. "Daphne!" She's a newer friend that you mainly know from exchanging lecture notes and working on essays together. A part of you is surprised to see her here, but you guess you shouldn't be. Now that you're thinking about it, you feel like you've seen her around Felix's friends before. "Hey."

Daphne approaches you with a wide grin. "I didn't know you were here." She then glances to Felix, and then Felix's arm, and then back to Felix. "Hi, Felix."

If he notices Daphne's curious scrutiny, he gives no indication of it. "Hi, Daphne," he greets, confirming that they do run in the same circles.

She smiles politely before turning her attention back to you, "It's been a minute since I've seen you." Daphne tosses a glossy strand of hair over her shoulder. "We need to catch up, I found out the best thing about the girl that sits in the front row that always tells everyone her grades."

"Bragger girl? She's the worst."

"Oh, you have no idea."

Felix squeezes your arm, turning your attention back towards him. "I'll get you your drink, you catch up with your friend." You beam at him as his arm gently moves off your shoulder.

As soon as he's disappeared into the crowd, Daphne gasps, "Oh my god, whatever's going on there is better than my bragger girl story."

You blink. "What?" Confusion and Felix's absence make you feel slightly off balance. It takes you a moment to catch up. "Oh, Felix? We're friend." Daphne presses her lips together, the look she's giving you not entirely convinced. "C'mon, tell me about bragger girl."

"Okay." Daphne gestures to an empty coach that's been pushed against a wall. "Let's sit?"

The two of you make it to the edge of the room. Daphne's not shy about taking up space, letting her long legs extend into the start of where people might walk. She trusts the world to move for her. It hits you then that your friendship with Daphne, like your relationships with a lot of people you've been spending time with recently, doesn't make make sense on paper.

You sit, grateful for the chance to lean against something sturdy.

"Alright," Daphne starts, angling her body towards you, "Bragger girl--never's gotten an imperfect score girl--" She cuts herself off with a soft, tipsy giggle. "Is hooking up with the TA."

Oh, you're fully hooked. "What?" Daphne nods, expression satisfied. "No way." There's no way to prove the connection between that girl always managing to beat your scores by a few points and any of her personal relationships, but come on. "Wait--with--with which one--the tall one or--or the one with the--" You're too out of it to recall a good descriptor, "Hair."

Daphne laughs again, "Hair?" You shrug at her. "Doesn't matter how little sense that makes, because that's the--the best part of the story." You nod, urging her. "She's hooking up with both of them."

You gasp. Oh my god, you cannot wait for Felix to get back so you can reiterate every detail of this. "Really?" Daphne giggles, nodding her head. "How do you know?"

"Okay," she crosses her legs, "So, I was at this ba--"

"Hey, Daphne," the voice is low and clumsy, over extending the second half of Daphne's name. Daphne looks up in time to see a guy sit on the couch's cushioned arm. "Who's your friend?"

Daphne throws you an apologetic look before turning back to the stranger. "Hi, John." She then introduces the two of you politely, presenting you as a friend from her intro to western lit class and John as someone from her econ class.

John doesn't even attempt to hide the fact that he's looking you over. You're not sure if it's the slightly glazed over quality to his eyes or his lack of shame gets to you. All you know is that some instinct tells you to be wary.

He tries your name on his lips, slurring slightly. "Why've I never seen you around?"

"Oh, I don't know," you try, tone much more sober than it was a moment ago, "I'm around, I guess. Here and there."

It's not your best small talk, but the only part of you that seems to be clinging to sobriety doesn't feel right. He's friends with Daphne, you tell yourself, you have no reason to believe he has bad intentions just because seems like he's had too much of whatever he's been having tonight.

John laughs, like your words were some obscure joke that he wants you to know he decoded. "So what do you do when you're not getting out?" He angles himself towards you, disregarding Daphne entirely. "I'm having a hard time picturing you in a library."

It's almost ironic enough to get you to laugh. John sees you here, he sees how you're dressed, and who you're with and just assumes that this is your regular state. And while there's nothing wrong with being the party girl type (some of your favorite people are that kind of person), it's just not who you are every night of the week.

"Actually, John," Daphne interjects, "She's really smart, like basically certified genius smart." You throw her a not so subtle look that says you feel like she's exaggerating. "What? I said basically." You don't look like you agree, "C'mon, even Dr. Alvero's said it, and he can't stand anyone."

"Really?" John moves to stand. "Dr. Alvero. His class is bloody murder." He takes a step towards you. "Maybe you could help me study sometime." You're too aware of the length of your dress, of your legs. "I'd pay you for your time."

There's something about the way he tacks on the reference to finances, an implication that burrows beneath your skin. That's the worst part of Oxford's elite, they assume that if you don't run in the same circles...that if you don't come from generational money, you have nothing. That you're in a position to bend to their every whim for what they consider petty cash.

"John," Daphne tries, voice hard.

"What?" John takes another step forward. "I said I'd pay her."

Indignance and nerves bond uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. As much as you want to tell him off, the way he's looking at you leaves you frozen, and it's not like the two of you are in a private area. You don't want to be labeled as a hysterical drunk.

"Sweetheart." Felix is within reach.

You turn your head instinctually. He's less than a foot from the couch, holding a solo cup. Despite directly addressing you, Felix's attention is fully focused on John, who seems to have finally remembered the concept of personal space.

Felix walks past him without a second glance before sitting next to you. It's a squeeze, Felix's knee pressing into yours. "They ran out of cups, so I thought we could share." Felix extends his arm slightly, gesturing to his drink. "Have some."

You lift a hand to reach for the cup, but Felix shifts before you can actually attempt to take it. Confusion has you dropping your hand back to your lap. You don't get where he's going with this until he gently tilts the cup in a silent question. You nod.

Felix brings the drink to your lips, gently tilting the cup until its contents are down your throat. The alcohol burns slightly, but not overbearingly so, and the flavor is familiar. Your favorite drink.

He pulls the cup away, a drop of liquid sliding down the corner of your mouth. Felix's thumb wipes it away before it can reach your chin. He then brings his still damp thumb towards his mouth to clean it.

Heat roots itself in your chest and crawls up your neck. All of your discomfort, all of your worry from before feels far and abstract until Felix asks, "So, who's your friend?"

"Oh, uh--this is Daphne's friend, John."

Daphne nods, leaning forward to join your conversation, "Yeah, I know him from my econ class."

"Yeah, good to finally meet you, man. " Felix finally looks back at John. "I think my step-mother's friends with your mum."

Felix places an arm against the back of the couch, giving you space to relax against his side. A more sober you would have thought twice about giving in so quickly, but you're starting to feel light again. "Uh--Cindy Marin."

"Right!" John exhales, relieved, "Right."

Felix nods once before turning his attention back to you. "You ready to get out of here?" There's an assuredness in the way he asks the question that makes it seem like there's nothing of value left at a party that hasn't at all since he sat down. You nod. Felix leans towards you so that he can better look over your shoulder. "See you around, Daphne."

"Yeah, see you."

Felix gets up, immediately stealing the warmth and comfort he'd been providing while next to you. Something that you only very minorly resent him for. He offers you his hand as you stand, and that makes up for most of it.

You turn your head to say goodbye to Daphne. Now that Felix isn't looking, she grins at you before mouthing: that was hot.

You roll your eyes, hoping your feigned irritation is enough to cover any signs of being flustered. Especially when Felix pulls an arm around your shoulders.

"Bye, John," he mumbles, "Congratulate your step-mum for me, yeah?"

Felix guides you out of the party. Once the two of you are exposed to the cool, night air, Felix lets go of you. There's a stiffness to his release that gets to you.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box of cigarettes.

"Can I?" Your voice is smaller than you thought it'd be.

Felix pauses, thinking through your request before handing you the box. You smile as Felix leans towards you. You don't smoke--with the exception of an occasional drag from one of Felix's cigarettes--but you like lighting them for him.

You pull one from the box and place it between his parted lips. He hands you his lighter next. You spark it to life, bringing the flame to the cigarette's end. Felix takes a deep breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling. He doesn't attempt to take your hand or place an arm around you again.

"Are you--" You're not even sure how to word it, "...Okay?"

He takes the cigarette between two fingers as he breathes out. "Fine." Felix inhales another drag. "Just didn't love the way that guy talked to you."

"If it helps, neither did I."

Felix glances over at you, eyebrows pulling together. "Then it's a good thing your best friend was there."

You roll your eyes fondly, fighting a grin, "You're always a good thing."

He looks down, his fingers brush against yours. You intertwine them, pulling his palm against yours. "Someone loves me."

You attempt to glare at him, but the look feels too sickeningly fond to come off as menacing. "Don't start."

His smile broadens. He squeezes your hand, thumb brushing against your knuckles. "Want to stay over tonight?"

"Yeah." You grin, body subconsciously leaning against his a little more. "Are you tired?"

Felix eyes you with exaggerated skepticism, "Why?"

"Wanted to know if you were in the mood to read to me tonight."

He smiles, angling his head to press a kiss against the top of your head. "Anything you want, lovie."

----

felix: oh my god,, i can't believe people treat you like that!! maybe you should borrow my last name for a little, just so that they leave you alone

A blistering bud sizzles; the porcelain was drawing cool waves against the skin of your arms and for once, in the vast nothingness of the bathroom, the heat that rose from its surface made the ghosts vanish.

It made them disappear in house once home to Kings.

Now, as it boiled under the night sky, it was home to something other. It had bled itself into the walls and the ghosts wished to witness not the haggard scrounging of wealth that festered within.

But you imagined Henry the Eighth liked to stare as you bathed. They all did. Felix had told you that once a few summers ago.

How they all wanted to touch you in the ways that he did. How they wanted to whisper in your ear that they were better than him. No one truly was and it kept you crawling back with the poor souls who got sucked into a heated whirlpool of pity each and every summer.

Nevertheless, you envisioned Henry in the corner itching to touch.

They all trembled to flutter their hands onto your skin, onto your breasts, squeezing pieces of you dipped below the waterline.

If his ghost could smile, Henry’s ghastly teeth gleamed.

‘Fuck off, Henry,’ you saw the paunchy apparition lounging in the chair in the corner with a bead of sweat dribbling from his own temple.

Oh, envy, King Henry.

A bit of ash fell onto the tiles below.

“You’re making a mess of it.”

You tapped the cig on the side of the tub as another bit of ash wilted to the cold floor.

Felix hummed.

Stocky Henry vanished. If you gazed toward him, Felix’s eyes bore deep. Heavy and brooding, downcast at a peak of what existed beyond the bubbled suds.

Dinner had long passed. Everyone was supposed to be in bed.

He could feel you in inches. The soft skin of your back, the plush thighs that laid between his own. A hand of his traced over the skin of your collarbone gently as the ash continued to drift.

You were nearly on fire. In the swelter of the stone walls and the patterns of the paper before him, you glowed in a red sweat.

“You’re letting it die.”

“I was thinking,” you murmured.

“About what?”

“King Henry.”

“King Henry?” Felix’s voice peaked. His head leaned to rest on your shoulder, his smile leaving a trail as it grew. His nose drew a delicate line on your dampened skin.

You liked Felix in this way. So quiet and removed. But Saltburn always kept pace in the background.

“Yes, King Henry,” his hand glided along your own, gently taking hold of the cigarette and placing it between his lips.

The smoke of the puff rose high into the air beside you. It’s curls twisted like your insides aching for a touch too far but never too close.

“I like to imagine them sitting… staring at us now.”

“Now?” Felix questioned. “So erotic in an ugly tub. I can see him now,” he pointed to the corner of the room, “he just popped one. Can’t you see it? In his trousers there.”

You grinned. Your laugh filled his chest with a shuddering life. So fulfilled and free yet trapped in this same world as he.

And he was never far away. Here, in Saltburn, always waiting in the same shadows for the opportunity to strike while the others weren’t around. No sister or friends or parents or mewling poor fighting for his attention. They were retired for the evening; all snuggled in beds with curtains drawn and fantasy dancing in their heads.

“He isn’t the only one.”

You tipped your head to the side. The profile of your face meeting his forehead as he dipped his own downwards. The cigarette still burning from his fingertips. It was a mere bud now.

You could feel what waited for you on your lower back.

“I can feel that, you know?” You feigned an innocence he liked. Keen and blatant, but cunning with sin.

“Is it Henry that makes you feel that why?” You whispered, lips ghosting his chin.

Felix breathed in deeply. The same chest that shuddered with joy in anticipation.

Every summer.

The excitement would stir within his bones as the gates would open wide and beside his family would be the one steady thing he had everything to give.

“I hope,” Felix hushed, “for your own sake that’s not the fucking case.”

“So it’s me?”

Felix groaned as you pushed against him. The gentle pressure of your body arching into him without a touch, he begged to put his hands on you.

The cigarette fell to the floor in its end.

Felix took his hand and turned your head back to face him with a firm grip on your jaw. The water around you sloshed. It cleared the bubbles from your chest.

“I want to play a game,” he suggested in a dusty, breathless tone. “Want to play, darling?”

“Can I win?” You suggested. His hand loosened, letting the fingers dance along the column of your neck before beckoning up toward your mouth once more.

His index finger traced the outline of your lips. In a slow glide, Felix pulled your lower lip out slightly, gathering the wetness with his finger before inching it back to the space where your lips had parted.

You kissed his finger with your tongue as it found purchase in the suction of your mouth. The plushness of your tongue, the slight drag of your teeth as it emerged from between your lips.

“I don’t want to play if I can’t win, Felix,” you whispered.

His eyes now hooded with a thick want. He watched his finger redraw the lines of your lips again as you begged with doe eyes to win. A near child’s play of a woman’s ability to seduce.

“You can win,” Felix huffed as his other hand snaked itself from the edge of the tub to your torso under the water. “But I’ll need you to be quiet. We have guests and as much as I do love our dear, sweat guests, I can’t have them imagining the way I fuck you, can I?”

“No,” you relished in the way his hand returned to the base of your throat and squeezed with the slightest amusement. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Good,” Felix smiled at you. Your heart squeezed in the same way your cunt ached for his fingers to gather the strength to follow through.

“What do I win?”

“Whatever the fuck you want. You just have to be quiet.”

You smiled deviously that the thought.

“I can’t see how we’d be able to look a boy like Ollie in the eyes if he heard the sounds that come out of your mouth.”

His hand swooped past your center and to your leg, drawing one over his own which sat you straighter in his hold. You felt his cock jump at the pressure of you pushing on him. Felix flitted his finger tips from your knee to waist, switching hands to bring his wet palm to your breast while the other perched your opposite leg over his other.

The pebbled nipple was taut as he kneaded the skin in circles. He pressed down hard, pulling up on your nipple to elicit the sounds he wanted so badly to hear but knew you’d repress.

You were like him in many ways. He too wanted to win a game of control.

With you in his hands like a play of putty, he felt in control but with one hand on the wheel.

As he palmed your breast, his hand gripped your thigh. His mouth traced a pattern of hot breath along your neck as his tongue relished the salty sweat that had gathered at its leisure. The goosebumps that rose from your skin welcomed his breath kindly.

“I want this house to ourselves,” Felix moaned. “So we don’t have to be quiet.”

“Tell me what you’d do,” you asked him, placing your hand over his own and bringing his fingers to you. He cupped your heat as you groaned, guiding him back and forth to gather the wetness he could feel different from the water of the tub.

“Tell me what you’d do to me.” You spoke faintly. “Tell me and I’ll be quiet.”

You guided one of Felix’s fingers in you as he shushed the sounds that threatened to speak themselves into existence.

He put his lips on your ear as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you with a slow glide. So plush and tight, he thought to himself. It sucked him in and dared not to spit him out.

“I would fuck you on the floor,” he breathed out against your cheek. “I’d spread you wide and taste your sweet pussy as the sun bathes the floor. And when I’m done, we go to the pool-“

Felix pulled out his finger, tracking it along your folds before going in with two. You arched against his back, drawing up as he pulled you back down and rested his hand on your waist.

You curled the toes of your right foot down the edge of the tub.

“-we’d go to the pool and sit out in the sun. You’d give me head in one of the chairs and I’d paint your fucking face with my cum.”

You clenched around his fingers. His thumb pressed into your clit, another jolt aching to send you squirming but he held you down as he patterned circles on the gentle flesh.

“You like that, don’t you?” He breathed in the smell of you. “And maybe we’d go for a walk through the maze after dinner. I’d fuck you in the center and you could scream as loud as you fucking want. No one could get to us. No one would hear us.”

“F-F-“

“No, no, no, shh,” Felix shushed. “Good girls only win by being quiet, yeah?”

You nodded, clenching onto his fingers again as a strangled ‘fuck’ tumbled out of his lips. He could imagine the coil building. Felix wasn’t going to let you finish alone.

Felix pulled his fingers from you and felt the disappointment in the wither of your body.

“But I don’t want to imagine what’d I’d do if we were alone,” Felix blanked. “Turn around.”

As the water sloshed around you, you turned to wrap your arms around his neck. Like you, Felix had sweat beading from his jaw that glimmered in the red light of the bathroom. He looked intoxicated, entranced but in control of what he could.

“I want to see you ride me like the fucking whore you are.”

You weren’t a whore. But for Felix, you could be anything.

At the nape of his neck, you gripped the back of his hair and drew his head back as your other hand gripped him under the water.

Hard and lengthy, his cock was a welcome intrusion every time. You pumped him in your hand slowly. The sounds of water creating currents was soothing against the sounds of your battered breaths kissing his own. You lifted yourself on your knees, leaning against Felix as he squeezed your ass tightly, watching as you lowered yourself onto him under the water. Slender and veined, your cunt molded to him like art. You both would never tire of the feeling so profound.

It would never be like this with anyone else.

Loose pants left his lips as you sat completely full of him. A fit for a King in his own home, he supposed. Once you had settled with him inside, you moved above him.

The water moved languidly too. Meeting the fiery skin of two intoxicated minds too oblivious to see the peering eyes between the crack of a door.

“Right there, baby, right there,” Felix mumbled as you rose again and again, drawing him in and out as he stretched you with every swell and spur he could muster on his own.

“You’re such a good girl, darling. So good for me.”

You could peer down at him from above. Your breath fanning his face and lips but never seeking to truly kiss him as your hand tangled in his hair.

Bits of water spilled over the tub and splashed onto the floor. It soaked the ash tray and the speckles of ash and bud that littered the floor.

“Don’t stop baby. Don’t fucking stop,” Felix crooned in the room’s empty sounds. Only the pleasured sighs and gasping breaths filled the air.

You bounced on his cock with a measured pace. Each stroke of his manhood against your velvet walls lured him deeper into you, entangled with the missing links of a year gone by.

“Felix,” you broke the rules to whisper in his ear. He was taken away by the insatiable need of his rapture. He listened. He beckoned to your call.

“Tell me that you love me.”

From the shadows, Oliver Quick felt his blood run as hot as the sun. He loved Felix.

“I love you.”

Whom did not love him back.

“Tell me you need me.”

He was enamored by the idea of Felix.

“I need you.”

Who was enamored with the idea of Oliver.

“And what do you want from me?”

He was taken by the sight before him.

“I need you to cum, baby. I need you to fucking cum for me.”

Oliver was taken by the gleam of your skin. The way Felix’s throat bobbed as a strangled groan escaped his lips and the way your own melted onto his forehead in a silent struggle to come down from a high.

You placed both hands on his slender chest, careening like winged victory in a heated satisfaction.

Your fingers shook.

He had never seen a woman shake so elegantly before. The tremble of your lips as you breathed in shaking respite, the jolt of your shoulder blade as Felix ran a hand up your back.

Oliver licked his lips at the sight.

Felix lifted his head from its position against the tub. His eyes fluttered open as you pulled away in the slightest.

And Felix smiled.

You returned the grin with one of your own as his still sat erect inside of you. The bubbles of the tub had long ceased to exist and the water that was left was filled with the combined spent of you both.

“I don’t think I won that one,” you chuckled quietly, pushing hair out of Felix’s face before cupping his cheek in your hand.

“I’ll take pity on you, I guess.”

“The water’s gone cold.”

Felix kissed the inside of the palm of your hand. He cherished the high that lingered.

“The water’s gone cold,” he repeated. “But we could stay here forever.”

“Pruned and sweaty? Not a chance in fucking hell, Felix.” You laughed a bit too loudly. Oliver disappeared at the groan Felix let out as you pulled off of him.

You stood before him as the water dripped from every piece of you. Marbled and finite of the most precious carvings he only wished to hold forever.

As you exited the tub and the throb of him began to settle, you grabbed his linen shirt from the floor, draping it over you as it stuck to the wetness of your skin.

“The bed is just the slightest bit more comfortable.”

And you disappeared behind his doorway with call for more as the walls of Saltburn added another sordid story to add to it woven trims.

But it was never just the walls of Saltburn watching.

ଘ a storm-chasing field trip by @orobaxis

₊ ꒷ ʚ Missing your husband, you surprise Scott by tracking StormPar down to Oklahoma. He now has to literally wrangle you: (1) out of harm’s way when you insist in joining the stormchasers, and (2) away from Tyler Owens, who still tries to shoot his shot with a visibly pregnant woman.

ଘ déjà vu pt 2 by @geminiwritten

₊ ꒷ ʚ it’s been this way since college—you drink, get drunk, you fight, and then you fuck. and now you’re chasing storms in rival crews, slipping in and out of motel rooms between tornado sirens, swearing every morning after that this time was the last time. but denial gets heavier, tyler gets suspicious, and jealousy hits harder than any storm. and suddenly you’re realising… maybe it was never just sex.

ଘ to be known by @luvvyouforever

₊ ꒷ ʚ scott can't grapple with the fact that you've ended your tornado chasing fling with him.

ଘ 'tis the damn season by @clairewritesandrambles

₊ ꒷ ʚ After the dissolution of your long-term relationship, you find yourself starting over in your hometown. When you see your childhood best friend, Scott, for the first time in years, how will things change between the two of you?

ଘ is it casual now? by @roanofarcc

₊ ꒷ ʚ what happened between you and scott was supposed to be strictly casual, but when you feelings got too involved, you decided to call it quits. But storms and close calls have a way to bringing out true feelings. 

ଘ sickengly sweet by @hopefullhearts

₊ ꒷ ʚ You are Tyler Owens' childhood best friend and member of his storm chasing crew. A storm outbreak means you and the gang cross paths with Storm Par on more than one occasion, and your sweet southern charm drives Scott crazy (in more than one way).

ଘ second chances by @cowboybeepboop

₊ ꒷ ʚ After years of being with Scott things just weren’t working out. But when you left? You were more lost without him. Then by chance you wind up working with stormpar. 

ଘ sweet surrender by @/cowbodybeepboop

₊ ꒷ ʚ You're apart of storm par and just so happen to get on the nerves of Scott, which truly isn’t that difficult of a task. But as much as you get on his nerves, he gets on yours. One day he takes things a little too far which leads to an interesting encounter.

ଘ the law of physics by @inknopewetrust

₊ ꒷ ʚ In the volatile nature of tornado hunting, you crossed paths with Scott on more than one occasion and every time, a piece of yourself is left behind with the man larger than the storms you chased.

ଘ whirlwind. by @corensweat

₊ ꒷ ʚ the bar has always been a safe haven after a long week of storm-chasing, but when tyler owens decides you’re his lucky charm for the night, you find that scott’s control has its limits.

ଘ tornadochas3r is typing... by @acdeaky

₊ ꒷ ʚ you and scott matched on a dating app one evening and you could have never predicted how quickly you fell for him

ଘ scott miller is not nice by @/acdeaky

₊ ꒷ ʚ everyone says that scott miller isn’t nice, but you don’t believe everything you’ve heard from your new coworkers

ଘ cargo pants pocket by @/acdeaky

₊ ꒷ ʚ your relationship with scott is one of your best kept secrets, but when he gets injured during a storm, all that effort goes out the window

ଘ new year, new... by @/acdeaky

₊ ꒷ ʚ attending the stormpar new year’s party was meant to be a nice, easy evening, but things that include scott miller are anything but easy

ଘ gotta give it to her by @maiamore

₊ ꒷ ʚ Working late with Scott quickly turns to something more.

ଘ sour apples by @/maiamoore

ଘ liquor lips, bubblegum bitch by @marwrite

₊ ꒷ ʚ scott miller has had his fill of fleeting nights; now, he buries himself in work, head down, not to be disturbed. that's when you come in; blowing sugar-sweet globes, relentless questions spilling from tinted lips. he knows he shouldn't, can't- but you draw him into your bubble, too bright to resist, fragile enough to pop.

ଘ kisses by @inbred-eater

₊ ꒷ ʚ big meanie scott miller sharing his gum with his sweetheart of a girlfriend :0 (+ the 1 time you share your gum with him).

ଘ stay by @criminalamnesia

₊ ꒷ ʚ the three time you see storm par’s one and only scott, including the one in which he saves your life.

ଘ somethin' stupid by @r0wandark0

₊ ꒷ ʚ After denying it for weeks, Scott finally found himself admitting his true feelings towards you. Though after many failed attempts, he does it in the worst way possible, or at least what he thinks is the worst.

ଘ the act by @softboyluvr

₊ ꒷ ʚ The whole team knows Scott has a soft spot for you.

ଘ protectiveness by @ffawnettess

₊ ꒷ ʚ when a guy comes into your job and flirts with you all the time, your boyfriend gets protective and figures the only way to get him to stop, is to come to work with you.

ଘ tornado warnings pt 2 by @barnesonfilm

You’re fresh out of an everything shower, robe tied tight around you while you look through the movie offerings on your TV when you hear a knock at your door.

Three short decisive raps — Scott.

“Lacey’s not here,” you remind him when you open the door.

“I know. Here to see you. Thought it might be nice to catch up properly without our toddler begging for your attention.”

He doesn’t wait for you to invite him in, just puts his hand on your shoulder as he moves past you. You shut the door with a roll of your eyes, but you don’t complain as you watch him get comfortable.

“Got us dinner.” He gestures to the plastic bag sitting on the counter, and your stomach chooses that moment to let out an embarrassing rumble. “And apparently I got here just in time. What would you do without me?”

“Order my own dinner. Like I normally do when Lacey’s not home.”

All you get from Scott is a scoff as he busies himself unpacking the food containers. Pasta, from the restaurant you and Scott would frequent when you were still pregnant. Your mouth waters before he’s even got the lid all the way up on the Alfredo.

“Still wanna order your own?”

He piles generous amounts of pasta on your plate, getting some cutlery before handing you your plate.

“Drink?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you decline around a mouthful of pasta as you watch him move through your kitchen with ease; putting away the remaining food and neatly folding the plastic bag he got at the restaurant so he can shove it into the dangerously full bag beneath your sink.

Dinner is eaten in a sort of awkward silence, the only sounds being the scraping of cutlery against plates and the old TV show that you guys are pretending to pay attention to.

When you’ve eaten all the pasta and practically scraped the plate clean you sigh. It shouldn’t be as awkward as it is — you saw Scott often enough — but without Lacey as a buffer, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

“You need to relax.” He laughs at the way you startle when he asks you for your plate, stacking it on his before leaving it on the coffee table. “What’s going on in your life?”

“The usual. Work back in full swing again, trying to see if I can move into private practice, or maybe see if any universities are hiring so I don’t have to travel to different schools all the time. It’s killing me,” you sigh with a roll of your neck. Scott’s eyes land on the opening of your robe where it has loosened just that little bit, but he doesn’t let them linger for too long.

“And outside of work?”

“I don’t know. Mothering? I think my social life is just starting to look something like what it used to before you got me pregnant.”

There’s a stilted pause.

“And what about your love life? What’s that looking like?”

You groan in time with the studio laugh track on TV, deep and agitated.

“I’ve been on dating apps for all of a week and it’s like being a mother has taken my chances of finding a good normal man from slim to sub-zero. Half of them lead with questions about my kid, but then get upset that I can’t commit to spontaneous drinks because my toddler doesn’t have childcare. Ridiculous. It’s frustrating, because I’m not even sure I’m fully ready for a relationship yet–”

“Still?”

“Yes, still. I’m not ready for a relationship, but I would like to get laid every once in a while without worrying about whether or not he’s a weirdo,” you sigh wistfully.

There’s another short pause before you turn to him.

“What about you. What’s happening with you?”

“My love life?”

“Whole life, Scott.”

He rubs at the nape of his neck as he thinks.

“Uh, been weird adjusting to not having you and Lacey around me all the time. Storm Par doing pretty well, minor philosophical differences aside,” he winks. “What else, what else. Finally unpacked all the boxes in the new apartment–”

“Apartment’s pretty much the same age as Lacey, I’d hardly call it new,” you snort.

“Do you wanna hear about my life or not?”

“Sorry, keep going,” you say, stifling a laugh.

“Right. Everything’s unpacked, I’ve been…” he hesitates for a moment, before continuing “I guess I’ve just been throwing myself into work when I don’t have Lacey.” He shrugs as he turns the volume down on the TV.

“Oh so your love life is just as dead as mine.”

There’s a sense of utter relief that flows through you, followed by a hint of shame. Scott deserved to have a good love life, even if yours wasn’t going so well.

“I didn’t say that at all. It’s been okay. More to consider now though. Turns out some people don’t like it when you have family dinners with the mother of your child,” he says. “Hasn’t stopped me from getting laid though,” he tacks on with a grin, and you fake retch.

“Wait, what about the investment banker you were seeing? Javi said that was going pretty well,” you ask him.

“Nah. Wasn’t gonna work. Broke it off a while ago, which you’d know if you got your updates from me and not Javi.”

He’s been inching closer, and you’re surprised to find he’s close enough to rest his hand on your knee. You ignore the heat of his palm, focusing on instead on the question that’s been bouncing around your mind since he showed up.

“Scott. Why are you here?” you ask, holding up a hand when he starts to protest. “You didn’t drive here with food and wine — that I’m keeping, by the way — to have a conversation we could’ve had over the phone. Why are you here?”

“I had a proposal,” he starts, scowling when you laugh at him. “No, seriously listen. We’re both finding dating a bit hard right? You can’t find guys you trust around Lacey, I’m just struggling to connect with people. You don’t even want a relationship, you just wanna get laid,” he says. “Why not just…” he gestures between your bodies with his free hand, the other squeezing at your knee a little tighter. “That way we don’t have to second-guess every other person we want to sleep with. We’d still be dating other people of course,” he clarifies when he sees you raise your eyebrows. “Just… maybe wouldn’t be so frustrated.”

He’s close enough to press his forehead to yours, and when his eyes flick down to the sliver of your chest exposed by your robe you hear him exhale.

“C’mon. We know each other already,” he explains as his hand moves from your knee to the knot keeping your robe closed. “Sex was great when we were having it.” He lets his lips ghost over yours briefly. “I miss hearing you say my name in that needy little high pitched tone too,” he adds on with smirk, pressing his lips to yours before you can argue with him properly.

Any fight you have in you evaporates when he pulls you into his lap, his hands firm on your waist as he holds you in place, tongue brushing over your bottom lip as you sigh into him. As if it’s a reflex you let your fingers press against his scalp, the small knot in the pit of your stomach tightening at the familiarity of it.

“I miss you. Miss these,” he says as he gropes at your breasts. His hips buck, gently at first, then more erratically as he continues to squeeze and knead. His hands are firm, frantic as he refamiliarises himself with the shape of you. You feel the corners of his lips twitch when you moan into his mouth, and you wish the rest of your body would stop embarrassing your brain.

You busy yourself with the buckle on his jeans, growing increasingly frustrated when you can’t seem to get it right immediately.

“I remember a time when you could do this without looking,” Scott says as he presses a kiss to the shell of your ear.

“Stop being annoying and help me,” you say as you pull yourself off of him. “Go ahead,” you motion to the buckle, trying not to tap your foot. You sigh as you watch his hands on his buckle, slow and deliberate as he gets it undone then inches his jeans down his thighs.

You grit your teeth in the silence as you watch him kick them off, left in nothing but his underwear.

“Your turn.” He motions to the robe.

“You first,” you say motioning to his shirt. “I’ve got nothing on underneath this.

Scott immediately pulls his shirt over his head in an act of uncharacteristic obedience, and you rake your eyes over his body with naked greed, eyes zeroing in on the thick dark trail of hair that starts beneath his navel and disappears into the waistband of his underwear.

“Your turn,” he repeats, standing so he can push the robe down over your shoulders. You keep your eyes trained on his while you pull your arms out all the way, letting it pool at your feet.

“Not in here,” you stop him as he pulls you in, hands cupping your butt firmly.

“What?”

“Not in here. Bedroom,” you point behind you. “It’s tacky,” you offer as an explanation.

“Nothing we haven’t done on a couch before,” he mumbles, but he lets you lead him into your bedroom any way. It’s still exactly the way he remembers it, baby monitor still resting on the exact same book you swore you read every single night.

“What are the rules?” you ask as you push him onto your bed, knees bracketing his hips as you press down against him. His eyebrows draw together in confusion.

"What do you mean by that?”

“It’s a pretty straightforward question, Scott. What are the rules for… this?”

Scott lifts his hips, pressing into you. The whine you let slip is embarrassing, but you’re not sure what else to do when you feel how hard he is against you. Even through the cotton he’s radiating heat, pulsing with want as you rock down into him.

“She’s got a fucking heartbeat and you wanna talk about rules?”

“I’m thinking with my brain, Scott. I know you’re unfamiliar,” you sigh as he ignores your bait to kiss at your throat.

“Tell your brain to take a back seat, don’t think your pussy can wait much longer,” he whispers as he pulls away. He runs a finger through your folds, holding it up between you. “Definitely can’t,” he laughs, when he sees the way you coat his finger.

“You’re being very annoying for a guy who’s just as leaky as I am,” you say, letting your finger tips graze his tip. You gather as much of him as you can on your fingertips, worrying at your bottom lip as you press them to his lips. You whimper when he opens up, sucking harshly on your fingers with his eyes still locked on yours.

“Rules after,” he says when he lets your fingers drop.

“No Scotty, now. Before we get into this,” you says , gripping his chin.

“Fine, rules, yes tell me your rules.”

“Just sex. Nothing else changes,” you say firmly.

He shakes his head free and presses a kiss to the base of your throat. “Okay. Just sex. What else,” he answers with an impatient nip at the skin.

“No sleeping over.” You feel his grip falter a little. “Scott. If we start blurring lines we’ll confuse her. No Sleeping Over,” you repeat, exhaling in relief when he agrees with a kiss to your chest.

“Anything else?”

“We both need to be honest about seeing other people,” you get out between whimpers.

“Okay. Are you done?”

After trying and failing to find another rule, you give up thinking and nod.

“Thank fuck,” he sighs, surprising you as he flips you onto your back. He’s kicking his underwear off and settling between your thighs before you can say anything, tip prodding at your entrance.

He holds it there a moment, one hand stopping you from moving your hips too much.

“Easy, don’t want you hurting yourself,” he smirks as he teases.

“Asshole,” you mutter, the word falling apart as he presses into you gently.

When you look at him, Scott’s eyes are locked into where you’re stretched around him, the corners of his lips tugging up in a cocky smirk.

“Just over a year and you’re struggling. Forgotten me already?”

You don’t know what’s worse: admitting that you’re not sure you could ever forget Scott, or the fact that you are struggling, pulsing and gasping as he sinks himself into you. His hips rock as he leans over you and you draw shaky breaths when he presses his forehead to yours.

“Fucking greedy,” he mutters when he’s finally pressed flush against you. His lips are on your cheeks, your forehead, back on your lips, hot and wet and urgent as he uses his hands to keep your thighs spread.

“Feels even better than I remember.” He presses his tongue to your throat, feels the way you swallow, and has to resist the urge to bite a little. “Feels like she was missing me,” he sighs as he pulls out all the way. “You miss me?” He lets his tip rest at your entrance, hands firm on your hips to stop your wriggling.

“You need an ego boost? That why you’re here?” You’re up on your forearms, watching him as he watches you.

“Need to know I’m not the only one who’s been itching for it the past year,” he says as he drags himself through your folds. You whine when the tip drags over your clit, tight and aching for relief.

“Scott, please,” you sigh. You lean up to kiss him, but he pushes you back down. The muscles in his forearm flex with the effort as he drags himself through your folds again.

“I can get off with just this.” He rocks his hips a little faster, eyes locked on where your arousal covers him. “Can you? Not helping you if you don’t cooperate,” he says with a squeeze of your breast. “Just tell me if you missed me. I’ll fuck you no matter what the answer is.” His hand drags a slow path down your body so he can push himself in — just enough to make you whimper pathetically before he stops.

“D’you miss me?”

“What do you think, Scott?”

“I know what I think. I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes I miss you a little,” you cave. “Miss the way you fill me up,” you gasp when he finally sinks himself into you again, a shudder of relief running through him when his thighs press up against yours, warm and solid and strong as he buries himself to the hilt.

“So good when you listen to me,” he groans as his lips trace a path to your nipple, tongue flicking over your nipple, groans of ecstasy muffled by the flesh of it.

“Move, Scott.”

You squirm beneath him, desperate for even a little bit of friction, but he doesn’t budge. His head remains bowed, mouth hot as he sucks marks into the flesh around your nipple.

“Been so long. Can’t I drag this out a little?”

Any other day you might let him — many other days you had let him — but it’s been so long, and now that he’s nestled in you, heavy and aching you can’t wait any longer.

“Move, Scott. Or this doesn’t happen again.”

He’s not hard to convince at least, settling into a brutal pace, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips with a bruising pressure.

Embarrassingly it doesn’t take much for him to have you gasping beneath him, hands fisting in the sheets as the room fills with the sounds of his grunts and the sharp echo of his skin meeting yours. The intensity of it brings tears to your eyes, and you feel a familiar tension building in the pits of your stomach.

You’re dragging his face back up to yours in an attempt to distract yourself, but when your eyes lock on his, dark and frantic with desperation you can’t help the way your toes curl into the sheets.

“Are you crying?” he mocks when he takes you in, one hand moving from your hip to swipe underneath your eye. “Shit, you are. That good?”

There’s no use in lying to him, so you just press your lips against his. It’s clumsy and impulsive, teeth knocking against each other a little, but it shuts him up completely. He brings his chest to yours and you whimper out into the room. You lock your legs around his waist as the bed creaks beneath you. The creaking only grows more erratic as Scott moans into your mouth, his tongue pressed against yours.

“Scott, please,” you plead, guiding his fingers to your clit. “So close, Scott, please.”

“Yeah I’ve got you,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he moves his fingers in small tight circles.

You’re coming apart almost instantly, pulsing and tightening around him as his own pace falters but never quite stops, hips still moving even as you try to catch your breath.

"I’m so close. You gonna let me fill you up?” he asks, panting as he presses his nose into the soft flesh of your breasts. You hope he understands the answer you huff out, any coherent sentence lost between the soft moans you breathe out. You feel the brief sting of his teeth scraping gently around your nipple, his tongue drawing lazy circles around the hard bud.

“Can’t hear you. Wanna hear you,” he mumbles into your chest. “Please. Wanna hear you ask for it.”

“Please, Scott. Fill me up,” you whisper, teeth grazing at his earlobe.

His hips move erratically as he finally falls over the edge, his hands fisting into the sheets while he groans out around your nipple.

The sound of your panting fills the room as Scott presses his forehead to yours, a smug smile spreading across his face.

“Knew you’d come around,” he says as he pulls out with a hiss. “What a waste,” Scott mumbles as he drags his fingers through the mess spilling out of you. He presses them to your lips, and you open without hesitation. Your tongue works over his fingers slowly, head light at the taste of the two of you together.

The bed dips with his weight as he rolls off of you before he speaks.

“When’s Lacey back?”

He’s pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade, an arm wrapped around your waist as he pulls you in.

“Monday,” you yawn.

“So we’ve got the whole weekend.”

It’s a fact, not a request.

“Why are you assuming I don’t have plans?”

He turns you onto your back, uses his body weight to pin you down again before kissing you softly.

“I’m not, but there’s 24 hours in a day right? We can find some time,” he whispers. “Child free house. Nothing wrong with getting reacquainted is there?”

You didn’t even notice it at first. You simply thought it was because he was nervous about hanging out with you for the first couple of times. But after a year of being together it hadn’t stopped, at all.

It got even more intense.

Dodge bit his nails, tortured his bottom lip when he couldn’t get your mouth on either part of your body. When he wasn’t kissing and biting your skin, his teeth were always busy with something else. A pen, a chewing gum, his knuckles.

You teased him about it, he brushed it off nonchalantly saying it was a habit he picked up to quit smoking. You knew Dodge was lying, he was still smoking. You could tell by the smell of smoke lingering on his clothes and tongue.

You didn’t mind, but it annoyed you that he wouldn’t just admit it. Dodge was obsessed with how you felt against his lips, or how you tasted against his tongue. His nonchalant façade wasn’t working on you. You had been able to see right through it, you managed to make him confess he had feelings for you in the first place, after all.

Dodge was hard to crack, but lately he had been opening up, letting loose, adjusting to his life with you in it.

You’re sitting on your bed when he comes in your room. Your knees are folded beneath you, papers and books are sprawled across your bed. You’ve been sending application for college and studying for numerous entering tests for the past week.

You hadn’t seen Dodge in a while and it was painful for the both of you, since you used to spend every day together for the past year.

“Babe” Dodge’s voice is muffled behind the biting of his nail.

You look up, hair falls from your quickly done updo. Your lips curl into a smile and your eyes fidget between his eyes and his habit.

“Stop biting your nails Dodge” it was meant to be a scold, but your tone was light, amused, teasing.

He huffs and kneels in front of your bed, his arm reaching for your thigh. His long fingers poke the bouncy skin of your thigh and you giggle ticklish.

“You’ve been locked in here forever… I miss you” he complains with that look in his eyes that could make you drop everything in your life and do whatever he wants.

Dodge squeezes your thigh with his hand twice, you sigh and run a hand through his hair “I know baby” your finger traces his bottom lip “But you know i have to do this” he groans against your finger.

“Just- give me twenty minutes. I need to-“ he licks his lips, the tip of his tongue hitting your finger while he does so “You know what i need”.

You laugh “You never fully say it though” your head tilts and you take your hand back from his face. His face contorts in a complain, his nose scrunching. His knees are starting to hurt against the hard parquet floor, he doesn’t care. He has to get what he wants.

“I don’t have to say it if you already understand” your eyes roll and you hide another laugh “It doesn’t mean i don’t want to hear it”

Dodge sucks in a breath, his eyes close for a brief moment gathering up the courage. He has never been explicit during sex, he just gets what he wants and you simply let him. It turns you on knowing exactly what he wants. But saying it out loud? That’s something else entirely.

You shift in your position, you sit up straight and wait for him to say the words. Anticipation bubbling in your stomach, you can already feel your underwear growing slicker and slicker.

Dodge’s eyes flick open, he’s torturing his lip and the copper taste invades his mouth.

“I need to taste you” his phrase hangs in the room for a moment, your lips curl up in a silent smile of approval and a strange sense of victory. Your cheeks tint pink and you can tell by how heat spreads through your face.

Making Dodge admit something has always been hard, doesn’t mean you’re not able to succeed every single time.

You push your books and papers off the bed in a swift motion. You lay back, your shoulders hitting the bed frame as Dodge watches your every move.

“That was easy wasn’t it?” you laugh when he shakes his head “So? Can I?” he’s still in the same position as before. He’s whiny, needy, pleading. How could you ever deny him?

“Yes baby, come on up” that’s all it takes for Dodge to climb up the bed. His lips finding yours almost immediately, like magnets. When your lips touch and your tongues meet he sighs relieved that he can finally have you again.

You push yourself against him, almost as trying to mold your body into his. He pushes back against you just as eagerly.

His lips travel to your neck, sucking and biting and making you pull his hair just enough to make him groan against your skin. His covered erection hits your leg and you can feel him growing above you.

He takes your shirt off, his eyes widen when he sees you’re not wearing a bra underneath “What? I wanted to be comfortable” he laughs and leaves a kiss on both of your perky breasts “So you weren’t hopefully waiting i’d show up to see you?”

His tongue circles your left nipple and your hips buckle up. Your eyes meeting his “Yeah, that too” you say breathing out. He smirks against your skin and his mouth travels lower, leaving goosebumps on its way.

Dodge’s lips linger just on the top of your waistband, he looks up at you, asking for permission. Which of course you give, with a nod.

You lift your hips to let him push your shorts off. Your panties have a wet patch around the center, he smirks when he sees it “Overpowering me turns you on?” he teases,his eyebrow shooting up.

“Oh shut up you’re in no position to make fun of me right now” you look at him from above, his breath hits your covered center when he huffs a laugh “Why? ‘Cause i want to eat you out so bad?” his sudden words make your breath uneven and your cheeks even redder. He laughs at your state and starts to trail kisses on both of your thighs.

Your teeth sink down your bottom lip as he dips his mouth lower in you. He kisses your covered sex and you hiss, your hips buckling up once again. He smiles and looks up at you “I know, i know” he licks you through your underwear and you hold tightly on your bedsheets.

Your panties are a mess from his spit and your wetness when he pulls them off of you. He tosses them behind his back. Dodge’s broad shoulders spread your legs apart for him as he stares down at you hungrily “I’ve been waiting to do this again” he says before diving in your cunt.

You aren’t able to say anything back as his tongue dips in your folds picking up your arousal and spreading it around. Every time his tongue hits your clit you let out a cry, your hips shifting upwards to get even more impossibly close to his mouth.

He devours you with fervor, your juices coat his face, dripping down his chin. His eyes are closed, taking his time. Occasionally his gaze lifts up to your face, your parted mouth and your flushed cheeks is all he ever wants to see for the rest of his life.

Your noises fill the whole room, the squelching sound of his tongue is echoing through your ears.

Dodge’s tongue dips inside of you and you pull at his hair tightly making him groan against you “Dodge jesus-“ your chest goes up and down rapidly as he pushes his tongue as deep as he can.

His attention returns to your painfully neglected and swollen clit. He sucks on it and circles his tongue making you whimper loudly “I can’t- it’s too much” you whine, your legs close around him, enveloping his body “Baby you taste so good fuck- Come for me c’mon”

He dips his finger inside of you curling it just how he knows you like it. You squeeze his finger hard, your breath gets heavier. Dodge adds his tongue and it becomes unbearable for you to hold back any longer. You clench around his finger and come coating it of your orgasm. He licks your pussy through it, tasting your juices on his tongue once again. You flinch, too sensitive for it now.

Dodge kisses his way up to you, his mouth and chin shiny. He rests his head against the crook of your neck, hearing how your breath steads by itself. He places a kiss against your neck and breathes out “I’ll never get enough of that”

You giggle and turn to face him. You take in his blown pupils, his red swollen lips and his grin on them “So you’re admitting it”

“Babe i think it was pretty obvious already”

patrick zweig had done a lot of things wrong in his life. believe him, a lot. but you were most definitely not one of them.

he'd been living out of his car already when you met. you were younger, though not by much. and way more beautiful than he deserved, but you still sought him out.

you'd been working as a waitress at a country club to get back on your feet after an unsuccessful job search in your field, and he'd been attending a challenger hosted there. it was only a matter of time that his eyes would find your legs under the skirt of your uniform, and his smile would burn behind your eyelids forever.

after hours of pouring him glass after glass of whiskey that didn't seem to budge him, you noticed he wasn't leaving. you were closing up shop, wiping tables with his gaze burning on your back. finally, you approached him, and as you cleaned the bar he was leaning on, you smiled.

and he smiled back.

"i'm a tennis player, you know," he mumbled, easy, rolling off his tongue like he was tasting every letter.

"most people here are," you returned, swiping the cloth right under the glass he'd lifted up for you, leaving it in the air not to ruin your work.

considerate. unlike most.

"you aren't, though. at least you don't look it," he spoke again, taking a long swig and handing you the empty glass. when you took it from him, your fingers brushed together. "am i wrong?"

he charmed you into the back of his car just a night later.

all because you liked to play music as you cleaned up. patrick was there again, playing with the glass you'd first handed him hours ago as he watched you work. you had a way about you, methodical and careful, never leaving a spot on a table or a bottle tilted slightly askew. he found himself fascinated by the simplest of things, engrossed in the sight of you, when the song changed. he turned to the computer screen, to confirm his suspicions, and there it was. billy joel's my life.

"did you put this one on?" he turned on the stool to watch you moving chairs.

"i put all of them on, i'm in charge of the music," you returned with a hesitant smile over your shoulder. "you don't like it? i can change it if you want."

"no! no, no need," he laughed, his eyes following you as you walked up to his side, taking the glass from his hand this time. "i love this song, is all."

"i love it, too," you hummed in agreement, lifting your eyes from the glass you were cleaning to him. you found him already looking, those impossible swirls of green and blue drawing you in until you couldn't breathe. then, all he had to do was take the glass from your compliant hand, and lean in.

a few hours later, your head rested on his heaving chest, thighs trembling and fluids squelching awkwardly where the two of you were joined. he kissed your hair, and mumbled sweet nothings against it. you feel so good, you're so beautiful, stay a bit longer.

and you did. it was uncomfortable, and cramped, and you didn't have your nighttime essentials with you, but you stayed. that was all you had to do for patrick to decide that this was something he was not going to fuck up.

✦

you swore to him the following morning that you weren't normally this easy. his grin got wider at every word you spoke, watching you in the mirror of the tiny employees-only bathroom you were fixing your appearance in. earrings, concealer under your eyes, hair still looking a bit wild, but patrick liked it.

"i haven't even been with a club member before—"

"i'm not a club member," he pointed out with raised eyebrows, coming closer until he could comfortably wrap his arms around your middle. you melted in his arms at the sight of the two of you in the mirror like that. "and you need to stop explaining yourself. i don't know what kind of guys you've been with that asked that of you, but i won't."

a kiss to your temple.

"i'm just happy it happened."

butterflies. another kiss. and another, and another, traveling down your neck.

"you're sweet, and pretty, and i like you," you almost dropped your other earring down the drain. "and i think you like me. let's just enjoy it while we can."

real casual, patrick. ah, well, he could ask you for an actual date another time. after he'd showered, hopefully. you didn't seem to care about that, though, when you turned in his arms, visibly more relaxed now that you had talked. god, you couldn't remember how long it had been since you'd talked to a guy who actually listened to you, and who made the effort to understand, and to reassure you. you smiled up at him, all bright and warm, and all he wanted was to kiss your smile until it stuck to his lips too. so, he did.

you had to reapply your lipstick three more times before he let you go.

✦

patrick could've been practicing. in fact, he should've been practicing.

but he spent most of his time at the bar. swirling this and that liquor in a fat-rim glass, chatting you up. he'd make jokes, you'd laugh, and the regulars would frown because you'd linger at the bar with him rather than fluttering around the tables as usual. patrick would sneer right back at them, and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from shoving any customer who was rude to you, for your sake. he knew it was his fault for hoarding your attention, but patrick was a selfish man, and he couldn't pull himself away from that stool, because god knew when he would be seeing you again, if ever, after the challenger.

for all patrick knew, you'd be with him like this for a week before you got tired and slipped through his fingers in search of someone better. he was not a man for the long haul, he'd long interiorized that— it saved him a lot of trouble. yet something inside him, small and insistent, pictured you two after a year. still together, somehow. you, calling him every night he spent away on tour. him, having somewhere to return to after. in these dreams, he made you happy. he made you laugh, not at a bar, but tangled together on a couch, your couch. stable. his, for once in his fucking life.

but no one had kept him before, so why would you?

sweet, wonderful you. with the short skirts, the twinkling eyes, the easy smiles even when someone was being an absolute prick to you. always patient, always kind, but never a pushover. he didn't know how you managed both, but he'd seen it. not only with your customers, but with him, too. you'd stood your ground about sex and sleep in his truck, sweetly brought him back to your place, where you'd even made room for him.

"my neck can't stand another night in your car, pat," you had joked, guiding him by the hand down your hallway.

god, how you made him feel. not just physically, of course, although he'd never had a pussy like yours, and he liked to tell you so.

rather, you made him hazy, you made his heart pound under his ribs, you made the adrenaline pump through his veins even when he wasn't playing. and at the same time, you did not make him feel like you were constantly about to pull the rug from under his feet. despite himself, he felt secure in this little thing you two had, whatever it was, when you let him in your bed every night and held him to sleep after mind-blowing sex. he never knew he was allowed to have both.

and you, you gave him both. no questions asked, no hesitation, no keeping him at arm's length. just kisses and smiles and watching his matches and refilling the very expensive whiskey you never charged him for.

✦

you liked to watch.

patrick's tennis was a beautiful phenomenon, a blessing of nature, like the northern lights or watching whales. so, you were there every match, not missing a single detail as you handed out refreshments to the crowd, eyes flicking back to the court every two seconds. and, when his eyes found yours after a point, your heart would jump, and your lips would involuntarily stretch into a smile as you waved your hand. you're great, you would mouth.

and patrick ate it right up.

he wasn't used to your way of being, of moving through life like it didn't suck, like it didn't weigh as heavy on you as it did on everyone else. why would it? patrick was sure reality bent around just to make room for your giggles. or rather, it flowed right through you, to shine on him, like light through a prism.

you were there every time he turned to look, every time he felt like he hadn't earned your presence, every time he wanted to slam his racket against something until it turned to dust in his hand. you were also there when he won the whole thing, your boss having made sure you would be the one to hand him the humble little trophy with the name of the country club in big, bold letters on it. eye candy for the local newspapers.

"you're my true prize, baby," he murmured in between kisses that night, fumbling with your clothes, too rushed for a guy you were willing to give all your time to. you giggled into his mouth, tugging at his curls as he undid the buttons of your uniform blouse, one by one. a ritual. "all i fucking wanted." he pressed a kiss to your sternum. "do you know what i'm gonna do with the prize money?"

your blouse fell open, revealing the pretty lacy thing you'd worn today, knowing he would win. he reached out to touch you through the fabric, gently pinching you between his fingers until you gasped.

"wh—ah—at?"

"we're going someplace nice, you and me" he mumbled, already smiling as he pictured it. somewhere the sun would kiss your skin every morning, and patrick himself could follow. or maybe somewhere colder, you did mention liking the cold, where you'd be forced to spend your days wrapped up in him for warmth.

"really?" your eyes widened, as did your smile. he mirrored your expression, tugging the straps of your bra down your arms, letting the lace pool on your ribs and leave you exposed for him. glorious, godlike, and his.

"if you can take a few days off," he hummed, leaning down to take one of the buds between his lips, every single insecurity he'd ever felt fizzling off his mind as he sucked. the noises you made in response fed his soul.

"i'd love that," you muttered through heavy breaths, cradling him to your chest, lovingly playing with the curls at the back of his head, still damp from the shower. he hummed on you, giving a little tug with his teeth before he pulled away, with a smile on his slick lips and blown pupils.

his hands went to your skirt next, not even bothering to undo the zipper, simply hiking it up to your hips. he smiled even more at the sight of your pretty panties, soaked through and sticking to your skin.

"me too," he mumbled, reaching out to trace you over the lace with his thumb in slow circles, obscene slick sounds filling your room as he found a rhythm. "some time alone, just for us."

"i want to get to know you better," he spoke absently, almost like he wasn't picking up his pace with intention, entranced by how your whole body squirmed yet you made an effort to stay right where he wanted you, open and wet and beautiful for him. "talk for as long as we want, you know? and go to dinner."

"yeah, dinner," you giggled, breathy and shaky, reaching out to cup his jaw. patrick's focus shifted from the sweetness between your legs to your face. your smile. your eyes shining down at him like you really wanted to go to dinner with him, out on vacation together, talk for hours about your families and where you'd gone to school and your favorite movies and everything that made you you. "you like italian?"

patrick took his time with you that night. for hours, mouths and slick and gasps and mumbles of tenderness when it was over. he was used to rushed, barely satisfactory quickies, but he'd learned to make love to you. slower, easier, and scarily loving.

finally, after so many defeats, victory. somehow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The waiter nodded and walked off.

You raised a brow. “No menu?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seven,” you admitted quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Jannette—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted. “Jake?”

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

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

She nudged you. “You better.”

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

—

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

Home. Damn, he’d missed it.

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

The Navy had done the rest.

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

But here — here he was just Jake.

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

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

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

There was never a next time.

Until now.

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

“Just come home when you can, baby.”

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

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

A little rest. A little quiet.

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

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

Someone he hadn’t seen since he was seventeen.

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

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

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

—

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

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

He knocked twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look too skinny.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He froze.

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

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

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

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

Jake swallowed hard. “Good to be home.”

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

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

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

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

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

Jake nodded. “Yeah. Whole month.”

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

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

Home. Finally home.

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

His room.

Frozen in time.

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

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

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

God, he’d been such a dweeb.

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

Because there he was.

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

Jake groaned under his breath.

Christina had no business keeping photographic evidence of that era.

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

He placed the frame back down carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He ran a hand through his hair.

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

Reminding him who he used to be.

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

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

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

“JACOB?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake groaned. “Jannette…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Don’t wanna wear my glasses.”

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

“Oh my God. You are unbelievable.”

“What?”

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

“It’s not like that.”

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

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

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

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

“You’ll do it,” she corrected.

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

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

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

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

Which was exactly when Jannette chose to drop a bomb.

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

Jake froze mid-chew when she said your name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jannette noticed immediately. Of course she did.

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

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

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

Jake ignored her. Or he pretended to.

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

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

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

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

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

Not then.

But now?

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

You looked up. And kept looking up.

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

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

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

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

No.

It couldn’t be.

“Jake?!”

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

He dipped his chin once.

“Hey.”

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

Because yes.

Yes, it was him.

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

This Jake was—

God.

He was hot.

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

You had to remind yourself to blink.

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

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

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

“That’s… wow. That’s really you?”

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

“Last time I checked.”

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

Jake Seresin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not far,” you laughed.

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

“At home.”

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

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

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

“It’s really okay, Jake—”

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

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

He raised a brow, patient but firm.

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

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

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

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

“Boots.”

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

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

Your eyes widened. “These are perfect.”

Jake’s smile met yours. “Told you.”

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake! At least let me grab one—”

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

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Been told that once or twice.”

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

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

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

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

“Looks good to me,” he said. “Homey.”

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

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

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

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

“No, you don’t need to—”

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

And promptly forgot how to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never.”

“Exactly. I’m making history.”

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

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

“Want to start the second?” he asked.

“You hungry?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I could eat.”

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

“Surprise me.”

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

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

“I was raised to pay for dinner.”

“Well, I was raised to repay favors.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They remembered. They remembered everything.

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

You weren’t much better.

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

And you were looking. A lot.

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

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

But God, he was.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“It’s Christmas,” she declared.

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

You didn’t finish the sentence.

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

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

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

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

Your heart stumbled over its own rhythm.

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

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

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

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

You almost groaned. Silently. Internally.

It was dangerously close to indecent.

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

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

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

You waved a hand lightly. “It’s fine, really. I’ve done it a thousand times.”

Christina shook her head, already set in her ways. “No. You’re tired. The roads are dark. It’s not safe.”

Before you could argue, Jannette, eyes gleaming with mischief, said, “Jake can drive her.”

Jake’s head snapped up. He blinked once, confusion melting quickly into something bright and alert. His gaze drifted to you, locking on, and your breath caught again because glasses.

Christina lit up instantly. “That’s perfect! Yes. Jake, take her home. And darling, leave your car here. He’ll pick you up tomorrow too.”

Your cheeks flushed warm. “Mrs. Seresin, really, that’s not—”

“I don’t mind,” Jake said, voice sliding in low and steady, cutting off your protest.

Jannette muttered under her breath, “Of course you don’t,” earning herself a sharp look from him.

You swallowed, nodded softly, thanked them all, and gathered your things. Jake grabbed the truck keys from the shelf by the door and held the door open for you.

The chill of the night met you both at once— crisp air, quiet street, the scent of pine lingering on your coat. Your breath puffed out in little clouds, mixing with his.

Your cheeks were still warm from the attention, from the glasses, from the way Jake kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

Jake opened the truck door for you just like before— effortlessly, almost instinctively, as if it were second nature. He offered his hand to help you climb in, the warmth of his fingers brushing yours for a moment that felt much longer than it actually was. Then he closed the door gently and circled the hood, breath visible in the cold night air.

Once he slid behind the wheel, he turned the key, letting the engine hum to life. The headlights washed over the quiet street as he eased out of the driveway. The inside of the truck was warm, dimly lit, and filled with the soft rasp of the heater and the low rumble of the engine. Jake kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, and every now and then he reached up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the lightest tap of his knuckle.

You watched him do it once. Then again. Then again— each time something fluttering low in your stomach.

After a stretch of comfortable silence, you said softly, “I didn’t know you still wore glasses.”

He huffed a small laugh, eyes flicking toward you before returning to the road. “Yeah, I’m still pretty blind,” he joked. “Contacts help, but by the end of the day they get annoying.”

You smiled, leaning back against the seat. “I can’t believe Christina didn’t want me driving at night. I’m offended, honestly.”

Jake laughed, real and warm, the sound filling the cab in a way that made your chest feel too full. He shook his head, voice lighter than before. “Yeah, you’re clearly the bigger hazard.”

You grinned, pretending to be scandalized. “Wow. Thank you, Lieutenant Safety.”

He glanced at you again, longer this time, and there was something soft in his eyes, something easy and fond that made you swallow around the sudden warmth in your throat. He returned his attention to the road, but the faint smile stayed on his face.

The world outside the truck was dark and still— houses wrapped in Christmas lights, lawns sparkling with frost, the sky a deep velvet blue. Inside, though, it felt warmer and smaller, the space between you charged with something neither of you wanted to name yet.

You shifted slightly in your seat. The fabric of your leggings clung to your skin, warm from the heater, and you crossed your legs, then uncrossed them, fingers idly brushing your thigh. You told yourself it was the cold. The long day. The exhaustion.

But then Jake pushed his glasses up again, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the cut of his cheekbone— and your thighs pressed together without you thinking.

You tried to play it off, adjusting in your seat, pretending to get comfortable. But the truth pulsed hot and low: you were attracted to him, wildly, stupidly, overwhelmingly attracted. The kind of attraction that made your breath catch and your skin warm. The kind that made your mind wander to places it absolutely should not go— not while sitting beside Jake Seresin. Not while wearing a seatbelt.

He didn’t seem to notice, thankfully. Or maybe he did and was too polite to say anything. Or maybe he noticed, but the curl of a smile ghosting the corner of his mouth suggested something else entirely—something that made your heart thump hard against your ribs.

You stared out the window, trying to breathe normally.

Jake reached up, pushed his glasses up one more time, and you were gone again.

After a while, he pulled up smoothly to the curb and cut the engine. For a moment neither of you moved, the quiet settling between you like a warm blanket, thick and charged and impossible to ignore. Then he unbuckled, stepped out into the cool night, and rounded the truck with long, confident strides. He opened your door with that same gentle care he’d shown all day, offering a hand to help you down.

You met his eyes as you slid out of the seat. “Thank you for the ride,” you said softly, breath visible in the cold. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Jake shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, shoulders lifting in the faintest shrug. “I wanted to,” he said, simple and earnest.

A small wave of silence washed over you—warm, a little nervous, strangely comfortable. You stood there on your front walk, the porch light casting a golden glow over the two of you. Jake looked taller in that light, broader, impossibly handsome with the frames perched on his nose and the cold brushing color onto his cheeks.

Neither of you knew what to say, neither of you wanted to walk away.

“Goodnight,” you whispered, finally breaking the spell.

“Goodnight,” he echoed, voice quieter than before.

You turned, walking toward your porch steps. You made it halfway to the door, heart pounding, breath uneven, before stopping dead.

Fuck it.

You spun around.

Jake was still standing exactly where you left him, hands in his pockets, breath curling in the cold air. His eyes widened when he saw you coming back, mouth parting like he was about to speak—

—but he didn’t get the chance.

You reached him in one determined step, hands sliding up his chest as you surged forward and crushed your mouth to his. The kiss landed hot, full, desperate. Jake froze for just half a second, but then he melted into you, hands flying from his pockets to your waist, pulling you firmly against him like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.

The world tilted.

You kissed him deeper, your fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that stole your breath. When you finally pulled back for air, barely an inch away, he chased you— capturing your mouth again before you could even inhale, like he couldn’t bear the distance.

You walked backwards without looking, letting instinct guide you, and he followed without hesitation, steps perfectly in sync with yours. He kissed you like you were something he’d dreamed of and never expected to touch. Like he was starving and you were the first real taste of something good in years.

His chest pressed to yours, his breath warm, his glasses slightly askew.

You hit your door with a soft thud.

Jake kissed down your jaw to your neck, his lips hot against your skin. “Where are your keys, sweetheart?” he murmured against the curve of your throat, voice rough, low, absolutely devastating.

Sweetheart.

Your knees almost buckled.

You fumbled in your purse —shaky, breathless— until your fingers closed around the keys. Jake stayed pressed to you, hands exploring your waist, your hips, the small of your back, claiming every piece of you he could reach. You managed to get the key into the lock on the second try and push the door open.

The moment you stepped inside, Jake followed, shutting the door behind him with one hand while the other found your waist again. His lips returned to your neck, nipping lightly, and you let out a breathless giggle. Your fingers slid into his hair, brushing the edge of his glasses, and he pulled back just enough to smirk against your skin.

“Couldn’t keep your hands off my glasses, huh?” he teased, voice warm and wicked.

Before you could answer, he kissed you again, backing you farther into the house until the door clicked shut behind him and the world outside disappeared.

Jake guided you deeper into the house until your back met the wall, the gentle thud echoing in the quiet room. He didn’t kiss you right away. Instead, he paused— breathing hard, chest rising and falling against your — just looking at you like he was trying to memorize every line of your face.

His eyes swept over you, slow and reverent.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, warm and trembling with honesty he probably hadn’t planned to share. “You have no idea how many times I dreamed about this.”

Heat shot straight through you.

Your lips curved, eyes lifting to his through your lashes as you leaned in, brushing your mouth near the shell of his ear. “Tell me what you dreamed about,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin.

Jake pulled back just enough to see you clearly, and something shifted behind his eyes. A spark— dark, certain, hungry. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and sinful.

“No hesitation at all, huh?” he drawled softly.

Before you could respond, his hands slid down your sides, warm and sure, settling at the back of your thighs. In one smooth, practiced motion he lifted you— effortless, like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands flying to the back of his neck, fingers curling in the soft hair there.

Your legs wrapped around his waist by instinct, your body fitting to his like you’d done this a thousand times instead of not at all.

His mouth found your neck again, lips hot and open as he kissed a path up toward your jaw. You tilted your head without thinking, granting him more access, a soft moan slipping out before you could stop it.

Jake groaned quietly at the sound, tightening his grip on you.

And then he started walking.

Up the stairs.

Carrying you like he’d been waiting fourteen years for the chance.

Each step jostled you just enough that your breath hitched, your arms clinging tighter around his shoulders. His body was strong and steady beneath you— solid muscle, warm skin, that faint scent of soap and aftershave still clinging to him after his shower.

He kept kissing you between steps, his lips brushing your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn’t stop touching you.

By the time he reached your bedroom door, your pulse was pounding, your fingers tangled in the hair at his nape, your legs locked tight around him.

Jake nudged the door open with his shoulder, eyes lifting to meet yours— full of every dream he’d never said out loud.

He laid you softly on the bed, his body hovering over yours as your back hit the mattress. The room felt charged, the air thick with anticipation as his warmth pressed close. He planted one hand beside your head, the other trailing down your side, fingers igniting sparks along your skin. His lips captured yours in a deep kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth with confident ease, tasting you thoroughly. You moaned into him, your hands roaming his broad back, slipping under his shirt to feel the hard ridges of his abs clenching under your touch.

You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head in a rush. Your eyes devoured him: toned chest, defined arms, every inch screaming raw power. He mirrored you, stripping your top away and unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers, exposing your breasts to the cool air. They ached for him already, nipples hardening. As he reached for his glasses, you grabbed his wrist.

“Leave them on,” you whispered, voice husky with need. He smirked, that green gaze sharpening behind the lenses, adjusting them before crashing back into another kiss, his mouth devouring yours.

His lips trailed down, hot and insistent, nipping at your jaw before settling on your neck. He sucked hard, tongue lapping at the skin, drawing a gasp from you as a bruise bloomed under his mouth.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmured against your throat, his voice low and rough. You arched into him, fingers threading through his hair. He moved lower, open-mouthed kisses peppering your collarbone, then your breasts. His hand cupped one, thumb circling the nipple while his mouth latched onto the other, sucking firmly.

The pull shot straight to your core, making your pussy clench with empty need. He switched sides, teeth grazing the sensitive peak, leaving faint red marks that would darken into hickeys by morning. Your moans filled the room, body writhing as pleasure built.

“Jake... please,” you breathed, hips shifting restlessly. He released your breast with a wet pop, kissing down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel. His hands hooked into your leggings, peeling them down slowly, caressing the newly bared skin of your thighs.

Cool air hit your soaked panties, the fabric clinging transparently to your folds. He settled between your legs, broad shoulders parting them wide, his breath ghosting over your inner thighs. You rocked up instinctively, seeking friction against the ache in your pussy.

He dragged his fingers along the waistband of your panties, eyes locked on yours through his glasses, that smirk promising everything.

“So wet for me already,” he said, voice gravelly. He tugged them off, exposing your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze. You felt vulnerable, exposed, but the way he stared—like he wanted to consume you—only made you throb harder. He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, sucking marks into the soft flesh, each pull making you whimper. The hickeys would linger, a secret reminder of this night.

“Please, Jake,” you begged, voice breaking. He looked up, green eyes piercing behind the frames, and without a word, his mouth found your pussy. His tongue flattened against your slit, licking a long, slow stripe from entrance to clit.

The sensation was electric, your hips bucking as he lapped at your juices. He hummed in approval, the vibration sending shivers through you. Then he focused on your clit, sucking it between his lips with precise pressure, tongue flicking the swollen nub.

You cried out, hands fisting the sheets. His mouth worked you relentlessly, tongue circling your clit before sucking harder, drawing obscene wet sounds from your pussy. He made out with it, lips and tongue worshipping every fold, dipping inside briefly to taste your arousal before returning to that sensitive spot.

“Look at me, darling,” he commanded, voice muffled against you. You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense stare as he sucked your clit again, the suction pulling a scream from your throat. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, your thighs trembling around his head.

He pulled back just enough to speak, one finger sliding along your slit, gathering your wetness before rubbing firm circles on your clit.

“Did you know not all women orgasm from penetration? Stimulation like this—or toys—can be key. But bet I can make you cum from my tongue alone.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, confident and teasing. Then he dove back in, mouth sealing over your pussy, tongue thrusting inside while his fingertips tugged at your clit. You screamed, the dual assault overwhelming, your body arching off the bed.

His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open as he ate you out with expert focus. Tongue lashing your clit, sucking it rhythmically, he built the pressure higher. Your moans turned to gasps, breaths ragged, every nerve alight. He added a finger, sliding it deep into your clenching pussy, curling to hit that spot inside while his mouth never stopped its assault on your clit.

The combination was devastating— wet slurps mixing with your cries, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat. You felt the edge approaching, body tensing, but he didn't let up, determined to push you over with just his mouth and that skilled touch.

“Jake... I'm so close,” you panted, eyes locked on his as he glanced up again, that smug glint in his green eyes urging you on. His tongue flattened once more, licking broad strokes before pinpoint sucking on your clit, finger pumping steadily. The pleasure crested, threatening to shatter you, but he held you there, drawing it out with every precise movement.

Your body convulses as the orgasm rips through you, waves of pleasure crashing hard. Your pussy clenches and gushes, soaking Jake's mouth with your hot cum. He doesn't flinch— instead, he presses his tongue flat against your swollen folds, lapping up every drop like it's the sweetest nectar.

His lips suck greedily at your entrance, tongue delving deep to scoop out more of your juices, slurping loudly as you tremble beneath him. The wet sounds fill the room, mixing with your ragged breaths, your thighs quivering around his head.

You think he's done, that he'll pull back and give you a second to recover, but Jake's eyes lock onto yours through his fogged glasses, dark with hunger. His tongue keeps working, flicking over your sensitive clit, sending jolts straight to your core.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he moans against your skin, the vibration making you whimper. Before you can beg for mercy, he slides one thick finger into your dripping hole, stretching your walls with its girth. It's long, rough from whatever he's been doing all day, and he thrusts it slow and deep, curling it just right to hit that spot inside.

Your juices coat his finger easily, making obscene squelching noises as he pumps in and out. You gasp, hips bucking involuntarily, but he pins you down with his free hand on your thigh.

“A lot happens in your body during orgasm, especially in the brain,” he says casually, like he's reciting from a textbook while finger-fucking you senseless. “It has been shown that when you reach orgasm, the area behind your left eye, known as the lateral orbitofrontal cortex, shuts down. Kind of why you look so fucked out right now.” His words hit you as hard as his finger, your mind reeling from the mix of science and filth.

“Oh god,” you moan, your voice breaking as he slips a second finger inside, stretching you wider. Your pussy flutters around the intrusion, stuffed full already, but he doesn't stop. He starts scissoring them, twisting and thrusting, while his thumb sneaks up to your clit, rubbing firm circles that make your vision blur. The pressure builds fast, your nerves on fire from the dual assault. “Ho-how do you know all of this?” you stammer, words tumbling out between gasps, your body arching off the bed.

He smirks, never breaking rhythm, his fingers plunging deeper, knuckles grazing your entrance.

“I just read a lot.” His voice is low, teasing, as his hand works you relentlessly. You feel every ridge of his fingers dragging along your inner walls, hitting your G-spot with precision. “Did you know a female orgasm can burn between 60 to 100 calories? That’s on top of the calories burnt during sex.”

“Did you major in women's anatomy or something?” you manage to choke out, your breaths coming in short pants as pleasure coils tighter in your belly.

He shakes his head, eyes gleaming with dominance. “I learn a lot online.” Before you can respond, his mouth replaces his thumb on your clit, sucking hard, tongue swirling around the throbbing nub.

His fingers thrust faster, curling against your G-spot with every stroke, the wet slaps echoing louder. You cry out, the second orgasm slamming into you like a freight train. Your pussy spasms around his fingers, cum coming out in hot spurts as he drives them deeper, fucking you through it without mercy.

He pulls his mouth away just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal. “I want to make you squirt.” The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, but you shake your head weakly, still riding the aftershocks.

“I've never... I don't know if I can,” you whimper, your voice hoarse, body already oversensitive.

Jake's grin turns wicked. “It's different for everybody, but some people may achieve squirting from stimulation to the clitoris, vulva, or other parts of the vagina or body.”

As he talks, his fingers pick up speed, slamming into your G-spot harder, the pressure building to something intense and unfamiliar. “A person may find it easier to squirt when masturbating. Right now, I'm hitting your G-spot. You may feel a tingling sensation or the need to urinate.”

You nod frantically, biting your lip to stifle a scream, the pleasure bordering on too much. That tingling spreads, a full bladder ache mixing with the ecstasy, making your muscles clench.

“Dual stimulation is important, see?” he says, voice rough with his own arousal. His head dives back down, mouth latching onto your clit, sucking and flicking while his fingers piston inside you, relentless on that spongy spot. The overstimulation hits like lightning— deliciously painful, your nerves screaming as the third orgasm barrels toward you.

Your hips jerk, trying to escape the intensity, but Jake locks your thighs in place with his strong arms, refusing to let you pull away. He speeds up instead, fingers curling and thrusting, mouth devouring your clit.

The pressure explodes. You scream his name, body seizing as you squirt hard, a gush of fluid spraying over his face. It soaks his glasses, dripping down his chin, wetting his chest and the bed, but he doesn't stop.

He drinks you in, tongue lapping at the flood, moaning deep in his throat as his hips grind against the bed, cock straining in his pants. Your legs shake uncontrollably, pussy pulsing around his fingers, every muscle going limp as your brain shorts out in bliss.

Jake keeps licking, slower now, savoring every last drop until you're empty and twitching. He finally pulls back, chin glistening, glasses ruined and streaked with your squirt, but his eyes burn with satisfaction. He watches you, sprawled and fucked-out on the bed, chest heaving, pussy still fluttering.

“Told you I could make you squirt,” he says, voice husky, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers trail up your thigh, teasing the edge of your folds again, hinting at more to come.

Your mouth opened, ready to answer, but Jake’s phone rang with a notification from the corner of the bed he had discarded it earlier —

Guessing you’re gonna spend the night there, just know mom will go get your ass if you’re not here to open the gifts tomorrow — naked or not!