#jake ff

It wasn’t supposed to be obvious. You were careful—or at least you thought you were.

Sure, maybe you stared a little too long when Jake walked into class late, hair still damp from a rushed shower, backpack half-zipped like he couldn’t be bothered. Maybe you laughed a little too loud when he made a joke, even if it wasn’t that funny. Maybe your friends caught you scrolling through his Instagram more times than you could count—but you had never said it out loud.

But somehow… everybody knew.

It started small. You remember the moment it all began to slip. One afternoon in the library, your best friend nudged your arm and whispered, “You’re staring again,” followed by the most annoying smirk you’d ever seen. You blinked, cheeks warming, then looked away quickly as Jake leaned back in his chair, stretching in that way he had to know showed off his arms.

“It’s not like that,” you’d mumbled. Lie. Straight lie. But it was your go-to line.

Then came the whispers. The way people started looking at you just a little differently whenever Jake was around. In the dining hall, one of his teammates nudged him and said something under his breath, both of them turning your way right after. You pretended not to notice. But you felt it—the heat in your face, the tightening in your stomach. You hated it.

It was like high school all over again. Like a crush you couldn’t shake, no matter how much you tried to play it cool.

And the worst part? Jake noticed.

He started looking at you a little longer in the hallways. Smirking when you’d pass by. Saying “hey” like he hadn’t ignored you for two semesters straight. You weren’t sure if he was just being polite—or playing with you. Still, every time your name left his lips, something fluttered in your chest and you hated that you let it.

Then, one night at a party, it all came out.

You were standing by the kitchen, holding a red solo cup you barely sipped from, when you heard it—your name. Jake’s voice.

“She’s cute,” he said casually, too casually, and the room seemed to go quieter around you. “And I’m pretty sure she’s into me.”

Laughter. Someone said, “Bro, everyone knows she is.”

Another voice chimed in, “You’re the first thing on her mind when she walks into class.”

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks as your stomach flipped.

They were talking about you like you were an object, like your feelings didn’t matter.

You tried to shrink back into the corner of the room, hoping no one noticed your face burning hotter by the second. But Jake didn’t miss a beat.

He didn’t stop them. Didn’t correct them. Didn’t even seem surprised.

You were supposed to be doing your sociology reading. That was the whole plan. Laptop open, textbook to the side, highlighter in hand—every prop perfectly in place. But instead of notes, your screen was filled with him.

Jake Sim’s Instagram page.

His latest post? A blurry mirror selfie at the gym, captioned something dumb like “light work.” His abs were obnoxiously sharp, his hair pushed back by a sweatband, and there was a cocky little smirk tugging at the edge of his lips like he knew exactly what he was doing. You didn’t even like gym pics—and yet there you were, zooming in like a creep and biting your lip like an idiot.

You were halfway through stalking his tagged photos when Yuna burst into your room.

“Oh my god,” she said, before even setting her bag down. “Are you stalking him again?” You jumped, slamming your laptop shut like it was something illegal. “No.” She raised a brow. “You literally jumped like I caught you watching illegal shit.”

“I was doing research,” you muttered, trying to sound convincing.

“Research on what? His jawline?” Yuna flopped onto your bed, grinning. “Girl, you need help.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands. “I know. It’s so bad. I can’t stop.”

“Yeah, no kidding. This is like… phase five of a full-blown Jake Sim spiral.” You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you think he knows?” Yuna blinked at you. “Girl. Everyone knows.” You groaned again, louder this time, flopping back in your chair with a dramatic sigh. “I’m so pathetic.”

“Not pathetic,” Yuna said sweetly. “Just tragically whipped.” She laughed and tossed a pillow at you, and you couldn’t help but smile through the embarrassment. Because yeah—you were absolutely whipped.

And the worst part? You hadn’t even had a real conversation with him yet.

Yuna stayed sprawled on your bed, scrolling through her phone while you reopened your laptop—this time pretending you were actually going to study, even though your fingers hovered dangerously close to Jake’s profile again.

“I swear, he’s getting hotter by the day,” you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than to her.

“Don’t do it,” Yuna warned without even looking up. “Don’t go back to his highlights. You already watched his Europe trip twice last night.”

“I just like the aesthetic,” you defended weakly.

“You like his face.”

You sighed, resting your chin in your palm, eyes drifting back to his latest Story. Just a casual boomerang of him walking into a party, surrounded by people, drink in hand, that same effortless confidence radiating off of him. He looked like he belonged there—like the world bent to him just slightly wherever he went.

Meanwhile, you couldn’t even bend your willpower long enough to not stalk him for one damn night.

“He’s at that rooftop bar again,” you murmured. “That one near campus.”

Yuna glanced at your screen. “With the LED lights and overpriced drinks? Ugh. Of course he is. He’s always out. Does he even do homework?”

“He’s passing econ somehow.”

“Probably because he flirts with the TA.”

You snorted. “I wouldn’t even be mad.”

Yuna tossed her phone aside and sat up. “Okay, real question. What are you actually gonna do about this?”

“Do?”

“Yes, do. You’ve been drooling over him for months. Either shoot your shot or block his page and join a monastery. This in-between spiral is destroying you.”

You hesitated. The idea of talking to Jake—really talking to him—made your heart race in a way that was more panic than excitement. He was just so… untouchable. Like a poster boy for bad decisions wrapped in designer cologne and half-smiles. And you were just—you.

“I don’t even think he knows my name,” you said quietly.

Yuna gave you a look. “Oh, he knows.”

You blinked. “What?”

She just smirked, grabbing her bag. “I’m gonna leave that there. You think about it.”

And with that, she disappeared out the door, leaving your heart racing in the quiet. Because if Jake did know your name… what did that mean?

You sat frozen for a solid thirty seconds after Yuna left, her last words echoing in your head like a fire alarm.

“He knows.”

She had to be messing with you, right? Yuna loved a good dramatic exit. She lived for chaos. There was no way Jake Sim—resident heartbreaker, campus lenend, the guy with a rotation of girls longer than your Spotify playlist—actually knew who you were.

…Right?

You glanced back at your laptop. His story was still up.

Tap.

Next slide—him laughing at something, dimples on full display, head tilted back like life was just that easy for him. You paused on it, your stomach twisting in that way it always did when you saw him smile. It was gross. You hated how much you liked it.

You shut the laptop again. This was getting out of hand.

Grabbing your phone, you opened your group chat with Yuna and your other two friends.

You:

i hate you why would u say that

Yuna:

what did i do NOW

You:

“he knows” ??? why would u say that and then LEAVE like some cryptic little drama gremlin

Kazuha:

HELP what’d she do

Minju:

this is about jake isn’t it

Yuna:

ok first of all. i am a drama gremlin. second of all. i didn’t lie.

You:

YUNA.

Yuna:

look he asked about you once okay?? don’t freak out

You stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, heart thudding so loud you almost didn’t hear the buzz of another message.

You:

he what.

Yuna:

like two weeks ago. after class. he was talking to beomgyu and i walked up and he was like “hey that girl you always hang with, she’s in my stats class right?”

and i said yeah. and he nodded.

that’s it.

Minju:

girl that’s not nothing

Kazuha:

he definitely knows. also why do i feel like he’s been looking at her lately???

You:

guys stop

i’m sweating wtf

this is too much

You dropped your phone on the bed and covered your face with your hands again, half-screaming into your palms. This couldn’t be real. Jake noticed you? He remembered you existed?

You thought about the times he held your gaze a second too long in class, the lazy way he said “hey” when passing you on campus, the smirk you always thought was meant for someone else.

You didn’t want to get your hopes up. That was dangerous. That was how people got hurt. But still…

Just maybe…

This crush wasn’t as one-sided as you thought.

Jake leaned back against the bench, legs stretched out and sunglasses pushed up into his hair as the late afternoon sun filtered through the trees. The quad buzzed with weekend energy—students lounging on the grass, music playing from someone’s speaker, that kind of lazy chaos that only ever happened when no one felt like doing real work.

Jay sat beside him, twirling a straw around in his iced coffee, eyes scanning the crowd like he was picking out a movie to watch.

“You know what I was thinking?” Jay said suddenly, eyes still tracking something in the distance.

Jake raised an eyebrow. “That’s always a terrifying sentence.”

Jay smirked. “We’ve never been in a real relationship. Like ever.”

Jake scoffed. “And your point?”

“My point is,” Jay said, sitting up, “we should see who can actually do it. Lock in. Longest relationship wins.”

Jake blinked, amused. “That’s the dumbest bet you’ve ever made—and you once bet Beomgyu fifty bucks you could throw a slice of pizza on the dorm ceiling and make it stick.”

“It did stick,” Jay pointed out.

“Yeah, and the RA made you clean it off.”

Sunghoon, who’d been quietly watching some random soccer game in the distance, sighed like he was already regretting his life choices. “This is so stupid. Why would you guys want to date someone just for the sake of it?”

“Because we suck at it,” Jay shrugged. “We’re trash at commitment. Might as well make it fun.”

Jake tilted his head, thinking for a second. “So what, we just pick someone and… date them?”

“Exactly,” Jay grinned. “No hookups, no games. Real dating. See who lasts longer.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes. “You guys are hopeless. Seriously.”

Jake was about to respond when Sunghoon suddenly nodded toward a group of girls laughing across the lawn.

“What about her?” he said, jerking his chin in that direction.

Jake followed his gaze—and immediately shook his head, a tight, amused smile tugging at his lips. “Nah. Heeseung would kill me.”

Jay raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press it. Sunghoon just shrugged like it wasn’t his problem.

Jake leaned back again, lips pressing into a thin line. His thoughts drifted, uninvited, to you.

He didn’t know why, but your name floated to the surface, soft and unspoken. He pictured your face for a split second—how you always seemed to be laughing with that same small circle of friends, always just there on the edge of his world.

He said nothing.

Instead, Jake pushed himself off the bench, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans.

“Where you going?” Jay asked, glancing up.

Jake just smirked and threw a lazy wave over his shoulder.

“Nowhere. Just remembered something.”

Jake shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked off, head down just enough to avoid the glare of the sun but not enough to miss the way people turned to greet him as he passed. He gave the usual half-smile, a couple nods, but didn’t stop.

He wasn’t sure where he was going. He just didn’t feel like sitting there talking about bets and fake relationships when his mind was suddenly, annoyingly, stuck on you.

Not in a romantic way—God, no. Jake Sim didn’t catch feelings like that. Especially not for girls he barely talked to. That wasn’t how he operated. That wasn’t how this worked.

You weren’t the hottest girl on campus or the loudest or the one constantly throwing yourself into his orbit. If anything, you stayed out of it. And yet… you’d started showing up in his peripheral vision more often than he liked to admit.

Every time you passed by him in class, you did that little thing—tucking your hair behind your ear, eyes flicking to him for half a second before you looked away like you’d been caught doing something wrong. You weren’t subtle. And Jake wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed.

It was kind of… cute.

He kicked a rock off the sidewalk, watching it bounce onto the grass.

He didn’t know why you popped into his head when Sunghoon pointed out that girl. Maybe it was because you felt like the opposite of a challenge—someone easy to talk to, someone safe. Not messy. Not loud. Not tied up in anyone else’s drama.

And maybe, he thought, that wouldn’t be such a bad way to win a bet.

He stopped walking.

But then again… this was stupid. It was Jay’s idea. It wasn’t that deep. And you? You were just a thought. A maybe. An option.

Nothing more.

Jake smirked to himself and kept walking, brushing the idea off like it was dust on his sleeve.

No feelings. No strings.

Just a game.

Jake didn’t think about it again—at least, that’s what he told himself.

The next day, he walked into stats like he always did: five minutes late, iced americano in one hand, phone in the other, no apology in sight. He dropped into his seat near the back, legs stretched out under the desk, and immediately tuned out the professor’s monotone voice.

But then he saw you.

You were in your usual spot, two rows ahead and just slightly to the right. Laughing at something Kazuha whispered to you, pen twirling between your fingers, that same focused-but-not-really expression on your face.

Jake leaned back, tapping his pen against his lip.

You looked soft. Not in the cheesy romcom way—just… not sharp like most people. You weren’t trying to be noticed. You weren’t dressed to impress. You just were. And Jake had a strange moment of clarity where he realized: that might be why he’d thought of you in the first place.

Predictable. Low drama. Quiet.

Someone he could control the narrative with.

Jay’s dumb idea floated back into his head again: “Real dating. See who lasts longer.”

Jake exhaled slowly, like it would push the hesitation out of his lungs.

This wasn’t about feelings. He didn’t like you. He didn’t want to text you goodnight or hold your hand at parties or any of that romcom garbage. But maybe you were safe enough to play the part. Someone who wouldn’t make things messy. Someone who already had a soft spot for him.

He glanced at you again, just as you looked down to write something in your notebook, your brows furrowed in concentration.

He could do it. Just a few weeks, some dates, a little effort. Easy.

Jake grinned to himself, resting his chin on his hand.

He didn’t realize he was already watching you too closely.

Didn’t realize he was starting to wonder how you’d react if he actually said hi.

He just thought,

Yeah. This’ll be easy.

Jake caught himself watching you again.

It wasn’t even on purpose—at least, that’s what he told himself. You weren’t doing anything special. Just taking notes, occasionally glancing at the board, the corners of your mouth twitching every time Kazuha leaned over and whispered something dumb. But for some reason, he couldn’t look away for long.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, snapping him out of it.

Jay:

pick someone yet or u backing out?

Jake smirked, thumbs tapping quickly.

Jake:

working on it

Jay:

clock’s ticking

Jake rolled his eyes, tossing the phone facedown on the desk.

The truth was, he already knew. He’d made up his mind the second he walked into class and saw you laughing like you didn’t have a single clue how close you were to becoming part of something you didn’t sign up for.

But he wasn’t going to tell Jay yet. He wasn’t even sure why.

Maybe because part of him felt like once he said it out loud, it would make it real. More real than it needed to be. And despite how casual he was pretending to be, this wasn’t like hooking up with some girl from a party. This wasn’t sneaking out of someone’s dorm room at 2 a.m. before things got too serious.

This was… a role. A performance. One he’d have to keep up if he wanted to win.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes drifting toward you again.

You didn’t even know he existed—at least, not really. Sure, you might’ve looked at him a few times, maybe had that little crush people liked to tease about, but you didn’t know him. Not the version he showed at parties, not the bored one in class, not the one who smiled when he needed something.

You were still clean.

Jake wondered how long that would last.

When class ended, he stood and slung his backpack over one shoulder, lingering by the exit just long enough to watch you gather your things. You laughed at something Kazuha said again, then turned to wave goodbye to Minju.

And for half a second, your eyes met his.

He gave you a slow, easy smile—one he’d used a thousand times before—and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.

Jake walked out of the room, his smirk growing.

You couldn’t focus the rest of the day.

Jake Sim had smiled at you.

Not just a polite, passing one. Not the half-distracted, probably-at-someone-behind-you kind. No. It was at you—slow, smooth, like he knew something you didn’t. Like he meant it.

And stupidly, pathetically, you’d smiled back.

Your stomach was still fluttering from it hours later. Even as you sat at your usual café table with Yuna, Kazuha, and Minju, pretending to listen to their convo, all you could think about was that look. That damn smile. The way his eyes had lingered just long enough to make your brain short-circuit.

Yuna caught you zoning out and kicked your foot under the table. “Earth to lover girl.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve been checked out since class,” Minju said, sipping her iced latte like she wasn’t stirring chaos.

“Let me guess,” Kazuha added, leaning forward with a smirk. “Jake smiled at you?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but Yuna cut in with a dramatic gasp. “He did?! Wait—you smiled back?!”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I don’t know what it was, okay? He looked at me and—ugh, I probably imagined the whole thing.”

“You didn’t,” Minju said casually. “He looked at you. I saw it.”

You peeked through your fingers. “Was it like… a weird look? Or just, like, a normal thing?”

Kazuha raised an eyebrow. “Does Jake Sim ever look at someone normally?”

Yuna leaned her chin on her palm, suddenly serious. “Okay, but real talk. If he did look at you, like, look at you… be careful.”

Your heart sank a little. “What do you mean?”

“He’s Jake,” Minju said. “He doesn’t date. He flirts, he parties, he makes girls fall for him and then disappears.”

“I’m not falling for him,” you said too quickly.

Three sets of eyebrows went up at once.

“I’m not!” you insisted, but your voice cracked halfway through, completely ruining your case. They all exchanged knowing looks, and Kazuha patted your hand like you were already a lost cause.

You sat back in your seat, sipping your drink in silence, trying to calm the chaos in your chest. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe Jake smiled at a hundred girls a day.

But still, the way he’d looked at you…

It didn’t feel like nothing.

And somewhere not too far from that café, Jake Sim was leaning back against a wall outside the library, scrolling through his phone.

He hadn’t told Jay yet. He hadn’t told anyone.

But your name sat quietly in the back of his mind.

Like a string he’d just started tugging.

Like a move he hadn’t played yet.

And tomorrow? He planned to say hello.

The next day came quicker than you expected.

You tried not to overthink it. Tried not to pick out your outfit with him in mind. Tried not to rehearse fake scenarios in your head where Jake Sim actually acknowledged you again—maybe said hi, maybe made a joke, maybe even asked you a question. Nothing big. Just something. Anything.

But deep down, under the nervous energy and second-guessing, a small, traitorous part of you hoped.

You walked into stats early, which never happened, your notebook hugged to your chest like it might protect you from your own delusions. Kazuha and Minju were already there, chatting quietly, and you took your usual seat beside them, eyes scanning the door more times than you cared to admit.

You told yourself you weren’t checking for him. Just being aware. Just… existing in the same room.

And then he walked in.

Jake didn’t look at anyone at first. Just strolled in like always—relaxed, unbothered, his usual drink in hand. He scanned the room casually, his eyes drifting past people without really stopping.

Until they landed on you.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

A lazy, lopsided grin pulled at his lips as he met your gaze. Not rushed. Not accidental.

Intentional.

Your throat went dry.

And then—like it was the most normal thing in the world—Jake Sim nodded at you. A simple, subtle gesture.

But it felt like the whole room paused around it.

You blinked. Your lips parted, surprised, and then instinctively—you nodded back. Small. Shy. Like your heart hadn’t just punched through your ribcage.

Jake held your gaze for half a second longer, then turned and walked to his usual seat near the back like nothing had happened.

But something had happened.

Kazuha leaned in immediately. “Okay, no. That wasn’t normal. He totally looked at you.”

Minju blinked. “Did he just nod at you like you guys are friends or something?”

You couldn’t even answer. You were too busy trying to regulate your breathing, too focused on the way your hands suddenly didn’t know what to do.

Across the room, Jake sat down, stretched out, and didn’t say a word.

Jay nudged him. “You good?”

Jake didn’t look away from the front. “Yeah,” he said simply. “Just watching something.”

Jay raised a brow, confused, but let it go.

You felt it the second you walked out of class—like a magnet at your back.

You didn’t have to turn around to know he was behind you. His steps were slower than yours, but just close enough that you could hear the occasional scuff of his sneakers on the pavement. And even in the noise of campus—people laughing, bikes zipping by, someone blasting music from a speaker—you felt him.

Jake Sim. Still walking behind you. Still very much a mystery.

“Okay,” Kazuha whispered beside you, leaning in with the most obvious side-eye imaginable. “Do not freak out. But he’s right there.”

“I know,” you hissed, eyes forward.

“I mean right there, like five steps back.”

Minju, on your other side, kept her voice casual. “What do you think he wants?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Probably just going the same way.”

“Oh, sure,” Kazuha drawled. “Because Jake Sim always just happens to walk behind girls he makes eye contact with for five seconds straight.”

Your face was hot. You hated how your brain had started keeping track of these things—every glance, every nod, every smile like it meant something.

You turned the corner with your friends, and for a second, it felt like maybe that was it. Maybe he was just walking the same direction.

“Hey.”

One word. Smooth. Easy.

Him.

You stopped. Your heart didn’t.

Jake slid into view beside you like he did this all the time, like you weren’t already halfway to spiraling.

He looked straight at you. “You’re in my stats class, right?”

You blinked. Your mouth opened slightly. “Uh… yeah.”

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

“I’ve seen you around,” he said casually, like this wasn’t the first time he’d thought about it. “What’s your name?”

You told him. Your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake nodded, like he was tucking it away. “Cool. I’m Jake.”

Like you didn’t already know.

“I know,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His grin widened slightly. Not cocky, not smug. Just… amused.

“Right,” he said, a little laugh in his voice. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

And with that, he was gone.

No flirting. No teasing. No over-the-top pickup line.

Just your name on his lips. Like he planned to use it again.

Your friends were staring at you with open mouths.

Kazuha grabbed your arm. “I am going to pass out.”

Minju fanned herself. “You talked. To Jake Sim.”

You stood there, blinking at the space where he used to be, your heart still racing.

You didn’t know what just happened.

But whatever it was, it wasn’t nothing.

Jake didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to. He knew you were still standing there, probably replaying the conversation in your head, maybe wondering if you’d said something weird or if he’d meant anything by it.

He hadn’t.

Not really.

(Kind of.)

He let his smirk fade the second he turned the corner, jaw tightening slightly as he shoved his hands into his pockets. He could feel Jay’s voice in his head already, mocking him—“So? Who’d you pick?”

He wasn’t going to tell him yet. Not until it was set in motion.

And it was now. Officially.

He’d spoken to you. Broke the fourth wall. You weren’t a background presence anymore—you were the option. The one he was going to test this theory out on.

Not because you were a challenge.

Not because you were hard to get.

But because you were… interested.

He’d seen the look on your face when he asked your name. That flicker of nervous excitement, like you’d been caught in the middle of something you didn’t want to end. He knew that look. He’d seen it before. Dozens of times.

But this time? He wasn’t here to break hearts. He was here to win.

That was the bet.

Longest relationship.

Play the part. Make it believable.

Easy.

Jake walked into the dining hall like nothing had happened, spotting Jay already sitting with a tray of fries and a bored expression.

“Yo,” Jay said. “You look like you just committed a crime.”

Jake slid into the seat across from him, swiping a fry. “Maybe I did.”

Jay narrowed his eyes. “You pick someone?”

Jake chewed slowly, then shrugged. “Thinking about it.”

“‘Thinking about it’ or already made up your mind?”

Jake leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “Let’s just say… I’ve got a good feeling.”

Jay laughed. “You’re gonna lose.”

Jake grinned back, calm and sure of himself. “We’ll see.”

Meanwhile, two buildings over, you were still stuck in place—your name echoing in your ears in his voice.

Jake Sim had talked to you. Asked your name. Smiled like he’d meant it.

And you?

You were already in trouble.

You just didn’t know it yet.

You floated through the rest of your day in a haze.

Jake Sim—campus heartbreaker, unintentional walking distraction, the guy you’d spent way too long overanalyzing from a distance—had not only spoken to you, but said your name. Like it belonged in his mouth. Like he planned to say it again.

You replayed it on loop.

“What’s your name?”

“I’ve seen you around.”

“Cool. I’m Jake.”

You. Were. Doomed.

Yuna nearly screamed when you told her.

“HE WHAT?” she shrieked in your dorm room, slamming her phone face down on your bed. “Okay, no. Wait. Start from the beginning. Word for word. Breath for breath. Blinking pattern. Everything.”

“I already told you everything!”

Yuna gave you a flat look. “You barely told me anything. You just stood there in a daze and whispered, ‘He talked to me’ like you were in some kind of Jake-induced coma.”

“I was in a Jake-induced coma,” you mumbled, falling back onto your pillow dramatically. “I think I still am.”

“Okay but why now?” she asked, sitting at the foot of your bed and stealing one of your chips. “Like, what changed? You guys have had stats together for weeks and he’s never even looked at you.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Maybe he just… noticed me.”

Yuna gave you a look. “Guys like Jake don’t ‘just notice’ girls. It’s either because he’s bored, he’s interested, or he’s got some kind of motive.”

You sat up a little. “You think he has a motive? Like… what? What kind of motive?”

Yuna paused, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t know. But Jake doesn’t make small talk unless he’s getting something out of it. Trust me. He’s hot, yeah, but there’s always something else going on in that beautiful, toxic little brain.”

You rolled your eyes, but a tiny part of you held onto her words. You didn’t want to believe that. You wanted to believe maybe he was just… curious. Maybe he thought you were cute. Maybe—by some miracle—he wasn’t playing a game.

But then again, Jake Sim was known for a lot of things.

Genuine interest wasn’t one of them.

Still, your heart refused to care.

He said your name.

He smiled.

He looked at you.

And for now, that was enough to keep you wide awake at 1:42 a.m., staring at your ceiling, whispering his name once just to hear how it sounded in the dark.

You told yourself it wasn’t for him.

You were just in the mood to look nice today—normal girl behavior. Nothing out of the ordinary. So what if you curled your hair instead of your usual half-tied bun? So what if you put on a little gloss and swapped your hoodie for a top that fit just a little better than usual? You weren’t going to see him anyway. Probably.

(But you left five minutes earlier than usual… just in case.)

You blamed Yuna for the way your nerves spiked as soon as you stepped onto campus. Her voice kept looping in your head like a warning bell.

“Guys like Jake don’t just notice girls out of nowhere.”

You’d rolled your eyes at the time, but it stuck. Still, when you caught your reflection in the hallway mirror outside class, a small smile tugged at your lips. You looked good. Confident. Not for Jake—but if he noticed? That wouldn’t be the worst thing.

He did.

You felt his gaze before you even stepped into the classroom. The weight of it. Heavy, warm, lazy like he wasn’t in a rush to look away. You didn’t dare meet his eyes—not right away—but your heart was already beating in your ears.

Kazuha whispered a teasing, “Oooh, someone came dressed to kill today,” as you sat down, and you tried to play it cool, brushing her off with a laugh. But you couldn’t ignore the glance Jake threw over his shoulder.

And the small nod. Again. Just like before. It was subtle. Barely there. But intentional. And that was enough to keep you smiling through half the lecture like an idiot.

Later that day, back at your dorm, you were practically humming as you kicked off your shoes. Yuna looked up from her laptop, narrowed her eyes, and said immediately, “Okay. Spill. What happened?”

You raised a brow, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

“You wore lip gloss,” she deadpanned. “You only do that for confidence or crushes. And knowing you? It’s both.” You flopped onto your bed with a dreamy sigh. “He looked at me again.” Yuna groaned. “Girl. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m fine,” you said, rolling onto your stomach.

“No, you’re in the delusional phase,” she said, sitting up. “Where you think he’s texting you with his eyes and secretly planning your wedding. I’m telling you, this is how he gets girls. He makes you feel seen.”

You stayed quiet, fiddling with the edge of your pillowcase.

“I’m not saying he’s evil,” Yuna went on. “I’m saying he’s not… safe. He’s not consistent. And I just don’t want you to be another story where he gets bored and leaves.”

You didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not when your heart was still soaring.

“I get it,” you mumbled. “But it’s not that serious. It’s just a crush.”

Yuna stared at you for a long moment. “That’s exactly how it starts.”

But you didn’t answer. You just kept smiling to yourself. Because Jake Sim looked at you again. And in your head, that meant everything.

Jake saw you before you saw him.

You were sitting on the low stone wall outside the library, legs crossed at the ankles, earbuds in, flipping through your notes with a furrow between your brows like you actually cared about the quiz tomorrow. The afternoon sun hit your face just right, lighting up the gold in your lashes, and for a moment—just a second—he forgot this was supposed to be a thing.

A game. A bet. A joke between him and Jay.

He shook it off.

“Go say something,” Jay muttered from beside him, nudging Jake with his elbow.

Jake rolled his eyes. “Relax.”

“Relax? Bro, you were just talking about how easy this was gonna be,” Jay said. “You smiled at her, got her name. Step three is conversation.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. He just watched you.

You looked like the type who wrote in a journal at night. The type who doodled on worksheets, who had a playlist for every mood and a favorite pen that no one else was allowed to touch. You weren’t like the girls at parties who clung to him for the thrill of it, who liked the idea of Jake Sim more than Jake himself.

That made it interesting.

Or maybe risky. He hadn’t decided yet.

“I’m giving you three seconds,” Jay said. “Then I’m picking someone else for you.”

Jake scoffed and stepped off the path.

He took his time crossing the grass, casual but with purpose. You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in whatever study playlist was pulsing through your ears. He tapped the back of the bench once with two fingers, and you startled slightly, pulling one earbud out as your eyes lifted to meet his.

There it was again—recognition. Surprise. That soft little tilt to your lips like you were trying not to smile too much.

“Hey,” he said, leaning slightly against the edge of the wall. “You always study out here?”

You blinked. “Only when it’s nice out.” He nodded, eyes flicking to your open notebook. “What’s the subject?”

“Stats,” you said, grimacing. “Trying to pretend I understand anything from today.” He laughed a little—easy, smooth, practiced. “Yeah, same. I zoned out after the first ten minutes.”

You smiled, and this time it reached your eyes. “You sit in the back. You always zone out. He raised a brow, impressed. “So you’ve been watching me?”

You opened your mouth to respond, then faltered, clearly realizing what you’d just admitted.

Jake grinned. Gotcha.

“I mean—not watching watching,” you rushed to say. “Just, you’re… kind of hard to miss.”

He let the moment hang between you, his smirk lingering before he glanced down at your notes again. “You want help?” he asked suddenly. You blinked. “With stats?”

“Sure. I mean, I don’t guarantee results,” he said, pushing off the wall and shoving his hands in his pockets. “But we could suffer through it together.”

Your eyes searched his face for something—for a sign he was messing with you. But he didn’t look away.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “Yeah. That’d be… cool.”

Jake nodded once, then stepped back. “Tomorrow. After class?”

You nodded.

He turned without another word, heading back toward Jay with that easy gait that made people move out of his way. Jay raised his brows at him like well?

Jake just said, “Locked in.” And didn’t explain further.

Didn’t mention how your voice had sounded a little shy when you said yes. Didn’t mention the part of him that liked that.

He told himself he wasn’t catching feelings. He was just playing the role. That’s all this was. Wasn’t it?

The next day, you didn’t know whether to dread or look forward to stats.

You’d barely slept. You kept rewriting yesterday in your head—Jake walking up to you, Jake talking to you, Jake offering to help you study like it was nothing. Like that wasn’t the most surreal part of your entire week.

You were half convinced it was a fluke. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe it was some joke. Or maybe—maybe—you dreamed it and none of it actually happened.

But then he slid into the seat next to you like it was his usual spot.

Like it had always been his.

You looked up at him in surprise, your voice caught in your throat. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey,” he said easily, tossing his phone on the desk and leaning back like he had all the time in the world. “You still down to study after this?”

You blinked. “Y-Yeah. Of course.”

He gave you a small, satisfied smile, then leaned in a little closer, voice low enough that only you could hear it. “What’s your Instagram?”

You froze.

You knew this moment was coming. Like, eventually. Hopefully. Maybe. But not this fast. Not like it was casual.

“Oh—um,” you fumbled with your phone, screen lighting up as your fingers clumsily opened the app. “It’s just—my username is kind of stupid, don’t laugh.”

Jake chuckled under his breath. “Now I have to see it.”

You turned your screen toward him, and he leaned in slightly, shoulder brushing yours for a second too long. His fingers grazed your phone as he typed it into his own, brows furrowed in concentration.

“There,” he said a moment later. “Followed.”

Your phone buzzed instantly, the notification lighting up like a siren:

simjyn started following you.

You tried to stay calm. Cool. Normal.

But Jake? Jake was already scrolling through your feed like he had nothing better to do. His eyes flicked up to yours briefly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re cute in this one.”

You almost choked.

He was pointing to a picture Minju had taken of you a couple weeks ago—your hand resting on your cheek, smiling softly at something off-camera. You’d only posted it after three days of deliberation.

“You—what?” you said, breathless.

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “I said you’re cute. You don’t agree?”

Your mouth opened, then closed again.

He laughed under his breath, clearly enjoying the way he’d short-circuited your brain. Then he leaned back in his chair like he hadn’t just sent your pulse into orbit.

“Stats,” he said casually, flipping open his notebook. “Then coffee. That’s our deal, right?”

You nodded slowly, your cheeks on fire.

He didn’t say anything else.

But your phone buzzed again under the desk.

simjyn: looking forward to it

You didn’t know whether to smile or scream. So you did both. Internally.

You didn’t even have to type it in.

The second Jake said, “What’s your Instagram?” you already knew where this was going. You played it off so well—bit your lip like you were thinking, fumbled with your phone a little like you needed to search for his account too.

But you didn’t. You’d known it for months.

@simjyn.

No numbers. No punctuation. Just clean, simple, cool. Like him.

You’d visited it more times than you’d ever admit out loud.

You knew the exact photo he’d posted on New Year’s Eve—black button-up, rings on his fingers, drink in hand, smirk sharper than his jawline. You remembered how his captions were always short, effortless. Sometimes just a song lyric, sometimes a single word. Always just enough to keep people guessing.

You’d watched his stories religiously. Even the ones that weren’t interesting—clips of skateparks, random memes, grainy concert videos. You once spent an entire night reading through the comments on one of his old posts, heart dropping every time a girl left a flirty emoji and he liked it.

And now? That username lit up your phone for real.

@simjyn followed you.

@simjyn ❤️ your story.

@simjyn sent you a DM.

You nearly forgot how to breathe.

What made it worse—or maybe better—was how normal he made it all feel. Like he hadn’t just stepped out of the fantasy you’d kept locked behind your phone screen. Like this wasn’t your real life crashing into the version of Jake you only knew from filtered posts and captions.

You tried to keep your cool, acting like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you hadn’t already scrolled back to his 2019 posts at least once. Like you didn’t already have his account bookmarked under a folder labeled “Just Vibes” (because “Jake Sim” felt too on the nose).

Still, when the class ended and you stepped outside, your fingers twitched with the urge to check your notifications again. And there it was.

@simjyn: looking forward to it.

Like it was just the beginning.

And maybe, terrifyingly, it was.

The days that followed felt like they were moving in slow motion, each one dragging longer than the last as you waited for something to happen.

The moment you’d been hoping for—the one where Jake would finally make it real, where the playful back-and-forth would shift from flirtation to something else—wasn’t happening.

Instead, he kept it casual. Too casual.

Too normal.

He kept up the conversations. Stats class? He would lean over, whispering about the notes, joking about the professor’s monotone voice. He would always walk with you afterward, or grab coffee with you. Nothing over the top. Nothing overtly romantic.

But your heart still raced every time he smiled at you. Every time he leaned a little too close. Every time his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you your coffee or his shoulder bumped yours when you were walking together. You could tell he was making it seem easy. Comfortable. Like you were just friends.

But you were barely holding it together.

Your phone buzzed late one night while you were finishing up homework. You glanced at it, heart skipping when you saw his name pop up in your notifications.

@simjyn: Got a minute?

You stared at the message for a solid minute. Your thumb hovered over the screen, hesitation creeping in. Should you play it cool? Or be honest and show just how interested you were?

You took a breath, tapped the screen, and typed back:

You: Of course, what’s up?

It took a few seconds for him to respond, and when he did, you couldn’t help but feel the subtle excitement surge in your chest.

@simjyn: You free tomorrow after class? Thought we could grab lunch or something.

You stared at the message for a long second, rereading it just to be sure it wasn’t some joke. But no—he’d actually asked. He’d really asked.

And you, being entirely unable to contain the flutter in your stomach, replied without hesitation:

You: Sounds good. What time?

It didn’t take long for him to send the reply, casual as ever:

@simjyn: 1 p.m. sharp. See you then.

You couldn’t help but smile, even as you tried to play it off to yourself. You were going to lunch.

With Jake Sim.

Just lunch.

Still, as you set your phone down, the knot in your stomach didn’t loosen. It twisted, deepened, and tightened with something you couldn’t ignore.

This was different.

You weren’t just some girl caught up in the attention of a guy.

This time, it felt real.

The morning of the lunch, you barely made it through your classes. Every few minutes, your mind would wander back to the text. You tried to focus, to pay attention to the lecture, but all you could think about was what you were going to wear. You settled on something comfortable—nothing too dressed up, but something that still made you feel good. You didn’t want to seem like you were trying too hard, but you also didn’t want to look like you didn’t care.

When the bell rang, you gathered your things and tried to move quickly, but not too quickly. There was no way you were going to be that eager.

You got to the café a little early, scanning the tables, heart racing as you waited. And then, just as you began to think he might be late, you saw him walk through the door. Jake Sim, effortlessly cool in a black leather jacket and dark jeans. His hair was slightly messy in that way that made you want to run your fingers through it.

He glanced around and spotted you almost immediately. The moment your eyes met, he gave you that signature, crooked grin. The one that made your stomach flip.

“Hey,” he greeted as he slid into the seat across from you. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

You shook your head, trying not to act too flustered. “No, not at all. I just got here.”

He gave a nonchalant nod, then leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the menu on the wall. “So, how’s the studying been going?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Same as usual. Lots of work, not a lot of results.”

Jake chuckled, glancing over at you. “I can relate. Stats is definitely not my strong suit. I’ve had to rely on the internet a lot.”

You laughed, genuinely this time. “I can’t believe you’re just now admitting that you’re using Google.”

“Hey, it works,” he said, raising his hands in mock defense. “Why make life harder?”

The conversation flowed easily after that, lighthearted banter about classes, the terrible food at the campus café, and random bits of gossip you both knew. Nothing serious. But somehow, it felt… different. He was relaxed around you. More relaxed than he’d ever seemed before, and it made you wonder if this was just another casual thing to him, or if something else was starting to shift.

Then, after a while, Jake’s tone softened. He tilted his head, studying you for a moment as if weighing his words. “You’ve been acting a little different lately. More… put together, you know?”

You blinked, unsure of how to respond to that. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged slightly, his eyes still focused on you, but there was a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’ve always been pretty chill, but you’re, like, shining now. What’s up with that?”

Your heart skipped, a small nervous laugh escaping your lips. “I’m just… I don’t know. Maybe I’m just getting better at balancing everything.”

Jake leaned in just slightly, his gaze narrowing with interest. “I think it’s more than that. You’re definitely pulling it off.”

You stared at him for a second, not sure what to make of the compliment. He said it so casually, like it was just an observation. But it felt different, like he was actually noticing you—really noticing you.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed. “Well, thanks. That’s… sweet.”

There was a moment of silence between you, the air thick with something you couldn’t quite place. Then, to your surprise, Jake broke the tension with a grin. “You know, I’ve got a theory.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious despite yourself. “A theory?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back in his chair, looking like he was about to say something way too casually. “I think you might just be trying to impress me.”

The words hit you like a bolt of electricity, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if you were supposed to laugh, blush, or run away. “What? No—no,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I mean, maybe a little bit, but… I don’t think I need to impress you.”

Jake smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on you. “Oh? I’m not that impressive, huh?”

You bit your lip, not sure how to play this. “No, you are. I just—” You cut yourself off, suddenly realizing how much you’d revealed in a single sentence. But Jake didn’t press. He just chuckled, clearly having fun with this.

“You’re cute when you get nervous,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

Your cheeks burned at the comment, but you quickly composed yourself. “Well, it’s not like I’ve got anything to impress you with. I’m just… me.”

Jake leaned forward slightly, eyes locking with yours in that way that made your heart race. “That’s all I need to see.”

His words hung in the air between you like an unspoken promise, and for a moment, you thought you might actually fall for the idea that this wasn’t just a game.

But then, just as quickly, he sat back, picked up his coffee, and took a casual sip like nothing had happened.

You blinked, trying to clear the confusion in your head. Was he playing with you? Or was this real?

Before you could ask, Jake grinned, his eyes flicking to your phone. “Hey, I’ll hit you up later. I’ve got to go catch up with Jay about something.”

“Okay,” you said, your voice a little quieter than you meant it to be. “I’ll see you later, then.” He stood up, tossing a few bills onto the table before flashing that same carefree smile. “Yeah. See you around.”

As he walked away, you watched him go, your heart hammering in your chest. You couldn’t figure out if he was just being Jake, or if something else was going on. But one thing was clear. He had your attention, and it felt like you were already in this deeper than you wanted to admit.

The next few days were a blur of moments that felt too good to be true. Every time you saw Jake, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was changing. He was suddenly everywhere, his presence more noticeable, more… intentional.

It started small—an unexpected text, just a random meme or a “How’s your day going?” message. It wasn’t the kind of thing friends usually exchanged, not unless they were really close. But he made it feel effortless. Like it was normal. Like you were supposed to be texting each other.

When you sat together in class, Jake would lean a little closer, whispering jokes in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. He’d brush your arm with his when reaching for a pen or hand you a piece of paper as if your hands weren’t already close enough to touch. And every time his gaze met yours, there was this flicker in his eyes—a hint of something that made you feel like you were both in on some secret that no one else knew.

“You’re wearing that sweater again,” he’d say, a grin pulling at his lips. “I like it.”

You’d laugh nervously, trying to act casual, but inside, your heart would race. Every time he called you out like that—whether it was for something you wore, the way your hair fell across your face, or the way you bit your lip when you were nervous—it felt like a compliment. A tease. And you couldn’t tell if you were supposed to be flattered or embarrassed.

But then, you’d notice the little things—like how his gaze lingered on you just a moment longer than usual, how his smile reached his eyes, and how he seemed to make every conversation feel like an inside joke. You could feel it. The playful flirty energy was unmistakable.

One afternoon, you were walking across campus together when Jake leaned in and said, “You know, you look really cute when you’re thinking.”

Your mind went blank. “What?”

He laughed softly, his voice low and teasing. “When you get all quiet, just staring at nothing. You’re cute, I can’t help it.”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Stop it.”

But his grin only widened. He didn’t stop. Not this time. His arm brushed yours as you walked, the skin-to-skin contact sending an electric jolt through your entire body. He kept close, just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, just close enough that it started to mess with your head.

“Really,” he continued, “You should smile more. Makes everything better.”

You couldn’t think straight. He was being so Jake about it—teasing and flirty, but there was something in the way he said it, something deeper, like he was trying to get closer to you than just casual flirtation. You tried to brush it off, but there was no denying it—he was turning up the charm.

The worst part? You liked it. You liked it too much.

But as much as you were getting drawn into the flirty energy with Jake, your friends noticed. Especially Yuna.

“Hey, you’re pulling away,” Yuna said one day as you walked with her across campus. “You’ve been hanging out with Jake a lot lately. Like… more than usual.”

You tried to brush it off, but the protective tone in her voice was obvious. “What are you talking about? We’re just hanging out.”

She raised an eyebrow, giving you a skeptical look. “I don’t know, YN. I mean, I’ve seen the way he’s been acting with you lately. Don’t let him mess with your head. He’s—”

“Stop,” you snapped, more sharply than you meant to. “I’m not stupid. I know what I’m doing.”

Yuna stopped walking, eyes wide as she stared at you. “I’m just trying to look out for you,” she said quietly. “Jake’s not exactly the type to take things seriously. You don’t want to end up hurt.”

The words hit you like a punch in the gut. But instead of feeling gratitude for her concern, you felt something else—a weird, unexpected irritation.

“I said stop,” you repeated, this time quieter but no less firm. “I don’t need you to remind me every five seconds that Jake’s a bad idea. I’m fine.”

Yuna opened her mouth to argue, but you held up your hand, cutting her off. “Really, Yuna, just drop it. I can handle myself.”

You could see the hurt flash across her face, but you didn’t care in the moment. You didn’t want to hear it. You didn’t want to hear about how Jake was playing you, how he was just a game to him, how everyone saw it coming except you. Because you didn’t want to see it. Not now. Not when things were just starting to feel… good.

You walked away from her then, your mind in a whirl. But even as you pushed away your concern for her words, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Something was off, and it wasn’t just with Jake.

And as you thought about it more, as you thought about his flirty comments, the way he leaned in too close when you were talking, the way he looked at you like he knew something you didn’t, you wondered if maybe Yuna was right after all.

But then again… why would you care?

After all, he was giving you attention. He was talking to you. It felt good. And sometimes, that was all that mattered, right?

Later that week, you found yourself standing in front of Jake’s apartment door, the cold metal of the handle pressing against your palm. You didn’t know exactly how you’d gotten here, but somewhere along the way, you’d ended up accepting his invitation to hang out. It wasn’t even that late. You’d just had a weird day with your friends, and now, you were here.

Jake’s voice came through the door before he even opened it. “Hey, come on in!”

The door swung open, and he flashed you that familiar grin that you still weren’t used to, despite how many times you’d seen it. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders,” he said with a teasing raise of his eyebrows.

You didn’t even have it in you to give a smart remark back. Instead, you just walked in, kicking your shoes off as you stepped inside. The apartment was just as you remembered—lived in, a bit messy, but still comfortable. Jake had that careless confidence about him, the kind that made everything feel like it was in its rightful place, even when it wasn’t.

You plopped down on the couch, dropping your bag beside you, feeling suddenly exhausted. Your shoulders slumped, and Jake’s eyes followed the movement with a curious look before he sank onto the couch beside you, casually stretching his arms out along the backrest.

“What’s going on?” he asked, genuinely concerned, but his tone was light, trying to keep things casual, like everything was fine.

You took a deep breath, then sighed heavily, letting it all spill out in a way that surprised even you. “I don’t know what’s going on with me lately,” you said, your voice a little softer than you expected. “I mean, Yuna’s being… overprotective. She thinks you’re just playing with me. And I get it. She’s looking out for me. But it’s like, I can’t get her to understand that I’m fine. That I’m not… that stupid.”

You glanced at him for a moment, but he was just listening, his focus on you in a way that made your stomach flip. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t tell you you were overreacting. He just sat there, waiting for you to keep going.

“I feel like I’m stuck between two worlds. Like one side wants to just… enjoy it, you know? You’re fun, you’re everything I thought you were. But then, there’s this other side, where I can’t shake the feeling that maybe she’s right. Maybe you’re not looking for anything serious, and I’m just… falling for it. But I can’t stop myself,” you vented, your voice starting to tremble slightly.

Jake stayed quiet for a few seconds, his gaze shifting to the floor for a brief moment before looking back at you.

“You’re allowed to feel what you feel,” he said softly, the words coming out slower than usual. “Don’t let anyone make you doubt yourself. Yuna’s just trying to protect you, but you can handle it. If you’re not ready to hear what she has to say, then you don’t have to. That’s your decision.”

There was something in his tone that was different—something almost… comforting. It wasn’t the usual cocky Jake. This was the version of him that actually cared.

You let out a shaky laugh, unsure of whether it was from nerves or relief. “I don’t know if I can handle this… It’s all just so confusing. I don’t even know if I’m reading everything wrong, or if I’m just imagining things.”

His expression softened, and he leaned in just slightly, the casual distance between you both shrinking. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now, you know? You don’t have to be perfect. Not with me.”

And before you even realized it, you were leaning toward him. You didn’t even think about it, didn’t even second-guess it. Your body just reacted, your forehead resting against his shoulder, your exhaustion seeping out of you all at once.

Jake didn’t pull away, didn’t even flinch. He just stayed still, his body tense for only a second before relaxing, letting you lean on him, letting you take the weight off for just a little while. His arm slowly reached up, resting gently on your back, the warmth of his touch sending an unexpected shiver down your spine.

For a moment, the world outside disappeared. There was only the sound of your breathing and the steady, comforting presence of Jake beside you. And in that space, you didn’t feel confused or vulnerable. You just felt… safe.

But Jake? Jake felt something he wasn’t prepared for.

His chest tightened as your weight shifted against him, your head resting on his shoulder. Something in the pit of his stomach stirred in a way he wasn’t used to. The easy, flirtatious banter, the teasing touches, the smiles—it had always felt like a game, a light distraction. But now, with you leaning on him like this, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had crossed some invisible line.

Jake wasn’t the type to let his guard down easily, especially not with someone like you—someone who was already too easy to get attached to. He’d always prided himself on being able to keep things light, keep things easy. But now, as you sat there with your breath steady against his chest, he felt something shift in his chest. It was too strong, too real, too unfamiliar.

He knew he shouldn’t be feeling it. He knew he shouldn’t be letting himself get this close, this comfortable. But there was something about the way you were so trusting, so open, that made him rethink everything. Maybe he didn’t have to keep things light forever. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let things get a little deeper.

But Jake didn’t say anything. He didn’t pull away, and he didn’t push forward. He just stayed there, letting the moment stretch out, wondering what it would mean if he allowed himself to feel whatever this was.

And for the first time in a long time, Jake Sim wasn’t quite sure what was happening to him.

The next day, you were walking with Minju and Kazuha when the conversation inevitably turned to the topic you were avoiding. Your friends had been whispering behind your back, but now, they were cornering you about it, and you knew exactly what was coming.

“YN,” Minju started, her voice soft but firm. “We know you’re close with Jake now, but Yuna’s just trying to look out for you. She cares about you.”

You tried to ignore the feeling of guilt that twisted inside you, but it was impossible to shake off. You had felt bad about snapping at Yuna, but right now, you just weren’t ready to deal with it. Not when everything with Jake was still so… new, so uncertain.

“I know, okay?” you said, your voice slightly more defensive than you intended. You slowed your pace, unwilling to keep walking any longer. You could feel their concerned gazes on you. “But I don’t need to hear it right now. I don’t want to think about it.”

Kazuha frowned, tilting her head as she studied your face. “We just don’t want you to get hurt, YN,” she said, her voice gentle but tinged with worry. “We know you like him, but… Jake doesn’t exactly have the best reputation when it comes to relationships.”

You clenched your jaw. Not this again.

“I don’t need anyone else telling me what I already know.” Your words were sharp, but it was hard to keep your cool. “I’m fine. I’m not an idiot. I know the risks.” You paused, your voice quieter now. “I just… I’m not ready to have that conversation with anyone, especially Yuna. So, can we just drop it?”

Minju gave you a sympathetic look, her eyes softening. “We’re just looking out for you, YN. It’s not about not trusting you. It’s about the fact that we’ve seen this kind of thing happen before.”

You shook your head, running a hand through your hair. “I get it, but… I’m not asking for advice right now. I just want to figure things out on my own. I don’t want to hear how this is going to end before it’s even really started.”

Kazuha took a step closer, her tone easing as she tried to lighten the mood. “We’re not trying to ruin the fun, YN. We just don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all.”

“I know you care. But please… not now,” you said, holding up a hand to stop any further discussion. You didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to let your friends down, but you just couldn’t handle it at that moment. You needed time to figure out where you stood with Jake before you could process any of their warnings.

Minju and Kazuha exchanged a glance, and even though they both wanted to say more, they stayed quiet, sensing that you weren’t in the right headspace.

“Okay,” Minju said finally, her voice softening. “But we’re here for you when you’re ready to talk. Just don’t shut us out completely, alright?”

You nodded, feeling a strange mix of frustration and relief. “I won’t. I promise.”

The conversation ended there, but the lingering tension between you and your friends stayed in the air. You couldn’t shake the feeling that they were worried about you, and that made your chest tighten. But as much as you knew they were just trying to protect you, a part of you didn’t want to listen. You just wanted to figure things out on your own.

And for now, that meant staying focused on Jake and whatever this thing was between you two. Even if it meant pushing everything else aside, at least for a little while.

Jake wasn’t one to let his guard down easily, but over the past few days, something about you had begun to chip away at it. The easy flirtation, the playful teasing—it was all still there, but there was something more now. Something deeper. He couldn’t help but notice how the little things seemed to matter more when you were around. The way you laughed at his jokes, even the ones that barely made sense. The way you smiled at him when no one else was watching. It felt too easy, too natural, like he’d always known how to make you smile. But lately, it didn’t feel like a game. It felt… real.

And that, in itself, was dangerous.

Jake found himself thinking about you even when he didn’t want to. His friends, Jay and Sunghoon, had made jokes about him getting “soft” or “whipped,” but it was hard to shake the feeling that they were right. He did feel something for you. Something he didn’t quite know how to name.

It wasn’t that you were different than the others—no, you were different in a way that made him uncomfortable. You made him want things he hadn’t thought about in a long time. Stability. Connection. More than just a fleeting encounter.

And it was killing him.

He didn’t know why he let himself get closer to you. Maybe it was the way you always seemed to understand him, like no matter how far he pushed, you’d still stick around. Or maybe it was the way you made him laugh even when he didn’t feel like smiling.

He found himself texting you more, asking if you wanted to hang out, even if he had no real reason to. He’d steal glances at you when you weren’t paying attention, noticing the way your eyes would light up when you spoke, the way you’d tilt your head when you were thinking. He even started texting you just to hear you laugh, just to see your name pop up on his screen. It was stupid. It was complicated. And, most of all, it made his stomach twist in ways that were both unsettling and addicting.

That night, things were different. You’d come over to his apartment again, this time without any of your usual defenses. You were quieter than usual, your eyes slightly more distant. He could tell something had been weighing on your mind, and despite all his usual nonchalance, he couldn’t help but want to comfort you.

You were sitting next to him on the couch, a slight distance between the two of you, but it felt like there was something pulling him toward you. He wasn’t sure what it was—maybe it was the way you looked tonight, or how vulnerable you seemed, or maybe it was just the growing ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away.

“So, what’s going on?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual, no teasing, no playfulness. Just concern.

You met his gaze, your lips forming a small smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Nothing. Just… stuff with my friends. You know, the usual drama.”

Jake felt his heart sink at the emptiness in your voice, like something was off. But he didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he leaned closer to you, watching as you pulled your knees up to your chest, clearly lost in your thoughts. Without thinking, his hand found its way to your shoulder, lightly resting there.

“You can talk to me, you know,” he said, his voice quieter, gentler than before.

You hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know if you want to hear it. It’s just… complicated.”

“Hey,” he said softly, his thumb rubbing along your shoulder. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m listening.”

You met his gaze then, and for a moment, something passed between you. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but Jake felt it like a jolt of electricity between you. The weight of the silence was thick now, and the space between you felt too small.

Without thinking, Jake moved closer, his hand shifting from your shoulder to the side of your face, cupping it gently. Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away. You just stared at him, eyes wide, like you were waiting for him to make the next move.

Jake’s pulse quickened, his heart pounding in his chest. He had been here before—flirtation, attraction, all of it. But this time, something was different. This time, it wasn’t just about the thrill or the chase. It was about you.

You leaned toward him, your lips brushing against his, tentative at first, like neither of you quite knew what was happening. But then, something clicked. The kiss deepened, slow and steady, and Jake’s entire world seemed to narrow down to that single moment.

It was everything. And it was nothing like he expected.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and slightly dazed, you stayed close, your foreheads resting together as if you both were grounding each other.

Jake’s mind was racing, but his body felt weightless, like he was floating. He didn’t know what had just happened. Didn’t know if it was just a moment or if it meant something more. But for the first time in a long while, Jake Sim didn’t want to walk away from something. He didn’t want to pull back.

And he didn’t know how to explain it, but it scared him. More than he cared to admit.

The night of the party, you were already feeling a little on edge. Jake had invited you, and for the first time, it felt different than all the other times. There was a part of you that had been hesitating, unsure of how things were really between the two of you. His texts had been more frequent, his touches lingered a little longer, but you couldn’t shake that nagging feeling in the back of your mind.

You were getting ready when your phone buzzed—Jake had just texted to remind you about the party. He seemed excited about it, but something felt off in the way you were receiving it, like you were standing on the edge of a cliff and had no idea what would happen if you jumped.

As you walked into the party later that night, the music thumping in the background, you tried to shake off your nerves. People were scattered around, some dancing, others talking in smaller groups. You spotted Jake almost immediately—his usual confident grin, that cocky air about him, but tonight there was something different. He waved when he saw you, and his eyes lit up as you approached.

But before you could make your way over to him, you overheard Jay and Sunghoon talking in the corner, standing just out of earshot from where you were. You froze, hearing your name mentioned, and despite yourself, you couldn’t resist the urge to listen.

“Yo, Jake is really into this girl, huh?” Jay’s voice was low, but you caught every word.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Sunghoon replied, a laugh in his voice. “I mean, he’s been all over her. This bet’s got him acting like a different person.”

You felt your heart drop, but you didn’t move, too stunned to turn away. You tried to act casual, but everything inside you tensed. You could feel the blood rushing to your face, your stomach sinking.

“Are you sure he’s not faking it?” Jay asked, his voice skeptical. “I mean, it’s Jake we’re talking about. He doesn’t do ‘serious’—he’s just playing it for the win. He’ll probably drop her after.”

Sunghoon didn’t sound so sure, though. “I don’t know, man. I’ve seen the way he looks at her. It’s not like the other girls he’s been with. He actually seems invested.”

You wanted to walk away then. You wanted to ignore it, pretend you didn’t hear, but their words were like a knife twisting in your gut. The truth was, you weren’t stupid. You knew something was off. You had seen Jake be playful, you had felt the connection, but hearing his friends talk about it like it was a game… it made everything you had been feeling seem so much more meaningless.

“But it’s still a bet, right?” Jay said, the doubt lingering in his voice. “That’s what I don’t get. Is he really getting attached, or is he just playing the part? I’ve never seen him act like this with a girl. Not once.”

There was a long pause before Sunghoon replied, his voice lower now, more serious. “I don’t know. It’s Jake. Who can say for sure? But… I think he might actually care. Just a little bit.”

You didn’t stay to hear more. You didn’t need to. The damage had been done.

You took a breath, steadying yourself. You hadn’t expected this, not like this. But the pieces were starting to fall into place. Jake had been different with you—maybe more than he’d been with anyone else. The thought that this could be a game, a bet, was suddenly so clear. You couldn’t just ignore it anymore.

Your heart was pounding, but you forced your feet to move, walking over to where Jake was standing. You pasted on a smile, trying to keep your voice steady, but it felt harder than ever before.

“Hey,” you greeted him, your voice betraying none of the turmoil inside. He smiled, his usual confident grin appearing on his face. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were standing on the edge of something, teetering between what you thought was real and what you had just overheard.

“Hey, you made it!” Jake’s voice was light, happy, as if nothing was wrong. But something in his eyes made you pause.

Maybe it was time to figure out just how deep this bet really ran. And whether you were just part of it—or something more.

You stood there with a smile stretched across your face, but your heart was pounding so hard you swore Jake could hear it. His grin was easy, his eyes soft when they landed on you, like he had no idea you’d just overheard everything. Like you hadn’t just heard your name tossed around like a prize in a bet.

So, you smiled back.

You smiled even though your hands were trembling at your sides. You leaned in closer when he talked, nodded when he joked, even laughed—though it was a little too sharp, a little too forced. Because you weren’t about to fall apart in front of him. Not when everything finally made sense.

If this was a game to him, then fine. You’d play.

You could act too. You could flirt back, make him think he had you wrapped around his finger. You could give him exactly what he wanted—attention, affection, maybe even more—just to turn it around on him later. Just to prove you weren’t some stupid girl who didn’t know what she was getting into.

“I missed you,” Jake said, brushing your hair off your shoulder as he leaned closer to be heard over the music.

Your breath hitched slightly, just for a second. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t say anything. You looked up at him, eyes wide and soft—just how he liked them. “Yeah?” you replied, your voice light, teasing, even though it shook at the end. “You’re not just saying that because I finally came out tonight?”

He laughed, completely taken with you. “No. I mean it.”

You didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Maybe part of you still wanted to. That was the most pathetic part. But you just nodded, playing along like everything was normal. Like your heart wasn’t breaking and piecing itself back together all in the same breath.

Jake kept talking, leaning in like he couldn’t get enough of you, and all you could think about was the sound of Jay’s voice—He’s really into this bet. And then Sunghoon’s, Or maybe it’s real.

You hated how badly you wanted that second part to be true.

But you pushed the thoughts down, deeper than they’d ever gone, and played your part. You looked up at Jake like he was the only person in the room, like your voice hadn’t just betrayed you a few moments ago. Like you didn’t feel like the punchline of some cruel joke.

Because if he thought you were falling for him—then you were already winning.

You’d play along. Smile. Flirt. Fall—just enough to make him think he won.

But neither of you realized that somewhere along the way, Jake had already stopped pretending.

The party had started to blur around the edges—music thumping, people laughing, the usual chaos of a Friday night. But all Jake could focus on was you.

You were standing by the kitchen counter, half-listening to some conversation you clearly didn’t care about, your arms crossed and your head tilted like you were already somewhere else. Like maybe, you didn’t belong in this room full of noise and people pretending.

Jake found himself watching you a little too long. Again.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to snap out of it, but the weight in his chest wouldn’t go away. The bet. The damn bet. It had been fun at first—a dumb challenge between him and Jay to see who could last longer in a relationship. A joke. Something to pass the time. But now, with you standing there looking like everything he didn’t know he needed, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward you, slipping past the crowd.

“Hey,” he said, brushing his knuckles gently against your arm. You turned, a bit surprised, blinking up at him.

“Hey,” you replied, your voice still a little unsteady. You were trying to keep the act up—Jake could tell—but he didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know that you had already heard the truth.

“You wanna get outta here?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

You hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

Jake smiled, but something in his chest twisted.

“Cool. Just—go ahead to my car, I’ll be right there,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the front door.

You gave him a small nod and slipped away without another word, your steps a little faster than usual.

Jake exhaled, then turned around and made his way through the crowd until he found Jay and Sunghoon standing by the back patio, drinks in hand, mid-laugh.

“Yo,” he called out, stepping up to them.

Jay glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Leaving already?”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. With YN.”

Jay smirked. “You’re really committed to this whole long-game thing, huh?”

But Jake didn’t laugh. His jaw clenched as he looked between the two of them.

“I’m ending it,” he said plainly.

Jay blinked. “What?”

“The bet,” Jake said again, firmer this time. “I’m done.”

Sunghoon straightened, exchanging a quick glance with Jay. “Seriously?”

Jake shrugged, but his voice was tight. “Yeah. It’s not fun anymore. I’m not… playing.”

Jay frowned, the smirk fading. “You caught feelings.”

Jake didn’t say anything.

Jay let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Sunghoon just nodded slowly, like he’d been expecting this. “Good. About time.”

Jake didn’t wait for more. He turned and headed for the door, his heart beating fast for reasons he couldn’t explain—not even to himself. He just knew one thing:

He didn’t want to hurt you. Not anymore.

When Jake stepped out into the cool night air, his heart was beating fast—but not with excitement, not with adrenaline. It was something else. Something heavier. Something he wasn’t used to.

He spotted you leaning against his car, arms crossed, your gaze fixed on the night sky like you were looking for answers. You looked calm, but you weren’t. You were still hearing Jay’s voice in your head—He’s really into this bet—like it was playing on loop.

Jake walked up slowly, unlocking the car with a soft beep.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost cautious.

You didn’t look at him right away. “Took you long enough.”

He let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jay wouldn’t shut up.”

You gave him a tight smile and slipped into the passenger seat, still playing your part.

The drive was quiet. The city lights passed in a blur outside the windows, but inside the car, the silence stretched. You were trying to act normal, casual, maybe even a little detached. But Jake felt it. The difference.

And maybe that’s what made him speak.

“Are you okay?” he asked, not looking away from the road.

You shrugged. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

He didn’t believe you. But he didn’t push.

A few more minutes passed before your voice broke the silence again. “Why’d you invite me tonight?”

Jake glanced at you. “Because I wanted to be with you.”

You turned to him, searching his face for any flicker of dishonesty. “Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I just… like being around you.”

You held his gaze for a second longer than you should have, but your heart ached. Because you didn’t know what was real anymore.

When the car pulled up in front of your place, you unbuckled your seatbelt, hand hovering near the door handle. But you didn’t open it.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said quietly.

Jake didn’t say anything at first. Then, “YN, wait.”

You looked over, and before you could ask what, he leaned in.

His hand gently found your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. His touch was warm, careful. And then—he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t cocky or playful like you might’ve expected. It was slow. Almost unsure. Like he was feeling everything for the first time.

And for just that moment, the noise in your head stopped.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

You just stared at each other—confused, shaken, caught somewhere between a lie and a feeling that had started to feel too real.

You opened the door quietly, stepping out. Before you closed it, you leaned in just a little, voice softer than it had been all night.

“Goodnight, Jake.”

He watched you go, the echo of the kiss still warm on his lips.

And for the first time, Jake Sim wasn’t sure who was playing who anymore.

You lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with a mix of emotions you couldn’t even begin to untangle.

Jake had kissed you.

And worse?

You had kissed him back.

You touched your lips absentmindedly, remembering the way he held you like you were fragile. Like you meant something. Like you were real.

But you weren’t falling for it. Not again.

No, you told yourself, turning over in bed and squeezing your eyes shut. You are not doing this.

He played you. He made you feel seen, chosen, like maybe—just maybe—you were special. All the soft smiles, the subtle touches, the “accidental” run-ins, the way he said your name like it was his favorite word. All of it had been leading to this. The kiss. The final act in his perfect little performance.

You gritted your teeth and swallowed the lump rising in your throat.

Never again.

You weren’t going to be that girl—the one who got strung along, who ignored every red flag, who made excuses just because he looked at her like the sun rose in her eyes. No. That girl was gone. You buried her the moment you heard Jay’s voice echo in your head: Jake is really into this bet.

This was all a game to him.

So now? You were going to play too.

You’d play the part of the clueless, lovesick girl. You’d give him exactly what he wanted—until you flipped the whole damn game back on him.

And when the time came, when he was fully convinced he had you wrapped around his finger, when he couldn’t tell the difference between real and fake anymore—you’d confront him. You’d look him dead in the eyes and tear the mask right off his face.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d watch his heart shatter the way yours almost did.

But the worst part—the most frustrating, infuriating, confusing part—was how damn convincing he was. The way his eyes softened when they met yours. The way he smiled like he meant it. The way he touched you like he cared.

He seemed so in love with you, it made your chest ache. Like maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all a lie.

And you hated that part more than anything.

Because for one small, dangerous second… you wanted it to be real.

It was one of those rare moments when everything felt almost normal again. You’d been home alone for a few hours, scrolling through your phone, when the text from Jake popped up.

@simjyn: Hey, I was thinking of coming over. You free?”

You stared at the message for a moment, a knot of nerves tightening in your stomach. You had been trying to keep things light with him—after everything that had happened, after hearing about the bet, you couldn’t let your guard down. But part of you still wanted to see him. Maybe part of you was still pretending things could be okay.

“Sure,” you replied, biting your lip. “I’m alone, so come on over.”

Not long after, the sound of the doorbell echoed through your apartment, and there he was, standing outside with that familiar smile. He wasn’t dressed any differently from the usual, but there was something in his eyes today. Something that made your heart skip in a way you hated.

Jake stepped inside, pulling you into a quick hug before you could even react. His hands lingered at your waist, warm and firm as he squeezed you close.

“You look good,” he said, his voice low and warm.

“Thanks,” you muttered, stepping back to break the hold, though you could already feel your heartbeat accelerating.

You led him into the living room, where he flopped down on the couch with a sigh of relief, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“So, what’s up?” you asked, trying to sound casual, though your heart was beating a little faster than you’d like to admit.

He grinned up at you. “Just wanted to see you,” he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

You nodded, though the words felt too heavy in your chest to speak. He wasn’t here just for a visit—he’d been clingier lately, texting you more than usual, wanting to be around you all the time.

It should have felt nice, but it felt suffocating. Every time he smiled at you, kissed your cheek, leaned in close like he couldn’t get enough—it made your stomach churn.

“You’ve been… kind of different lately,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, but the words had more bite than you intended.

Jake furrowed his brow, his expression shifting to something more concerned. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed, frustrated by how easily he could shift his tone. “You’re being… clingy. All the time.”

He tilted his head, eyes widening in confusion. “Clingy? I just like being around you. Is that a bad thing?”

You took a deep breath, leaning against the counter to steady yourself. You could feel the tension rising in your chest, the frustration bubbling over.

“Jake,” you began, voice trembling just slightly. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not some… some toy for you to mess with. I’m not a prize, and I’m definitely not some girl to play along with your little bet anymore. If you’re really into me—then fine, but if this is just some fucking joke, then get the hell out.”

His face faltered for a second, just a flash of confusion before his gaze softened, his hands reaching for you. “I—what? No, YN, I’m not playing any game—”

You took a step back, hands trembling at your sides, the anger, the hurt, and the disappointment threatening to spill out.

“I know about the bet, Jake,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I know exactly why you started all this. And I’m done pretending I don’t. I’m not going to be the one who falls for this, okay? Not when you don’t even know what you want.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the words hanging heavy in the air between you. Jake didn’t move, his eyes wide, and for the first time, you saw something flicker in them—something that looked like regret.

But it was too late.

You turned your back on him, pacing toward the window, your heart pounding in your ears. “Just go,” you said, voice cold. “I don’t want you here. Not like this.”

“YN, wait—” he started, his voice softer, like he was trying to make you understand. “I’m not lying. I’m not playing games anymore. I—”

“Just go, Jake,” you snapped, spinning around to face him. “I don’t want to hear it.”

You could see the hesitation in his eyes, the uncertainty that had never been there before. But you couldn’t bring yourself to soften. Not when he had already crossed the line.

With one last look, Jake slowly stood up, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Then, without a word, he walked toward the door, the weight of the moment sinking in with every step.

And just like that, he was gone.

You sank down onto the couch, your mind racing. You told yourself you wouldn’t trust him again, you reminded yourself. You wouldn’t fall for it.

But deep down, there was a part of you that still wished this wasn’t the end.

Still hoped, somehow, that Jake would come back. But you didn’t trust that part.

The next day at school was chaos.

You barely made it ten steps into the building before you heard your name—sharp, urgent.

“YN!”

You stopped, heart clenching as you turned to see Jake storming down the hall toward you. His eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of desperation and something dangerously close to hurt. You froze in place as he reached you, his voice already rising.

“You knew.” His words sliced through the tension in the air. “You knew this whole time and you were punishing me, weren’t you?”

Your breath caught.

Students slowed around you. Some stopped walking altogether. You could feel the shift—phones slipping out of pockets, eyes glinting with curiosity. You tried to step around him, but Jake moved with you.

“You acted like nothing was wrong,” he went on, voice getting louder. “You smiled, you kissed me, you looked at me like—like I meant something to you.”

You snapped. “Yeah? Well, welcome to my world.”

His expression twisted like you’d hit him.

“You were playing me from the start,” you hissed, trying to keep your voice steady, but it wavered with the weight of everything. “I heard Jay. I heard everything. And I kept going, Jake. I kept smiling, kept letting you in, because I wanted to see how far you’d go.”

He blinked like he couldn’t process it, like he hadn’t thought you’d actually know.

“You—” He shook his head. “You kissed me back.”

“You made me believe it was real.”

“I didn’t fake any of it!” he fired back, stepping closer. “You think this is just about a bet now? You think I haven’t lost sleep over this—over you?”

The hallway was dead silent except for your voices. Students were openly filming now, whispering like wildfire spreading through the air.

“Jake Sim and YN?”

“She’s actually yelling at him.”

“I heard it was a bet. Is that true?”

You glanced at them, your fists clenching at your sides, your chest rising and falling fast.

“Jake Sim chasing someone like her?” someone murmured nearby. It stung. It always did.

You turned back to Jake. “You had your fun, right? You got what you wanted. Just leave it alone.”

But Jake didn’t move. His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on you like he couldn’t look away even if he tried.

“I didn’t fall for you because of a bet,” he said quietly, voice raw. “But I might’ve lost you because of it.”

That did something to your chest. You hated it.

You hated him for saying the one thing you weren’t ready to hear.

Without another word, you turned and walked away—past the stares, past the whispers, past Jake.

And for once, you didn’t look back.

The next day, you didn’t expect to run into Jay—especially not when you were still raw, still reeling, still angry. But there he was, leaning against the lockers near your homeroom, like he’d been waiting.

The second he saw you, he pushed off the wall and walked straight up, his expression unreadable.

“Why did you chew him out like that?” he asked, no greeting, no hesitation. His voice wasn’t angry, just confused—tired, maybe. “In front of everyone?”

You froze, blinking up at him. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

Jay crossed his arms. “Yeah. Because the guy’s been a mess since yesterday. You acted like he’d—what, humiliated you? Like he was still playing you or something.”

You laughed, sharp and bitter. “The audacity to ask that when this whole thing started as some game between you and him.”

Jay’s eyes narrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “Game?”

“Don’t play dumb, Jay,” you snapped. “I heard you and Sunghoon at the party. You literally said he was invested in the bet. What else was I supposed to think? That everything he said and did was real?”

Jay went quiet for a second, then shook his head, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Wait—wait,” he said slowly. “You thought the bet was still on?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Jay exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck like the weight of it all had just hit him. “YN… Jake called it off. He called it off way before he asked you out. He told us it didn’t feel right anymore. That you weren’t just some challenge or a joke—he wanted something real.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“No, he didn’t,” you muttered, barely audible.

“He did,” Jay said. “I swear on everything. He told us it stopped being about the bet a long time ago. That he wanted to be with you for real, no games. And honestly… we could all tell. He wasn’t faking anything.”

You looked away, suddenly cold all over. Your brain scrambled to make sense of it, replaying every interaction, every touch, every word. Had it all been real? Had he actually cared?

The guilt hit like a truck.

You chewed him out in front of everyone. You looked him in the eye and threw his feelings back at him because you thought he was still playing. Because you were scared.

Jay’s voice was quieter now. “He was falling for you, YN. He still is. But after yesterday… I don’t know if he’ll try again.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You just stood there, heart cracked open, with nothing to say and everything to feel.

You didn’t go to class that morning.

Instead, you found yourself sitting alone behind the school gym, knees pulled to your chest, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest. Everything felt like it was collapsing in slow motion. You were the one who was supposed to have control now. You were the one playing him—so why did it feel like you were the one who lost?

He ended the bet.

He wanted something real.

And you… you’d shoved it all back in his face, right in front of everyone. You humiliated him for something he had already walked away from—because of you.

The worst part? He hadn’t even defended himself.

He just stood there, took it, because maybe he thought he deserved it. Or maybe… because he didn’t want to hurt you anymore.

You remembered the look in his eyes—the way they didn’t hold that smug glint anymore, the way they softened when he looked at you like you were something fragile, something he was afraid to break.

And you had shattered it first.

You rested your forehead on your knees, eyes burning. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t fall for him. Promised you’d get even. And maybe you had.

But it didn’t feel like winning.

It felt like you’d pushed away the one person who had tried—really tried—to love you, in the only way he knew how.

Maybe he messed up. Maybe you both did.

But somewhere between the lies, the games, and the dares, something real had bloomed. And now?

Now it was buried under everything unsaid.

But feelings don’t just disappear. Not like that.

So maybe… maybe this wasn’t the end.

Maybe it was the part right before you decided what kind of story this was really going to be.

To be loved is to be kept.

Birds are kept in gilded cages so they never learn the sky; relics are kept alive long after they should have been laid to rest. And people? People are kept, frangible and insubstantial until the weight of another’s devotion hardens into something they can’t escape.

They’re studied, preserved, handled with veneration so consuming it erodes the edges of who they once were, leaving behind only what someone else deemed worth devouring.

LOVE has always masqueraded as sanctuary, though sanctuaries have a peculiar way of locking from the outside. And see, there’s something almost holy about being known so completely that nothing escapes another’s gaze— until knowing becomes anticipating, and God knows anticipation leaves no room for choice.

To be loved, is also to be perverted.

Deviance, friend and foe, can tarnish or render bare- until there’s nothing more than flesh, bones and an existential need to satisfy without even knowing why. Bodies reduced to instinct become too thin from being wanted too much and understood too little; like a lamb is cherished because it’s gentle, because it’s somewhat helpless, because it never learned how to bite the hand of the shepherd that keeps it.

And the curious thing is that even the smartest of people, can become prey to the devil.

Your husband’s a quiet man, he keeps to himself most of the time— too self absorbed to look at the world around him; he spends most of his days painting in the attic, and it would be a tremendous lie to say you’ve never caught him answering imaginary interview questions about his works.

By the standards of the typical megalomaniac artist— his name is as incongruous as the canvas he paints. Samael, which in Hebrew often interprets as ’the poison of God’— has an unfortunate relationship with his mother, which begs the question : why would someone deliberately name their child something so grim?

The story behind all of this, is that when Samael was only a foetus in his progenitors’ womb— the latter recounts feeling him kick her in the ribs every time she got down on her knees to pray the good Lord. One day— as she retells— the holy Spirit descended straight into her humble bedroom and whispered that her descendent was a spawn of Satan.

You’d think as a good pious woman, she’d choose to exorcise the newborn or slip holy water in his nighttime milk— instead she gave him a name so sordid even her own parents chastised her.

The ironic thing though, is that as much as you’d like to believe she was experiencing religious psychosis— the name Samael clung to him like prophecy. If the shoe fits, after all.

You and your husband got married extremely young on a passing fancy— a whim if you will— it was nothing short of a messy 2 hour long celebration that you had no intention of explaining to your future kids.

You’re not proud of it, but love’s never been something grand to you; you and Samael found each other at 16— call a spade a spade— decided it fit your narrative to get hitched at 18 and delive together as total opposites— him as a good devout artist, you as an untouched bride who sought nothing more but good-willing hands.

You don’t care much for connection, to you it’s a vain thing— you don’t need to be understood by others as long as you understand yourself. Samael on the other end, is too precious about his paintings and longs to be perceived as a wiseman, to be fully acknowledged— something you couldn’t possibly give him.

And believe it, it’s not fruits of a lack of affection— God no— you like him lots.

Surely your husband is a reliable man, strong in his stance— he often brings peaches home after work, carefully washing one and cutting it in small bits before feeding them to you. He likes to place his hands on your shoulders and tug at the straps of your nightgown in the evenings, until what’s left of you is bare skin under pale moonlight.

But when it comes to good conversation, he isn’t all that great anymore. See, Samael hates talking— he’d rather use his hands, trace paths from your soft neck to your perky breasts like his fingertips can tell the story instead.

He’d never sit down and exceed the usual 3 sentences rule — no, he hates being confronted to his thoughts, hates carrying out basic human interactions, and on top of it all— he’s not really good with words. Horrible at it, even. The man doesn’t even know the difference between then and than.

So to say, your husband is as shallow as kiddy pool is highly accurate— he paints himself as a wounded creator, showing up with acrylic under his nails like it gives him authenticity— but the only thing it says is that he’s seen way too many movies. He uses religion as a core trait, hides behind principles and morals until he is nothing but a saint; thinks the world’s a given and that he’s earned his stay just because he attends sermons on Sundays.

You’re always lonely, hoarding books because it’s easier than talking to yourself, watching life go by while flies buzz by the window-still of your small shared house. Compounding this, it’s not like you have many friends outside of the 60 year old neighbors Mr. Paulson, and church people— the church he drags you to every sunday, claiming it’s “the things you do to be a better person”. The women there are sweet there- you wouldn’t be surprised that they talk behind your back, surely, but they’re nice to be around nonetheless.

Your social life is non-existent. The closest you’ve been to an entertaining conversation was about two weeks ago when the cashier asked if you whether you were going to pay by card or cash.

So deep down— being a creature of many words— being deprived of dialogue is something that pains you. You’d rather talk about the significance of dreams and nightmares or how the human brain tricks people into thinking they’re content with what they have; rather than scraping your knees on a confessional floor because your husband dragged you.

See, it all started when he caught you reading a book on the couch one random morning— you were quick to cover the title with your hand, feigning casualness as you leaned back onto the leather. But unfortunately for you, and much to Samael’s deceit— the cover art spoke for itself, some kind of drawn representation of a naked woman in a man’s lap, cunt bare and open to temptation.

He argued it wasn’t healthy, snatched the book from your hands and lit up the chimney all in one breath. Then he threw the paperback in the fire and watched the corruption burn before him, indifferent to your stiffness.

Sin isn’t welcome in the house— save for when he’s the one committing it.

Being still in a student doesn’t make this any better— during spring break, it leaves you nothing to do but to watch all seasons of The Big Bang Theory, then all seasons again and again until you know much more about the characters than you know about yourself. You bring The Big Bang Theory in the bathroom with you, so you don’t have to be alone in there too. You fall asleep watching it— such terrible American pre-chewed slop. It’s a homeopathic dose of comedy that helps silence that companionship-starved part of you.

Which brings you to do the most logical thing a sane person could think of. You book a therapy session with a renowned therapist in town.

Part because the priest doesn’t know how to listen when you sit down in the confessional and tell him about how lonely you feel— part because you want to talk to someone without feeling like you’re being an inconvenience. At least Dr Sim’s paid to do this, paid to sit in a fancy armchair and listen to people elaborate on their latest meals and two seconds later their experience with rape.

He’s paid to nod, offer reassurance, keep secrets like they’re his own. What he’s not paid for though, is to be a friend, but that’s enough.

SESSION OO1. 🎤︎︎

The moment you step out of the car, your head snaps from side to side. This isn’t a secluded part of town, which means you’re likely to encounter people you know here. Whether it’s women from church, driving their perfect little sons to school, or your husband’s colleagues going to work— there’s always going to be someone you know around.

You’d love to say you’ve read enough books to pretend like therapy isn’t scary and socially acceptable, but the truth is— if people were to see you right now, you’d probably crawl into the ground in seconds.

There’s this unbidden fear that they’re all gonna laugh at you.

That they’ll laugh at your instability, they’ll refuse to let you babysit their brilliant heirs, they’ll call you names and ban you from the town’s book club.

So you pull your head down low, look at the dust your feet drag from the ground as you make your way to the little private practice. It’s situated between a pharmacy and a pub, significantly thinner than the two other buildings, like it’s trying to make itself shrink. You tap the code provided to you text, quickly looking around like a delinquent before stepping inside.

It’s a rich-man’s practice, sleek black walls that seem to be closing in, potted plants and a stack of psychology books on a mahogany table. You make your way to the door where a golden plate sits, the name Dr. Sim engraved on it. It’s with shaking hands that you ring the bell, quickly folding it inside your pocket before he comes.

You look around one last time, like maybe someone familiar is hiding behind the curtains of the reception room, waiting to make fun of you; when the door opens.

You don’t know what you imagined, but it certainly wasn’t the man you envisioned before coming here. You abstractly thought about him with greyish hair, salt and pepper beard, a crisp suit— for whatever reason that is— maybe a prominent belly. But the man standing in front of you isn’t the person you envisioned, so much so that you’re tempted to ask if he’s the receptionist.

“Y/l/n ? Welcome, come on in.” he gestures inside.

The first thing that catches your attention is his Aussie accent— then his eyes, the color of cooled tea, hooded and thin like he’s perpetually high. It’s an endearing thing really, paired with his carefully styled hair, he does look put together, painfully so even. There’s no denying he’s a fairly handsome man, someone you’d look at twice in the street— someone you’d tell a friend about.

Someone who’s currently inviting you inside and you can’t do a damn thing about it because your feet are stuck to the carpet.

Thinking about it he probably gets a lot of patients who are reluctant to come in— it can’t be unusual, maybe some of them even cry at the door, you think. But you look silly nonetheless.

Dr. Sim’s eyebrows lift with a silent confusion “Are you okay? Can I call you by name or would you rather I call you ma’am?”

Your teeth catches on the last of skin you’d been tearing off your lower lip sometime before, and you nod, “Y/n’s fine.”

You step inside, looking around like an animal being introduced to a new cage— your eyes catch the 3 paintings hung on the wall, ones you recognize to be Gustav Klimt’s.

‘The Kiss’, more precisely— an undeniably timeless piece, serene and so intimate it’ll make you think twice when seeing it. To you, it doesn’t look like a romantic embrace though— as iconic as the painting is— the female figure’s eyes are closed and she has a strangely blank expression. Her hands drape around the man’s neck and clutch at his hand at her throat.

There’s something domineering and violent about the male figure’s embrace, and something powerless, desperate, almost pathetic about the woman. Is she unconscious or are her eyes closed in bliss? Is she returning the man’s embrace or trying to claw his hands away?

It’s all left to silence, an open space for interpretation to fill. But what it leaves inside of you, is a strangely unsettling feeling, or maybe you’re just nitpicking.

Dr.Sim leads you to his office, where the walls are high, and a leather armchair sits in the middle of the room in a sort of platform, elevated from the rest of the room. The therapist points to a small sofa pushed against the wall and takes a seat in his own. When you’re finally settled, bare thighs clammy against the leather, you look up at him.

Dr. Sim sits higher up, not drastically so, just enough that you have to raise your eyes to be able to meet his. “What made you decide to come here today?” he asks with a polite smile.

Your palms clap awkwardly on your thighs, a nervous chuckle coming out of your throat. “My um… my friend recommended i go to therapy.”

That’s a lie. You don’t have any caring friends, certainly not any who believe psychology isn’t a satanic practice.

You found your answer in a sub reddit instead, people asked questions and some others answered. You felt safer sharing it with strangers from the internet than with your own husband, which said a lot about the nature of your relationship.

“That’s a good friend.” Dr. Sim nods, “Have you ever been to therapy, or is this your first time?”

“Um, no I haven’t.” you admit, almost as if it’s a shame, a thing in a bucket list you haven’t crossed yet.

“First sessions are often the hardest. There’s no pressure to tell me everything today, okay?” Dr. Sim says rather gently. “That’s one less thing for you to worry about, you won’t have any expectations of how this is supposed to go.”

You huff, you’ve seen a couple episodes of Sex Education, you’re pretty damn sure you know how this is supposed to go.

“Is there something you’d like to start with y/n?”

You genuinely don’t know where to start. There’s too much, you suspect that if you start talking, your thoughts will evolve in arborescence, until nothing makes sense anymore. “Well, i hoped you could… maybe give me prompts, I don’t really know where to start.”

Dr. Sim chuckles warmly, leaning back in his seat, “How about you tell me about yourself? I’ve gathered only so much from your email. How old are you, who are you?”

Your fingers grab the fabric of your summer dress, pulling it taunt. “I’m 23– well i’ll be 24 in a few weeks. I’m a… well I study sociology. I don’t really know what to say… I’m married.”

And there you go. As much as you seem to despise your husband, you can’t forget to mention him like he’s a part of yourself. How pathetic.

Dr. Sim smiles, amused maybe, “You’re married, okay, that’s a good start… Is it okay if i make a parentheses for the practical things?” You nod, and he explains the countless things you already looked up before coming here.

You listen, although distracted by the big clock ticking on the wall, it’s old fashioned perfectly centered with big numbers and an awfully ominous sound.

The therapist goes over confidentiality, the session length: typically 45 minutes, and ends it by telling you to feel free to avoid questions that make you uncomfortable. That he’s not here to open doors but rather to guide you towards opening them yourself and blah blah blah.

“With that out of the way, i’d like to ask, what are you hoping therapy might help with?” the man asks.

You take a moment to ponder it, mostly because it’s an answer you don’t have yourself, “I miss… I think i miss talking to someone. Maybe that’s not really the point of therapy but I just came in here to talk.”

Dr Sim lets out a soft amused sound, “Debatable, i’d say talking is the whole point of therapy. But if that’s how you feel then be it. Do you have an idea what you’d like to talk about?”

You shake your head, “Not really.. if you could maybe talk me through it like earlier, that’d be great.”

He straightens in his seat, spine impeccably straight, “Sure, you set the pace. How about you tell me what an average week looks like for you?”

It doesn’t take much pondering to get an answer out of you, plain and simple, “School, eating, sleeping.”

“That’s it? Not even… I don’t know, any hobbies? Reading, knitting…?” he says.

“Well I do read sometimes,” you nod, thinking back to the whole smutty book episode, “but my… husband doesn’t really like it when I do.”

Dr. Sim’s brows raise a fraction, “Oh? Why’s that? Is he against literature or…”

You shake your head, “No, it’s just, when the book has some kind of sinful thing in it, he gets mad. And you know how the books are these days, one can’t really escape sin.”

The therapist nods, he doesn’t grab a notebook or take notes, nothing of that sort, he just listens— and you can almost see the pen scribbling words in his mind. At some point he picks up a pair of black glasses from a small table next to his armchair and perches them on his long nose.

“Does he know you’re here today?” he asks.

“Yes,” you lie through your teeth, “well no.”

Dr Sim smiles at the immediate deceit, perpetually amused, “He doesn’t? Why’s that?”

You lean back against the couch, your clammy palms box each of your thighs, “He wouldn’t like it. He’d probably tell me to go to church or whatever bullshit he always—” you clap a palm to your mouth, eyes wide. “Sorry” you say through your fingers.

Something flickers in the therapist’s eyes, “That’s okay, you can curse, there’s no big deal.”

You carry on immediately after his approval, “He’d tell me to go to church and confess, but the priest at my church’s a child molester. I don’t want to confess my sins to someone who’s done such things.”

He nods, “Does your husband know that?”

“Yeah, but he says the kids are probably making it up for attention. Ive told him multiple times but he just won’t listen. Actually… i’ve considered leaving him for this.” you confess.

“Oh? Does that bother you a lot? The way he thinks?”

You nod vehemently, “I hate it. He makes it seem like that priest is a saint, like those kids are liars and attention seekers.”

Dr Sim hums, “Are you very religious y/n?”

You shake your head, looking up like the good Lord might see you, “Not really. I just go because my husband drags me there— I don’t mean it like the church is bad or anything…”

“No that’s fine, you can say whatever’s on your mind, no judgment.” he reassures.

“Well actually, i really think it’s bad. It’s made my husband really… angry and mean all the time.” you confess, twisting the fabric of your dress. “It’s like whenever he comes home from the sermon he’s ten times worse.”

Dr. Sim takes a breath almost like he’s treating a very important and delicate subject— which on second thought, he is. “How’s your husband. How is he around you.”

Your mind crowds with memories of the past few years, bad and good tangled together until you don’t know what to believe anymore, “He’s okay. He’s nice. We got married very young, we were freshly 18, no jobs. But I guess… time changes things. Or maybe i was just very very naive to think we’d always be the same.”

“Mmh, i see. How exactly did things change?” he asks.

“Well I feel like, he’s gotten so silent. All he ever does is hold me. And sometimes i just want to talk, sit down and discuss things. But then he’ll end up talking about his art — he’s a painter, for context— and i’ll get bored because let’s be honest, his stuff is not that deep.”

You catch yourself talking way more than intended, mainly because Dr. Sim seems like a neat person, calm and a good listener. You thought speaking so candidly in front of a man as conventionally attractive as him would leave you painfully aware of yourself. Instead, his gaze strips away the awkwardness before it can take root.

“What do you mean by ‘his stuff’s not that deep?’” he tilts his head, hair fanning on his forehead.

“Well he’s just so pretentious so it ruins the whole thing. He paints tigers and other felines, says he’s painting ‘masculinity’”

The therapist lets out an amused chuckle, “I see, and what’s your take on that?”

“I think it’s goofy and stupid. Felines are protective, and they don’t shy away from a fight… but he’s a coward. He hides behind his beliefs to excuse disgusting behaviors.”

“How do you feel about your husband ? How does he make you feel?”

You clasp your hands together, the back of the couch welcoming you, “Lonely. Bored. And a coward too, for not leaving him. I guess i should, with all the stuff he says… about these kids, about everything really. But i’d be the town pariah if I did that.” You let out a small self deprecating laugh, eyes tracing the lines of Dr. Sim’s black shirt.

Now that you think about it, he looks lean, not someone you would’ve pictured in this line of work. He has smooth dark brown hair, a little messy— a long straight nose and pinkish lips; he looks unfairly nice for a shrink, intimidatingly so at times.

“Lonely people have a habit of confusing survival with weakness.” His gaze never leaves yours. “I’m not convinced those are the same thing.”

“Well I do think it’s weakness. Debatably. Nobody stays with someone who destroys all their morals.” you shrug, eyes lowering to the small platform his armchair stands on.

“You’re holding yourself to a standard you don’t seem to extend to anyone else.” A brief pause. “If someone you cared about told you this story, would you call them weak?”

You nod immediately without thinking, “I would.”

“Oh? And what does a strong person do instead?”

“They leave. Argue. Everytime i tried to tell him that a child won’t just lie about such thing for attention, he dismissed me. So i let it go eventually.”

He makes a small inside note before looking up again. “You said, ‘I let it go.’ People rarely let convictions go. More often, they decide they aren’t worth the cost of defending.” A pause. “What did it cost you to keep disagreeing with him?”

“Nothing changed.” You toy with the hem of your dress. “I’d leave those conversations feeling like I’d spoken to a wall. So eventually… I stopped trying.”

“Being ignored has a way of convincing us our voice isn’t worth using.” Dr. Sim eyed the clock in the wall. “I’d like us to prove that wrong, yeah?”

SESSIONS OO2. to OO8.

A smart man is its own kind of danger because of how rare they usually are. This is the conclusion you came to after a couple session.

Dr. Sim’s a professional man, with a disarming charm. You gather he’s under 30– from the description on his website— he’s got a PhD in clinical psychology and he looks like he’s lived a total of 34 lives. The ratings on his website are generally the same— along the lines of ‘excellent with young adults, gentle and faith integrated therapy’ or in some more intense ones, ‘he’s helped me through countless depressive episodes, he’s incredibly insightful and remembers everything.’

It’s not news to you, you’ve noticed these things in the short period of time you’ve been seeing him. He sounds extremely smart and literate, which is something you recognize instantly in a man— someone who’s not trying to perform intelligence but rather make sense of it.

Dr. Sim’s an overall calm and soothing man, his voice never goes beyond a threshold, he knows how to coax the words out of you— often leading the cadence with a sentence only you can complete. He’s very validating— which is something you’ve lacked for years, being constantly told you were too much, that you had too many thoughts in such a pretty head. He makes you feel like a person instead of a woman, makes you feel like your voice is interesting.

You expect him to ask you to repeat everything from the previous week but instead, he remembers everything eerily well.

“You mentioned something last time,” he said on the third session, glancing down briefly. “That you often feel like you have to make yourself smaller to avoid overwhelming people. Do you still feel that way?”

It caught you off guard— not because he remembered. but because he remembered the exact thing you didn’t think mattered. Because it was such an insignificant detail to you, but it caught the attention of a man who had a degree in psych. “I still do, I’m very loud when I’m allowed to be. I talk a lot, I love debating. But these days I feel like if I so much as open my mouth everyone’s gonna sigh.” you confessed.

Dr. Sim nodded then, thinking to himself, “Do you feel like your husband’s dimming your light? You can tell me if i’m totally wrong.”

You didn’t even take a moment to ponder it, of course he did, “Yeah, he is. Not intentionally— well kind of intentionally, I guess.”

That had been enough for him to get the gist of it.

Dr. Sim gives language to what you feel, which is a beautiful thing really, for such a misunderstood girl. You totally underrated how important it was to be heard, to have a part of you bare in front of someone.

“I don’t think you’re confused,” he said during the 4th session. “I think you’ve just spent a long long time being told your feelings require justification before they’re allowed to exist.”

It was something so tender coming from a stranger. Something you’d expect to come out of a lover’s mouth— but then again, it was his job. He collected the money you’d worked your ass off for— in exchange for some brilliant words. But the money was worth it, so was the hassle of sneaking out, lying to your husband that you were meeting up with friends to study, when he most probably knew you preferred studying alone.

Being acknowledged was worth all the currencies in the world.

At some point, the sessions started exceeding the time limit a little bit. Little by little, you’d raise your eyes to watch the grand clock on his wall, and you’d notice you were running 10 minutes late.

“Dont worry about that.” he’d say, eyes softening. “We’re doing important work. I’m not going to rush you out because the clock says we’re finished.”

And it felt kind, impossibly kind. Like you were hogging 10 minutes of his carefully planned day, just to be talking about the most nonsensical things your brain held.

Sometimes you’d talk about your childhood, he’d ask specific questions, “Tell me about the people you grew up with.”

And you’d answer openly, “My dad worked with computers. He was… kind, but difficult sometimes. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, so my childhood was pretty messy. But i don’t blame him. And then, when I turned 14, he… well he ended his life. My mom found him already dead.”

Dr. Sim would listen, occasionally making comments about how growing up with a mentally unstable parent impacted a child. But you couldn’t relate because you genuinely couldn’t find it in you to hold your father accountable for your wounds.

“My mom went through many depressive episodes. She had a pretty tough life, so it was probably bound to happen like that, but she never let it get to us— me and my sister. She carried a lot, especially when my father got admitted to a psychiatric ward.” you told him, “I think… sometimes, him being dead is a good thing in a sense— well no, it’s a bad thing to say, but i think she can take care of herself now, and not constantly worry about someone else.”

Dr.Sim did a distracting movement with his hand, three taps on his thigh— stopping you from spiralling. “You know y/n, sometimes grief is complicated. Sometimes relief and sadness can exist in the same place.” the therapist tilted his head slightly. “Feeling one doesn’t erase the other.”

He let it sit for a minute, before continuing. “You seem very practiced at making room for other people’s pain, I think.” he paused, with a soft voice. “I’m wondering how often someone made room for yours.”

That was the first time you cried, uncontrolled, totally out of the blue like someone had coaxed tears out of your eyes with force. You shook your head, the heels of your palms trying to tame the outburst by pressing against your eyes.

“It’s okay. You can cry.” Dr. Sim said, with a gentle voice. You did, because you hadn’t been able to anywhere else.

One time, you mentioned the panic attacks you were experiencing outside of sessions, how you’d curl into a ball in the middle of the bed, wait for your husband to notice, to care. But he’d never.

Dr. Sim said, “Therapy can sometimes open things before it teaches you how to close them again.” He hesitated for a bit before continuing, “If something urgent comes up, you can always contact the practice’s number.”

He looked at you, examining your face before speaking again, “I’ll give you my personal number as well— I usually dont do this with patients but I hope you know I’m available if anything happens between sessions, for psychological support.”

Another time, you sat together for an hour because the words wouldn’t come and your throat felt too tight. Dr. Sim didn’t say anything, he just sat there, offering his presence where people often offer an aspirin. He made you feel listened too— even when you weren’t saying any words. He simply sat across from you, legs crossed, hands resting calmly on his knee, watching with quiet patience. Every few minutes he would offer the smallest nod or a faint, reassuring smile, as if to say I’m still here.

When the session ended, he walked you to the door, and said, “You don’t have to speak every time. Sometimes just showing up is enough. I’m glad you did.”

During another session, you told him about the way Samael sometimes looked through you, like you were furniture. How lonely marriage could feel even when you shared a bed.

Jake’s expression grew pained, almost personal.

“That sounds incredibly isolating,” he murmured. “Like you’re screaming underwater and no one hears you.” He paused, then added softly, “I hear you.”

He remembered you once mentioned liking the smell of rain; and the diffuser in the corner of his office smelled faintly of petrichor that day. You hadn’t mentioned it, but he noticed when you relaxed deeper into the sofa.

Before you left, Dr. Sim said, “Next week, if you want, we can sit in silence again. Or talk. Or anything in between. The door is always open for you, Yn. Always.”

The next session, you mentioned how Samael hadn’t touched you in months, the only times he ever did were to make himself feel good.

Jake’s pen stilled and for a moment, something unnameable flickered behind his gentle expression before he masked it. “That must be incredibly lonely,” he said, voice careful. “To be touched-starved in your own marriage.”

His eyes drifted to your hands, then slowly back up to your face, you remember feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical touch — as if he was tracing your lips, your throat, the rise of your chest with each breath. He caught himself and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That was unprofessional of me to say it that way. I just… I hate the idea of you feeling unseen. Everyone deserves more than that.”

When the session ended, he walked you to the door, standing closer than usual. His hand hovered near your lower back without touching as he said goodbye.

Its all too sweet, so much so that sometimes you sit across from your husband at night, watching him scroll through his phone like a machine, and feel something you don’t want to admit.

How can you spend an hour with a stranger and feel more like yourself than you do beside the person who sleeps next to you. How is a stranger more valuable than a man who knows your body by heart, knows how you take your coffee, how warm you like the water in the bath, how many pillows you like to sleep on.

And that thought disgusts you, because Dr. Sim isn’t even your friend, he’s not your confident, he earns a monthly salary for what he does, probably buys his groceries with the money you spend on him, and has a life of his own— which you know strictly nothing about.

You’re supposed to leave his office feeling lighter—not counting down the days until you can return.

Because Dr. Sim asks what you’re reading, he asks what you think and what you feel, he asks why and how.

Your husband only asks if dinner is ready.

Dr. Sim challenges you to put words on intangible things, his eyes tame the guilt, his attention softens your edges.

Your husband only touches your skin like it’s an extension of himself, never thinking to reach the person beneath it— like he already knows you belong to him.

Dr. Sim makes you feel like you belong to none other than yourself.

SESSION OO9.

Outside the building, there’s a dead bird. It lays on the ground, unmoving. It’s become its burial site now, the whole town is his because that’s where he spilled the last of his blood. You place a thick leaf on its frail body before standing back up, one goal in mind. The second you step into the therapist’s practice, you’re greeted by the same four walls, the ones you’ve learned to find more comforting than your bedroom.

Dr. Sim’s wearing a white shirt today, it makes his muscles stand out— a man carved like an unpretentious greek god, no excess only soft roughness.

You could spend hours talking about what makes his appearance different from all the other men you’ve encountered— what makes him so saccharine. Likeable to the point you want to pull your hair out. The coarse slope of his nose and the infuriatingly clean glasses sitting atop it; the crisp shirts and slacks he always smooths over with a hand made of steel, veins poking out of his skin. All of it is grounding yet distracting.

He sits on his armchair right after making sure you’re settling correctly, and begins the session with a small smile. “How have you been doing yn?”

“I’ve been okay,” you get comfortable in the sofa, after so many sessions it’s become a bubble, “Today was a little complicated, my husband insisted on driving me here. So i had him park a few streets down and I had to walk here.”

Dr. Sim furrows his brows, “Mhh… I have a question, only if you feel comfortable answering.” he waits for some sort of approval, a sign you’re comfortable enough, “What do you think his reaction will be if he finds out you’re in therapy?”

Your fingers twist on your lap, “He’ll probably yell, something stupid like ‘you don’t need therapy, you’re not crazy’ uneducated stuff, then he’ll probably say i’m doing too much. That im stupid.”

“Your husband seems to dismiss your feelings a lot,” Dr. Sim says, his hand resting motionless on his thigh. “I worry it’s affecting your sense of self-worth.”

You look down. “Maybe. I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just too sensitive.”

His expression shifts— not pity exactly, but something much more human. “I want you to notice something y/n.” You look back at him. “Every time you describe being hurt, you immediately look for a reason you deserve it.”

You try to laugh it off, because that’s what you do when you feel uncomfortable, “That sounds dramatic.”

The therapsit shakes his head slightly. “Not at all. I’d say it sounds learned.”

“Well maybe, but deep down, i made this choice. I chose to marry him, i’m actively choosing not to ask for a divorce. So i can’t really complain now can’t I?” you let out a small self deprecating laugh before it fades away instantly, “well no, that’s actually not really a good thing to say. I’m just speaking for myself, to be clear, not including other women who might be in a situation where they—”

Dr. Sim always catches the guilt in your tone, the countless ways you correct yourself in fear of upsetting someone who isn’t even here, “You’re okay, I got that part, don’t worry. But see, I think you’re being hard on yourself, you find clemency for other women but somehow never for yourself. How’s your situation any different from theirs?”

Your eyes skim across the room, with the curiosity of a child you look at the wall like it might give you a suitable answer, and you notice how bare it is.

The clock that usually sits there, doesn’t anymore. It’s a curious detail certainly, but it doesn’t bother you any more than the lack of convenience. You’re tempted to ask why he took it down, but you shake the thought aside.

“It’s different because I have the choice to leave. And i should because he’s not really a good person.” he nods at that, almost like he agrees, “he doesn’t hit me, he’s not violent. So im not under any restraint.”

The man sits straighter, “That can be discussed, don’t you think? It’s all a matter of how we see violence.”

“Well I don’t see him that way. He can be a little harsh sometimes, a little ignorant. But he’s had a tough life, his mom was very… —well that’s not the subject, i’m sorry i’m completely digressing.”

Dr. Sim shakes his head with a fond smile, “It’s okay. I just want you to realise that what you’re doing is finding excuses for other people’s behaviour, it’s a way of forgiving them. But not one time did I hear you find an excuse for yourself.”

That hits you like reading a very important sentence in a book— one you’ll highlight, write down on a notepad and memorise. He says it like it’s something people say over a cup of coffee— not something that calls for introspection.

Dr. Sim is a big man in a body far too little for all he gives.

You start to understand the comments left under his website by then, even the most intense ones. He is helping you more than expected, he’s insightful and incredibly reliable. When you text him outside sessions— which has happened only 2 times, because you were genuinely lonely and didn’t know how to make the panic stop— he answers diligently, like he owes you something, he takes the time to explain breathing methods and to soothe you.

It makes you want to slip more cash than usual when the sessions are over— because of how benevolent he’s being with someone he shouldn’t bother with outside of work. Words are too small to explain how helpful he’s being. How essential he’s starting to become in your life.

See sometimes people fit into adjectives, they don’t spill out at the edges, they make no more sound than what they’re attributed.

And Dr. Sim’s too big of a concept to be contained in a few letters.

“I just think… I’ve spent enough time talking about myself today. You probably hear stories like this every day.” you let out a small awkard laugh.

The corner of his mouth lifts, it feels like a challenge, like he’s finding this amusing— and for some reason, it’s incredibly attractive. “See? There it is. You just dismissed your own feelings before anyone else had the chance.”

The therapist leans forward, eyes boring into you like bullets. “You don’t have to apologize for taking up space in this room.” he speaks when he sees he’ll get no answer out of you this time.

Your eyes drop to your lap where you tug at a loose string of fabric from your dress.

“Can I tell you something?” the man asks. When you nod, he continues, “I used to think being useful was the same thing as being valued.” His gaze drops briefly to his hands. “I spent a long time believing that if I wasn’t helping someone, I didn’t have much to offer.”

You look up, recognising the vulnerablity in his voice. He’s not looking back at you, because for the very first time, opening up costs the weight of a gaze. This shouldn’t be coming from him though— you wonder if he feels safe enough to tell you this, or if it’s just a psychological tactic.

“So when I hear you apologizing for talking too much, I recognize it.” He makes a small pause. “Not because our experiences are the same— but because we both learned to measure our worth by what we could make other people feel.”

At the end of the session, Dr. Sim walks you back to the door, you hand him a bill, neatly folded in an envelope, and you bow politely at the entrance.

“Thank you Dr.” you start to reach for the exit.

“No worries y/n.” He smiles warmly, looking down at you with the white envelope in hand. “These sessions are very efficient. Let me know if i’m wrong, but i think you’re a very self-aware woman. And I really believe you can help yourself.”

Your hand, which was reaching for the handle stops dead. “You think?” you turn around, looking up.

“I do,” Dr. Sim gives the gentlest smile. “You’re someone i really want to help, because I see how much you’re evolving even if you don’t think you are. You’re extremely smart y/n, very intelligent with your words. Sometimes you notice things about yourself without me even needing to intervene. I believe we can go a long way.”

Intelligence only seems to matter when someone else points it out— and right now, it feels like the most beautiful thing you’ve ever been told.

That’s why, before you know, water starts gathering in your eyes. You quickly turn back to the door, feeling ten times less smart now that sensibility’s crossed the line. Tears flow freely, a creature way too neglected finally hearing endearing words directly directed to her.

Dr. Sim watches your shoulders tremble slightly, notices how hard you’re trying to fight it. “You don’t have to leave this room pretending you’re alright.” he says in a low voice.

You close your eyes, praying the tears will die, but it only makes the tremor in your shoulders worse. “I’m sorry,” you hiccup. “I’m sorry.”

No words are spoken for a long moment— moment in which you try to compose yourself, to dry the tears with the back of your hands. But then you feel Dr. Sim shift behind you.

“Can I ?” he speaks.

You nod, not even knowing what he’s asking permission for. You assume with all the wonderful things he’s done for your brain— anything he does next will be your salvation.

You feel some kind of movement behind you, and before you know it— a warm hand presses between your shoulder blades. Fingertips make contact with the bare skin of your back, the part your top doesn’t reach; and they press, light enough that you could pull away at any moment, hard enough that the shaking slowly subsides into softer cries. Dr. Sim doesn’t speak, he grounds.

“You’re okay.” you feel him whisper behind you.

IN BETWEEN

“Are you coming or no?”

Your husband Samael’s voice sounds from the living room. As per usual, he’d rather yell than come closer so you can hear him.

“I’m looking for my shoes Sam. Give me a second.” you sigh from your spot in the bedroom. You’re on all fours, searching for your mary-janes under the bed, ass up in the air.

“They’re in the hallway y/n, are you blind?” Samael responds with annoyance.

To be young and in love, is to invent. Make up things that aren’t necessarily there. Just how you’d pretended Samael was a kind man, for a long time. You know he isn’t, we know he isn’t, even Mr. Paulson the neighbor knows he isn’t.

Ah, the things you do for a neat life in the golden American suburbia.

You make your way to the hallway, smoothing over your dress to hide the curve of your ass, and when you finally spot the shoes, you pick them up with a happy squeal that makes your husband sigh. “Okay, ready now.” you slip them on. “Did you close the back door?”

Samael nods, distracted by something on his phone, “Yeah, let’s go.”

You check one last time, because you know for a fact that he hasn’t checked it, but the door seems closed enough from where you stand.

20 minutes or so later, you step out of the car into the quiet suburban neighbourhood filled with trimmed lawns and white-picket fences that seem pulled from a catalogue. The monthly gathering is at the Thompsons’ house this time— one of those sprawling two-story homes with the wraparound porch and the perfectly manicured rose bushes that the church ladies always cooed over. Everyone called it “neighbourly gathering,” but it was really just another chance for the community to parade their blessings.

PLAY NOW

You close the car door, smoothing the skirt of your modest knee-length dress; Samael comes around the car and places a hand at the small of your back, paitig the picture of a devoted husband in front of his friends. His smile’s easy, charming in that obnoxious way he cultivates. “You look beautiful tonight, sweetheart,” he murmurs loud enough for the couple walking up the driveway to hear.

You manage a small smile in return.

Inside, the house smells of pot roast and the floral perfume the women favor. Laughter floats from the living room where children dart between adults’ legs, their voices high and bright.

Perfect children. Perfect homes. Perfect lives. Cardboard American-dream bullshit.

“Y/n! Samael! You made it!” Mrs. Thompson beams, pulling you into a hug that smells like the Farrah Fawcett hairspray. Her husband claps Samael on the shoulder, already launching into talk about the latest church fundraiser.

You’re quickly swept into the circle of wives in the sunroom. They seat with perfect posture, legs crossed at the ankles, sipping tea from crystal glasses. Their dresses are pressed, their hair styled just so. You perch on the edge of a floral-patterned armchair, trying to ignore the way your mary-janes pinch.

“Oh, my little Emma started piano lessons this week,” Mrs. Hargrove says, her voice light and airy, like she’s discussing the weather. “She’s already better than half the kids in the youth group. Talent like that just runs in the family, I suppose.”

The others nod enthusiastically. “Our Joshua is reading at a fifth-grade level already,” Mrs. Kline ads, fanning herself with a paper napkin. “And the house renovation is finally done— the kitchen island is marble now. You should see it, Y/n. So much space for baking those cookies you’re always talking about.”

Their words wash over you, shallow and sparkling on the surface. You smile politely, nodding along, but your mind drifts ten different places elsewhere— to a quieter room, warmer lamplight, and a soft-spoken voice that actually listens.

The conversation turns inevitably, as it always does because these people have so much to talk about.

“So, Y/n” Mrs. Hargrove leans in, eyes bright with curiosity, “when are you and Samael going to start filling up that lovely home of yours? The two of you have been married… what, 4 years now? The little ones would love having more playmates at Sunday school.”

A knot tighten in your stomach; you open your mouth, but Samael appears at your side as if summoned, sliding an arm around your waist with excessive affection. His fingers press gently into your side— possessive, but gentle for the audience.

“We’re praying about it,” he say smoothly, flashing that boyish smile that make the women sigh. “God’s timing is perfect, isn’t it? We want to be sure we’re ready to raise them in faith the right way.” He didn’t say yes, didn’t say no. He left it dangling beautifully, the way he always did in public.

The women coo in agreement. “So wise,” one murmurs. “Not like these young couples rushing into things these days.”

You restrain yourself from rolling your eyes and the laughter swells around you, children’s shrieks piercing the air like obnoxious bells. You murmur something about needing fresh air and slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the wide glass doors that open onto the backyard patio.

The evening breeze cools your flushed cheeks, you breathe in deeply, eyes scanning the clusters of people scattered across the lawn.

You don’t want kids, Samael knows that. You’ve never even considered it— it’s a no. A hard one at that. Kids are something fragile a woman like you couldn’t possibly handle. What if you break? What if you turn out to be ill like your father, then who will make sure the kids are loved and listened to?

Definitely not their father.

But before you can even stretch your legs and relax in the patio, you freeze.

There, near the edge of the garden where string lights twinkled softly overhead, stands a familiar silhouette. Tall, lean, dressed in a simple button-down that somehow looks elegant on his frame.

Dr. Sim.

His dark hair catches the light as he tilts his head, listening to the woman beside him. She’s pretty, with soft waves and a gentle smile, her hand resting lightly on his arm as they speak to another couple.

Your heart stutters. His wife? The thought hits somewhere unbelievably selfish and delusional. Yet your mind flashes traitorously to the other day in his office— his warm palm resting between shoulder blades.

He looks so out of place there, entirely too handsome, too deep to be surround with such people. But he oddly seems to enjoy himself, as much as you’d like to imagine this isn’t his crowd.

You tear your gaze away, forcing yourself to look back toward Samael. He’s laughing with the men, gesturing animatedly as he speaks about his latest commission. You smile and nod when he glancesyour way, playing the part of the supportive wife.

But you feel eyes bore into your back the whole time. He’s seen you, he’s recognised you, your stupid heart does a small stupid somersault in your stupid chest.

When you look again, the therapist’ gaze isn’t on you. It’s fixed on Samael instead.

There’s something indecipherable in those dark eyes— a quiet intensity, the barest tension in his jaw that no sane person would notice. His expression remains pleasant, soft even, as he nods at whatever the woman beside him is saying. But that look lingers a second too long, like he’s assessing your husband. After all, he’s heard so much about him through you, he must be curious to see what kind of man makes his wife cry in therapy.

Samael walks toward you then, following the direction of your stare. “Who’s that guy?” he asks, adjusting his collar, the one he insisted made him look like a visionary. “Doesn’t seem like he belongs here.”

You swallow, keeping your tone light. “I don’t know. Have you seen him around?”

Samael snorts softly, dismissive. “No. Must be the new postman or something. Can’t imagine what kind of work he does— probably nothing creative. Some people just punch clocks, I suppose.” He says with the shake of his hand, “Anyway, come back inside, sweetheart. Mrs. Thompson wants to show off her new china.”

His hand finds yours, tugging you firmly. You let him, forcing another smile as you walk back toward the lights and laughter. But even as you do, you can feel that gaze following you— like a shadow slipping between the edulcorated families.

There’s a certainty, someone in this house knows more about you than your own husband.

The chatter in the sunroom resumes, you stand beside Samael near the glass doors, the women and their husband laughing loudly. Your partner tilts his head toward the pair outside with mild curiosity.

“Who’s that guy?” he asks one of the wives— Mrs Ellis, keeping his tone sociable, the way he always does in front of church friends. “Doesn’t look familiar.”

Mrs. Ellis glances over with a warm smile. “Oh, that’s Dr. Sim. He’s been coming to these gatherings for a few months now. Sweet young man, isn’t he?” She waves a hand dismissively when you glance at the woman beside him. “And that’s his cousin, actually— Lila. She’s visiting from out of town for the week. I’ve known Jake since he moved here last year, he’s new in town, you know, set up his practice on Maple Street. Quiet type, but so good apparently, my sister sees him for her anxiety or something. Said he helps her a lot.”

You feel a strange flutter in your chest, something you can’t describe as anything else than ugly. It’s weird, how by being vulnerable you can form a connection in nothing more than 9 therapy session— though that connection is one sided— knowing he’s as helpful as he is with you to other people, hurts.

You must be so… everything-deprived to feel possessive of your therapist.

You wonder, briefly, how you’ve never noticed him around before, someone like him should stand out in a community this tight-knit. But then again, you rarely leave the house these days except for church, groceries, and the occasional appointment. Your world has grown small, narrowed to the walls of your home and the quiet sanctuary of his office.

Mrs. Ellis leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “We’ve invited everyone over to see the new garden out back. It’s still a bit of a secret, so don’t spread it around just yet, but you two should go take a look. It’s beautiful—some sort of… oh, what do you call it, dear?” She turns to her husband, who supplies the answer with a proud nod.

“Japanese garden,” he says. “Zen-inspired. Very peaceful.”

Samael chuckles, slipping an arm around your waist again. “Sounds lovely, but I’ll pass. Too many mosquitoes out there this time of evening. I’ll stay inside and chat with the guys. You go ahead, sweetheart. Get some fresh air.”

You hesitate for a second, but the pull of quiet solitude wins. “Alright,” you murmur, offering a small smile to the group before slipping out through the glass doors.

The backyard is warm as you follow the stone path past the patio. Lanterns hang low from curved branches adn the Japanese garden unfolds behind the main house. A small koi pond reflects the fading sky, its surface dotted with floating lily pads. Bamboo rustles softly in the breeze, and a wooden bridge arches delicately over a narrow stream that trickles with the soothing sound of running water. You breathe deeper, shoulders loosening for the first time all evening as you pause beside the pond, watching a bright orange koi glide beneath the surface.

Dammit these people are rich, you think.

The quiet’s nice that time of evening, for a few long minutes, there’s only the gentle trickle of water and the distant hum of crickets.

Then you hear footsteps on the gravel behind you and you turn, heart skipping when you see him.

Dr. Sim stops a respectful distance away, surprise flickering across his handsome face. The string lights catch in his dark hair and soften the sharp line of his jaw. “Oh— sorry,” he says, voice low and warm, that faint accent threading through like always. “I didn’t know you were out here y/n.”

“Oh no, it’s okay,” you reply quickly, already stepping back. “I was gonna head inside anyway.”

“No, no, please. Stay.” He lifts a hand gently, as if to stop you without touching. “You were here before me.”

You pause, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “Are you sure, Dr.?”

A small, dimpled smile touches his lips. “Please. And stop calling me Dr. here. Call me Jake.”

Jake. So that’s the name of the man helping you get through life— a fairly common name for a man so special.

You nod, warmth creeping into your cheeks. The garden feels smaller now, more intimate with just the two of you; the bamboo whispers overhead as nother breeze passes through. It’s weird, because in his office, you’re so comfortable speaking to him, it’s like you’ve known him for years— the way he understands you without hesitation. But outside of that space, you’re awkward strangers all over again.

Jake steps a little closer, hands slipping into his pockets. His gaze searches your face with that same quiet intensity you know so well. “Do you feel better? Since last time?”

You offer a light laugh, trying to brush off the fact that you were crying in his office a couple days ago. “Oh, don’t worry. You don’t have to work right now. We’re outside of the sessions— you can stop being a therapist for one evening.” You smile, hoping it reaches your eyes.

But Jake shakes his head, expression softening further. “No, I want to make sure. You really weren’t okay last time.”

“I was just being dramatic,” you say, waving a hand. “I don’t know what happened.”

His mouth curls upward in a smile, “See?” You’re doing it again. The minimizing, i’ve seen you do it hundreds of times y/n, don’t think i’ll let it slip.”

You let out a small, self-conscious laugh, glancing down at the raked gravel. “I guess, yeah… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, stepping just close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne, something expensive only a man like him could wear without making it nauseating. “You’re all good, Y/n, it’s my job to help you understand how bad that behavior is for you.”

“Yeah, I s’pose.” The silence stretches for a beat. “Well, it’s weird seeing you here. I guess I should go back. I’ll see you at the next appointment?”

Jake nods, but his eyes linger. “Sure. Be careful, yeah?”

Be careful? Does he think you’re gonna trip and fall into the koi pond? Nice.

But before you can go, something small lands on the back of your hand— a tiny ladybug, its red shell dotted with black spots. You start to brush it away, but Jake’s gaze catches on it first. His eyes flick down, and for a moment you’re acutely aware of him; his hand bare and unadorned as he reaches out, while your own bears a simple gold wedding band.

“You have something on your hand,” he says softly.

Before you can respond, he lifts your hand carefully, his fingers warm and steady against your skin. The touch is brief, respectful in intent yet anything but in feeling. He studies the ladybug for a second, a smile curving his lips.

“Pretty,” he whispers, almost to himself. Then, with infinite gentleness, he coaxes the insect onto his own large palm and bends to release it onto the soft moss at the edge of the path. The ladybug crawls away unharmed, disappearing into the garden’s shadows.

Jake straightens, his fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary before he lets go of your hand. His eyes meet yours again, dark and unreadable, filled with that quiet attentiveness that makes the rest of this mac-n-cheese sitcom world disappear.

Before either of you can speak again, soft footsteps crunch on the gravel path behind you.

“Jake? There you are.” A warm, feminine voice cuts through the stillness. Jake’s cousin, Lila, emerges from the shadows of the bamboo grove, her light cardigan draped over her shoulders. She’s even prettier up close—soft waves of hair, kind eyes, and an easy smile. She slows when she sees you standing close to him, but her expression remains curious.

“Oh.. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Lila says, glancing between the two of you. She offers you a friendly nod. “I was looking for my cousin. He has a habit of wandering off at these things.”

Jake turns toward her with that same soft, disarming smile, but you notice the brief flicker in his eyes before it smooths away. “Lila,” he says warmly, voice low and calm. “This is Y/n. She’s… a friend from the community.”

You manage a polite smile, though your pulse is still fluttering. “Nice to meet you.”

Lila steps closer, her gaze sweeping over the serene garden with appreciation. “It really is beautiful back here, isn’t it? Like stepping into another world. Mrs. Ellis was right to keep it a surprise.” She tilts her head toward you, genuinely warm. “Jake mentioned he’s met some lovely people since moving here. I’m glad he’s settling in. He works so hard— sometimes I worry he forgets to breathe outside that… office of his.”

There’s nothing wrong with her tone, but still, the way she hesitated before saying ‘office’ makes you still for a millisecond.

Jake chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck in a boyish way. “Lila’s exaggerating. I’m just doing what I love.” His eyes flick back to you, “Y/n was here first, enjoying the peace. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Lila waves a hand. “No need to explain on my account. These gatherings can get a little overwhelming, can’t they? All the perfect families showing off their perfect lives.” She laughs lightly, like she understands more than she lets on. “I was telling Jake earlier how nice it is to see familiar faces. You’re married, right? Your husband seems very… artistic. The way he talks about his work is passionate.”

You nod, the mention of Samael pulling you back to reality; of course that’s the first impression that idiot would make on people. The wedding ring on your finger suddenly feels heavier, especially after Jake had just held that same hand so tenderly. “Yes, he is. We’ve been together a few years now.”

Lila’s smile stays kind, but she glances at Jake for a split second, “Well, I won’t keep you two. I just wanted to make sure Jake wasn’t hiding away all night. He does that when he gets thoughtful, y’know..” She gives his shoulder a light, squeeze. “Come find me before the desserts come out, okay?”

As she turns to leave, she adds over her shoulder with a cheerful wave, “It was lovely meeting you, Y/n. I hope we run into each other again soon.”

The garden falls quiet once more after her footsteps fade and Jake exhales a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing as he turns fully back to you.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, stepping just a fraction closer. “Lila…. she worries about me being the ‘new guy’ in town, although it’s been like, a year.” he gives a self-deprecating smile.

He glances down at your hand once more, where the ladybug had once been, then at the ring on your finger. “You still look a little tense,” he says almost apologetically. “If you ever need to talk outside our sessions… you know you can. I’m here, Y/n. Always.”

Jake stands there, patient and soft-spoken as ever, and you would lie if you said you didn’t love the attention. The feeling of being cared for, as ridiculous as it sounds— because you should be reminded that this is his job.

Sometimes you even wonder if he’s the same when there’s no money involved. If he would’ve put a hand to your shoulder like he did, had there been no guarantee he’d be paid. How it would feel to have his attention from day to night—

You swallow, heart beating a little too fast. “I… should probably get back before Samael wonders where I am.”

Jake nods, but doesn’t move immediately. “Of course. And remember y/n” His voice is barely above a whisper now. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

He finally steps aside, but his gaze follows you as you turn toward the house, the weight of it pressing against your back like an invisible hand guiding you back to him.

It’s sweet, it’s unfamiliar. It’s everything you’ve never known.

IN BETWEEN

It’s strange how you can go from never seeing someone, to seeing them more than once in 3 days. Even stranger how you can go a whole year without noticing someone in the town you live in.

It should be criminal really, to be so isolated.

Today, you’re walking back to your car from your lecture on juvenile delinquency, earphones in, clutching your books in your arms, because this morning Samael had the brilliant idea of putting your handbag in the washing machine— which you suspect he’s done on purpose, for whatever reason, maybe he’s just mean like that.

The lecture’s been rough, your mind was blurry the whole time, elaborating a plan to skip dinner tonight to not have to sit with your husband at the table and pretend to care about his brand new acrylics.

It would be a tremendous lie to say you haven’t been secretly looking through reddit forums— once again— because the first time had been a gem.

You’ve been looking for people talking about their experience with divorce in close knit communities—especially very religious ones, hoping it might bring some kind of answer or at least comfort.

One redditor said— ‘How do you react, how do you stay strong...when every shop you enter, every group of people you interact with, it seems like everyone is looking at you with pity, sadness, avoidance. I feel like i have this giant sticker on my forehead, a huge L that everyone can see. Picking up kids from school, interacting with other parents became such a burden. Mums stopped being friendly, just yes or no answers, few moms however shifted their tone into being super friendly when before we barely spoke. Every thing feels so wrong, i feel horrible, i just want to change my life.’

That’s nothing something to be reassured with. Not when your husband lives for people’s gaze, and will never get over the societal fallout. So no matter how much you want it— divorce is not an option right now.

In the street, you try to focus on the path back to your car, but your arms are sore and beginning to go numb, plus the music in your ears is super loud and you can’t turn it down because of the lack of hands available.

Next thing you know, you loose a little bit of balance and there— the top book in your stack face plants on the ground.

You bend over, earphones tangling with your hair, but before you can even reach the paperback, a hand beats you to it.

“Careful.” says a familiar voice.

It’s a voice you know all too well, the same one that’s been keeping you afloat these past few months.

“Mr. Sim?” you laugh in embarrassment, taking the book from his hand.

Your therapist’s wearing a blue shirt with a sweater on, only the collar peaking out, and those nerdy little glasses he always carries during sessions; he has a leather satchel slung over one shoulder and holds a cup of coffee in one hand. “Small world.” he smiles, holding your gaze, “gotta be careful with all these books in your arms. Had a long day?”

You sigh, smiling widely, “Yeah, wednesday afternoons are awful.”

“Ah yeah, i imagine. Juvenile delinquency right?” he offers an understand look.

You nod. Surely you must’ve slipped that in during the last session, God knows you have an incessant habit of talking about different things in the same sentence, your mind is constantly a mess, speech alike. You don’t remember telling him about juvenile delinquency though, but you guess you’ve just forgot about it.

“Oh yeah, today was boring…” you smile, “I didnt know you lived around, i always assumed you lived in the practice. Well not that it’s my business or anything—“

Jake’s lips curve upward, amused, “I do, i live nearby, i was just passing by and I happened to see a girl drop her books, so I decided why not help her.”

“That would be me. Well I’m sorry, I usually have a bag but this time I don’t.”

He shakes his head, “You’re okay. Do you… want any help carrying these? Is your car nearby?”

You look at him with a confused smile, eyebrows furrowed, “Car? How’d you know i take the car?”

“Because you told me y/n. During our sessions.” he gives a calm answer, with a hint of amusement, as if dealing with a very silly kid. “You said something about taking the car to go to school, so i figured.”

“Oh yeah, i’m sorry, totally forgot about that.” you shrug, pulling the books closer to your chest so they don’t fall, “Well my car’s a couple streets ahead, it was impossible to park it any closer this morning. But i can totally carry them myself, you don’t have to—“

Jake cuts you off by taking all the books from your hands, “It’s okay, today’s my off-day anyway. It’ll only take a few minutes, should be fine.”

That’s how you find yourself walking to your car with a very handsome man by your side— also how you find yourself looking around every two seconds to see if anyone’s watching you, you know how the old ladies like to report back to your gossiper of a husband.

When Jake reaches your vehicle, you open the door and let him put the stack down— when he comes back up, he offers you a polite nod, “Will you be fine?”

You smile, waving your hand, “I’ll be just fine, don’t worry. Thank you for the help, i’ll see you next session.”

The man tips his head in a small acknowledgment, “For sure, yes.” his eyes drop from yours to your shoulder in a millisecond, he lifts a finger and points there, “Your strap is—”

You look down but before you can even register what’s wrong, Jake readjusts the strap of your top. Warm fingertips brush the skin there for just a fleeting moment, setting the fabric back onto your bone.

But there’s something you hadn’t noticed earlier when he handed you the books— his nails, or rather the space under them, is red, like he’s scratched at his skin and drawn out blood.

One of them is slightly bent, like it’s been cut through, and his knuckles are slightly red. You wonder for a second, what kind of internal battles he must be going through— what that enigma of a man is made of. What does he cry about, what’s his biggest fear.

You wonder if he’s scratched at his skin until it bled, like you did so many times.

Jake quickly retrieves his hand, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin, he bites down on his lower lip, distracted, and steps back. “I’ll see you for our next session y/n.” he quickly nods, hand going in his pocket.

The first thing you want to do is make a pbj sandwich. It’s become a ritual after days like these— when your brain feels wrung dry from hours of reading, highlighting, and trying to convince yourself you’ll remember any of it come exam day. Peanut butter and jelly never disappoints. It’s soft, sweet, almost embarrassingly simple, and requires so little thought that you can make it with your eyes half-shut.

As you kick off your shoes in the entry, you wonder if Samael’s restocked on peanut butter or if you’re going to have to head back to town to fetch some. You drop the heavy books on the small living room table and you pad your way to the kitchen, humming the melody of an old country song.

You’re pondering the next therapy session and the house is terribly quiet— which gives you peace of mind to think about your oddly charming therapist without feeling guilty.

You wonder if he’s stressed, if he goes to bed shaking at night, if his job’s taking a toll on him. You imagine yourself helping him just like he helps you, bandaging his hands, massaging the palms until they relax.

But you step in a wet puddle, and it cuts right through your thoughts.

You cringe, fists clenching— the feeling of socks being drenched with water making your skin crawl. But when you look down, your white socks aren’t transparent, they’re wet with something else entirely.

They’re tainted red, in uneven shapes of crimson.

And under your feet lies a small puddle of smeared blood, the size of a hand, dragged out like it’s been messed up at the edges.

You instantly freeze, the metallic smell catching up to your nose— the liquid spreads through the fibers almost immediately, climbing over your toes in uneven streaks before sinking into the fabric.

You look around, trying to figure out where it came from, but all you can see is, on the kitchen counter, a bouquet of white peonies, no card. Just plain flowers in a glass vase.

“Samael?” you try to say, but it comes out as a whisper.

You walk on your heels, the part that’s not entirely soaked, but it still leaves traces on the floor. You make it to the other side of the counter, eyes locking on the small phone fixed on the wall, but the moment your reach it, something wraps around your ankle.

You jolt, a horrified shriek cutting through your throat. You wrench your leg back on instinct, nearly slipping in the blood before your gaze drops.

It’s a hand.

A pale, trembling hand. Slick with crimson.

“D-Don’t…” the voice is so hoarse you almost don’t recognize it.

Your husband is sprawled on his side, half-hidden by the kitchen island as though he’d dragged himself there and simply run out of strength. His face is drained of color, lips tinged an unhealthy gray, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Every breath catches halfway in his chest before escaping in a shaky exhale.

One hand is wrapped around his opposite forearm.

But it isn’t enough.

Blood seeps relentlessly between his fingers, dripping onto the tile in slow, heavy patters. A deep gash splits across his forearm, the torn edges stained dark, his grip the only thing slowing the bleeding.

His fingers tighten weakly around your ankle— not enough to hold you there, only enough to make sure you don’t leave before seeing him.

“Don’t…” he rasps again, swallowing hard. “Don’t look.”

But it’s too late. Your eyes have already found the widening pool beneath him, the smeared trail leading across the floor, the shaky handprints marking every place he’d tried to pull himself forward.

“Samael? What—” you gasp, a shaky hand coming to your mouth, “what happened?”

His fingers loosen around your ankle. “I’m…” his voice catches in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“…For what?” You stare at him, your pulse roaring in your ears. “Samael for what??”

He doesn’t answer, instead, his eyes drift downward until yours follow. Wedged between his blood-slick fingers is a jagged shard of glass, one edge glistening red. Tiny splinters cling to his palm and the kitchen light catches the fractured surface, scattering pale reflections across the floor.

Something in your chest caves.

It’s a strange feeling, something you can’t pin-point but recognise all too well. Your stomach twists with the nauseating certainty of déjà vu.

For the briefest second, the kitchen isn’t your kitchen anymore, it’s your parents’.

The metallic smell, the blood on the floor, the impossible stillness— it all folds over itself until you’re somewhere else entirely, somewhere your mind has spent years trying to bury.

You know this scene. You know it all too well.

“…You…” Your voice barely exists. “Samael….”

“Lord forgive me.” your husband’s eyelids flutter shut. “I’m so weak.” he laughs once— a hollow, breathless sound that dies as soon as it leaves him. “Fuck.. thought I could endure it.”

Your eyes flick between the wound and the shard still trapped in his grip. You’ve never seen your husband like this, weakened, stepping off of his pedestal to be in such a vulnerable position.

You’ve never thought him capable of doing such thing, it’s not like he’s been sad or troubled these days, there’s no explanation.

But then again, an empath part of you says, you never know what someone is capable of doing, given the right amount of suffering.

“How… how long?” you ask, voice shaken.

Samael squints at the ceiling, as though the answer might be written there. “I don’t know.”his breathing stutters. “An hour… maybe more.”

He had been lying here, bleeding into the kitchen tiles, alone. And a part of you wants to laugh at him.

You do hate him for everything he’s made of your life. But hatred’s never been strong enough to erase recognition.

Once an empath always an empath, always finding ways to feel sorry for even the worst of people.

You know the look in his eyes, the. shame and the desperate apology to a God who feels impossibly far away. You know what it’s like to believe you’ve crossed a line you can never uncross.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the wall-mounted phone and the receiver nearly slips from your fingers. You force yourself to breathe, punch in the emergency number, and press it to your ear.

SESSION O10.

“My husband’s suicidal.”

Your voice echoes in the therapist’s office. It feels wrong in thousands of ways, like you’re admitting your little suburban fairytale is crumble to pieces.

Dr. Sim sits across, neat as always, hands folded on his lap. He pushes his glasses back on his nose, legs spreading the slightest bit. “What makes you say that?”

You try to push the image of his gushing wound out of your mind, the way the paramedics had to wrap gauze around it but the blood still seeped through. “Well, he clearly wanted to end his life.”

“… y/n, people injure themselves for many reasons. Some want to end their lives, and some just want to punish themselves and relieve emotional distress. So without knowing his intent, Id be careful saying he’s suicidal.”

“He apologized. He said he’d been weak. He asked God to forgive him.” you whisper.

Dr. Sim clasps his hands together, “That sounds like shame. It doesn’t necessarily tell me he wanted to die though. Sometimes it can be a call for help.”

“All of a sudden like that?” you question, leaning forward in your seat. There had been no warning signs, no telltale hints of a problem.

Dr. Sim takes a deep breath, like what he’s about to say will be important, “It’s rarely all of a sudden,” he answers at last. “It’s usually the first time other people notice, i’d say.”

Out of all the things you could be feeling right now— the only thing that comes is guilt. Guilt so strong you want to bite your nails off. You should’ve seen it, should’ve noticed, something, anything in his behavior that could’ve prevented this.

“How do you think he’s been lately?” Jake continues, “Withdrawn? More dependent on you than usual? Has he been sleeping? Has he seemed… frightened?”

You shake your head, “I don’t know… he’s never been… this transparent in front of me. I’ve never seen him suffer.”

“And since then?” the therapist probes.

“I’ve barely left him alone.” you say in a breath. “I’m always around, i’m scared he’ll do it again.”

Dr. Sim nods once, almost thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

“Does it?” you tilt your head, hands shaking.

“People don’t usually abandon someone after they’ve almost lost them.”

You almost hear the sound of a clock, but as your eyes face the wall, you notice it still isn’t there. The wall’s bare and the curtains are closed halfway down the window, making the room dimmer than usual. It should be appeasing, relaxing even— you’ve always hated bright lights— but now it makes your knee bounce.

“I thought he was going to die.” your voice cracks as you admit. “Not that it’d be bad… in a way— fuck. I don’t know what i’m saying sorry.”

You hear Jake shift in his seat, and the next thing you know, he’s crouching in front of the sofa you’re sat on.

He looks up at you like an astronaut dreams of the moon, and his hand reaches across the space between you to drop right over yours.

“But you saved him.” he murmurs. “And don’t apologize for your thoughts, we always want things we can’t have, don’t we?”

You don’t know what the means by that, you don’t want Samael to die, it’s just a form of speech, something you say without thinking.

You’re way too aware of the point of contact to dwell on that though. You look down immediately with slightly wide eyes, the tears in your eyes drying like he’s wrung them out himself.

“Is this okay?” he whispers in the softest voice.

You nod, too fast for someone so conflicted— and he squeezes your hand tighter. “I know i shouldn’t be touching you right now. But I just want to offer you a presence y/n. Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head, unable to form any words and he takes it as a silent agreement. His hand squeezes tighter, not tight enough to scare you away, a symbolic of everything he is, that you’re not. He’s helpful, he’s a man who cares for people, while you’re a poor woman too blind to even notice your own husband’s suffering.

Jake’s eyes fall to your wrist, fingertips climbing to wrap around the thin bone, he squeezes a few times, thumb drawing circles on it. Your breath hitches almost instantly, having never known a touch so tender— and you watch his fingers move gently, like he’s scared he’ll crush your bones if he presses too hard.

“You know, I was concerned something happened, when you came in late today. You never come in late.” the therapist fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, “You’re someone I really look forward to helping.”

Today, you were late because you considered staying home to tend to Samael, but you decided to go anyway, too addicted to skip an appointment. It’s like everything falls behind therapy these days, like the only thing that matters is seeing Dr. Sim.

Right now, you can’t be fooled into thinking there’s not an ounce of truth in what he says though. The way he says it, not in a money-hungry way, not in a professional way even.

There’s not intention behind it, only true concern.

You wonder if he’s grown unhealthily attached like you have, if he knows how dependent you’ve become to these sessions. If maybe somewhere deep down he feels the same way.

It’s wrong, and it’s ugly, and God forbid someone ever hears about this.

But it’s your secret. And his to some extent.

Your hear him chuckle before you even seen him, your eyes snap up, confused. Jake is looking at your hand with amusement.

“You attract these things, don’t you?” he smiles.

Because there, on your hand, lies a little ladybug, once again. Small, delicate, almost impossibly harmless— its scarlet shell a strange contrast against the warmth of your skin.

It looks like something that should have been crushed by the world already, yet here it is, still moving, still searching for somewhere gentle to land. You look around, the window is closed and so is the door.

You must’ve brought it inside when you came in.

“It’s the second one this week,” he observes, picking up with careful fingers, “Look at it.”

He brings the small insect closer to your eyes, careful not to let it drop, and you find yourself squinting to look at it, “They must really like you,”

You gather your palms together in front of you, and Jake manages the little creature in your hands; it crawls across the folds of skin, until it sits at the edge of your fingertip.

But you can’t find it in you to focus on it.

Your eyes, so volatile, are on his face, concentred with something other than wonder. Jake looks even more disarming up close where you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way he seems to be constantly biting down on his lower lip like a bad-habit.

He looks at you like you hold the world in your palms instead of a small weak creature, and you look at him like your husband’s been long forgotten.

It should make you feel bad, but you can’t think about anything else other than those destabilising eyes digging up a path straight to your chest cavity. It’s so personal, it’s like he’s not looking at a patient but at a woman he needs.

And God, you need him.

PLAY now

There’s a man at home, loved and respected in the community, a man who hurts you but who’s suffering himself— and the only thing you can think about is how you wish Dr. Sim would press his lips to yours.

It’s vile, it’s ugly and everything in between and beyond. But you’d let go of all ethics if he were to wrap a hand around your throat.

The lines between feeling cared for and wanting to give your all have eroded so easily, you almost didn’t even notice it. And now you’re stuck with a heart that wants his touch and his words at the same time.

The ladybug’s wings unfurl in your hand, delicate and translucent, catching the faint light of the room. A tiny flutter breaks the silence and it lifts itself into the air, drifting upward in a slow, uncertain spiral, its red shell a fleeting spark against the walls. In the closed room, where nothing else moves, the little creature tries to find a way out.

The second it’s gone behind the curtains, your eyes fall back down to Dr. Sim’s face. His are already bored in yours, the ladybug insignificant.

It’s eery, the moment stretches and stretches until you’re sure you should break it with a word, but can’t.

That’s when his breath comes out, shakier than intended. You couldn’t possibly tear your eyes from his, but the warmth of his breath makes you want to look away desperately before need consumes you.

“I know this is wrong,” Jake begins, not even knowing what he’s referring to, “but it’s hard to stop. I’ve never— been around someone like you y/n.”

Your own breath catches in your throat, a prisoner of your own twisted desires.

But he continues, “I look forward to our sessions all the time, you know? You’re a very smart woman, you‘ve taught me a lot of things school doesn’t teach. You know you’re my favorite patient, right?” he’s very serious when he says that, “And I get that you think so low of yourself, but you deserve to be cherished. Not tolerated or managed. Cherished.”

You’re struggling to understand what he means by that, when his fingers find your knee, tentative, “Is this okay?”

Your eyes subconsciously look for the clock. You’re aware you’ve been in here for longer than usual— after all time passes fast when you’re at the hands of such a skilled player— and when you look back at him, you nod., because in here, hours don’t matter.

Jake’s hand travels upward, to your lower thigh, which he squeezes gently, tracing shapes with the pads of his fingers. He reads you like an open book, when he sees the guilt in your eyes, he goes, “I know it all feels confusing. But you’re not alone in this room with me, okay? You’ll never be alone.”

You almost gasp, throat becoming a penitentiary for air— you feel your knee shaking, and so does he. “Is it too much?” when you shake your head, his head drops, forehead almost touching your thigh. “I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

You’re too stunned to even speak, but your hand—for reason you couldn’t possibly supply— moves to the top of his head with a mind of its own. Your fingers curl in his hair, gently, and you push his head down, until it rests on your skin.

Jake exhales a shaky breath, lips meeting the apex of your leg.

You should to stop, but what’s wrong has always tasted so good— so one hand crawls where his hair meets his nape, and you beckon him closer.

He doesn’t rush. Even now, with your hand urging him closer, Jake moves like he’s afraid the moment might shatter. His lips brush the fabric of your dress first, then find the bare skin just above your knee. His kiss is feather-light, warm breath fanning across your thigh as he trails higher. Each press of his mouth feels like confessing a sin— soft, open-mouthed.

He breathes you in, nose grazing the sensitive inner skin, and a low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a sigh and a groan.

“Still okay?” he whispers against your thigh, voice muffled. His fingers trace the hem of your dress, pushing it up nicely inch by inch with agonizing patience. You nod again, words failing you, and he takes it as permission.

The fabric pools higher, exposing more of you to the cool air of the office. Jake’s hands slide up the backs of your thighs, spreading them apart just enough for him to settle between them on his knees.

He looks up at you then, eyes dark and glassy, pupils blown wide with deviant need. There’s hunger there, yes, but also that same worshipful devotion that makes your stomach twist with guilt. “You’re so soft here,” he murmurs, lips brushing the crease where thigh meets hip. “Fuck… I’ve thought about this so many times.”

It’s the first time you’ve heard him swear, and it tastes delicious from his mouth. It continues its path, kissing a slow trail along your inner thigh. Every touch is meaningful, each a part of something grander — teeth grazing lightly, tongue soothing the faint sting. He savors you like scripture, murmuring half-formed praises between kisses.

The scent of your arousal is already thickening the air, and Jake’s breath hitches when he reaches the edge of your panties.

He presses his face there, inhaling deeply, nose nudging against the damp fabric, his tongue darts out, tasting the arousal seeping through.

“Fuck… you smell so good,” he breathes, voice rougher now. His hands tremble slightly as they hook into the waistband, waiting for your eyes.

When you lift your hips just enough, he slides them down your legs with excruciating slowness, letting the lace drag along your skin. The cool air hits your exposed core, and you shiver; Jake groans softly at the sight, forehead dropping to rest against your lower stomach for a moment as if gathering himself.

You run your hand through his hair, tugging just a little bit, until he looks up with wild eyes, he’s gone, in a totally different headspace that you’ve ever seen him in. Then he spreads your legs wider, hands firm on your thighs, holding you open like an offering. His gaze flicks up again, asking without words.

The permission you give with a shaky nod breaks something in him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke from entrance to clit. The wet heat of his mouth makes your back arch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Jake moans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your nerves. He doesn’t devour immediately, he adulates— his tongue moves in lazy, deliberate circles around your clit, then dips lower to taste you properly, lapping at the slick gathering at your entrance like he’s been starving for it for years.

It’s like he’s tasting the best meal he’s ever had.

“Sweet,” he whispers devoutly between long licks. “So sweet for me.” His lips seal around your clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicks in rhythm. One hand stays on your thigh, holding you steady whil the other strokes soothing patterns on your skin, grounding you even as pleasure builds in heavy waves.

At some point, when he sees you arch off the sofa, he urges you closer, pulling your hips until his face is buried between your thighs— he looses himself, licking like a starved man, until all he can taste is you and only you.

He takes his time, dragging it out— every time your hips twitch or your breath catches, he slows, pulling back just enough to kiss your inner thighs again, leaving faint wet marks that glisten under the light. Then he returns, deeper, tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with slow, curling strokes while his nose presses against your clit.

The obscene sounds— wet, filthy, mingled with his soft groans— fill the quiet office where only sad stories usually exist. Jake’s completely lost in it, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, dark hair tousled from your fingers. Pussy-drunk and devoted, like this is the only thing that matters in his carefully ordered world.

You come the first time with a choked cry, thighs trembling around his head but Jake doesn’t stop. He moans louder, drinking down every drop, tongue working you through the aftershocks with relentless gentleness. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your slick flesh. “Let me have this. Let me take care of you.”

He drags it out, building you up again with two fingers sliding inside, curling against that perfect spot while his mouth focuses on your clit. The stretch is perfect, his fingers thick and skilled, pumping slowly in time with his tongue. Your second orgasm crashes harder, vision blurring, fingers tightening painfully in his hair. Still, he doesn’t pull away. He keeps licking, softer now, coaxing every last tremor until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and shaking.

Only then does he rise, lips shiny and swollen, eyes wild with need. He kisses a path up your body— over your stomach, between your breasts, along your collarbone— murmuring the whole time. “You’re so beautiful it hurts,” he breathes against your skin, voice wrecked. “I don’t deserve this… but I need you. God, I need you.”

IN BETWEEN

A husband is a man. He is not any different from the one sitting in an armchair, in an office in town. Men are still only men beneath the titles you give them. Doctor. Stranger. Protector. The words are just costumes we put over people to make them easier to understand.

But one of them is your husband.

The man whose blood you saw on the kitchen floor. The man whose fingers trembled around your ankle. The man who looked at you like he was already apologizing for leaving you behind.

And the other is the man who’s paid to listen, but who has made you feel heard in ways your husband has never been able to.

With his tongue buried in your most secret part, he’s learned the way to undo you and never ask for anything in return.

You wonder if this is how it starts— how people become strangers to the promises they made.

At the end of the day, a vow is a vow— even as vile as your husband is, he’s someone you grew with. You’d like to feel avenged, to feel like you’ve done something petty and satisfying. But it just adds to the mountain of things you feel awful about.

So you sleep— when you come home from the practice, you sleep all evening, face buried in the sheets trying to forget the ache between your thighs. Samael stays in the attic, trying to paint with his left hand, because the right one hurts.

It pains him, you can see how drained he looks, and you wonder why he chose to harm the member he paints with rather than the other one.

You bring him dinner by night, a plate of beans and meat, and he doesn’t say a word, not even an acknowledgment.

You try to make amends for something he doesn’t even know about— you wash his clothes in the river, you buy his favorite flavor ice cream from the store and make the bed neatly in the morning.

By the next week, you’re a mess, the miserable shell of a disgusting woman.

You decide to meet up with Mr Paulson— one if your only friends in town, a 60 year old celibate from church, who also happens to be your husband.

You’ve found yourself liking his quiet presence, he’s wiser and older, plays chess with you sometimes when your husband leaves town for his art gallery affairs. He’s reeks of jasmine perfume and carries an obnoxious beige hat— but he’s as kind as cotton candy. The more you talk to him, the more you realize just how desolate you truly are.

Where he has a rare bred cat and a perfectly mowed lawn— you have a therapist you’re entirely emotionally dependent on, and an unavailable husband who struggles more than you can make sense of.

Where he has 5 blond headed younger siblings who sing at the choir, you have 5 different ways this could go wrong etched in your brain.

In half of them, the guilt eats at you, and you end up quitting therapy and moving to a cabin in the woods.

Mr. Paulson notices the dark bags under your eyes, he doesn’t ask questions but he can tell you’re heavily conflicted. By the time you sit down at the table in the garden, you put your phone face up between you, and offer him a cup of tea.

You try to focus on his voice as he chatters about the upcoming church bake sale, but your mind keeps slipping. Every shift in your seat brings it back— the memory of Jake’s tongue, the way his fingers had trembled against your skin like you were something sacred and fragile.

Your phone buzzes suddenly against the metal table, the vibration waking you up from dreamspace. The screen lights up with a name that makes your stomach drop. Dr. Sim

Mr. Paulson’s eyes flick down to it before you can turn the phone over. His bushy brows lift in mild surprise, recognition flashing across his face.

“Oh, Dr. Sim from town,” he says, voice light but curious, the way people speak when they’ve just connected invisible threads. “Such a kind young man.” He tilts her head, studying you with gentle concern. “Are you… seeing him dear?”

Panic blooms in your chest, a wild thing clawing up your throat. Your fingers twitch toward the phone, but it’s too late. The heat rises to your cheeks, and you know he can see it— the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hand shakes slightly as you reach for your teacup.

You swallow hard, forcing your voice steady. “Yes… I’ve started therapy recently. Just a few sessions. It’s been… helpful.” The words feel like a damning confession. You lower your voice, glancing toward the house even though Samael is miles away, locked in his attic studio. “But Mr Paulson, please… I’d rather Samael not know. Things have been difficult at home, and I don’t want him worrying. Or… misunderstanding.”

He watches you for a long moment, his sweetness softening into something more paternal. Then he reaches across the table and pats your hand once, warm and reassuring. “Of course, dear. Your secrets are safe with me. We all carry our crosses, don’t we? The Lord knows we need help sometimes.” His smile is kind, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—pity, maybe, or understanding. “But your husband… he’s a good man, isn’t he?”

You nod too quickly, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. “Yes. He is.” The words feel hollow, echoing the vows you made years ago in that same church these women attend every Sunday.

A good man. A pious man with hands too rough.

Mr Paulson squeezes your hand once more before excusing himself. “I’ll be right back, dear. Let me fetch some teaspoons.” He disappears toward the house, beige hate swinging gently at his side.

The screen is still lit as you snatch it up, heart hammering as you open the messages.

Dr. Sim: I don’t want this to change things. I still believe I can help you. You won’t cancel the next sessions, right?

Your thumbs move before you can stop them, the guilt and need twisting together into something unstoppable.

You: I know you can help me. I won’t cancel.

The reply comes almost immediately, as if he’s been waiting with the phone in his hand.

Dr. Sim: How do you feel?

You: I’m okay

Dr. Sim: how do you feel about what happened ?

You: I don’t know how to feel.

Dr. Sim: There’s no need to feel guilty Y/n. You’ve done nothing wrong. You learned very young that love meant staying when someone was broken, you learned that leaving was the same thing as abandoning someone. But you’re not a child anymore.

When he leaves, Mr.Paulson slips a little, “Take care of yourself dear.” before reminding you that the priest is always ready to receive you. To which you nod politely, because frankly, it’s not a debate you’re ready to start, much less with him.

He stands, pulling you into a gentle hug that smells of jasmine and laundry softener— his arms are warm, fatherly. You nod against his shoulder, throat tight, and watch him walk back toward his perfect house.

Sometime after, your husband texts you— even if he’s in the house and could come talk to you— he informs you that he’s going to go eat at his friends’ house tonight and won’t be home until late— which, to say the least, doesn’t upset you.

If anything, it makes you exhale a breath yoube been holding.

You stand in front of the bedroom mirror for a long hour afterward, watching yourself, curling and uncurling your hands in weird motions like you’re studying your own anatomy. You settle on the bed, in need of a nap, but the thoughts are too many.

You stand up, fingers trembling as you change out of the modest day dress into something you’ve always desired to wear. It’s a skirt and a simple black top, but nothing provocative. Nothing that admits what you’re thinking.

But the woman in the mirror looks wrong.

She stares back with hollow eyes and flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted like she’s holding a secret between her teeth. The longer you look, the more it feels like the mirror is watching you—like the glass has grown eyes, like it knows what you did on that therapy sofa, what you’re about to do again. You touch your reflection’s cheek. The glass is cold but your skin is burning. A shiver crawls down your spine but you turn away before the feeling swallows you whole.

You tell yourself a hundred reasons not to go.

He’s your therapist. This is wrong. Samael is hurting. You’re married. This could destroy everything.

And then the counter-arguments make the rest completely irrelevant.

𓁹 𓁹

Your hands are still shaking when you punch in the code to the entrance of the practice on Maple Street. The hallway is dark, the building quiet except for the sound of the expesive fluorescent lights overhead. You knock softly on his office door.

Once. Then twice. Every single time you’re welcome with nothing but silence.

He must’ve gotten home already, it’s been a long day for him and he must’ve taken a break.

You’re already turning to leave, heart hammering with shame, when the door cracks open.

A hand— warm, strong, slightly sticky— closes around your wrist and pulls you inside.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click and you stumble forward, breath catching. It’s Jake, pulling you inside like you’re a dirty little secret, like there’s something to be scared of outside.

You want to scream, but something in your nervous system says you’re safe and sound, that nothing could ever happen in here, because he’ll always protect you. But when you look down, the scream threatens to come out.

A smear of blood streaks across your wrist where his fingers gripped you.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Jake murmurs when he sees your eyes widen, voice soothing even now. “I cut myself.”

When your eyes explore, you see the office is dim, only the desk lamp on. The same blood that lies on your skin is everywhere— from a small puddle on the floor near the sink, to crimson streaks across the white porcelain. You spot Jake’s shirt discarded in a bloody heap on the chair. And only then do you notice he’s shirtless, the strong lines of his chest and shoulders illuminated by the light.

When your eyes veer lower, you make out a couple of faint scars— old, silvery— across it. His hand is a mess, blood wells slowly from a deep gash across his palm and forearm, making your lips turn white. It looks like he’s been scratched by a wild animal, or something of the sort.

PLAY NOW.

You stare, heart pounding. “Jake—”

“It’s nothing,” he says calmly, like he’s reassuring a frightened patient, he pushes his glasses back on his nose, leaving a wide crimson stain. “Cut myself with glass. I made a mess.”

You step closer despite the odd feeling clawing at your throat. “How did you do this?”

“Bought whiskey glasses off a cheap website. It exploded in my hands. Don’t worry. It’ll heal on its own.”

“No, it’s deep, Jake.” Your voice cracks, you spot a first aid kit discarded on the sink, which suggests he was already patching himself up upon your arrival. You grab it wit shaky hands.

Jake lets you lead him to the sofa; you sit beside him, knees brushing. Blood continues to seep steadily between you as you clean the wound— and it’s obviously deeper than he let on. It’s so deep that your hands quickly become slick with it, warm and metallic, and the coppery smell fills your nostrils nauseatingly.

The cut is angry and raw, a violent interruption against the familiarity of his skin. The sight of it twists something in you chest; the strange horror of realizing someone so essential to your life can be damaged.

Jake’s breathing is slow and even, but his eyes are fixed on your hands— on his blood coating your fingers. He doesn’t flinch when you press gauze against the cut, if anything, his pupils dilate. You hate how human it makes him look. You hate that the same hands that held you so carefully can also be covered in something so violent.

“How did you really do this?” you whisper.

Dr. Sim tilts his head, a faint, almost amused smile touching his lips. “I spend all day listening to people tell me what hurts, and I forget I’m allowed to have things that hurt too, you know?”

“That’s not a good thing.”

“No?” his amusement deepens.

“No. You tell everyone else to take care of themselves, but you don’t do it for yourself.”

His uninjured hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And who are you taking care of right now?”

You feel heat flood your cheeks. “My therapist.”

His smile widens. “Am I?”

“What?” your eyebrow raises.

“Nothing.” He tuts softly, shaking his head, eyes never leaving yours. You notice the bleeding hasn’t slowed, your hands are practically painted red now, his blood warm and slick between your fingers.

Jake’s chest rises and falls a little faster and he watches the way the crimson stains your skin like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“The bleeding won’t stop,” you whisper, voice unsteady.

“It’s okay,” Jake murmurs.

The next second, you watch in confusion as he lifts your wrist gently and brings it to his mouth.

His tongue— hot and slow— licks a droplet of his own blood from your skin like it’s just spilled wine.

Your eyes widen and at that he does it again, slower, savoring, lips closing around the pulse point. The wet heat of his mouth makes your breath hitch.

Then he takes your finger between his lips, sucking gently, eyes locked on yours the entire time. The sight is deeply eerie— his dark lashes, the blood on the corners of his mouth, the calm devotion in his expression as he cleans you with his tongue.

“There’s more running water,” he says softly, voice muffled around your finger. “Tap’s broken. I wasn’t going to leave you with your hands dripping like that.”

You’re breathing hard, shocked, horrified, and unbearably aroused all at once. Your free hand moves without thinking, thumb brushing the blood at the corner of his mouth.

Jake turns his head and sucks it into his mouth too, tongue swirling slowly, eyes half-lidded.

There’s something eerie in the way he treats something so violent as if it were delicate— like the only thing that matters is the trace of him left behind, a red reminder that some part of him has crossed the boundaries.

You don’t see it coming, one second there’s space between you, and the next, there isn’t.

You surge forward and kiss him. With absolutely no reason, no hesitation left, your mouth crashes into his, tongue slipping past his lips, tasting the sharp metallic tang of his blood.

It’s disgusting— tangy, warm, iron-heavy—but the thrill that shoots through you is out of this world. You moan into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair, gripping tight and the kiss turns messy, desperate, bloody. Teeth clash. Tongues slide against each other, spreading crimson between you.

Like wine left aging in a forgotten cellar, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted- as vile as it sounds.

Jake hisses when his injured hand grips your ass, but he only pulls you closer, grinding his hips up against you. He’s impossibly hard, straining against his pants, throbbing with need; you wonder if he likes this, if he likes sharing his blood with you until your mouth is covered in red like his. He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe against your lips,

“You’re gonna swallow it okay? Let it stay inside you where no one else can reach.”

You do, awfully blinded by the tenderness with which he holds you among the violence.

The taste lingers even after, and he watches, awed, cupping your face with blood-smeared hands. A second after, his thumb crawls in his own mouth to collect the rest of blood, and he pushes it inside yours.

“Again. Let me rot inside you.” he kisses your jaw as you obey, “You gonna be a good girl and let me become part of your body, okay?”

You swallow again, cringing at the taste but unable to stop the moan that follows— Jake’s eyes darken further, his breath catching in his throat until his hips are grinding against you.

“I know, it’s disgusting isn’t it?” he whispers tenderly, thumb stroking your cheek and leaving a faint red streak. “But this blood’s cleaner than anything he ever gave you. It’s honest. It’s only for you, am I right?”

Like a moth to a flame, you nod, knowing all too well who he’s referring to, “Yes.” without even thinking straight.

You watch as he takes off his dirty glasses, drops them in the sink and the next second you’re on his mouth again.

Your hand sliding down to cup his hardness through his pants until he groans into your mouth, grinding against your palm like an animal, hips jerking. You’re both frantic now, messy and needy, hands groping, mouths devouring.

Without breaking the kiss, you stumble backward together toward the therapy couch— the same couch where you sit every week and bare your soul. The irony is, perverse. This is where you confess your darkest thoughts, now you’re spreading your legs on it while your savior’s blood dries on your hands and tongue.

Jake lays you down, settling between your thighs until his weight presses you into the cushions. He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time, as he pushes your skirt up.

When you try to look away, overwhelmed, his uninjured hand grabs your jaw. “Shh. Look at me.”

You do. Because he’s making you dependent with every touch, every drop of blood, every whispered command. He grinds against you slowly, letting you feel how hard he is, how much he needs you, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with the metallic taste still on both your tongues.

The liquid which continues to seep slowly from the bandage you tried to apply, staining both of you; but he still he watches you— devoted, obsessed, terrifyingly gentle even as he claims you in the place meant for healing.

He lifts the fabric of your top inch by inch, exposing your stomach first. Jake leans down and presses soft, open-mouthed kisses across your skin, tongue tracing the faint marks and every curve like their holy scripture.

“You’re so pretty here,” he whispers against your belly. “So soft. So warm. Every part of you.” He pulls the top higher, over your breasts, and groans quietly at the sight. “Fuck… Look at you. So beautiful it hurts to breathe.” His lips close around one nipple, sucking gently while his thumb circles the other.

Jake tugs the top off completely and tosses it aside. Next come your skirt and panties, dragged down your legs with the same agonizing patience. He kisses every new inch of skin revealed— your hips, the tops of your thighs, the sensitive skin behind your knees.

When you’re finally bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels and just stares, blood slowly seeping from the bandage on his hand, smearing across your skin wherever he touches.

“Everywhere,” he breathes, almost dazed. “You’re pretty everywhere. Your thighs… your stomach… these breasts… this sweet little pussy.” He runs two fingers through your folds, spreading the slick arousal. “I’ll cherish you the way you need, mkay? the way you’ve always deserved.”

Jake stands just long enough to push his pants and boxers down. His cock springs free— thick, long, heavy, and flushed dark. Easily one of the biggest you’ve ever seen, veined and leaking at the tip— you doubt you could take it fully, but then again, you’d love the pain if it meant you were close to him.

Jake strokes himself once, slowly, eyes hooded as he watches your reaction, then he crawls back between your spread legs, kissing you deeply again, letting you taste the blood still on his tongue. His cock rests heavy against your stomach first, then slides down to tease your soaked folds. He rubs the thick head up and down, coating himself in your arousal, bumping against your clit with every pass.

“You want this?” he asks softly, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me inside, Y/n.”

When you nod desperately, he kisses you again, deeper; then he lines himself up and pushes just the tip inside. It’s so overwhelming, his fat tip is stretching you out with only that much, you clench hard around him instantly, a broken moan escaping your lips at the feeling.

“Fuck…” Jake hisses, forehead dropping to yours. “Already squeezing me like you don’t want me to leave.” he presses the tip right against your clit and rubs a couple times, hips stuttering, until you’re a moaning mess under him.

Then he works the thick head in and out shallowly, letting you adjust, his thumb circling your clit in steady motions to ease the stretch. When he finally pushes deeper and you wince, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, you clutch desperately at his biceps.

“I know, I know,” he coos softly, voice gentle even as his hips twitch with the need to thrust. “You’re such a brave girl… It hurts, doesn’t it?” He stays still for a moment, buried halfway, kissing your tears away. “Breathe for me. That’s it… good girl.”

He starts fucking you with shallow strokes, letting you get used to his size. Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him closer and he leans down, lips brushing your ear. “You feel so perfect around me. Squeezing me so tight, you’re so good to me.”

It feels so intense you might die, you still taste his blood on your lips, proof of how deep he’s etched in your skin. It’s as though your body, numb for years without your noticing, has been shocked back into feeling, at the hands of a man who should’ve terrified you instead of awakening you.

Jake’s pace gradually deepens, he can tell how much this means to you, the way your eyes squeeze shut, and he looks down between your bodies, watching the way your stomach bulges slightly with every thrust.

“That’s me right there,” he groans, pressing a hand over the bulge. “You feel me? So deep inside you. No one else will ever fit here again.”

Before you can come up with an answer, your phone slips out of your discarded skirt pocket and clatters onto the floor. The sound catches Jake’s attention and for a second his eyes flicker with something different from desire.

He reaches down, picks it up, and holds it in front of your face. “Unlock it,” he says softly.

Confused but floating on pleasure, you do, you press the face ID and let his thumb work on the screen while you clench rhythmically at the loss of movement.

Then Jake sets the phone on the far arm of the couch, propped up, and you notice your reflection on the screen, the camera facing you both.

“What-“ you say, cut short when he pulls out suddenly, making you whimper at the loss, then sits on the couch and pulls you onto his lap. He spreads your legs wide, hooking them over his thighs, your back to his chest, pussy on full display to the camera.

“You gonna show your husband how you want to be taken care of?” he whispers in your ear.

You moan, a confused, ashamed, and unbearably aroused sound— you should ask him to stop, but the thrill is too strong, the unbearable way he handles your body is something you don’t want to loose.

He takes it as a green light and his cock slides back inside you from below, filling you in one smooth thrust as he groans deeply like he’s never felt this good.

“It’s okay, relax,” he murmurs, kissing your neck, blood from his hand smearing across your breasts as he holds you. “Just feel me. I’m so deep, aren’t I?”

You nod frantically, unable to form words and he starts fucking up into you, hands on your hips guiding you to bounce on his cock. The wet sounds are obscene, your arousal dripping down his shaft and balls— and the camera catches it all.

“That’s it, baby. Show him how good it feels.” He reaches down and spreads your pussy lips with his fingers, showing the camera exactly how his thick cock stretches you open, sliding in and out. “She’s so wet… she’s practically dripping everywhere. And it’s all for me.”

Jake bites down on your shoulder, his blood smearing across your skin as he thrusts harder. “She’s so tight. The tightest thing I’ve ever felt.” he speaks to you now, “If you were my wife, I’d never make you cry. You’d never feel alone, baby.”

His voice is low and reverent when he adds, “Tell him. Tell him how full I’m making you.” You struggle, moaning brokenly, words failing you and Jake slows, almost stopping.

“It’s okay, poor thing,” he coos, pinching both your nipples until you cry out. “You’re so pretty like this. Look at yourself.” He angles your face toward the camera until you see the mess he’s made of you. “The prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’d do anything for you.”

The heights of his devotion are so intense, it’s not something you develop in secret, you wonder how you’ve never noticed just how profound it all is. From the way he holds you to the way he worships at your altar— there’s not doubt Sim Jake is as devastated as you are.

Then he lifts you off him, turns you around, and bends you over the arm of the couch on your hands and knees. He pushes back inside in one deep thrust, throwing his head back with a guttural groan.

“Fuck— so good,” he gasps. He fucks you hard now, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip, blood leaving streaks across your ass until there’s not a doubt you’re covered in it.

He reaches around to rub your clit, pushing you closer and closer and when you start clenching hard around him, orgasm crashing through you, Jake loses control. “Fuck— fuck, give me breathing room baby, I’m gonna lose it—”

But you beg him, voice hoarse, “Please stay inside… please, Jake—” because you believe you could die if he leaves you empty again.

He curses, hips stuttering, and buries himself as deep as possible, until your thighs quiver and your body falls limp on the edge of the couch, trembling with pleasure. His orgasm hits like a wave. You feel every pulse, every thick spurt of his cum flooding deep inside you. His cock throbs violently, hips jerking with each rope as he fills you completely, groaning your name like a prayer.

“Please— let me stay. Don’t push me out.” he says against your neck, hips still going. His body shakes against yours, arms wrapped tight around your waist, face buried in your skin as he rides it out. There’s so much of it, it leaks from where you’re linked, you’ve never seen so much cum, and it’s all for you, and because of you.

“You’re mine now,” Jake breathes, pulsing inside. “No matter what.”

He then grabs the phone that’s still recording, with a sensitive gasp, presses ‘delete’ and looks down at you, “I’m not a bad guy, I’m not gonna send it to him. You know that right ? I’d never hurt you like that.”

𓁺

Jake’s still buried deep inside you minutes later, softening slowly, his arms wrapped tightly around your body as if letting go would cost him his life. His heartbeat thuds steadily against your chest.

“I feel so bad,” you whisper against his neck, guilt crawling back. “He’s not doing well… and I’m here with you.”

Jake exhales softly, his fingers tracing slow circles on your back. His voice is gentle, almost pained. “I know… That guilt is heavy, isn’t it? You carry so much for him. More than anyone should have to.” He shifts slightly, pressing deeper for a second, making you gasp. “I’m just trying to help you carry it. But sometimes… it feels like I’m the only one who sees how much it’s costing you.”

You hesitate. “I shouldn’t be here while he’s suffering.”

He tenses beneath you, a barely noticeable flinch, but his voice stays soft. “You wouldn’t want me to be alone tonight, would you?”

You raise an eyebrow, struggling to understand him, “Why would you say that.”

“Well i don’t know y/n, it sounds like you’re gonna leave right now.” Jake’s hand squeezes your hip. “I’ve gotten used to people leaving once they realize how… intense I can be.”

He makes it seem like he wasn’t perfect for you, like the guilt isn’t what’s making you want to leave, “Jake, that’s not what this is.” you whisper.

“You won’t leave too, will you?” his eyes are tender when he looks at you, glassy and wide. Like a child barring his soul.

But there’s a strange feeling that comes with sympathy- something that tugs at your heart, leaves goosebumps in its path.

“I’m just… i won’t leave, i’m just saying I feel bad.”

Jake pulls you closer, kissing the top of your head, then gently wipes a mess of his own dried blood from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “You don’t have to feel guilty. Your mother managed it for years. You were practically raised for this.”

The sentence lands weirdly, you think you’re overanalysing but his tone is strange, and you can’t possibly figure out what he means. An eerie, unsettling feeling blooms in your chest as you pull back slightly to look at him with an awkard chuckle, “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. Another one of your therapist bullshit?”

Jake’s eyes are steady. “It’s not bullshit, Y/n.”

You laugh awkwardly, trying to shake off the strange chill. “Mmh, okay then. Whatever you say.” You lean in and kiss him again to drown of the bad feelings, it deepens quickly, hungry and heated until your feel his cock twitch inside you, hardening again as you rock your hips slowly against him.

Then his phone rings on the floor.

Jake scrambles up slightly, still buried inside you, and reaches for it; you whimper at the sudden shift, the emptiness already aching when he eventually slips out. He glances at the unknown number, presses a finger to his lips in a silent “shh,” and answers.

“Hello?… Yes, this is Dr. Sim… Of course, I can make time for you.” His voice is perfectly professional. “Next Tuesday at 4 PM works well… Yes, I understand it’s urgent. We’ll talk through what brought you in… Absolutely, confidentiality is guaranteed.”

While he speaks, you slide off the couch and kneel between his legs, overtaken by the need to feel him again.

His eyes widen for a split second as you take his cock into your mouth. You suck slowly at first, tongue swirling around the head, tasting yourself and his cum mixed together, then your hand cups his balls gently, massaging them as you bob your head deeper.

Jake’s free hand fists in your hair, gripping tight as his voice stays remarkably steady, only the slightest roughness betraying him.

“Yes… I specialize in trauma and… ah, attachment issues… No, that’s quite common. We can start there.”

You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, taking him deeper into your throat until he throbs against your tongue. His hips twitch once, fighting for control and you swirl your tongue around the sensitive underside, moaning softly around him. His knuckles turn white around the phone.

“Perfect… I’ll see you then. Take care until then.” He hangs up abruptly.

The second the call ends, Jake lets out a broken groan. “Fuck— Y/n—”

He cums hard within seconds, the thrill of the risk pushing him over the edge. Thick, hot spurts flood your mouth as he holds your head gently in place, trembling. You swallow every drop, eyes watering but never breaking eye contact and when he finally finishes, he pulls you up into his lap, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue.

“I’m gonna die because of you one day,” he chuckles breathlessly, “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

IN BETWEEN ?

Sex is nice. Sex is fulfilling and comfortable. Sex makes you feel a thousand different things you couldn’t possibly feel when you’re dressed.

But sex fades.

When the clothes are back on and the gaps are empty all over again, you remember how fragile people are. Even if they try their best to hide something, their words will always speak for themselves.

That’s why you cancel the next appointment— you need time to think, because sex is fun, but the lies you tell others aren’t.

You spend the day trying to mend your marriage, you make sure Samael’s wound is correctly bandaged and that he has enough to eat, like a captive to your own lifestyle, you water a decaying plant in hopes it might bloom again.

It won’t. Not when something else has already taken root in you.

The phone never stays silent, the person you need the most is trying to reach out but it seems that the guilt is a stronger pull. When you send a cancellation message— a few brief words describing that Samael’s gotten better— it doesn’t take long for Jake to reply.

Don’t mistake a good day for recovery, y/n.

And he’s right, deep down, a good day won’t last forever. Sooner or later, your husband might fall back in, and finding him on the floor like you did last time, is not something you want to experience again.

So you check in on him, you make sure the knives are carefully hidden in a locked drawer.

Which when you think about it- brings back old memories of you mom. It’s probably what Dr. Sim had meant the other day when he was still inside of you— that you’ve been conditioned to this.

It doesn’t sound weird when your therapist keeps pulling you back in his practice— for one reason or another, whether it’s doubts about your husband’s condition, or your darkening under eyes. The same he’s noticed when running into you in town, out of the blue, when he appeared, like a savior in a white cap, and told you he’d cancel a few appointments to make time for you.

Sim Jake is a caring man, who’d do anything for your well being.

And you wish you could know him better, understand the things he says, but there’s a line you have to draw— he’s someone who knows are your deepest secrets, someone who’s studied brains and human behaviors, he’s not your friend.

Surely, a therapist shouldn’t touch his patient like he did, but there’s something so therapeutic in it, that you excuse it as a simple mistake.

So you reschedule for the next day, and of course, he finds a slot for you.

He welcomes you in, and it hits you then, that this is the place you’ve healed and lost your mind in. You sit in the sofa, and he does in his armchair, as per usual. Dr. Sim asks how you’re doing, he can’t seem to help looking at your thighs where his hands had once been, at your lips which his blood had once stained— but it’s like he’s a totally different person in sessions and when the clock signals the end.

Speaking of clocks— his is still gone. The wall still bare, has a red stain in its center, probably from his little accident a few days ago.

Dr. Sim asks about Samael. You tell him he doesn’t want to listen - that he’s in the attic all day long, and that you feel like he probably doesn’t need you. Like you’re failing him.

He sets his glasses on his nose, and leans forward, “He does. He needs you more than he needs medication, you’re the only thing keeping him alive, y/n.”

You feel like someone’s placed a rope and hung you to a tree. If the therapist is right, then every hour you spend away from Samael becomes an act of neglect, every smile you share with someone else a theft.

Guilt blooms fast, invasive as ivy, wrapping itself around every thought until you can no longer tell where your own responsibility ends and his certainty begins. You lower your eyes to your hands, fingers curling together, afraid to look up in case he’ll see the panic spreading through you.

The possibility that one person could be keeping another alive feels impossible— and yet, spoken in his measured voice, it sounds less like an opinion than a fact.

“What… time is it?” you ask, searching for an escape from his words.

“It’s…” Dr. Sim checks his watch, “It’s been 10 minutes, do you have somewhere to be?”

You shake your head, “No, I was just wondering where the clock was. I remember there was a clock here on the first session… and now it’s not here anymore.”

His mouth curls first, not into a grin but the ghost of one, the kind adults wear before humoring a child. His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, eyes soft with almost affectionate disbelief.

“A clock? There’s never been a clock in this room.”

Your mouth opens just slightly. Your eyes flick instinctively toward the wall where you could have sworn the clock had been hanging the first few sessions. The empty space greets you without explanation. You frown, searching his face for the punchline—for the moment he’ll admit he’s joking—but all you find is patient concern.

“I…” Your brows knit together. “I saw it.”

You know you did. Didn’t you?

Your gaze flickers back to the wall. White paint. A faint rectangle where the light falls differently. Or is that your imagination?

“I remember hearing it.” you stutter.

Dr. Sim’s expression softens, almost sympathetically. He removes his glasses and wipes the lenses slowly, as if giving you time to realize something on your own. “Do you?” he asks gently.

The question makes your throat tighten. “Yeah, I did Jake.”

He nods thoughtful, “Memory’s a fascinating thing, Y/n. It’s like… people often believe remembering something means it happened exactly as they recall it. But our brains don’t store experiences like a recording, they reconstruct them. Every time we revisit a memory, we can unintentionally change it.”

He pauses, watching your face. “Stress, fear, exhaustion… all of those things can make memories feel incredibly vivid. Sometimes even more vivid than reality itself.”

Your fingers tighten together. “So you’re saying I imagined it?”

A small smile touches his lips. “I’m saying you should be careful about trusting something simply because it feels certain, you’re a smart girl, i’m sure you understand that.”

You’re a smart girl, you do understand now.

IN BETWEEN, a couple days later.

Your garden’s no Japanese zen garden, but it’s a nice garden nonetheless, with small lights and a few plants. You sit on the old wooden bench, a forgotten book open in your lap, pages fluttering occasionally in the breeze. Your eyes keep drifting toward the house, checking the lit windows for any sign of Samael moving around inside. He’s been quieter than usual today, locked in the attic again. You wonder if he even cares that you’re pulling away, that you’re not his anymore. If you’ve ever been his in the first place, that is.

You’ve felt nothing short of an impostor these past few days, for countless different reasons, the main one being : adultery.

After your latest appointment with Jake, you haven’t seen him since, it’s almost like he’s been out of your life, but still constantly checking in like he has an eye on you. Sweet, right?

It would be sweet if you didn’t felt the distance in your bones. Like being away from him cost you something important. Like you’re less of yourself when you aren’t in his office.

Across the quiet street, Mr. Paulson’s house sits dark and silent. The streetlights have just flickered on, casting long, pale pools on the pavement. Today’s trash collection day.

His bins are weirdely still tucked beside the garage, untouched. You click your tongue softly, remembering how he’d winced the last time you played chess, complaining about his back even though he tried to laugh it off.

He’s only sixty, but the years have not been kind to his spine.

PLAY NOW

You set the book down, smooth the skirt of your dress, and cross the street with one last look towards the attic. The neighborhood feels unusually empty tonight, the windows of other houses glowing with warm, distant life that somehow makes Mr. Paulson’s dark home feel off.

You knock on the front door twice and the sound echoes hollowly.

“Mr. Paulson?” you call softly. “It’s Y/n. I noticed your trash bins…”

There’s no answer. Guilt pricks at you for bothering an older man so late, but at the same time, you’d hate him to end up with a pile of trash because he missed trash day.

So you knock again, louder— but there’s still nothing.

You hesitate, then walk around the side of the house toward the back, thinking maybe the bags are already out and you can drag them to the curb for him. The wooden gate creaks open under your hand and the backyard is overgrown with shadows.

You see that the back door is ajar, just a few inches, a thin slice of deeper darkness visible inside.

“Mr. Paulson?” you call again, voice smaller now. You push the door open carefully and step inside.

The smell hits you first.

It’s thick, sickly-sweet, and rotten— like meat left too long in the heat. Flies buzz lazily in the stagnant air, their wings catching faint moonlight from a window; the kitchen’s dark, only faint streetlight filtering through half-closed blinds. Your shoes stick slightly to the floor with every step but you cant see what it is because of the darkness.

It’s something wet, the only scent that resembles it is cat urine.

“Mr. Paulson… are you okay?”

There’s no answer. The buzzing grows louder as you move deeper into the house, heart hammering against your ribs. The hallway feels narrower than it should, the walls pressing in.

You flick on the hallway light, and your eyes instantly fall to your shoes. They’re covered in a yellow-ish liquid.

Cat urine, most likely.

Your main concern right now, is to determine whether—

Blood.

Your eyes meet the smears of it streaking the pale wallpaper in long, dragging trails. Droplets on the floor lead toward the living room like a path.

Your breath catches in your throat and turns your mouth completely dry; it’s suddenly like the world starts ringing in your ears. You move, shoes squeaking and smearing pee all over the floor, and what you see next makes your stomach twist agonizingly.

The living room is ten times worse.

Then, in the center of the persian rug, Mr. Paulson lies on his back. You recoil, clasping a shaking hand to your mouth, and all the muscles in your body clench.

His arms are splayed like a broken doll, bent in a nauseating way and his beige hat rests a few feet away, stained dark.

His torso’s been torn open —a brutal, gaping wound from sternum to pelvis. Intestines spill out in glistening, purplish coils across the floor, some of them ruptured and leaking.

Bile rises to your throat as you take in the scene, and you have to hold yourself up in order not to fall.

You want to throw up, you want to throw up.

Flies crawl greedily over the exposed organs, their buzzing a constant, obscene drone. Mr. Paulson’s eyes are open, cloudy and staring at the ceiling.

But that’s when you notice his mouth.

Petals of pale white flowers have been brutally stuffed into his mouth, some of them protruding between his teeth, soaked dark with blood. More petals are scattered across his chest like grotesque confetti.

They look like peonies, stained in everything that once made him human.

You clutch the edge of the side table for balance, gagging violently, but your hand slips in something warm and wet.

When you look down, a single human tooth —cracked and bloody — rests in your palm.

You want to throw up your bones, your blood and organs. So you scream, flinging it away, and vomit onto the floor, heaving until your throat burns.

The world tilts as disgusting flies land on your arm.

You stumble backward, nearly slipping in the blood, and run. You run for your life, taste of vomit and metal still in your mouth. You burst out the back door, gasping for clean air, and sprint across the street, your dress is smeared with blood from where your hands are sticky with it.

Seconds later, you crash through your own front door, screaming. “Samael! Samael!”

Your husband comes thundering down the attic stairs, eyes wide with alarm. “Y/n? What happened?“

But you can’t speak. Your hands shake violently as you hold them up —covered in Mr. Paulson’s blood. Tears stream down your face and Samael’s face pales when he sees the state you’re in. He grabs your shoulders, shaking you gently.

“Y/n, talk to me, what the hell happened??”

You collapse on his chest against your will, sobbing incoherently, and you feel him dig in his pocket for his phone, indifferent to your shock.

Why won’t he hold you? Why won’t he?

Your mind begs the gruesome images of your friend’s corpse to go away, but there’s one that your stubborn brain won’t let go of, no matter how hard you try.

The peonies in Mr. Paulson’s mouth looked awfully familiar.

Weird, no?

“Peonies?”

Hours later, at the police station, you nurse a pathetic cup of water. Sat in a metallic chair, your husband kneels in front of you, clutching his bandaged arm.

“Shh, lower your voice Sam. I’m not even… supposed to say this.” your voice comes out hoarse.

“Im just trying to understand, why are you bringing the peonies up, y/n.” Samael raises both eyebrows.

The image of the flowers sticking inside Mr.Paulson’s mouth are engraved in your mind— as much as you throw up, they don’t want to leave. Looking at your husband’s face, you remember the day you found him in the kitchen. The pathetic look on his face, when he told you not to look, that he was sorry.

But what sticks to your mouth like sugar on teeth, is the vase on the counter.

A vase of white peonies.

Ones you didn’t buy that day, or ever. You hate peonies, they smell bad and they remind you of—

They remind you of a burial site, a few cities away where your father lies underground. A place you refused to go for a long time, guilt stricken and immature.

When your father killed himself, you were unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to drink anything else but your own saliva when you swallowed your remorse.

You were a kid, barely 16, and you thought everything happening in the world was your fault— no one was there to tell you the contrary, so you laid awake at night with one thought :

I could’ve saved my father.

Your mom wasn’t able to and you hated her for many years— but now you empathised grandly, because you came very close to living the same thing.

It goes without saying, now you don’t hold a grudge against your mom anymore, because people are so volatile— you can only figure out something’s wrong when they make themselves heard.

And you hate the peonies because those were the last beautiful thing your father would be surrounded with, beneath soil and flesh eating insects, he would still have the white flowers.

You remember someone bringing them in at his funeral, putting them carefully on the headstone. No one had brought flowers, they’d all poured beer on the tombstone because your father joked about it a couple years before.

He’d said, “If I die, pour Ginger ale on my grave”

But someone had brought something pretty, a couple of flowers way too tender for a man that had taken his life with a 23 caliber and a knife.

“The day you…” you look down at your husband’s bandage, “the day I found you, there was a vase of peonies on the counter.”

Samael blinks, confused, “Yes? What about them y/n, you’re confusing me.”

“Where did you get those?”

Your husband chuckles, perplexed, “What do you mean where did I get those? I thought you got them ?”

You shake your head, “Sam, I didn’t get those.”

Samael looks down, sighing, “Well then what? Must be a secret admirer then? Someone who’s in love with you?” he lets out a humorless laugh.

It’s not funny though. Nothing about it is. Words come to your mind, you hear them clearly,

“You deserved to be cherished, no tolerated, not managed. Cherished.”

PLAY

Crazy how the person you doubt the most is the one person you keep going back to when fear sinks its teeth into you. Logic whispers that something is wrong, that their words don’t always fit, that their comfort comes a little too easily, yet panic has no patience for logic.

It remembers only familiarity.

When you’re drowning, you don’t inspect the hand reaching into the water, right? You grab it, even if it’s the same hand that might’ve pushed you in.

That’s how you find yourself in Sim Jake’s embrace.

After countless hours of interrogation with the police, after reliving every detail of the scene, describing every inch of your friends’ body, you were finally able to to breathe. Samael was long gone, privileging other things to the wellbeing of his wife.

You found yourself alone, no car, and only your phone with 10% battery on it.

So you did what desperate women do. You called your therapist.

He answered on the second ring, like was perpetually waiting for your call, and when you told him you needed a ride, he provided.

Now, in his office on Maple Street, the pathetic creature in you sees the safe man in him.

The helpless lamb whos never learned how to bite the hand of the shepherd that keeps it.

It’s incredibly sad, but it calms everything down.

Your head needs his strong chest, and he cradles you like a thing he owns, fingers dinging in your hair, pressing you as close to him as possible.

Like wolf and lamb, you’re caught in an eerie dance, you want to believe he’s nothing but a sweet man, but his grip tells hundreds of other stories.

Jake’s hand goes to the back of your neck, and he looks down at you, coaxing your chin up. When your eyes meet his, he cups your cheek, rough hand against tender skin. “You wanna tell me what happened, love?”

You witness his eyes get glassier and glassier, until eventually, it seems one tear is about to escape— like he’s devastated to see you sad.

“He died…. my friend-” you hiccup, tears streaking down your face, your lips quivering.

Jake tilts his head to the side, biting down on his lower lip as his eyes fill up with tears of his own, “Oh, poor thing. Come here baby.” He gently puts your head on his chest, next to his heart, and holds you tight.

You sob, clutching his shirt, and his own tears seep in your hair, “God… I hate seeing you in pain. If I could carry it for you, I would.” he murmurs in your hair. “I promise… no one’s going to hurt you again.”

You feel his lips on the top of your head as you speak, “He didn’t… he didn’t deserve this.”

Jake cups your face, kissing away the tears with infinite gentleness, “No one deserves to die, my love.” he kisses your nose, then your forehead. “But sometimes life asks impossible things of people.”

You still completely, tears coming to a halt in your eyes. Your eyes open to see he’s already looking down. “Why would… you say that?” you stutter.

He loosens his embrace just enough and his thumb erases salty water from your cheekbone.

“Because I don’t want you looking for monsters where there are only broken people, y/n.” Jake murmurs. “I’m saying the world is rarely divided into monsters and saints.”

Only then do you realise that he’s in no hurry to let go, his hands are clasped firmly on your face— he’s turned something comforting into an eery embrace. You’re sure right now, that if he put enough effort, he could crush your face between his palms, not that you think he would.

You gently pull away, sniffling, “Can you let go?”

Jake immediately does, he lets his hands drops to his side, “Of course.”

He wipes hastily at his face, as though embarrassed by his own emotion. It strikes you, suddenly, how young he looks— not in years, but in the way frightened children look when they think they’ve disappointed someone they love.

“Did I do something wrong?” He bites down on his lip and his breath catches. “Please tell me.”

“Wha- what?” you stutter, taking another step back before you even realize you’re moving.

Jake’s brows knit together, face etched in confusion. “I scared you, didn’t I?” his teeth catch at a piece of skin on his lips and he tears at it until blood trickles down his chin, “I didn’t want that.”

Before you can understand what he’s doing, he slowly lowers himself to his knees, like a man to an altar, he looks up to a God. “Please…”

The word is almost inaudible when he speaks it,“Don’t look at me like that.”

His hands remain at his sides, palms open. But this time see through it. Sim Jake is a predator wearing a prey’s skin.

“Tell me what I did.” Jake’s voice trembles, “I’ll fix it, i’ll fix it. I’ll fix it okay? I always do.”

You want to leave. Your stomach is in knots, and you want to leave. The door is close, so close, but your legs won’t move.

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out for the briefest second, when you’re finally able to form words, they’re sparse.

“Jake.. what- what did you do?”

Like a bathtub filled with water, tears spill out of the man’s eyes, “What did I…?” He stares at you, blinking as though the question itself hurts. “I did what I needed to keep you safe.”

A COUPLE WEEKS LATER

Jake’s office remains exactly where it has always been, tucked between the pub and the pharmacy, as though nothing inside it has changed. You left him there, walked to the door, and he let you.

The next few weeks, you replay every session in your mind until each memory becomes unrecognizable. Every reassuring smile, every careful touch. Every single damned silence.

You can’t decide whether you’ve uncovered the truth or destroyed the only place that ever made you feel safe, it sickens you, you constantly feel the need to throw up.

Because if hed been violent, at least you’d have the certainty he’s a bad man.

And without proof, suspicion begins to sound like paranoia— even to yourself.

Sim Jake, the man who’s helped you through it all, a monster ? The man who’s cried on his knees as if leaving you would kill him, who’s done everything to make you feel safe.

It’s impossible, because monsters are supposed to be easy to recognize.

They’re supposed to have cruel smiles and empty eyes. They’re supposed to enjoy the pain they cause. They’re supposed to look like something you should run from.

Not like the most tender story of your life.

What if the safest place you ever found was only safe because he built the walls himself, what if every time he told you he would protect you, he meant something different?

What if the same hands that wiped your tears were the ones that made sure you would have more to cry about?

You want to hate him, you try to, but your mind keeps returning to the image of him on the floor, his voice breaking as he begged you not to leave.

Someone who could look that devastated couldn’t possibly be the person you’re afraid of.

Could he?

Your fork scrapes against your plate, you’re playing with the peas like they’re footballs. And Samael’s not having it one bit.

“Y/n stop with the sound” he sighs, palming his face. His bandaged arm is propped on the dining room table and he seems thoughtful.

You stare down at your food more than you eat it. Your appetite has been strange lately. Some days you forget to eat entirely and other days you force yourself because you know someone will notice.

“Can we talk? You’ve been avoiding me lately,” Samael speaks.

Your fork clinks on the plate as you drop it.

Is he being serious?

Ironically, the king of all avoiders is telling you you’ve been avoiding him lately. Funny.

You reach for a fry and dip it in ketchup, knee bouncing and rattling the table. “Go ahead, talk.” you say, emotionlessly.

There’s no room inside of you to even bother.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something y/n, but i feel like you never listen.”

You laugh then, a small cold laugh, and you drop your head, truly amused. “I never listen?”

Samael shakes his head, aggravated, “You don’t. You’re never available to talk, you only avoid me. It’s like i’m not your husband anymore.”

Your smile fades when you realize he’s being a hundred perfent serious, and you look up with cold-dead eyes,

“What?”

The irony of a man who’s made you cry countless times by his lack of interest is so laughable. But you don’t laugh, you don’t have it in you anymore.

“You know what, i’m gonna say it.” Samael leans forward on the table, clasping his hands together, “I booked an appointment with Dr. Sim the other day.”

Every single thing in the room stops moving.

From the blinds dancing with the wind, to the steaming water boiling in the pot, your whole focus is shifted to Samael’s lips as he says those words.

He’s said hundreds of twisted things, but right now, nothing sounds as ominous as this.

“See, i knew you’d react like that.” your husband sighs in his hands. “Come on y/n.”

But you don’t care about his stupid therapy and his stupid shame.

“When?” you stammer, “When did you book an appointment?”

Samael’s eyes raise to you and he looks insanely aggravated, “Why does that matter y/n, it was weeks ago or something. That one evening I was away at my friends’, remember?”

Bile raises up to your throat until you’re sure you’ll choke soon if he doesn’t stop talking. You’re taken aback by the sudden wave of nausea that makes you clutch your stomach.

You barely make it to the kitchen before your hand covers your mouth.

That day, while your husband was asking for help from a professional— you were on your knees between Sim Jake’s legs, eating a prohibited fruit like it was candy.

And it makes you feel sick.

You feel like you’re standing outside your own body, watching someone else live your life.

Behind you, your husband appears in the doorway, “What the heck’s happening to you yn?”

You wipe your mouth, shaking your head like a manic, clutching the edge of the sink like handle bar.

“It’s just therapy.” Samael scoffs.

It’s the same man who used to tell you only weak people went to seek advice from men rather than going to the Lord.

It’s the same man who used to point at the mental institutions and laugh mockingly ‘Look at that,’ he’d say, shaking his head. ‘People really pay someone to tell them what they already know?’

And now Samael’s standing across from you, calmly telling you that the man behind that same kind of door might be the one person who can save him.

The same man who once laughed at the idea of needing help is now asking for it.

The same man who once looked down on vulnerability is suddenly speaking Jake’s language.

Who’s messed with your husband’s brain?

“Dr. Sim called me this morning to confirm our appointment, so whatever you have to say, i don’t wanna hear it y/n. It’s just therapy, it’s not just for crazy people.”

Samael shakes his head, handing you a towel to wipe your mouth, he brings water to your lips and wipes the traces of your disgust.

“And plus, I think Dr. Sim might actually be able to help me, you’re not gonna take that away from me, right?”

𓁹 𓁹

If you’ve made it to the end, I’d like to leave you with one final thought. This story was never meant to be a love story, nor was it written to romanticize obsession, manipulation, abuse, coercion, or the misuse of trust & murder. The relationship at its center is intentionally unhealthy, built on power imbalances, psychological control, and the gradual erosion of another person’s sense of self.

Any moments that appear tender or intimate are meant to exist alongside that discomfort— not to excuse it, justify it, or make it desirable.

Real love does not isolate, deceive, possess, or convince someone that their reality belongs to another person. The characters in this story are deeply flawed, and some are dangerous; their actions are not endorsements, but examinations of how obsession can disguise itself as devotion and how easily manipulation can wear the face of care. If this story unsettled you, then it achieved what it set out to do. Fiction can explore the darkest corners of human psychology without celebrating them, and that has always been the intention here.

Please take care of yourselves, remember that everyone deserves relationships built on mutual respect, honesty, and safety, and thank you for trusting me enough to follow these characters to the very end, even though the pacing was not all that

ok drop the serious voice— it goes without saying, if you have something hateful to say idc, you read this for free so fuck off.

I’m totally open (begging) for constructive criticism & thoughts. Open ending and a lot of loose ends because you gotta THINK or else it’s not funny !

please, if you read my stuff just for the smut, don’t bother commenting 10 minutes after i posted cause i can tell you didn’t read the whole thing lol, idc what u wanna read but it’s not really cool when u spend time writing shit and people only read the smut.

a little sneak peak of my notes while writing this bye—

🪢

The hallway was full of students moving in clusters. Conversations were overlapping, and lockers were slamming shut. Same faces, same voices, same excitement over things that would be forgotten by next week. You walked through the center of it all, and people noticed you without needing to say anything. Whispers followed you, talking about your latest win and how easily you had secured another first-place title. People admired you, but bitterness and jealousy were hidden behind their forced smiles.

“Look who’s finally back from their throne,” a familiar voice called out, loud enough to turn a few heads. A heavy arm slung over your shoulder before you could react. It was Seojin, one of your so-called friends, though that word had lost its meaning a long time ago. He grinned down at you, his smile wide. There was something in his face that made it clear he wasn’t celebrating you.

You scoffed, shrugging his arm off easily, adjusting your bag strap as his touch had thrown off your balance. “What, miss me already?” Your voice was light enough to remind him where you stood in this hierarchy. “You should get used to it. Winners are always busy.”

Laughter spread through the group gathered around you. A few people exchanged glances, nodding as if they agreed with each other, truly believing you were unstoppable. Seojin laughed and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Busy collecting more trophies, huh? I have to say, it must be tiring being the best at everything.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t know. It comes naturally.”

Immediately, the group reacted with a chorus of “oohs” and chuckles. Another voice joined in. “You looked like you belonged on that stage. I mean, holding that trophy, you seemed made for it.” Jihoon added.

For just a moment, your smile faded a little.

“Made for it.”

Those words should have felt like a compliment but instead felt like a reminder. A cage.

But you couldn’t let them see that. So, you laughed easily, like every other lie. “Of course I did,” you said, flipping your hair over your shoulder. “I make everything look good.”

More laughter followed. More voices joined in. More noise.

You kept up this act because it felt natural now. This confident version of yourself, who never had doubts. This group, these people, this constant game of who could seem the most untouchable. It was tiring.

And none of them were even your friends.

They were here because your name meant something. Because standing next to you made them look better. Because being associated with a winner was better than being another nameless face in the crowd.

Some people called you cocky.

Maybe they were right.

Or maybe you just played the part because it was the only thing you knew how to do.

The moment you stepped into the next hallway, the energy shifted. The laughter, the background noise of your so-called friends. It all faded into something heavier. Because there he was.

Sim Jaeyun, or Jake as most would call, was the person who never treated you like a high-status figure. He didn’t feel any pressure from your name. He was a real threat and didn’t even have to try. While you acted like a confident champion, enjoying victories you didn’t care about, Jake was different. He truly wanted this, and that made things more complicated for you.

Unlike you, he was genuinely passionate. He stayed up late studying, not to keep up his image, but because he loved learning. He was brilliant but never showed off. He made people feel comfortable around him. Your presence was sharp and demanding, while he was warm and easygoing. Your so-called friends stuck to you for your status. In contrast, Jake’s friends liked him for who he was, not his achievements. His parents didn’t take credit for his success. They supported him and celebrated his efforts, not just the results.

You had everything. Yet somehow, he had everything you wanted.

And maybe that was why you hated him.

Or maybe you didn’t.

Maybe you didn’t know what to do with him.

Jake looked up as you walked toward him. His face was hard to read. You both seemed very different. You wore an arrogant smirk, surrounded by people who only stuck around when you won. He stood there relaxed, with his friends laughing at a joke you hadn’t heard.

But you needed to keep up your image.

“You seem pretty relaxed for someone who lost yesterday.” You said.

Jake paused his conversation and looked at you, his friends noticing you too. He met your gaze, and his smile was small and genuine momentarily, not bitter or angry. It made you feel like entering a game without knowing the rules. “And you,” he replied, “look a bit worried for someone who won.”

For a moment, your confidence almost falters. Almost. But you quickly kept your expression smooth. “Worried? Not at all. I barely broke a sweat.” You let out a short laugh and raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, you put up a good fight. I almost thought you had a shot.”

Jake kept looking at you. He didn’t react the way others usually did. Instead, he took his time before responding. “Almost, huh?” He spoke as he was contemplating your words. He studied you, and for once, you felt like the one being examined. “I guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms, shifting your weight to show confidence. “Go ahead. We both know how this usually turns out.”

His lips turned into a slight grin, neither a smirk nor a laugh. “We’ll see.”

It wasn’t a challenge or bragging. It was just a simple statement from someone who seemed to believe that the future was unpredictable. For some reason, that feeling shook you more than anything.

People like you were not supposed to hesitate. People like you were not supposed to let doubt creep in.

But Jake Sim had a way of making you feel uncertain.

You weren’t even sure if he noticed.

🪢

The moment you stepped outside the school gates, you were still the person everyone expected.

You smiled, laughed, and stood tall.

Your so-called friends hung around you, stretching out their goodbyes. They gave half-hearted compliments and exaggerated praise about your latest win. You nodded along, pretending their words mattered. You let them talk, enjoying the moment before you walked away, climbed into the waiting car, and left them behind for the day.

As soon as the car door shut, the act ended.

The silence weighed heavily. The outside noise turned into a dull hum and was muffled by the thick glass. Your confident expression finally dropped. There would be no more forced smiles or sharp comments.

Just quiet.

Your older brother, Jay, was already in the backseat, sitting comfortably with his long legs stretched out. He looked calm, as usual. When you settled beside him, he glanced up from his phone and met your eyes. “Hey,” he said, relaxed.

You hummed back, leaning against the seat and feeling your exhaustion set in.

“How was school?” Jay asked. He asked because he always wanted to hear it from you, even if he knew the answer.

“It was alright,” you replied. It was the most straightforward answer.

Jay didn’t respond right away. He studied you momentarily, his fingers tapping his phone, deciding whether to call you out on your lie. In the end, he didn’t press you. He never did.

The car started moving away from the school, and with it, the image you had kept up faded. You watched the students outside continue their laughter and conversations. What felt suffocating just moments ago now seemed far away.

No one at school knew this version of you.

You didn’t speak unless someone spoke to you. You didn’t fill silences with witty remarks or smug comments. You didn’t carry the weight of expectations. You didn’t feel like you were performing.

At school, you were never quiet. You were always loud and talking, making sure everyone noticed you. Being quiet meant giving others space to think and see through you.

But in the car, you didn’t have to fill the silence.

In the car, you could just be you.

So, you let the quiet settle. You relaxed your shoulders. You stared out the window, watching the city blur, knowing you could just be yourself for the next twenty minutes.

Jay didn’t say anything else. He lets you sit in silence and take it in. And that was enough.

🪢

The moment you stepped into the house, you already knew something was wrong. The air was too tense. Too quiet. You barely had time to take off your shoes before your mother called your name. You could tell something was wrong. You always knew when it was.

Your father was already in the living room, which made it clear there would be no discussion. Your mother stood next to him, looking exhausted and grim. “You didn’t sign up,” she said. It wasn't a question or an accusation. Just a fact. They already knew the answer before you walked in.

Your stomach dropped. Of course.

You had tried not to mention the competition and hoped they wouldn't notice when the deadline passed. You thought, maybe for once, they would let it go.

But they didn’t.

“You didn’t even try,” your father said sharply with his piercing gaze. “We had to call them ourselves. We begged them to let you in after registration closed.”

Begged.

That word felt heavy and suffocating. Your well-respected parents had to use their influence and name because you didn't do what was expected. Your mother sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do you know how embarrassing that was? Do you even care?”

“I just won a championship,” you replied. You didn't raise it or show your fatigue, but it was hard not to let it show. “Why does it matter if I skip this one?”

Your father shook his head in disbelief. “Why does it matter?” he repeated, astonished that you would even ask. “Do you think success ends with one win? That one victory is enough?”

Your mother stepped forward, her face showing disappointment and frustration. “Do you realize how many doors this could open for you? How many people would do anything for a chance like this?”

You knew because you had seen those students who wanted it badly. They cried when they lost and studied late into the night, chasing something that was handed to you.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re competing,” your father said firmly. “End of discussion.”

There it was. They made the decision for you, as usual.

Your mother sighed and rubbed her temples. “We already submitted your name. The least you can do is show some gratitude.”

Gratitude.

You swallowed the bitterness rising in your throat.

There was nothing left to say.

So, you nodded. You nodded because it was easier than fighting. Because no matter what you wanted, it never really mattered.

Because, at the end of the day, this was the life you had been given.

And no matter how much you wanted to, you could never escape it.

“I’m sorry,” you said with the words barely escaping past the tightness in your throat.

Your father scoffed, turning away because your apology wasn’t worth acknowledging. Your mother sighed before walking past you, her hand lightly brushing against your shoulder, not as a sign of comfort but as if she were dismissing you.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Because in this house, your choices didn’t matter.

Only the results did.

🪢

Everything in the dining room was arranged perfectly. The food was carefully portioned. It looked beautiful, but it tasted like nothing to you. You sat still, your back straight, moving your fork absently, pushing the food around rather than eating it. The conversation between your parents was casual, even. But you knew where this was going before they even said it.

Then, there it was.

“Jake placed first in the regional math competition,” your father said as he cut into his steak. “I spoke to his father earlier today. Apparently, he not only won, but he beat last year’s champion by a huge margin.”

The muscles in your jaw tightened. You knew better than to look up.

Your mother hummed, sipping her wine before delicately setting the glass down. “I’m not surprised,” she said, dabbing with a napkin at the corner of her lips. “Jake’s always been a hardworking boy. So polite, too. His mother told me he spends extra hours studying every night without being told. He even tutors younger students in his free time.” She sighed, shaking her head, almost wistful.

“You could learn a thing or two from him.”

You knew it was coming.

That didn’t make it any easier to hear.

Your grip on your fork tightened, your fingers pressing into the cool metal. You didn’t lift your head. Didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything at all.

Your father continued, “Jake doesn’t have everything handed to him,” he said, placing his knife down with a soft clink. “And yet, he’s still doing better than you.”

The words sat heavy in the air, heavier than the food sitting untouched on your plate. Jay, who had been quiet up until now, let out a sharp exhale. He placed his utensils down with more force than necessary, the sound cutting through the tension in the room. “You’re acting like she’s not already winning every other competition,” He spoke calmly, but you could hear a tension in his voice that only you noticed. “Maybe, instead of comparing her to someone else, you should acknowledge what she had done. Instead of acting like it’s never enough.”

Your mother shook her head, seeing what he said was unreasonable. “That’s not the point, Jay,” she said sharply.

“Then what is the point?” Jay shot back. He looked directly at them. “That no matter how much she achieves, it’s still not enough for you?”

Your father turned to him. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said as if that was the end of it. As if that was all that needed to be said.

And just like that, the discussion was over.

There was no room for argument. There is no room for anything.

Your parents continued eating, their conversation turning to something lighter, meaningless, as if the weight of their words hadn’t just settled in your chest like a stone. It was as if they hadn’t reminded you once again that you were still not enough. You forced yourself to take a bite, chewing slowly, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

Jay glanced at you from across the table, his expression softer now, but he didn’t say anything else.

Because he knew, just as you did, that there was nothing left to say.

🪢

Jake didn’t think about you much. Not in the way others did.

To everyone else, you were a name that carried weight, a student who stood at the top without fail. People whispered about you in the halls. Some with admiration, some with jealousy. You had everything. The grades, the reputation, the influence. And you knew it. You walked through the school like it belonged to you, like everyone else was just a step below, trying to catch up.

Jake never had to catch up.

He had always been fine where he was. He worked hard, he did well, and that was enough. He didn’t need to stand on a podium to prove anything. His parents were proud whether he won or not. His friends didn’t care if he was in first place or fifth. His achievements were his, not something for others to measure their worth against.

That was the difference between you and him.

You acted like everything was a competition. Every test, every ranking, every moment you could use to remind people where you stood. It was almost entertaining sometimes. The way you smirked when your name was called first, the way you barely spared a glance at the people below you.

People always assumed the two of you were enemies. The belief that academic rivals are destined to despise each other. But Jake never really hated you.

He didn’t respect you either.

Because arrogance didn’t impress him.

So, when he passed by you in the hallway, watching as you threw an arm around your so-called friends, laughing too loudly, standing too tall. He didn’t feel envy. He didn’t feel admiration.

He just felt nothing.

And if you ever turned your gaze his way, lips twisting into that confident smirk, daring him to try and take your place at the top. He only ever smiled back, easy, unbothered.

Because, unlike you, he had nothing to prove.

🪢

The room was silent except for the clicking of keyboards and the scratch of pens against paper. The weight of expectation pressing down on your shoulders. Your fingers flew across the page, solving, calculating, writing. Each answer had to be perfect. Each step is precise.

You couldn’t afford to be slow.

You glanced at the timer. Two minutes left.

Your heartbeat pounded fast. Your breathing was shallow. You could hear the clock ticking. It's louder than it should be. Your grip on the pen tightened until your knuckles turned white.

One last question.

Your eyes looked at the numbers on the screen. You ran through the calculations in your head, fingers trembling as you wrote them down on the paper.

Something didn’t feel right.

You double-checked. No, no, no. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be. You rewrote the equation, erasing and correcting. The answer wouldn’t come out right. The numbers blurred together, your mind racing faster than you could keep up.

Your hands were sweating.

One minute.

You swallowed hard. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t-

Your hand slipped. The pen streaked across the page, ink smudging. You cursed under your breath, hastily fixing the mess, but-

Thirty seconds.

Shit

Shit

Shit

Your breath hitched. You were running out of time. You forced yourself to write down the answer, even if you weren’t sure. You couldn’t leave it blank. You couldn’t-

Five seconds.

Your eyes darted to the scoreboard.

Jake’s score was higher.

Your stomach dropped.

No.

The timer beeped.

The competition was over.

Jake had won.

🪢

This is what it feels like.

To be second.

The cameras flashed, but they weren’t for you this time. Your lips twitched, struggling to form the familiar, practiced smile. It was supposed to be easy. You had done it a thousand times before, in every victory and moment you stood at the top.

But this time, you couldn’t.

You stood there, trophy in hand, a step lower than ever. A step below Jake.

Jake, who stood on the podium above you, smiling. Genuine, effortless, like he belonged there. His name was called, his score announced, and the crowd cheered. His parents were among them, their voices the loudest, their pride so clear. His friends clapped, laughing, celebrating with him.

You swallowed hard.

Your eyes looked to where your parents sat.

They weren’t clapping.

They weren’t smiling.

They weren’t doing anything.

Their faces were blank, unreadable, but that only made it worse. It would have been easier if they were angry, if they scolded you, demanded answers, questioned why you weren’t standing where you were supposed to be.

But they didn’t.

They just watched.

And somehow, that silence crushed you more than any words ever could.

You turned back to Jake, forcing yourself to look. He was still smiling, still happy, still surrounded by people who were happy for him.

You had never been jealous of him before.

But now?

Now, you wished you knew what it felt like to win and actually deserve it.

🪢

The medal was cold against his skin. But his heart was warm.

Warm from the embrace of his parents, their arms wrapped tightly around him, their voices with nothing but pride. Warm from his mother’s teary smile as she cupped his face, whispering you did so well. Warm from his father’s hearty laughter, the way he clapped him on the back and said, we knew you could do it, son.

Warm from the cheers of his friends, their voices overlapping, already talking about celebrating, about how Jake had earned this.

It felt good.

Not just winning. But knowing, truly knowing, that he deserved this moment. That the people around him were happy for him, not because of what he had achieved, but because it was him. “Excuse me for a second,” Jake murmured, offering them a smile before stepping away. The main hall was busy with flashing cameras and loud applause. He just needed a breather, a moment to let it all sink in.

But as he walked toward the quieter side of the building, his steps slowed.

He saw you.

And it wasn’t at all how he expected.

Your father stood in front of you, voice low but strict. Your mother was beside him, her arms crossed, her words quieter but no less cruel.

You didn’t look at them.

Your head was bowed, your hands clasped so tightly in front of you that your knuckles had turned white.

Jake stopped in his tracks.

For as long as he had known you, you had never looked like this before.

You, who always carried yourself with that arrogant smirk. You, who always made everything a competition, never settling for anything less than first. You, who always acted like winning was your right.

Now, you looked-

No. You didn’t look like anything at all.

Your face was blank. Your shoulders stiff. Like you had frozen in place, unable to move, unable to fight back.

And then-

Your father exhaled. “Embarrassing.” His voice was something worse than anger. More like disgust. “Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for us?”

“Second place?” Your mother scoffed. “Do you think that’s acceptable? After everything we did for you?”

Jake clenched his jaw.

It was the way they spoke. Like you had failed them. Like coming in second was the same as losing entirely. Like you were nothing more than a disappointment.

And then it happened.

Your father reached forward, fingers gripping the silver medal around your neck. Without hesitation, without a second thought-

He ripped it off.

The thin ribbon snapped. The medal clinked against his wedding ring, slipping from his fingers-

Into the trash.

Jake felt sick to his stomach

You didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t even look at it.

Like it wasn’t even there.

Like it never mattered.

Your parents didn’t wait for you. They turned, walking away, their faces unreadable, like this was routine. Like they had done this before.

And you-

You followed.

Quiet. Expressionless.

Like you weren’t even there.

Jake couldn’t move.

His hands tightened into fists. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

Was this… normal for you?

Had this been happening every time you lost?

No. Jake knew you. He knew your pride, your arrogance, the way you carried yourself with confidence.

But was it ever real?

Jake had never questioned what was behind your smirks, your constant need to be first.

Not until now.

🪢

Your bedroom was dark. You sat at the edge of your bed, staring at nothing.

You should be crying.

Shouldn’t you?

But you felt nothing.

Not anger. Not sadness. Not even disappointment.

Just… numbness.

Jay knelt in front of you and wrapped his arms around your shoulders. His warmth covered your skin, but it didn’t reach the coldness inside. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just held you, like he always did when things felt too heavy, when you came home and locked yourself away, and when the weight of expectations became too much to carry alone.

His embrace was the only thing tethering you to reality.

And it hurt.

Because Jay was all you had.

The only person who saw you for more than just a name. The only person who didn’t care if you were first or second or last.

The only person who stayed.

“…I’m proud of you,” Jay whispered. His voice was calm, but there was something fragile in the way he held you. He was afraid you’d shatter. “No matter what, I always am.”

Your hands clenched the fabric of his sweater, but you still didn’t speak.

Because what was there to say?

That you never wanted any of this?

That winning had never been your dream?

That you were tired. So, so tired of being the person everyone expected you to be?

That when your father threw your medal away, he wasn’t just throwing away an award. He was throwing away you.

Jay pulled back slightly,

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “Please.”

You knew you wouldn’t.

Because even with your eyes closed, the weight of it all would still be there.

Pressing. Crushing.

Never letting go.

🪢

You had been walking through life on autopilot for as long as you could remember.

Winning, smiling, shaking hands, collecting medals like they meant something. Like they made you something. It was a routine now. Just another thing you did because it was expected. Because that was who you were supposed to be. And yet, standing at the podium while staring at Jake Sim of all people, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Exposed.

You weren’t sure why you were still here. The hallway was empty. The competition had ended yesterday. The results had already been burned into everyone’s minds.

Jake won. You didn’t.

Simple as that.

But it wasn’t simple. Not when you could still hear the sound of your father’s voice slicing through your ribs, carving up whatever was left of you. Not when you could still see the silver medal at the bottom of that trash can.

Jake’s voice cut through the silence.

“You don’t look happy.”

Oh, he’s here too.

You scoffed. “You sound surprised.”

“I thought winning was everything to you.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides. “Yeah, well. First time for everything.”

“You don’t seem that upset about losing.”

That made you look at him. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t smug. He was just… watching. Like he had been watching all night.

“What are you getting at, Sim?”

Jake looked at you. “I saw what happened.”

The world around you blurred.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What?”

“Outside. After the competition.” He tilted his head. “I saw your father.”

“I saw him throw your medal away.”

You wanted to laugh. To brush it off. To say so what? But the words wouldn’t come.

He continued. “That wasn’t the first time, was it?”

You swallowed, “Mind your own business, Jake.”

He didn’t back down. “I see you now.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “And what exactly do you think you saw?”

“Someone who’s exhausted.”

A slow, bitter smile appeared on your lips. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s been forced to win their whole life. And I know what it looks like when they finally realize they don’t want to anymore.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, before you could stop yourself, before you could shove the words back down. Your voice slipped out, quieter than you intended.

“What would you have done?”

Jake blinked. “What?”

You clenched your jaw. “If you were me. If you had my parents, my life, my expectations. What would you have done?”

His expression changed. Softer. Almost… sad.

“I don’t know.”

You huffed out a bitter laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

Jake didn’t argue. He just watched you like he was waiting for you to say something real.

But you didn’t.

Because you didn’t know how.

So instead, you did what you always did.

You turned and walked away.

🪢

The sun was beginning to set. Jay had just stepped out of a convenience store, a cold soda in hand, when he heard someone call his name.

“Jay?”

He turned, barely catching a glimpse before an arm wrapped around his shoulder in a quick bro hug. “Jake, man!” Jay grinned, giving him a solid pat on the back before stepping away. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Jake smirked. “Yeah, I was just passing by. You headed somewhere?”

“Nah, just grabbing something to drink before going home.”

Jake glanced at the can in Jay’s hand and grinned. “Still hooked on soda, huh?”

“Still better than your overpriced coffee addiction,” Jay shot back.

Jake let out a laugh. “Fair.”

They found a bench nearby and sat down, cracking open their drinks. “Man, feels like forever since we just sat down like this,” Jay said, taking a sip. “Like when we were younger. Back when drinking soda made us feel cool.”

“Still does,” Jake replied, and they both chuckled.

The conversation was easy. They talked about random things. Old friends, stupid childhood memories, how fast time was passing. But then Jake’s playful energy in his eyes dimmed just slightly.

“Jay… can I ask you something?”

Jay raised a brow. “Since when do you ask permission?”

Jake didn’t laugh this time. His fingers tapped against his can. “It’s about your sister.”

Jay’s smile faded.

“What about her?”

Jake hesitated, just for a second, but long enough for Jay to notice.

“I saw…” Jake paused. “Never mind.”

But Jay already knew.

The way Jake wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Jay set his drink down, voice calm but firm.

“What did you see, Jake?”

Jake didn’t answer right away. He looked like he was deciding whether to speak at all. Jay didn’t rush him. Finally, Jake continued. “After the competition… I saw her with your parents.”

Jay didn’t react, not outwardly. He just kept his gaze on Jake. Jake hesitated, but now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “I didn’t mean to listen, but I—I heard what they said. What they did.” He clenched his jaw. “Jay, they threw away her silver medal.”

Jay’s expression didn’t change. He simply took another sip of his drink,

“Is that all?”

Jake frowned. “Jay-”

“No, really,” Jay cut in. “Is that all you saw?”

Jake stared at him confused. “What do you mean?”

Jay scoffed, shaking his head. “If you think that’s bad, then you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Jake felt something cold settle in his stomach. He had always known Jay’s family was strict, but this… this was something else.

“How long has it been like that?” Jake asked quietly.

Jay leaned back against the bench. “Since forever.”

Jake’s grip tightened on his soda can. “Why don’t she say anything?”

“Because it wouldn’t change anything.”

Jake hated how casually Jay said it, like it was just a fact of life. Like it wasn’t something that should make someone furious. “I don’t get it,” Jake admitted. “Why did she still… play along? Why act like everything is fine?”

Jay finally looked at him tiredly. “Because that’s the only choice she have.”

Jake didn’t know what to say to that. For the first time, he regretted knowing. Because now, he couldn’t unsee it. He couldn’t forget the way you had stood there silently and not moving, as your father discarded your achievement like it was nothing. He couldn’t forget how you had walked away, your shoulders heavy, your head bowed. Not out of shame, but out of exhaustion.

He had always thought of you as arrogant, competitive, impossible to break.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

“You know, she’s always been quiet,” Jay said suddenly.

Jake looked at him confused. “Quiet?”

Jay nodded. “Yeah. Like, really quiet. Always has been. Since we were kids.”

Jake frowned, trying to piece that together with the girl he knew. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

Jay chuckled. “Yeah, well, that’s because you don’t know her like I do. People think she’s all confidence and competition, but that’s just what she lets them see. You strip all that away? She barely says a word.”

Jake stayed silent, letting that sink in.

“She was always the quietest one in the room,” Jay continued. “Never talked much, never caused trouble. Just did whatever was expected of her. I think people used to forget she was even there sometimes.”

Jake found that hard to believe. “So why the change?”

Jay shrugged. “Didn’t change. Not really. She still doesn’t talk much when she doesn’t have to. Just learned how to play the part when she needs to.”

Jake tilted his head, thinking back to all the times he had seen you surrounded by people, laughing, teasing, always in control of a conversation. And yet, he couldn’t remember a single time you had actually talked about yourself.

“So all that confidence-“

“Not her,” Jay cut in. “But, she’s still quick-witted, still kinda funny when she wants to be. But when she’s not ‘performing’ for people? She’s quiet. Always has been.”

Jay stretched his legs out. “You know, you should at least try to be friends with her.”

Jake raised a brow. “Friends?” He let out a small laugh. “Pretty sure she’d rather choke than let that happen.”

Jay smirked. “Yeah, she’s dramatic like that. But she’s actually really funny when you get to know her.”

Jake gave him a confused look. “Funny?”

Jay nodded. “Like, in a really deadpan way. She doesn’t even try, but it makes it worse because she says stuff so seriously. And she’s good at keeping a straight face too, so people never know if she’s joking or not.”

Jake thought about it. He had seen glimpses of that before, the way you could make a single remark and have people either dying of laughter or questioning their entire existence. But he had always assumed you did it on purpose, as part of the persona you carried.

“You’re telling me that under all that arrogance, she’s just… quiet and funny?”

Jay grinned. “Yep. Oh, and she also eats weirdly. She cuts everything so neatly.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Jay chuckled. “It’s weird. She won’t just bite into a burger. She’ll actually cut it first. Like, who does that?”

Jake laughed.

Jay continued. “But seriously. She’s not as impossible as you think. Just… don’t be an idiot about it.”

Jake stayed quiet. He didn’t know why, but the idea of getting to know you, really know you, stuck with him longer than it should have.

🪢

The wind was pushing against you like it wanted to knock you over. You welcomed it. The cold, the force of it, it was the only thing that felt real right now.

Footsteps.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“You always come up here when you’re pissed off,” Jake said.

You exhaled through your nose. “And yet you always follow me. Should I start calling you my shadow? ”

“If it gets you actually to talk, sure.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

Jake didn’t say anything. He just walked forward, stopping beside you, mirroring your posture as he leaned against the railing. For a while, neither of you spoke. “You lost back there,” he said finally. Not taunting, not victorious. Just a fact.

You closed your eyes briefly before reopening them. “Yeah. I did.”

A pause. Then, softly, “And? ”

You swallowed. “And… it’s funny.” Your voice was quieter than you intended. “Because I didn’t even want to win.”

Jake turned his head toward you, but you fixed your gaze on the skyline. You couldn’t look at him. Not now. “Then what do you want? ” His voice was gentle.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

What did you want?

The question pressed against you. You’d spent your whole life running, fighting, and competing. Chasing after a finish line someone else had drawn for you. You were always trying to get ahead and be the best. Not because you wanted it but because you were expected to. So then… what was left when all of that was stripped away?

Jake was still watching you, waiting. But you had no answer.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was quiet. Almost… sad.

“You know, for all the years I’ve known you… I don’t think I’ve ever really known you at all.”

Your throat tightened. You finally turned to look at him.

“Let me help you figure it out,” he said.

And for the first time in your life, you wanted to let someone try.

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

“How?”

It wasn’t arrogant. It wasn’t with the usual sharpness you carried. It was… quiet. Uncertain. Real.

Jake was caught off guard. Maybe he had expected you to scoff, to push him away like you always did. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You were tired.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw as if thinking. “We start small,” he said finally. “We talk. We stop pretending to know everything about each other when we don’t.”

Your fingers loosened around the railing. “And then? ”

“And then we figure it out.”

You stared down at your hands. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not.” Jake studied you. “But it doesn’t have to be impossible either.”

You swallowed. “Why do you even care? ”

He was silent for a long time, long enough that you almost regretted asking. But when he spoke, his voice was softer than you had ever heard it.

“Because I saw you that day,” he said. “With your parents. I saw the way they looked at you. The way they spoke to you. And I realized… you’ve never had someone who listens to what you want, have you? ”

No. You hadn’t.

You didn’t even know what you would say if someone ever asked.

You turned away from him, your grip tightening against the railing again. “I don’t need your pity, Jake,” you murmured, but even you didn’t sound convinced.

“It’s not pity,” he said. “It’s just the truth.”

The truth.

You let out a bitter laugh. “You act like it’s that easy. Like suddenly, because you noticed, something will change. It won’t.” You inhaled sharply. “My parents won’t. I won’t.”

“Then let’s stop talking about them,” Jake said. “Just for a second. Forget them. Forget all of it. Just tell me. What do you want? ”

There it was again. That question.

“I…” Your fingers trembled. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay.” His voice was steady. “Then we start there.”

You turned to look at him, and for the first time, you didn’t see Jake as your rival. You didn’t see the boy who beat you, who had everything you didn’t. He was just looking at you.

And for once, that was enough.

🪢

The crisp rustle of paper snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Here you go,” your professor said and slid a registration form onto your desk with a smile. “I assumed you’d be competing again this year. You wouldn’t want to waste your momentum, right? ”

You stared at it. The words are printed at the top. Bold, formal, suffocating. It felt heavier than it should.

“Right,” you muttered and forced a smile as you picked it up.

Of course. Of course, they’d assume. Because that was who you were. The star student, the prodigy, the competitor. Even if you hadn’t breathed a word about joining, people just knew. Your parents must have already whispered it to the right ears. You walked out of the classroom, staring at the form in your hands. It felt like holding a contract with no escape clause.

And then, before you could process it, the paper was gone.

“What’s this? ”

Your head snapped up. Jake. Standing in front of you, turning the paper over in his hands.

“Give it back,” you muttered, reaching for it, but he took a step back.

“Are you actually signing up for this? ” His tone wasn’t mocking, but something about it irritated you.

“It’s not like I have a choice,” you said flatly. “They expect me to.”

Jake’s face didn’t change. “And do you want to? ”

You scoffed. “Why do you always ask me that? ”

“Because you never answer,” he said.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It should.”

He was so sure. So convinced. You almost envied him for it.

“Then tell me, Jake,” you said. “If I say no, if I throw this form away and never look back. Then what? ”

Jake didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll be right there with you.”

“What-”

“If you don’t sign up, I won’t either,” he said. “If you want to walk away, then let’s walk away. Together.”

Is he being serious right now?

“Why? ” you whispered.

“Because I told you. I want to know you. The real you. And if that means letting go of some dumb competition, then so be it.”

You had never felt so seen in your entire life.

🪢

The aluminum can was cold in your hands. You stared at it, confused, before glancing at Jake.

“…Why? ” you asked as your brows furrowed.

Jake only shrugged. Popping open his own can with a hiss. “You looked like you needed one,” he said simply and brought the soda to his lips.

You eyed him for a moment longer before taking a small sip. The carbonation fizzed against your tongue. It gave you something to focus on. Something other than the boy sitting beside you. Jake leaned back against the bench, his arm resting casually along the backrest. “Jay was right,” he said. “You really are quiet.”

You paused mid-sip. Lowering it just enough to glance at him.

“Huh? ” You weren’t sure what he meant by that.

Jake didn’t look at you right away. Giving you space to process his words. “I mean… when you’re not performing. When you’re not playing the role everyone expects. When you’re not competing or surrounded by people who only care about your name.” He finally turned to you and smiled. “You don’t say much at all.”

You pressed your thumb against the can’s surface. “And that’s a problem? ” Your tone was neutral.

Jake shook his head. “Not at all,” he said steadily. “Just… different.” He took another sip of his drink before adding, “I think I like this version of you more.”

That was strange. You weren’t used to being seen like this. To someone noticing the parts of you that existed outside of competition, outside of expectations. You didn’t know how to respond. So, you didn’t. Instead, you took another sip of your soda, letting the taste of artificial sweetness and carbonation sit heavily.

“I’m jealous of you.”

The words left your mouth before you had the chance to second-guess them. They weren’t said with bitterness or anger. Just exhaustion. A quiet sort of truth. Jake didn’t react at first. He was processing your words. “Jealous? Of me? ” His voice held genuine surprise.

You let out a breath while your shoulders sagged. “Yeah.” You turned the can in your hands again, staring at the condensation gathering on the surface. “You have everything I don’t. A supportive family. Friends who actually care. You don’t have to prove yourself every second just to be worth something.”

Jake stayed quiet, listening. He always listened.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be me,” you continued, voice quieter now, but no less raw. “To have people around you, but still feel alone. To have a name everyone respects but never be sure if anyone actually likes you. To constantly win, but never feel like you’re allowed to lose.” You let out a dry chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “And the worst part? I don’t even want to win.”

Jake’s face was showing understanding. Or pity. You weren’t sure which one was worse.

“Then why do you? ” His voice was gentle.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

Because you didn’t have an answer. Or maybe you did, but you weren’t ready to say it out loud.

Jake leaned forward slightly. “I don’t know how you feel,” he admitted. “I won’t pretend I do. But… you don’t have to be alone in it.”

You scoffed. “And what? You’re going to save me? ”

“No,” Jake said simply. “But I can listen. If you let me.”

You had spent so long keeping these thoughts buried. Locked behind walls built too high for anyone to climb. But somehow, he had found his way through.

“Jay is the only thing I have,” you admitted.

Jake stilled beside you. “What do you mean? ” he asked, though you could tell he already had an idea.

“He’s the only one who really knows me. Who doesn’t care about the name, the rankings, the medals. If he wasn’t there…” Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. “I think I’d have nothing.”

Jake didn’t speak right away. His eyes on you. Finally, he spoke, his voice softer than before. “You know that’s not true, right? ”

You laughed bitterly. “It is.” You gestured vaguely. The proof was all around you. “Everyone else only sticks around because of the reputation. Because it benefits them. I see it. I know it. And my parents-” You stopped yourself. “They only care about the success, not the person behind it.”

Jake was quiet for a moment. “That’s not how it should be.”

“Yeah, well.” You forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not all of us get to have what you have, Jake.”

Jake frowned. “And what do you think I have? ”

“Everything.” The word was heavier than you expected. “You have people who support you. People who love you. Who don’t just see you as a title or an achievement. You don’t have to fight for their approval, because you already have it.”

Jake held your gaze. Then, slowly, he set his can down beside him and leaned back on his hands. “I don’t think that means I have everything,” he murmured. “Not if it means you have nothing.” Then, he stretched beside you. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day where you admitted you were jealous of me.”

You shoved his arm lightly. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’ll just make sure to remind you every chance I get.” He grinned. “‘Jake, you have everything,’” he mimicked in a terrible impression of your voice. “‘Jake, you’re so humble, so talented, so-’”

You shoved him harder this time. “I take it back. I’m not jealous of you. I pity you.”

Jake only laughed, catching himself before he could tip over. “Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips turned upwards despite yourself.

“So,” Jake finally said while tapping his fingers against his knee. “Since we’re being honest today. What do you actually like? You know, aside from crushing your opponents in competitions.”

You raised a brow. “Who says I like that? ”

“You sure act like it.”

“I don’t know.” You hesitated. “I guess… I never really thought about it. I’ve just been doing what’s expected of me.”

Jake hummed thoughtfully. “Well, maybe it’s time you start.”

You glanced at him. It was unsettling how easily he could be both annoying and unexpectedly kind in the same breath. “And how exactly do I do that? ” you asked.

Jake shrugged. “Figure it out. Try something new. Do something for yourself instead of everyone else.” He paused, then smirked. “Like, I don’t know. Maybe getting ice cream with your ‘rival’ after school?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Call it what you want.” He stood up and stretched. “But I’m getting ice cream either way, and I won’t stop bragging about it if I go alone.”

🪢

After classes, you two went to a nearby ice cream shop. The ice cream was cold against your tongue. You sat across from Jake at a small outdoor table, absentmindedly tapping your spoon against the cup. “You know,” you started with your voice flat, “this is the first time I’ve eaten ice cream without the crushing weight of expectations looming over me.”

Jake snorted. “Wow, what a tragic backstory.”

“It is,” you deadpanned. “Every bite before this was accompanied by the echo of my parents’ disappointment.”

He stared at you for a second before bursting into laughter. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

“Am I? ” you asked, still completely serious. “I think it adds depth to my character.”

Jake shook his head, taking another bite of his own ice cream. “Jay was right. You really are funny in the weirdest way possible.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said, still expressionless.

“It wasn’t meant to be one.”

“Too late.”

Jake just chuckled, shaking his head. The conversation carried on like that. Quick exchanges, half-serious jokes, and you, testing the waters of what it felt like to simply be. No competitions, no expectations, just sitting here, eating ice cream with the one person you never expected to share something so normal with. And when you looked at Jake, mid-bite, you realized something else…

Maybe this was what it felt like to have a friend.

🪢

For the next few months, something unexpected happened.

At first, it was a small change. Jake started waiting for you after class. The two of you walking together, sometimes in silence, sometimes bickering over the smallest things. He would flick your forehead whenever you made a dry joke, and you would roll your eyes when he got too philosophical about life. Then, there were the study sessions, the shared lunches, and the exchanged texts that started out about assignments but eventually turned into things that had nothing to do with school.

Somewhere along the way, “rival” wasn’t the right word.

You still competed, of course. Old habits were hard to break. But there was a difference now. When you turned in your test papers, you didn’t feel like you had to prove something to him. When you saw his name next to yours on the scoreboard, it didn’t feel like an attack on your worth. Jake had a way of existing so effortlessly, like he belonged wherever he stood, like he had nothing to prove. And for some reason, being around him made you feel like you didn’t have to prove anything either. One afternoon, as the two of you sat on the school rooftop. “I think I’m forgetting how to be competitive.”

Jake looked at you. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, thinking. ‘’It’s not.”

🪢

The moment the results were announced, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding.

Third place.

For a second, the world seemed to slow. The crowd cheered, cameras flashed, and the weight of all the past competitions pressed against your chest. But instead of disappointment. There was…

Relief.

You turned your head and saw Jake standing on the highest podium. He was smiling, beaming, and when his eyes met yours, his expression softened. He wasn’t just happy for himself. He was proud of you. And strangely, you felt proud too. The old you would’ve hated this. Would’ve obsessed over the what-ifs, convinced yourself that third place meant failure. But now, standing there, you just smiled. Genuinely smiled.

Jake stepped down from his podium before the ceremony was even over, ignoring the announcer’s call. In a second, he was in front of you, eyes searching, until you opened your arms. And then, he pulled you into a hug. It wasn’t brief or hesitant. It wasn’t a victory embrace, not in the way you used to think about winning. It was steady, warm, something unspoken but understood.

“You did amazing,” he murmured.

You let out a small laugh. “You did better.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point” he squeezed your shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

You swallowed. For once, you didn’t brush it off. You didn’t argue.

You let yourself believe it.

🪢

The moment you stepped out, the harsh light from the parking lot made the situation feel colder than it already was. Your parents were already waiting for you by the car. Their faces were tense. They didn’t even look at each other before they started in on you.

Your father’s voice was low. “You’ve failed again.” His words hung in the air. “How many times do we have to do this? We put you in the best position possible. I thought you’d learned something after last time, but all you’ve proven is that you can’t handle the pressure.”

You stayed quiet, your hands at your sides, unwilling to look up. There was nothing you could say that would make them understand. Not now. Not ever.

Your mother spoke, her voice a little softer but still sharp. “We give you everything, every advantage, and you still can’t manage to bring home the result we expect. You got third place. Third. Why? Because you didn’t care enough. Because you were distracted. Because you-” She stopped herself.

You wanted to say something, anything, to defend yourself. But you knew it wouldn’t matter. Your words would fall on deaf ears. No matter what you said, it would never be enough.

“I thought you’d work harder. But it’s clear now. You don’t care about winning. You never have,” your father added with his voice cold now. Then, there was silence, and it was unbearable. You could feel the tears welling up behind your eyes. You fought them back. You had to. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you break. And just as you thought you might snap, you heard a voice from behind you. Calm. Steady. Unshakable.

“That’s enough.”

Jake.

You didn’t turn to look at him, but his presence was like a wall between you and your parents now. He stepped forward, his shoulders straight, eyes hard as he looked at your father. “With all due respect, sir, that’s not fair.” Jake’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. “She tried. You can’t pretend that she didn’t. I’ve seen her work. I’ve seen how much she puts into this. You can’t just tear her down like that because she didn’t win. That’s not how this works.”

Your father’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Not by anyone. Certainly not by someone like Jake. Your mother, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes. “You’re out of line. This is a family matter, Jake. You don’t know what we’ve sacrificed to give her everything she needs to succeed.”

Jake’s eyes softened, but there was still a firmness to it. “I’m not saying you didn’t sacrifice. But you’re hurting her. You’re not giving her a chance to breathe. To be more than just the next win on your list of expectations. She’s not a machine.”

You could feel your heart racing now. This wasn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want Jake to defend you like this, not like this. You didn’t want to be the center of their conflict. But you also couldn’t help the way his words felt so protective and heartwarming. Your father’s voice cracked this time. “You have no idea what it’s like to be responsible for someone like her. You think this is easy for us? ”

Jake didn’t flinch. “I’m sure it’s not easy. But that doesn’t mean you can break her every time she doesn’t meet your expectations. She’s already carrying a burden you don’t understand.”

There was a long silence. Your parents, caught in their own frustrations, didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw your father this quiet. This is uncertain. And yet, it didn’t make you feel better. It made the pain worse, somehow.

“Go to the car.” Your father looked at you.

You didn’t move. Not immediately. You couldn’t. Your feet felt rooted to the ground. Your mother’s voice broke through the fog. “Come on, let’s go.” There was no warmth in her voice. No understanding. Just a demand, as though you were nothing more than a tool they could use to achieve their own goals.

Still, you didn’t move. But then, your father’s gaze hardened, and with a final glance at you, he turned away and started toward the car. Your mother followed without a word. They got into the car and drove off, leaving you standing there, frozen, isolated. Abandoned in the worst way possible.

The car was long gone, and the sounds of your parents’ angry voices were still in your mind. You were left in the cold, standing at the edge of the competition venue, a place that was supposed to celebrate achievement, yet all you felt was an unbearable emptiness. You didn’t know how long you stood there, paralyzed by the weight of it all, until you felt a presence behind you.

Without saying a word, Jake came up behind you and pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that was protective and almost desperate. For a moment, you stayed completely still, not knowing how to react. You tried to suppress the tears that threatened to break through, but the more you tried to stop them, the more they came. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to fall apart like this, but the pain, the frustration. It was all too much.

Jake didn’t say anything at first. He just held you. Your body shaking against him. His hand ran through your hair gently. After a long silence, his voice broke through the quiet.

“I love you.”

You froze. You weren’t ready for this. You didn’t expect it, not like this, not in this moment of raw vulnerability. You wanted to say something, anything, but all you could do was cry harder, the pain in your chest intensifying with every breath you took. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t need to explain. His arms around you were all the explanation you needed.

And then, in the most fragile, broken voice, you managed to choke out, “I love you too, Jake.”

Your voice cracked as the words left your mouth, the reality of it all hitting you harder than anything else. It wasn’t just the weight of your parents’ disappointment. It wasn’t just the competition. It was everything. The years of trying to prove yourself, the years of hiding your pain, of pretending you were okay. But in that moment, with Jake holding you, all the walls you’d built around yourself crumbled.

You didn’t know how to explain it. You didn’t even know what it all meant. But you knew that in this moment, you weren’t alone.

🪢

It was late in the evening. The sun had long since set. You and Jake were at the same spot, the one you’d found yourselves in countless times before. It had become a place of understanding, where the noise of the world couldn’t reach you, where nothing else mattered except the moment you were sharing. Jake leaned against the railing, one arm crossed. You sat next to him, just a little distance apart, but the space felt non-existent.

It had been a few weeks since everything had changed between you two. Since the “I love you’s.”

“You know,” Jake said, breaking the silence, “I never really thought about how much I’d come to care about you. I think I spent so much time trying to figure you out that I missed how much I wanted to just… be with you.”

You didn’t say anything at first. The honesty in his voice hit you harder than you expected, and for a brief moment, you felt exposed. “I never really let anyone get close,” you admitted quietly. “But… with you, I don’t know. It just feels like it’s easier.”

Jake’s gaze softened. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide anything with me,” he continued. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be anything you’re not. I only want to be here for you.”

You finally turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. Without thinking, you leaned in, the distance between you two shrinking with every heartbeat. And then, without a word, Jake mirrored your movement, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he closed the space.

When his lips met yours, it was like everything had clicked into place. It wasn’t forceful, nor was it with frantic energy. It was gentle, careful. You pulled back slowly. Jake’s smile was soft, and when he opened his eyes. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he said quietly.

And when you smiled back at him, it was different. It wasn’t the kind of smile you gave anyone else. It was for him. For everything you were beginning to understand about him, and about yourself, too.

🪢

You don’t know why you agreed to meet them. Maybe some part of you still wants to believe they’ll listen this time. That they’ll understand. You sit across from them at the dining table in your family’s home. Your father is the first to speak. “Are you done being distracted? ” His voice is calm but sharp. “We gave you time to sulk after your loss. Now it’s time to get serious again.”

Your mother looked at you with disappointment. “Do you know how humiliating it was for us to see you standing there in third place? After everything we’ve done for you? ”

You don’t flinch. Not this time. “I was proud.” Your voice is steady. “For the first time, I was actually proud of myself.”

Your father scoffs. “Proud of what? Settling for less? ”

“Proud that I didn’t hate myself.” The words come out before you can stop them. And for the first time, silence fills the room.

Your mother’s expression tightens. “Where is all of this coming from? Since when did you start talking like this? ”

You grip your hands under the table. “Since I realized I could breathe without trying to be perfect. Since I stopped believing that my worth was tied to a trophy. Since Jake.” But you don’t say any of that out loud. Instead, you swallow and meet their gaze. “I’m not going to keep chasing something that makes me miserable just because it makes you proud.”

Your father’s hand slams against the table, making the dishes rattle. “You think you know better than us? You think you can just throw away everything we built for you? ”

“You built it for yourselves. Not for me.”

Your mother shook her head. “Ungrateful. We gave you everything. And this is how you repay us? ”

Then your father delivers the final blow.

“You’re making a mistake.” His voice, ice. “And when you fail, don’t expect us to be there.”

Something inside you cracks. Maybe it had already been breaking for years. You stand up. Your chair scrapes against the floor.

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

And with that, you turn and walk away.

🪢

The months pass, and so do the expectations that once weighed you down. You’re still you. Still sharp, still competitive when it matters, but you’re no longer fighting a battle just to prove something. There’s no more need to mask everything behind arrogance. No more need to win just to feel like you deserve to exist. People notice the change. You’re quieter now, but not in the way that feels like suffocation. You’re reserved, but not closed off. And most importantly, you’re kinder. Not just to others, but to yourself. Jay is the first to point it out one day, laughing as he nudges you. “You used to act like you had to be the smartest person in every room. Now you actually let people speak.”

You roll your eyes. “I never did that.”

“Oh, you definitely did.” He grins. “But look at you now. I’m proud of you, you know? ”

You pause at that. It’s not something you hear often. But from Jay, it’s real.

You shrug. “Took me long enough.”

And then there’s Jake.

He’s always there, not in a way that feels like an obligation, but in a way that feels natural. Like you were always meant to meet him at the finish line, no matter where it was. You sit beside him on the rooftop as always. After a moment, he glances at you, eyes warm. “So, do you regret it? ”

You tilt your head. “Regret what? ”

“Letting go.”

You don’t answer right away. You think about everything you lost. The approval you once desperately sought. The expectations you’ll never meet. The people you had to walk away from.

But then you think about everything you gained.

You think about Jay’s laughter, about the way he never left your side. You think about Jake, about the way he looks at you as someone he chose to stay with.

For the first time, your answer is certain.

“No,” you say. “Not even for a second.”

Jake smiles. And when he reaches for your hand, you don’t hesitate before taking it.

Because for the first time in your life, you don’t need to win. You don’t need to be the best.

You just need to be here.

Extra Scene:

You and Jake sat on his bed, legs stretched out, backs resting against the headboard. “No, seriously,” Jake said, chuckling as he shook his head. “You were the most terrifying person I’d ever competed against.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. You make it sound like I was some villain.”

Jake laughed and looked at you for a moment. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. You knew what he was thinking. A comfortable silence passed between you before he suddenly reached over to his nightstand, pulling open the drawer. You didn’t think much of it at first, but then his fingers brushing over something inside before carefully pulling it out. Your breath caught in your throat.

It was the silver medal.

The same one your father had ripped from your neck that night after the competition, thrown carelessly into the trash.

But here it was, resting in Jake’s hands.

The thin ribbon that had once been torn off had been stitched back on. Messily, but carefully. The fabric wasn’t perfect, the stitches uneven, but it was there.

Whole again.

“You…” You swallowed as your eyes looked up to his. “You took it?”

Jake exhaled a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I saw it in the trash that night. Just sitting there, like it didn’t mean anything.” He paused, turning the medal between his fingers. “But it did mean something. Maybe not to them, but to you. So, I took it.”

You reached out, your fingers brushed over the uneven stitches.

“You fixed it,” you whispered.

Jake smiled. “It was never broken,” he murmured. “It was just… waiting for the right person to hold onto it.”

You looked at him then, pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

He wasn’t supposed to care. That was the rule—his own rule. The one he made the first night he kissed you with too much tongue and not enough thought, when the two of you stumbled into your bedroom half-laughing, half-buzzed, and fully aware that this couldn’t mean anything. You were friends. Good friends. He liked your company, liked your voice when you read texts aloud with dumb impressions, liked how you made taking vitamins feel like a shared inside joke instead of a self-imposed regimen. But that was all it was supposed to be.

Until it wasn’t.

It started with something stupid—an Instagram story, of all things. Jake had opened his phone during a water break at the gym, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt when he saw it. A boomerang. You. Smiling. Head tilted toward someone else. A guy. The caption was harmless—he’s so funny lol—but Jake felt his throat tighten.

He made it through the rest of his workout on autopilot, pushing harder than usual, muscles screaming for rest while his thoughts spiraled. You weren’t even doing anything wrong. You weren’t his. He wasn’t yours. But the image played over and over again in his head: you laughing like that at someone else’s jokes, leaning into their shoulder, letting them have the version of you Jake thought was just his for a little while.

And then you texted.

come over later?

i got wine and that ice cream u like 😋

Jake stared at your message for a full five minutes, heart thudding hard against his chest. His first instinct was to say no, to pull back and cool off, to remind himself of his stupid rules about boundaries and keeping things clean. But then he remembered your smile in that photo, how open and easy it looked.

He texted back.

be there in 15

He didn’t take his usual post-gym ginseng shot. Didn’t do his skincare. Didn’t even double-check his weekly checklist of personal goals.

Because suddenly, all Jake could think about was making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to tonight.

You open the door barefoot and braless, wearing one of those oversized shirts that barely covers your thighs—probably on purpose. Jake knows you. You’re not oblivious. You know exactly what you do to him when you act like this: all casual and sweet and soft, like you’re not the same person who had their head on someone else’s shoulder earlier.

“Hey,” you say like nothing happened, already turning back toward the kitchen. “I opened the red. Wanna pour?”

He follows silently, eyes on the curve of your legs as you walk. There’s music playing—something soft and lazy—and he realizes it’s the kind of song people play on dates. Candlelight flickers on the counter. You always keep it cozy when he comes over, but tonight it feels too intentional. Too romantic.

He wonders if the other guy saw you like this.

Jake doesn’t say much as you hand him a glass of wine. He doesn’t joke around like he usually does. He just leans against the counter, swirling the drink, pretending not to watch the way you sip yours with a slight smirk.

“So,” you start, licking a drop of wine from your lip, “what’s with the face? You look like you benched your personal best and didn’t get praised for it.”

His jaw ticks. “Saw your story.”

Your brows lift. “What, the one with Yena’s party?”

Jake hums, gaze dropping to your bare thighs. “Yeah. That one.”

You lean a little closer, head tilting. “He’s just a friend, Jake. You jealous or something?”

There it is. The spark. The dangerous one.

Jake sets his wine down with a quiet clink. “No,” he lies, voice low and clipped. “Just curious why he’s got you laughing like that. I don’t remember you looking that happy the last time I made you come.”

The air thickens. Your smile falters for half a second, like you weren’t expecting him to be that blunt. Then it returns—slow, calculated. You set your wine down too, stepping between his legs where he leans against the counter.

“You could fix that,” you whisper. “If you want.”

Jake stares at you for a long, long moment. Every disciplined bone in his body screams at him to slow down, to play it cool, to not let you see how tightly he’s wound. But you’re close now. Too close. And your skin smells like warm sugar and sin.

And in this moment, with your mouth inches from his and your thigh brushing his jeans—Jake doesn’t want to be responsible. He just wants you wrecked and shaking, begging for the man you almost forgot was yours.

Jake doesn’t kiss you gently. He crashes into you like a dam finally bursting, months of restraint swept away in one hard press of his mouth. His hands find your waist, then your hips, then the backs of your thighs as he lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. The wine glasses clink behind you, forgotten. Your shirt rides up, and Jake’s lips never leave yours—just grow hungrier, messier, more desperate.

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck, biting harder with each inch. “Walking around like this… smiling like that… for someone else.”

Your breath catches when his teeth graze the base of your neck. “He didn’t even—”

“Don’t care,” Jake growls, already sucking a bruise into the hollow of your throat. “You’re mine when I’m here. You get that?”

You nod, already breathless, already aching. His hands slip beneath your shirt—warm, rough, and intent—and you gasp when he pulls it over your head in one smooth motion. He doesn’t give you time to feel shy. Doesn’t even pause.

Instead, his mouth is everywhere at once—on your collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach. Each kiss is matched with a mark. Sharp nips that bloom into bruises. His tongue soothes them after, but it’s all part of the same rhythm: claim, soothe, repeat.

“Jake,” you whimper, squirming as he pulls your thighs apart with an easy grip. “You’re being—”

“Thorough,” he finishes, looking up at you from between your legs, eyes dark with jealousy and heat. “You let someone else make you laugh. I’m gonna remind you who makes you scream.”

And then his mouth is on you. Hot, focused, relentless. You grab at his hair, already trembling from how fast he has you unraveling—but he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens on your hips when you try to close your thighs. He growls against you when you arch your back. And when your voice cracks on his name, he moans like he’s starving for the sound.

By the time he pulls away, your thighs are shaking, your breath ragged. His chin glistens and his shirt is wrinkled from how hard you clung to him. And you’re already marked—neck, chest, thighs. Painted in him.

Your legs are still shaking when he stands back up, hands splayed on your thighs, eyes dark and heavy-lidded as they rake over your flushed skin. You expect him to kiss you again, but he doesn’t—not right away. Instead, he just looks at you for a second. Really looks. Like he’s memorizing the sight of you—lips parted, chest rising, already marked all over with proof of him. Then he breathes out hard and reaches down to undo his belt.

The sound of it slipping through the loops is enough to make your stomach flutter.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he mutters, tugging his jeans and boxers down just enough, his cock already hard and leaking. “Not until I’m done.”

You barely have time to nod before he’s pulling you to the edge of the counter, lining himself up between your thighs. One hand grabs your waist—firm, possessive—the other wraps around the back of your neck, keeping your face close to his.

“Look at me,” he whispers, pushing in slow. “Every second of this.”

You cry out, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he stretches you. You’ve done this before—more than once—but it still knocks the air from your lungs. He’s thick, and he knows it, knows exactly how to make it burn just a little, how to pause halfway in so you feel every inch. Your walls flutter around him, body struggling to take it.

“Too much?” Jake’s voice is low but strained, jaw clenched as he waits. You nod and whimper, biting your lip, and he dips forward to kiss your temple, whispering, “You’ve got it. I’ve got you. You can take it.”

He pushes the rest of the way in and holds himself there, buried deep, letting you cling to him while your body adjusts. When you moan into his neck, hips twitching, Jake groans low in his throat.

“You feel so good like this,” he growls, voice roughened by restraint. “Tight… soft… mine.”

Then he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that make the counter creak beneath you. His grip stays locked on your waist as he sets a pace that has your head falling back, cries tumbling from your lips with each push. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the kitchen, messy and raw, and Jake just keeps going—driving into you like he’s making a point.

“You don’t need anyone else,” he breathes into your ear. “I give you everything you need, don’t I?”

“Y-Yeah,” you gasp.

“Say it.”

“You do, Jake—fuck—only you.”

That pulls a growl from his chest. His mouth is back on your neck, tongue and teeth working over fresh skin, leaving new bruises over the ones that haven’t faded yet.

And when he comes—deep inside you, buried to the hilt—he doesn’t stop whispering your name like it’s a promise.

You’re already wrecked. Your cheek sticks to the counter, lips swollen from biting down on them, and your thighs shake every time Jake thrusts back into you. He hasn’t let up—not even a little—his cock buried deep, stretching you over and over with a punishing rhythm that’s more about proving something than just pleasure. And it’s working. You’re dripping. Whimpering. Ruined.

Then you feel the shift. Jake leans forward, still fucking into you, and you hear the soft beep of your phone unlocking.

“What are you doing?” you manage to whisper, voice broken, barely hanging on.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Because a second later, the FaceTime ring starts, loud and clear, vibrating right on the counter next to your face.

Your eyes snap open. “Jake, no—”

“Too late,” he grits, one hand curling around your hip, the other holding the phone up high enough to show everything. “He wanted your attention, didn’t he? Let’s give it to him.”

The screen flashes—connected.

And there he is. The guy from the night before. Confused, then wide-eyed, horrified.

Jake doesn’t stop thrusting. In fact, he slows down just a little, dragging each movement out, your slickness obscene in the quiet between the heavy sound of skin and your shaky moans.

“She’s a little busy right now,” Jake says, voice low and smug. “Thought you’d want to see what that laugh of hers really sounds like when it’s real.”

The guy stammers. “What the fuck—“

“Say hi, baby,” Jake murmurs, grabbing your jaw and angling your face toward the screen.

You don’t speak, but the moan that spills from your lips as he hits your spot again—that says enough.

Jake tilts the phone lower, angling it to show your trembling legs, the marks he’s left all over your skin, the way your body clings to him with every thrust. “You watching? You get it now?”

You swear you see him end the call out of panic—or maybe disgust. Either way, Jake tosses the phone aside the second the screen goes dark. His hand is back on your hip in a flash, grip brutal now as he fucks into you harder.

“Mine,” he growls. “All fucking mine.”

And this time when you cum, it’s not from his hands or his mouth or even his words.

It’s the thrill of being seen.

You wake up slow, your limbs heavy and sore, skin warm under the covers. The sunlight leaking in through the blinds feels too bright, too real, like it has no business touching a body that still belongs to the night before.

Your throat’s dry, your thighs ache, and every small movement reminds you of exactly where his hands were—how many times he pulled you apart and put you back together. You shift with a soft whimper, the soreness between your legs blooming deeper, and instinctively tug the blanket tighter around your chest.

That’s when you see it.

The marks.

Everywhere.

Faint bruises along your hips, scattered bites on your thighs, faded red fingerprints at your waist. There’s one on your collarbone, dark and angry, shaped like his mouth. And on your inner thigh, dangerously close to somewhere far more sensitive, his name. Sloppily written in deep purple hickeys.

You press your legs together and bite your lip, heart stuttering as the memory floods in—Jake’s voice, low and angry; his pace, rough and punishing; the look on his face when he hung up that FaceTime call like he had won something.

Because he had.

You hear him before you see him—soft footsteps, the clink of something ceramic. And then the door creaks open.

Jake steps in with messy hair, sleepy eyes, and a mug in each hand. He’s wearing only sweats, slung low on his hips, and his chest still has faint scratch marks from your nails. When he sees you awake, he grins—sleepy, soft, like he didn’t completely ruin you just a few hours ago.

“Mornin’,” he says, offering a mug. “You’re gonna need water too. You passed out right after…”

You take the drink without answering, eyes still locked on the hickeys.

He notices.

Jake sets his mug down, comes to sit on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over your thigh. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding not sorry at all. “Got a little carried away.”

You glare at him half-heartedly. “You FaceTimed him.”

His smirk is immediate. “And he answered.”

You groan, covering your face. “Jake.”

“Hey,” he says gently, prying your hands away. His thumb grazes your cheek. “He needed to see it. I needed him to see it.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Because when Jake leans down and kisses the mark on your neck like it’s sacred—when his lips brush over bruised skin like he’s trying to apologize without saying the words—you realize something else:

It’s not just about jealousy.

It’s about you.

You, and how he’s terrified of losing what you are—even if it means making the whole damn world watch him prove it.