#jake fic

a year ago.

It’s the last year of high school, on a relatively normal walk back home. The same cracked sidewalks, the same autumn breeze, the same shy boy matching his steps beside you like he always did. Just like any other day. 

Until he decided to ruin it.

“Do you wanna… like, date?” Jake asked suddenly, hands shoved deep into his uniform pants pockets, trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “You know… put a label on us. Or whatever.”

You remember almost running away out of pure instinct, soul escaping your body. But instead, you laughed. Because what the fuck was he on about?

You? Jake? Date?

The two of you were barely even supposed to be friends. He's a straight-A student teachers constantly compared you to, with those thick-rimmed black glasses glued to his face and unkempt bowl of hair. A striker on the football team who watched matches from the sidelines just as much as you did… and you weren't on the team.

And on the other hand, there’s you. Not-so-pleasant you. Considered a troublemaker because you always showed up late to class, talked back to ill-meaning adults, and picked fights with boys who catcalled too much. A rumor spread through school that your dad was a terrifying loan shark with gang ties. He’s a banker.

Assigned classroom cleaning duties was what brought you two together in the first place. It wasn’t fate. Nothing notable. You more or less picked him up on your shoulder and claimed him as a personal assistant. Someone who would fetch you water when you’re thirsty or give you answers to math problems when you were too lazy to solve them yourself. 

So why in the world did he think you two should date?

“Who put you up to this?” you wheezed between bursts of cackling. “I’m gonna beat their ass.”

Jake scratched the back of his head, clearly not amused.

“I mean… You and me?” you continued, tears of laughter blurred your vision. “We would make the worst couple ever—”

“I don’t think so.”

You froze mid-step. Jake had slowed his strides down a long time ago, but now he was completely still. You turned to find him a few steps behind, face flushed and hands by his sides. 

He’s holding something. A small, turquoise box. One that looked suspiciously like…

You felt like throwing up.

“I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he stammered. “What it’d be like if I were your boyfriend. If we… went on dates and stuff.”

Oh, hell no.

It’s like an immediate sense of panic overcame your body. And before your brain could process a single rational thought, you broke out into a sprint. Running down the street like a maniac. In hindsight, you probably should’ve known that you couldn’t outrun an athlete. But you weren’t really thinking, period. 

You feel a tug on your waist. Jake had already caught up to you. He spun you around, like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms, and pulled you into him. His face was close. Too close. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose, and a bead of sweat clung to his temple. And it wasn’t from running.

It was from you.

He looked nervous. Ridiculously nervous.

The ring box pressed into your back, and you put your palms sternly against his chest, trying to create some distance between you two. It wasn’t helping.

“Jake,” you warned. “Let go of me or I scream.”

He shook his head, his arms only wrapped tighter around you. “Only if you promise you won’t run,” he replied, a sort of desperation laced in his voice. “And that you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

You bit your bottom lip, suddenly too aware of his intense gaze and how they searched yours through those big, fat lenses. You gave a small nod, not trusting your voice to come out right. The moment his grip loosened, you broke your agreement almost immediately. Your feet moved on their own, like fight-or-flight, as you tried to rush out of his arms. But he was one step ahead of you, grabbing your wrist to bring you back right where you were.

“Really?” he asked, exhausted. “That’s not gonna work a second time.”

You glared, but your eyes betrayed you. They slid down to the turquoise ring box, still in his hand. Jake's eyes flickered in the same direction, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“I can put it away if it’s freaking you out,” he muttered, slipping it back into his pocket. You almost let out a sigh of relief, but not when his large hand was still wrapped around your wrist.

“...Thank you,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground. “Now make it quick.”

Jake's heart constricted. ‘The worst thing she could say is no!’ the internet had told him. This was a lot worse, actually!

“[Y/N],” he started sharply, and the sound of your name on his lips sent shivers down your spine. He released you, only to set both his hands on your shoulders, guiding your gaze up to meet his.

“I… I think—” He stopped, inhaling a deep breath. “No. I know. I… really… really… l-like you.”

His voice was as shaky as his hands, and for a brief second, almost every part of you wanted to knock him out with your backpack because your heart was beating too loud in your chest. It pissed you off. But you held back and just… stared.

Jake, ever the hopeless romantic, had fallen for you the moment you asked him to clean the entire classroom alone while you skipped duties to hang out with your friends. He said yes, only because he has a hard time saying no, especially to someone he found so pretty. But then you laughed and told him you were joking. Told him not to bend over backwards just to please other people. Spent time with him that day when usually, others paid him no attention.

He was enamored ever since. 

But the silence between you two was suffocating, heavy enough to stall his breathing. Jake’s palms were growing damp against the fabric of your uniform blazer, and his heart felt like it was ready to fall to the floor. Maybe this was a bad time to do it. Or maybe the ring really freaked you out. Was it too big a gesture? The WikiHow tutorial he consulted had told him to bring a gift, after all. 

“Hello?” Jake’s voice cut through your thoughts. He gave your shoulders a tiny shake, trying to pull you out of your entranced state.

“Hm? Sorry… say that again? I don’t think I heard you…”

Jake’s expression fell as he dropped his hands back to his sides in defeat.

“Okay,” he muttered, voice small. It wasn’t worth it. Everything went off script anyway. “Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

He brushed past you, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets again. He was fidgeting with the ring box, wishing he could throw it into the nearest bushes. God, he felt dumb. So fucking dumb.

Of course you’d say no! He was nobody. Just Jake. Just some guy you latched onto at the start of high school so you could poke fun at him for the next few years and make him pay for your boba addiction. And you, with your cool-ass friends with eyebrow slits and really underground music tastes. You’re way out of his league—

“Jake,” you called out, surprised at how loud your voice could get if you were desperate. 

He turned around immediately, wearing such a pronounced pout even from a few meters away. Somehow, seeing his face again made your throat close up. He liked you. He really liked you.

“Say it again,” you demanded, arms crossed with doubt written all over your features. “I need to hear you say it one more time.”

You walked toward him until you stood close enough to see the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was this it? Would you actually give him a chance? Jake pressed his lips together and inhaled a deep breath to calm himself. 

“I like you,” he said as softly as a whisper. “Would you… Be my girlfriend?”

You looked at the ground, feigning a calmness when your mind was racing with thoughts too insane to vocalize. When you finally looked up again, your heart betrayed you. It skipped a beat at the way his gaze fell on yours, wide and hopeful. It almost hurt. He was too bright, too cute.

(Okay, so what if you liked him back. He didn’t have to know that.)

“Sure,” you said, forcing your voice to sound casual. Jake froze.

Then his entire face lit up. Suddenly, he was grinning from ear to ear, jumping in place like a dog begging for a treat. “Really? Like really? You’ll go out with me?!”

He took your hands in his, tenderly. Like he wasn't entirely sure the moment was real. You felt the dampness of his palms first, then the tug of his fingers intertwining with yours, like he had already rehearsed this part of his confession a thousand times in his head. Your cheeks warmed.

‘What a weirdo,’ you thought to yourself. It’s not like he’d just won the lottery. What was he so happy about?

“Just don’t make it weird,” you grumbled. “Keep it on the down low.”

Jake’s smile faltered, brows knitting together so tightly you were sure it’d leave a wrinkle on his cute face.

“Like… you don’t want people to know?” he asked, voice quieter now. You nodded, confused by his confusion. 

“Why would anyone need to know?” you asked genuinely. He frowned, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand, silently asking you to reconsider.

“Not even Sunghoon or Jay?”

You scoffed. “Especially Sunghoon and Jay.”

“Why not?” he groaned. You just shrugged.

“I don’t want our dynamic to change just ‘cause we’re dating,” you reassured him, letting go of his hands to ruffle his hair. Like you always do when you tease him. Like that would make it all better. “And all that coupley PDA stuff draws too much attention anyway.”

You’d spent years cultivating your intimidating persona, and in your mind, it was simple. No one else needed to know that you were vulnerable to something as cringe-inducing as dating. The other students would only use it against you. For what? Who knows.

But you could just imagine the teasing glances and whispers in the hallways. If Jake were really serious about dating you, surely he’d be understanding of your aversion towards embarrassment. Right?

He didn't seem entirely convinced. At all. “So… what would be the difference then? Between us now and before?” 

You sighed and stepped past him.

“It's what we'd do in private, you know?” you muttered over your shoulder. “Kissing and all that…”

You didn’t see it, how Jake’s ears completely reddened or how his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched at his side, like he was already imagining what it’d be like to hold you properly. To touch you. To kiss you. Like real couples do.

“D-do you want to see the ring I got you?” he blurted out, catching up to you. “I swear it’s lowkey. It has a ‘J’ engraved inside the band. I got a matching one with your initial, too! No one would even notice if you wore it—”

And you feel your heart thunder in your chest, scaring you into another sudden sprint. “Get the hell away from me, weirdo!” 

Your joined laughter echoed down the street as he chased after you. And even though he could catch up to you, he let you have your fun, staying just a little out of his reach.

–

Jake is very good at obeying orders, always has been. Especially after the first few times you glared at him for accidentally reaching for your hand in the cafeteria. He learned fast.

He tried his best not to show affection publicly, no matter how badly he wanted to wrap his blazer around your shivering frame when you would nap during class. He forced himself not to linger near you when you were loitering with your fellow delinquents by the school staircase, laughing at a joke he didn’t quite understand. He suppressed the urge to defend you from teachers who reprimanded you out in the hallways. Tried not to look behind at you for too long during football games he never played in anyway.

Once, someone asked him about his love life, and he instantly turned into a blushing, mumbling mess. And they laughed it off. It was Jake. No one thought twice. He was always like this. Awkward. Flustered.

The parasites he calls friends, Jay and Sunghoon, would probably go into cardiac arrest if they ever found out how he doted on you in private. How soft he was. How gentle.

You pretended not to notice. But ever the observer, Jake sees how your defenses weaken, ever so slightly, each day.

You let him put his arm around you in dark movie theaters instead of yanking it away. Let him stay for dinner with your parents when he comes over to help you study (because lord knows you need it). You stopped flinching when he called you ‘babe’ in private, sometimes responding without even questioning who he was speaking to. It was baby steps, but to Jake, it was everything.

Was it awkward? Yes. The way his glasses got in the way when he finally kissed you for the first time. Your noses bumped together. Too much tongue involved. It was a mess. Still life-changing, nevertheless. 

He replays the memory often. The two of you on your bed, him holding your plushie hostage, you trying to rip it out of his arms. The way you fell on top of him with your lips accidentally crashing on his. He pretended like the make-out session that occurred immediately after didn't absolutely ruin him.

Jake edged past the warmer parts of you when no one was around to bear witness. And you both were so good at keeping secrets. No one would have believed it anyway. You’d made sure of that.

–

“You two are very strange,” Jay commented, maybe a couple of months into your secret relationship. Every senior was gearing up for graduation, choosing which universities to attend or which path to take in life.

And of course, Jay and Sunghoon found out that Jake and you would both be attending the same university. Not just any school. A top one. Yonsei. 

Jake had earned a full-ride scholarship after finally getting off the damn bench and scoring four goals in a single match against the best high school team in the nation. Jake could've gone abroad to an Ivy League, but he chose not to. Because at Yonsei he could visit family more often, save a lot of money, and… well, keep you close, most of all.

And by the will of a higher being (Jake’s relentless tutoring), you somehow made it in as well.

“I thought you said you wanted to go straight into the workforce,” Jay questioned you. “Now you’re telling me you somehow, in some way, got into the same school as Jake? This fucking nerd?”

Sunghoon chimed in with a smile he always wore before teasing you. “I didn’t even think you could get into college, honestly.”

You wanted to hit him so bad, but you stopped yourself. Your resolution for the new school year was to turn over a new leaf. And that comes with not hitting annoying boys over the head with your fist. You could get arrested for that from now on... So instead, you used your words.

“You’re mad I got in, and you didn’t,” you snorted, sticking out your tongue as Jake snickered beside you. You sat close enough to feel the warmth of his shoulder, but far enough apart to keep Jay and Sunghoon from noticing.

“You guys have no faith in her,” Jake sighed earnestly. “She’s really smart when she applies herself. She just needed a push, that's all.”

You glared at him, not sure if his comment was entirely a compliment. Yes, he played a role in your achievements. No, he could not credit himself for the hard work you put in to get that high-ass score on the college entrance exam. Even your teachers apologized for doubting you.

“Should’ve put those hours of tutoring her into me instead,” Jay groaned. “Now you’re gonna be all alone with no friends.”

Jake’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? S-she’s my friend.”

He stumbled over the words, clearly thrown off by the ominous comment. You watched him, amused. God, he was so obvious.

Sunghoon just looked between you two, doubt etched all over his face. “Barely,” he scoffed. “Trust me, bro, you are getting left behind as soon as she finds another victim willing to pay for all her food.”

You can start your resolution next week. This time, you really smacked him, sharp on his bicep. Sunghoon yelped.

“Why are you always so aggressive?” he whined, rubbing the sore spot with his arm. You raised your hand threateningly again, but you stopped yourself short. 

At the corner of your eye was Jake’s soured expression, a flash of worry obviously overcoming him. But you couldn’t comfort him. Not now. You wouldn’t hear the end of it from these two.

“You never know,” Jay chirped, faking thoughtfulness with a hand on his chin. “Jake might be too cool for us once school starts.”

Jay and Sunghoon exchanged a look and then burst into laughter.

“Ain’t gonna happen!” Sunghoon cackled, putting his whole gut into it. You joined in hesitantly, though your eyes kept drifting to your sullen boyfriend. And he wasn’t amused. Not at all.

Because he never found it funny, the idea of you leaving him behind.

–

“Do you think I’m weird?” Jake asked one evening, with you curled up beside him on your bed. Your knee draped over his stomach, his glasses pushed up just enough to rest comfortably against your pillow. On his late-night visits, your parents would come in to check if you two were truly studying as you claimed. After Jake gained their trust, they learned to leave the two of you alone (when they probably shouldn’t have).

Your eyes were shut tight to prepare yourself for an oncoming nap.

“Yes,” you said quickly, not even giving him time to process the response.

“Like… bad weird?” he asked after a second. He’d been thinking lately, after the conversation with his friends, how different the two of you really were.

How easy it was for you to stand up for yourself. Go against the grain. How you don’t automatically default to nods as he does or lose your train of thought mid-conversation. How you hated being touched by most people but would smack someone’s shoulder when you genuinely found something funny. 

He wanted that, wanted to see the world the way you saw it. To move around without hesitation. Even when people called you a troublemaker. Even when teachers scolded you for wearing your uniform skirt shorter than the dress code. How was confidence so natural for you?

“Bad weird,” you teased, eyes still closed. “But it’s okay. I’m used to it by now.”

A small ache tugged at his heart. “You still like me though, right?”

You laughed. Jake loved to do this sometimes. Bait for reassurance. But you’re not that kind of fish.

“Who said I ever did?”

You said it jokingly, but a silence followed. You don’t quite catch it as you drift to sleep, the way Jake’s eyes dimmed.

“Oh,” he said disappointingly, staring at the ceiling.

Sometimes, he wondered if the reason you wanted your relationship to be private in the first place was because of him. If his inability to relate to your friends with secret tattoos and chains on their jeans made you embarrassed to be his girlfriend. 

Because you got along well with his friends just fine, could tease Jay and Sunghoon like you’d known them your whole life. But it was so hard for him to do the same with yours. To look natural when he joined that one karaoke hangout, where they looked at him expectantly because you had bragged that he could sing well.

You said it so proudly too, and he wanted to prove himself to them. That he was worthy to be in their presence. And then his voice had to crack.

“Should we get your friend some water?” someone joked, and the whole group laughed. With his cheeks red with embarrassment, Jake sat back down next to you, silent for the rest of the night. It was lame of him. Even he knew that. 

But even as he watched you defend him with all your heart, he couldn’t find himself to cheer up. Because in your world, he had always felt out of place. 

–

And so Jake did what he’s known to do best. Research.

He avoided WikiHow tutorials on how to ask out a girl and headed straight to the most honest part of the internet: Reddit.

‘makeover tips for guys’

‘how to gain more confidence’

‘how to be attractive enough that your girlfriend isn’t ashamed of you (serious responses only pls)’

He frequented the self-help section of the school library, took notes on everything from fashion advice to fixing his posture. He practiced eye contact with himself through the mirror until they watered, joined Sunghoon in the gym, and copied his weirdly intense routine.

Jake kept this process all to himself, much like your relationship. He learned to be good at that. Keeping secrets.

He would reinvent himself for university. Become someone you’d be proud to show off because he didn’t want to feel like this anymore. Like he would fall behind. And knowing you… he wasn’t sure if you’d bother to look back and see if your loyal puppy was still there trailing behind you. 

–

present. 

So that’s how your relationship’s been going so far. While Jake was on this great journey to undergo metamorphosis, there were no real complaints on your side.

So why was it like this now? 

Waiting for your very late boyfriend, who was making you miss the first minutes of the university’s freshman orientation ceremony. You almost text him a paragraph about how, usually, you're the unpunctual one in the relationship, but a stranger approaches you.

“BOO!” 

You almost let out a scream when you notice who it is. Or who you think it is. Is it who you think it is?

Because instead of wild, unruly hair hiding his eyebrows and big black frames resting on his nose bridge, your boyfriend looked like someone else entirely. His hair was styled in a middle part, framing his handsome features perfectly. Instead of his usual oversized hoodie with holes on the sleeves masking his athletic body, he’s wearing a varsity jacket and a simple white shirt that clung way too well to his muscular frame. You could even see the faint outline of contact lenses in the whites of his eyes.

Your eyelashes flutter in confusion. You literally just saw him yesterday. When did he find the time to get a haircut and invest in a new closet?

Jake steps forward with a small, hopeful smile and holds out a box of egg tarts. Did it add to his already late ETA? Yes, but he always thinks about you and what you'd like to eat. Could you blame him for getting you a sweet treat?

But that wasn’t the part you were really focused on.

“Who are you and what did you do to Jake?” you ask, fists raised like a boxer. He chuckles nervously, bringing the pastry box back to his side.

“Do I look weird?” he asks quietly, shifting his feet. The vulnerability in his voice made you lower your hands instantly.

“So…” you start, eyes looking him up and down. “This is on purpose? Like, Sunghoon didn’t put you up to this? Or Jay?”

He pouts. His mom practically screamed, “So handsome!” when he showed her his new look over video call. So, why was your reaction like this? 

“I just thought… new school year, new me! No?” he says, puffing up with pride.

You shake your head, moving your hand on instinct to ruffle his freshly styled hair. But he catches your wrist before you can touch him. You pull away, heart squeezing a bit, knowing that he dodged one of your rare bouts of affection. Or whatever you call it.

“It took me forever to get my hair to look like this,” he mutters, looking away. “Don’t want my hard work to go to waste.”

You click your tongue, trudging past him. Since when did he care about what his hair looked like? This was the same guy who showed up to graduation with a T-shirt and sneakers and got confused when the teachers asked him to go back home and change.

“Whatever,” you sigh. “No more standing around. We have to go—”

“Still not wearing the ring?” he asks, catching up to you. He noticed it earlier when he caught your arm. 

When Jake gave it to you just a year before, he set no expectation for you to wear it. He really hadn’t… But it has been a year. Wasn’t it about time? He wears his everyday…

You suck in your teeth and glare at him. “Why would I?” 

He flinches. And you start to feel guilt bubbling in your chest as his steps start slowing next to you.

“It’s just…” he mumbles. “It’s not like we’re in high school anymore. No one’s even gonna notice. And no one’s gonna care if we’re dating.”

You roll your eyes. You care. You still had a reputation to uphold. Maybe not as a troublemaker anymore. But still. Something about wearing your boyfriend’s ring for everyone to see and question seemed like your own personal hell. Who would want to be the center of attention as a university freshman?

“It’s the principle,” you say, not really knowing what you mean by it either. Because you are wearing it. Just not on your finger. It hangs around your neck, hidden underneath your blouse. But Jake didn’t have to know that.

You would rather die than give anyone the satisfaction of knowing you were smitten with this man. Soft, but only for him. Your biggest weakness.

“So are we always just gonna be a secret?” he sighs. You turn to face him, but you keep it pushing. It’s too much to explain right now. Or ever.

“Come on,” you insist. “We need to get to the orientation.”

–

Indeed, it wasn’t high school anymore. Because everywhere you turn, Jake’s name is being brought up.

“The hot guy on the football team—”

“He set the curve on the first exam and proved Professor Kim wrong on the board—”

“I saw him help a grandma cross the street. Soooo dreamy—”

It was enough to almost make you pull your hair out of your head. This was Jake they were talking about! The guy who was too shy to ask for no pickles in his damn burgers, who used to let Sunghoon copy off his homework and then rewrote his own just to make sure the teachers wouldn’t catch on. This was your Jake.

You take a moment to breathe.

You sound crazy. Deranged, even. It shouldn’t even matter. Jake was always good-looking! People just never noticed or took the time to appreciate him outside of his ability to decode the most difficult of physics equations.

“A couple of guys from the team think I’d look good with a sweatband,” he says, showing you a photo during a late-night walk. He’s shoving his phone screen to your face, and you pout at the sight. His hair pushed back, forehead glistening. A perfect view of his beautiful, dark eyes. 

“Nah,” you say dismissively, trying to push down the fluttering in your heart. He tilts his head, staring at the photo once more.

“Really?” he mutters. “I thought it looked pretty good.”

“Do you really wanna look like Jay in junior year? He’s gonna tell you that you copied him.”

He gives a small sound of acknowledgement. You could tell he’s taking your comment seriously, like you said something truly eye-opening.

“You’re right,” he nods. “Then, how do you feel about a lip piercing?”

Your brows furrow at the thought of metal against his pouty lips. The way his teeth would tug on it. The effect he would have on all of his newfound admirers…

“Absolutely not!” 

Yeah, you were losing it.

–

No, really, you might actually be going insane.

It was hard enough for you to create genuine friendships at Yonsei, full of stuck-up rich kids who only managed to get in through elite cram schools and expensive tutors. But after a few polite conversations, their masks fell to show their true intentions. You know now that you are being used as a shortcut to get on Jake’s radar. 

Because why do people you’ve never met before suddenly feel comfortable enough to ask you to introduce them to him? Why do they request to follow you on Instagram only so they can find his account more easily? And what pisses you off most—the question they always ask, without fail: “Is he single?”

And you know there's a quick answer you can give. A very simple solution to your eye-twitching problem. Because every time someone high-fives him in the corridors or bats their eyelashes flirtatiously in his direction, you have the overwhelming urge to just pounce on him. To wrap your arms around his middle and never let him leave your sight. 

But you can’t. Your pride is too big, your ego too fragile to admit that someone actually managed to slip past the cold exteriors of your heart. So instead, you're waiting impatiently for him to reply to your text.

He's not at practice. He's supposed to be on his way. So where the hell was he?

jake: sorry! study group went for a lil bit longer than I thought. everyone kept asking me for help haha. omw!

And then he sends a photo. It's a group selfie, with him in the middle. Three girls on his right and another two on his left, surrounding him like a piece of meat.

you: dont bother coming. im sick.

With envy, maybe. But you're perfectly healthy.

jake: im sorry babe :( you feeling okay? want me to get you anything from the store?

you: Nah.

You almost scream. There's so much you want to say and admit, but your fingers won’t type any of it. You really don't deserve him. He's so nice, and you're so… Fuck.

Why is it so hard to admit to your own boyfriend that you miss him?!

jake: ok :( I love you!

Your stomach flips.

Haha… You needed professional help. Really.

–

Jake was better at football than the bench in high school ever suggested. Senior hierarchy was everything at Yonsei. A starter as a freshman was practically unheard of before Jake. How he managed to level up from being a designated benchwarmer to being on the field at all times felt like whiplash.

Did he just have this in him this whole time?

I mean, you guess he looked kind of cool out there, all sweaty and serious-looking. Shouting call-outs to his team mid-game. Your legs squirm at the sight. He really needs to put on his damn glasses. (Though knowing you, that might only make things worse.)

You sit there, wearing the university colors of white and blue, holding onto a sign that says “Go Team!”

You would have made something with his name on it, but the thought alone sends shivers down your spine. You could not bear to give the stupid boys beside you the ammo of watching you scream Jake’s name and go crazy over his goals. So instead, you silently watch and admire as he steals the ball yet again.

Jay and Sunghoon, decked out in the rival school’s signature red for no reason whatsoever (they don’t even attend that university either), stood on either side of you with a level of passion you’ve never seen from them before.

“GET HIS ASS!” Jay screams. “Play the mental game! When Player 15 cries, he calls his mom first—”

Player 15 would happen to be Jake.

“The guy with ‘Sim’ in the back of his jersey loves to sing Celine Dion in the shower—”

You groan as heads turn, not enjoying the various glares and snide remarks from your surrounding schoolmates. You still haven't made any substantial friends yet at university. Being associated with these bozos would only make it that much harder. This would be the last time you sneak them into the student section. 

“Can you two please sit down?” you mutter. “We’re ahead by like four goals. Psychological warfare is not enough for Jake to lose.”

Sunghoon drops back into his seat with a huff, cracking his neck.

“This won’t do,” he mutters. “Jake’s gonna surpass me in Instagram followers if he wins this.”

Jay chuckles on your left side, still standing and selfishly blocking the view of everyone behind him. “If he wins, you think he’ll invite us to their celebration party after?”

Your brows furrow. “What party?”

Jay finally sits down when the opposing team calls a time-out, one eyebrow raised at your confused expression. “Isn’t that like a thing every school does? First big game of the year, there’s bound to be something.”

Sunghoon nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s like common knowledge.”

You almost pout before catching yourself. Jake never mentioned anything about a party. 

So when the game ended and, of course, Yonsei won, the two boys could not help but ask. 

“So there’s a party, right?”

“And you’re taking us?”

Jake looks between the two of them, forehead glistening and hair damp with sweat.

“What party?” he asks, and you smile gingerly. That’s right! You weren’t crazy. He would’ve told you if there was—

“You have to go to the party, Jakey!” a voice chirps from behind you.

You recognize her. The team manager of the football team. Short hair and a cute button nose. Very pretty. Your eyes cut between Jake and her. Wait.

Jakey? Who the hell calls him that?

Jay and Sunghoon give each other some shifty glances and step aside, letting the girl join the conversation. You feel this weird inclination to move closer to Jake, but you suppress the urge. 

“Hm?” Jake finally replies, confused more than ever. “No one told me about a party.”

The girl giggles. What even was her name?

“Oh, Jakey! Since you’re a freshman, I’ll give you the rundown.” 

She scooches in between you two, pushing you slightly to the side. The boys don’t seem to notice, and you have half your sense not to shove the girl right back.

“Whenever we win,” she starts, “the whole school goes to En Bar nearby and takes it over! Free drinks and everything. You’re our star player, so you definitely can’t miss it. Your friends are invited too, of course.”

She looks between Jay and Sunghoon, not even sparing you a glance.

Jake scratches the nape of his neck. “Sorry, I’m actually feeling pretty tired—” 

“We’ll be there!” Jay and Sunghoon say instantly. You raise your eyebrow at them, and the two brush it off.

“We’ll make sure he comes,” Jay laughs, slapping Jake hard on the shoulder. Having gotten hit by the ball in that exact spot just an hour before, he winces.

“I’m not really—”

“Great!” the girl smiles, clapping her hands together. “I’ll see you all there then?” 

Of course, her back is fully turned towards you. Dumb and dumber nod in unison, and as the girl walks off, they push at each other excitedly.

“First college party,” they cry out in joy.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “You two are pathetic.”

Jake nods slowly in agreement. “Well… you guys have fun. I think I’m just gonna head back to my dorm and shower…”

“And get ready, right?” Sunghoon says dangerously, wagging a finger at him. “Because you are coming, right?”

Jake shivers under his friends’ threatening glares. But what really scares him is when his eyes find yours. You look pissed. Fuck. What did he do this time?

“I mean… I guess I could pop in…” Jake says reluctantly. He sneaks in another glance in your direction and sees that your frown grows even deeper. Was that the wrong thing to say?

“Babe?” Jake calls after you as you stride across campus, shivering in your t-shirt and mini skirt. “Why are you walking so fast?”

It’s dark now, save for the dim street lamps. You stop abruptly, and he almost bumps into you. When you turn, your jaw is already clenched.

“Am I crazy, or did that girl just completely ignore me?” you ask genuinely, voice at the seams of losing composure. Because what the fuck was her problem?

Jake laughs nervously. “Choa? I thought she seemed pretty friendly?”

Your expression sours. “Yeah, maybe a little too friendly,” you say under your breath. Jake catches it.

“Wait,” he says with a shit-eating grin, leaning in. “Babe… are you jealous? Hm?”

Your cheeks heat up, arms crossing like a toddler. “Fuck off.”

He laughs now, twisting you around and guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, babeeee…”

He notices how you don’t pull away from his touch, when normally you would hiss something like, “people are watching,” or something like that. Jake bites back an even bigger smile. You just let him hold you.

The walk to his dorm was peachy for him, save for the fact that his sweaty arm stank up your shirt.

You! Jealous. This has to be a dream. When you reach his room, shared with a sophomore named Heeseung who never seems to be around, you sit on Jake’s bed, still reeling from the earlier interaction.

“Am I overreacting?” you ask him, not at all bothered that he was taking his jersey off. You’re well past the stage of pretending his bare torso flusters you. “Like… did it not seem like she wanted you?”

Jake laughs, wiping his underarms with a nearby towel. “Me? Babe, no. That’s out of the question. She's like four years older than us—”

You roll your eyes. “So where the fuck did ‘Jakey’ come from?”

He shrugs, catching his reflection in the wall mirror hanging on his door. His muscles flex in a way that makes your eyes travel down his well-toned back…

You snap your gaze back to the wall. No. Focus. You’re supposed to be mad.

“New year, new nickname?” he offers, teasingly.

You throw a pillow at his head. Like the athlete he is, Jake dodges it. He turns to you, laughing, amused by how sulky and adorable you look on his bed. Brows furrowed in contemplation, tugging your legs close to your chest. Your plush thighs in your pretty little skirt that would have gotten you dress-coded back in high school with your knee-high socks and…

Fuck. 

“It’s not like I care,” you mumble, unconvincingly. 

Jake huffs out something that sounds like a chuckle, but his thoughts are elsewhere. His mind (and eyes) are on the edge of your skirt. He places a hand on your thigh and rubs it softly. To you, it felt like reassurance, and it was. But he was also incredibly horny.

“Babe,” his words drawl. “Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his for a split second before he plants a wet kiss on your cheek. “Hey—”

He chuckles as he plants another on your nose. Then your chin. And then your other cheek. And now you’re trying to push him away, but he holds your wrists to prevent you from stopping his incessant attacks. 

“Jake—You stink—Freak!” You try to say as his lips find yours, while he’s giggling up a storm. So cute. You're so fucking cute. 

His next kiss is deep, drawing out your breath sharply. Your back is on the bed now with Jake on top, his hands still wrapped around your wrists.

Jake’s lips move against yours, your eyes fluttering shut. His tongue prods and pushes in, his taste so sweet and heavy as you breathe in his weirdly intoxicating scent. Like fresh laundry doused in the salt of his sweat. You clench his biceps as he comes up from the kiss to catch some air.

He looks at you, face flushed and mouth parted. 

“I’m hard,” he blurts out, and you smack him on his naked chest.

“What do you want me to do about that?” you mutter as you start to feel him press against your stomach. “Don’t you have a party to go to?”

He shakes his head, burying his face in your hair. He lets out a groan, grinding onto you just to feel any part of you against his football shorts. You let out a squeak, clenching at his toned muscles harder.

“You’re not coming with?” he asks, and you can hear the shakiness in his breath. You smirk, wrapping your legs around him and shifting up so that his tent could meet your core. Jake fit between you so snugly.

His head lifts to meet yours, pupils already so dilated.

“Why would I?” you say through hooded eyes, and you could visibly see him gulp. It almost makes you laugh. But instead, you tease him, moving your hips up to graze his bulge. 

“I have time,” he groans quickly. “For this. Or whatever you want to do. Like I’m really down for any—”

You roll your eyes, gripping the back of his head to smash him back down to your lips. Your movements are messy, tongues clashing at a feverish pace. He’s still sore from earlier, but like hell he would let this opportunity go. Not when you looked this fucking good. And angry too. (For him, these things aren’t mutually exclusive...)

With trembling fingers, he lifts your shirt and almost moans at the sight of your bare skin. While he wants to thank you for saving him the trouble of not fiddling with a bra clasp, you pat yourself on the back for leaving your necklace at home.

Knowing how frisky Jake gets after the adrenaline of a good win runs through him, it was the right call. You don’t think you could handle Jake seeing you so jealous while having his ring resting on your chest. Yeah, you’d probably die right in front of him.

His hands grab your tits softly, massaging them between his fingers. Jake dips down, swallowing a nipple in his mouth as he watches you sigh out in pleasure.

He’s confident in one thing when it comes to you, and it was this right here. He could make your tough exterior melt just as long as you were under him. Or over him. He has no preference.

His tongue circles your bud, tugging with his teeth lightly. 

“Jake—” When he hears you squeak, his dick twitches with anticipation. So pliant now. What happened to that dominance earlier? He’d like to see it come back…

He moves on to the other breast, licking and massaging so it doesn't feel too neglected. Jake loves your tits, could be buried between them for the rest of his life if you let him. But now isn't the time! He has a very mean and very jealous, but also very hot, girlfriend to please. And maybe some party to make it to, who knows.

Jake pulls his shorts down roughly, just enough so that he can take his dick out. Already so big, the bulbous tip weeps with desire for you. He’s palming himself, relishing in how your eyes shut tight, lips parted open as his wet, pink muscle traces circles over your sensitive skin.

He’s nipping the top of your breasts now, careful not to leave marks in visible areas. Jake knows how you get about that sort of thing. 

His fingers drag your white, damp panties off your legs, but keeps your skirt on. And the knee-high socks for good measure. His hand meets your core, pushing down on your clit with a heavy pressure he knows you like.

You gasp, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re so embarrassed. The noises you're making are unbecoming of you. All he does is laugh. Still so sensitive during sex after a whole year of dating. And he’s supposed to be the shy one.

His fingers drag slowly on your folds as he spreads your juices all over his digits. Jake might just cum in his pants with how soft your tits feel as he nestles his head in between them. 

He pushes two fingers in right away, and you draw out a sharp breath. You almost hit him on the shoulder. He has no idea how big his hands are. How sometimes you would eye them whenever he helps you with homework. Veiny, like his cock.

He’s moving his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace, wet squelches echoing through the room. 

“Ngh—Mmm—” you groan, arching your back to meet his movements. Impatient. You’re always so impatient.

“JAKE!” you cry out, when he rubs over a certain spot.

He looks up at you from his comfortable position between the valley of your chest, and with a teasing glint in his eyes, he says, “You mean Jakey?”

And it’s not an exaggeration in the least to say that you start seeing red. You grab his wrist, the pads of your fingers digging into his flesh. He stops his movements, looking at you with those puppy-dog eyes like he did something wrong. And he did. Something very. Very. Wrong.

“Sorry, I just wanted to tease—”

You pull his fingers out of you. With one swift movement, you grab him by his shoulders and push him down onto the bed. You’re hovering over him now, eyes dark.

Jake swallows nervously. Why’d you have to look so hot when provoked?

“Did I ruin the vibe or…”

“Shut up,” you growl, crashing your lips onto his. He tries to hold your waist to offer support, but you hold his wrists down onto the sheets. He could probably push you off very easily. But he doesn’t. Because he loves seeing you like this. Loves the urgency in your touch.

You want him! And you’re showing it! His heart is practically doing backflips in his chest.

Your tongue explores the inside of Jake’s mouth, licking the roof of it in a way that has him seeing stars. You’re so rough with it. Sucking on his, biting his lip, moving so desperately against him.

“Babe—” he tries to say in between your assaults on his mouth. But it comes out in a breathless whisper when he feels you grinding your slick pussy against him.

“I said,” you say through gritted teeth. “Shut. Up.”

He almost moans when his leaking tip hits your clit. Just the contact alone has the back of his head hitting the pillow roughly. But he forces himself to watch as you move against him as he offers no assistance. Your grip on his wrists moves to the sheets as you focus on grinding against his dick. Swiveling yourself on him back and forth. Rubbing and rubbing. But it’s not enough. He needs to be inside. Needs to feel you right now.

Your breath is on his neck now, riling yourself up at his stunt. Jakey? What grown woman calls someone that? Choa and her nice ass bob... Fuck her!

“Ngh—” he lets out as you suction an erogenous zone on his neck, sucking and biting him like a vampire. Your tongue lapping at his skin to soothe him from the brutal assaults of your teeth. You close your eyes to relish in his taste. So salty from sweat, but still so sweet. But you’re distracted now as Jake breaks free from your hold. He grips your ass with one hand, the other guiding his pulsing member to your slippery entrance.

“Wha—” 

He’s looking at you with pleading eyes. “Can I, baby?” Jake begs, cheeks tinged pink. “Please?”

You bite back a smile. What a fucking loser.

You push down on him, just slightly, just enough for his bulbous tip to slip inside. His grip on your ass is now slack. He doesn't even want to fight back, really.

“Fuck—” Jake’s mouth parts open, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes when you come back up. No longer inside you, he groans.

“Whyyy,” he whines. “I said I’m sorry—”

He inhales a sharp breath when you engulf his tip again, tightening around him just a little harder. 

“Do you like being called Jakey?” you question darkly. “Like it when other girls feel up on you?”

He shakes his head desperately. “No—Only you—” he says through pained groans.

And then you lift again, laughing at his pathetic form. “I don’t believe you.”

He’s practically writhing underneath you now, his mushroom tip pulsing against your folds. Your skirt hides it all from view, and he just wishes he could rip it off you. Give you a new one, much, much shorter, so he can see everything better. 

But only if you let him.

“You’re literally torturing me,” he whimpers, hips jutting up messily. He keeps missing your entrance, the one he desperately needs to be buried in. “Need to feel you right now—”

“What’s it to me?” you ask meanly, your thumb prodding at his bottom lip. His tongue comes out to lick at the pad of your thumb, sucking it ever-so-slightly. You enjoy this view. Him underneath you. Pleading. Whining. Like he's starving. 

“I’ll make you feel so good, baby,” Jake offers through the haziness of his lust. Not entirely conscious of how desperate he sounds. “You can use me however you want. I’ll literally do anything. Just please—”

And then you sink, so slowly that his eyes roll to the back of his head. The devil. His girlfriend is the devil.

“Babe—” You shut him up with another open-mouthed kiss. Messy, just how he likes it.

He grips his hands into yours as you suckle his tongue, intertwining your fingers together. You try not to wince as you sheath him fully, realizing now that you were overconfident in taking control before he could properly prep you.

Usually, sex was an hours-long ordeal with Jake. He likes to finger you, then eat you out, then repeat, until he can slip into your slick warmth with little issue. Sex is the only time you don’t deny him the pleasure of seeing you flustered over him. Over what he could do for you. What he could provide you if you let him tell everyone in the world that he’s yours. 

Regardless, Jake will always be long and thick, and he still stretches you out so deliciously. Your mouths clash against each other, swallowing back both of your moans as saliva pools at the sides of his bruised lips.

Depraved. That’s all you could think of when Jake bottoms out inside you. He’s so sweaty now, the scent so musky that it drives you insane. Do other girls smell these pheromones when he’s around? Or is this just you and your hypersensitivity to everything that involves him?

You’re moving up and down now, with shallow thrusts that do little to satiate the flame in your stomach. You don’t do this enough—take control enough. Your knees are already weak, wobbling, as you grind down on him.

But you push through it as you continue to impale yourself on his cock, gummy walls clenching him tightly with each thrust. You want to get him off like this, even if your whole body is trembling above him. 

And it’s not like Jake doesn’t notice. But like the little shit he is, he doesn’t feel like helping. Because he enjoys the feeling too much, of your breasts bouncing filthily against his chest. When you lift yourself from his lips so that you can focus on riding him, he finds it so endearing. How you put your hands on his abdomen to steady yourself, how you fuck yourself on his length. How much you struggle to take all of him in. Not sure what to do with yourself.

‘My poor baby,’ Jake thinks, chuckling at how tight your eyes shut just to feel him better. 

“Need help?” he hums, his hand drawing circles on your hip. You shake your head, teeth gritted.

“N-no,” you try to muster out, but it’s unconvincing. Your movements are stuttering, moans slipping out of your mouth too easily. He smirks. His little pillow princess. 

Jake, with his grip on your hips, pulls you down onto his cock. Hard. You gasp as his hips snap up with it.

“Ah—” you cry out, your nails now digging into his shoulder blades. He pounds into a spot that had you almost come undone at that very moment. How did he get so good at this?

Jake lifts you, all the way until his pink tip is the only thing in your wet pussy. Then, as harshly as he could, he pushes you down on him, his thickness grazing at your deepest parts. And he does this again and again until you collapse onto his chest from the roughness of his thrusts.

“I’m gonna—Ngh—Fuck—You—” you try to say through your moans, try to sound angry. But you love it. Love how tight he grabs your bum. Love the slight stretch of pain as he stuffs you full of him. Love that trickle of spit that falls out of his mouth as his back lifts off the bed to feel you better. Ugh, you hate him.

“JAKE—”

“Shhh, baby, ” he whispers, forcing your face into the crook of his neck. “Just take it.”

Jake plunges up into you, propelling your hips down with his harsh grip. He lifts a heavy hand, smacking your ass from behind as you try to match his timing. You scream. He does it again, massaging the tender spot. The pain mixes with the pleasure, as tears prick the corner of your eyes. You feel your climax building now as your lips find his neck again, sucking and biting. Marking him. Let everyone know that he’s yours. That you own him.

“Babe…” he whines, too lost in the suctioning of your tightness to really care. Because he’s close too. So fucking close. 

Jake’s arms move up to your back, caging you into a bear-like embrace. His feet plant themselves on the bed, as his dick shoves into you with newfound energy. He’s going so fast, you could practically hear the speed. Feel it too. The wet squelches of his balls slapping against your ass. You move with him, trying to sync your rhythm to his.

“Mmm—Ahh—” your moans jumble into each other. Your legs are trembling, even more than they were before. A searing feeling within you continues to build and build. A single, full thrust from him has you biting into his neck brutally, stifling your moans as your orgasm crashes through you in waves. 

“Shit—” he cries out, from both the pain of your teeth and the pleasure of your cunt's constricting grip. You grind down on him, whimpering into his skin, back arched to ease yourself through the sensitivity.

Jake’s dick twitches in you once, then twice. He pushes you off of him and onto the bed, harsher than he intended. But he doesn’t have a condom on, and... he likes the way you look in white.

He hovers over you now, his painfully hard length in his hand. He’s stroking himself with urgency, fist wrapped around himself with a panicked grip. He’s watching you intently as you splay out underneath him. So fucking pretty for him. Lips bruised and bitten so sensually. Legs opened with your juices glistening on the inside of your thighs. Maybe he should stuff his cock into your—

“Fuck—” he groans, mouth parting at the sight of his thick ropes of cum spurting out of him, coating your stomach and tits. He strokes slowly, pumping all that he’s worth onto your body. You welcome it, eyes drinking in his flushed demeanor.

“I love you,” Jake mutters as he comes down from his high. And you don’t say anything back, distracted as your fingers coat themselves on the sticky fluids on your skin. Such a mess, both of you.

You hear it then. Intense vibrations on his nightstand. Jake’s phone, very much neglected, is blowing up with texts and calls. Was it going off like that the whole time? Then his eyes go wide like saucers.

“Shit! The party—” 

Your eyes narrow. Before he can pick it up, you grab the nape of his neck to pull him down into another sloppy kiss. Your legs wrap around Jake once more, smirking as you feel him melt into you with little resistance.

“What party?”

morning after.

“You’re a bitchhhh,” Sunghoon cries out, over a FaceTime call that Jake was forced to pick up at nine in the morning. You were already gone by then, running late to your morning lecture. 

Heeseung, thankfully, still hadn’t returned to the dorm. Or else you wouldn’t have been able to stay over and let Jake devour you a few more times, but that’s besides the point. He starts humming happily to himself with the memories of last night still fresh in his mind.

“They wouldn’t even let me into the bar because I was wearing the wrong colors,” his friend continues to complain.

“I get it, I get it,” Jake replies, only half-listening. He’s fixing his outfit in the mirror, admiring how well a polo shirt fits him. It’s weird. He’s getting used to not looking like a dweeb all the time, just a few weeks into his big transformation, even with his glasses on right now.

“Yo, do you think these pants look better with a belt or nah?” he asks, not really sparing Sunghoon a glance. He adjusts his shirt’s collar slightly until—

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

Jake jumps, phone nearly dropping from the desk he sat it on.

“WHAT IS THAT?!”

“What? What?!” Jake snaps his head to look behind himself, like Sunghoon might have seen a ghost.

“Did you get eaten by a fucking lion?!” Sunghoon gawks. Jake’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red.

Damn, he forgot.

“W-what are you talking about?” he mutters unconvincingly, slowly coming out of frame. He strips the polo off in a panic, digging through his closet until he finds a turtleneck. It’s autumn anyway. This is fine, right?

“Our friendship is done,” Sunghoon deadpans at the camera. “You got fucking laid and didn’t tell me?! I mean, I understand Jay, he’d make it weird. BUT NOT EVEN ME?!”

Jake shakes his head, tugging the turtleneck on. He tries to roll up his sleeves to look more casual, but now he looks like Steve Jobs. Shit. He should put his contacts on.

“So who is it?!” Sunghoon presses. “Who’s the unlucky girl?” 

 When Jake doesn’t reply, Sunghoon gasps.

“Unlucky guy?!”

“Man, shut up!” Jake cries, snatching his phone off the desk and coming back into frame. “Please don’t tell Jay.”

–

“Okay, so he told Jay,” he blurts, shielding himself with his arm like you’re about to hit him. “Please don’t get mad at me.”

You almost asked why he was wearing a turtleneck in relatively warm weather when he tugged the collar down to show his neck. Absolutely purple and bruised. And yes. Maybe a dark, suppressed part of you jumped with glee. But the more rational part started cursing yourself out.

“I can’t believe you’d video call him the morning after,” you groan, massaging your temple with your fingers. “Ugh, I’m so stupid. What was I even thinking?!”

Jake gives you a sly smile. “I mean, I’m not complaining—”

You shoot him another icy stare, and he stops. 

“W-well, it’s not like they know that it’s you! They probably think it’s someone else…”

You inhale a sharp breath at the thought. Was he gonna tell them the hickeys on his neck were from someone else? Who? Choa?

“Whatever,” you mutter, whipping around as your bag purposely smacked his bicep. You walk off, fists clenched, ignoring Jake’s calls out to you. 

Fucking Choa.

–

A full week has passed since the disaster that was Sunghoon seeing Jake’s bruised neck. Your boyfriend only felt safe enough to see the two idiots once the marks faded, and even then, he was a little disappointed to wake up and see them all gone. 

“So run it through with me again,” Jay requests, leaning over the boiling hot pot broth. The boys sit in a dimly lit restaurant with a stage in the back. 

“Like, you were just walking back to your dorm and boom—you found a rando to hook up with out of nowhere?!” Jay questions, dropping tofu into the soup so aggressively that it splashes Jake’s wrist.

“Why are you making up fantasies in your head about my sex life?” Jake mutters, pushing his glasses up his face. He was too lazy to put his contacts on just to hang out with these two. “I plead the fifth.”

“Bro, I thought you were a virgin this whole time!” Sunghoon adds unhelpfully. “Excuse us for trying to be supportive.”

Jake rolls his eyes, struggling to grab an udon noodle with his chopsticks.

“Wait,” Jay says through the hot pot steam. “Weren’t you walking with [Y/N] that night?”

Jake gulps, throat bobbing as he fiddles with the noodle more to avoid suspicion.

“Right!” Sunghoon snaps his fingers, and for a second, Jake’s life flashes before his eyes. They know. They have to! Fuck, you’re gonna be so mad at him—

“Why don’t we just ask her who it was?”

Jake stares at them and breaks out into a nervous laugh. Never in his life was he happier to have a more idiotic set of childhood friends.

“Please do,” Jake smiles, wondering how you would weasel out of that conversation with them. “She knows her very well…”

A piercing sound of microphone feedback ricochets through the restaurant. The three cover their ears as everyone’s attention turns to the neglected stage.

“Who wants to sing?! It's open mic night!” the restaurant owner booms. When a deafening silence fills the air, Jay lifts Jake’s hand straight into the air without hesitation.

“This guy loves Celine Dion!” he cries out as Jake tries to yank his arm back down. He curses at his friend, but to no avail.

“Okay!” the owner shouts excitedly. “Come on right up, sir!” 

Jay and Sunghoon practically drag Jake up the stage, laughing themselves all the way back to their seats in the far back of the restaurant. Jake stands frozen as dozens of strangers stare at him, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He takes off his glasses, shoving them in his pocket, and brushes his hair back. He couldn't bear to look at all these blank faces staring at him. Confidence. This is all about confidence.

When ‘My Heart Will Go On' starts echoing through the restaurant walls, Jake’s face flushes all the way red. This is exposure therapy; he tries to cope with himself. If he could do this, he could probably build up the courage to ask you about going public. So that his friends stop thinking he’s a loser. Maybe for you to stop thinking it, too.

He sucks in a deep breath. What’s the difference between this and a showerhead? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

“Every night in my dreams, I see youuuu… I feel youuu…” he starts slowly, welcomed with a soft gasp from an audience member. Jay and Sunghoon’s laughter dies as Jake sings. Shit. He was actually doing it. And he sounded good, too. Like an angel. Was Jay crying?

Jake loses himself in the slow melody of the song, singing his heart out as he does in every postgame shower. ‘This one’s for you, babe,’ he thinks. Wherever you are… 

When the song ends and Jake’s eyes open, he’s met with a standing ovation. At a damn hot pot restaurant. Jay and Sunghoon are cheering the loudest, holding their hearts like their once-nerdy best friend was their child at a talent show. The owner comes up to the stage, sniffling.

“Give it up for this random kid!”

As Jake makes his way back to the table, he holds his head up high. He couldn’t have imagined doing this a year before, let alone ordering food at a kiosk without stuttering. It’s like taking off his glasses gave him super powers.

“Excuse me—” Jake turns around. A girl with long flowing hair stops him. 

“Are you Jake Sim? The freshman on the football team?” she asks, eyes bright. He nods. Does he know her?

“I’m Suji from the Dance department.” She bows slightly. “Your performance was incredible, by the way!” 

He nods, giving a small “thanks,” before he turns back around.

“Actually!” She calls after him. He stops again. “I just wanted to ask if you were interested in auditioning to be the male lead of our upcoming musical! It’s about a football player who finds passion in singing and dancing. I just thought it would fit you so well!”

Jake turns back to face the stranger. He ponders deeply. A musical? Him? He’d never thought about it before, but what the hell! He guesses he’s the type to try new things now. The power of a good haircut, maybe.

“I’ll think about it,” he says with a polite smile. 

Suji grins back. “Auditions start tomorrow. We’d love to have you.”

By the time Jake finds his way back to his seat, his friends are already geeking.

“You pulled another?!” Jay cries in anguish, biting his fist. “I should have gone up there. That should have been me! Damn it!”

“It’s not fair,” Sunghoon wails, leaning his head dramatically against the wall. “You had no play in high school. Like absolutely zero bitches—”

Jake snorts, scrounging for his glasses once more to slip them back on. “She was just asking me to audition for some musical.”

“I’m sure she was,” Jay says with a smirk. “I’m sure she’s staring straight at your back right now because she wants you in that musical soooo bad.”

Jake shifts in his chair uncomfortably, and sure enough, Suji is watching him. She shoots up her arm to wave. He looks back at his friends with a confused glance.

“Maybe they’re desperate?”

Sunghoon groans. “I’m gonna call [Y/N]. Let’s get her expertise on this.”

“Don’t!” Jake lunges, trying to grab Sunghoon’s phone as he takes it out of his pocket. But then flashes from that night start playing in his head. You above him. Riding him. Gripping his shoulders. Your lips on his neck, marking him until he whined and begged. All at the mere mention of Choa’s weird pet name for him. Jake clears his throat and sits back, not even trying to hide the shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

“...Yeah,” he says more casually. “Ask her.”

–

ma baby: Come over. Now.

Jake receives your text after Sunghoon’s impromptu call, bringing his hands together in a prayer position to the sky. Thank you to whatever higher being was watching over him.

When he reaches your residence hall, you’re waiting outside your door in pajamas, foot tapping impatiently against the carpet. You start glaring at his silhouette even before he comes into view. 

“So,” you start slowly, “you just let anyone talk to you these days?”

Jake’s already giddy. Yes… Be angry with him… Let him in your dorm room and reprimand him, while you’re at it…

“Babeeee,” he teases, his arms already reaching for yours. You dodge him. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” you reply flatly. “I’m just wondering when you started serenading restaurants and accepting invitations from random girls?”

“Just thought I could finally get some appreciation for my many talents,” he says teasingly, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you saying I don’t appreciate you?” you ask, not at all amused by his playful gaze. “I tell you all the time that you’re smart!”

He chuckles. “Everyone and your mom knows that by now, babe.”

You narrow your eyes. ‘He’s learning how to fight back,’ you think sourly. 

“So you enjoyed that girl's appreciation, then?” you counter, knowing that you were riling yourself up by asking such a loaded question. Jake bites his lip to stifle a smile. There it is. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, pushing his glasses up. “I think I might actually consider auditioning!”

And this part is genuine. He’s always enjoyed singing. It could be a cool new experience, especially since he shied away from doing theater back in high school. Maybe now was his moment to shine... But when he notices how your expression darkens, he’s suddenly excited to audition for the musical for a whole different reason.

You look around the hallway, checking to see if anyone's coming by. Then you pull him by the collar and into your dorm room. The door shuts behind you two as you push him to sit on the bed. Jake looks up, eyes bright with pure anticipation as you climb onto his lap.

“What’s up, babe?” he asks, feigning ignorance. And you fall for it. Because your cute, nerdy boyfriend couldn’t possibly have ulterior motives… Right?

“You have class tomorrow?” you ask as you adjust yourself on him, legs encasing both sides of his thighs. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer.

“It depends,” he says, knowing full well he has an 8 a.m. physics lab. “Is your roommate coming back anytime soon?”

Oh yeah. Her. 

“Not tonight,” you mutter, already peppering his neck with small kisses. “She’s visiting her parents.”

Jake smirks, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip as the wheels are already turning in his head. He fakes a cough.

“You know… I think the musical is actually a romantic comedy.”

You’re on your knees, carpet harshly grazing your skin. 

“Fuck,” Jake groans, head thrown back as his hand clutches your hair. He’s pushing you down onto his cock, relishing in the way your cheeks hollow around him. How you take his whole length into your mouth without your usual snappy commentary. Look at you. Underneath him. So eager to please, but so in need of control. He bites his bottom lip at the view. It's addictive.

“Just like that,” Jake encourages, stroking your cheek so lovingly. Your tongue licks the underside of his thickness, careful not to have your teeth graze his sensitive skin. He’s so flushed above you, a darkness blooming in your heart. The sight of his glasses pushed so low on his nose bridge. So focused, so desperate for release.

‘My Jake,’ you think to yourself. ‘All mine.’

You bob your head up and down, your mouth plunging down to the base of his member with the help of his tight grasp on your hair.

“Y-yes,” he sighs, his hips coming up to meet your lips. Jake’s gaze never leaves yours, unable to tear his eyes from the tears forming in your eyes from just how much he fills you up. You always had something to say. Always rolling your eyes at him. Now, your eyes were rolling back for a different reason.

His mouth falls open. “F-fuck—” 

You smirk as his hips start to lose rhythm. You remember the first time you gave him head. Just like this, knees on the floor of his room back home, with his parents watching TV downstairs. Glasses perched and foggy. He came within seconds. You were proud, just a little, that he was able to last this long now.

“B-babe?” he tries to cry out. “I’m close—”

You pull away from him with a pop of your lips, teasing the slit of his tip with the flat of your tongue. He groans in frustration, but his hands don’t push you down to take him in again.

“Already?” you say, eyes batting up at him. “Why should I give you the satisfaction?” 

He whines, his grip on your hair tightening just a little. 

“Please?” he asks, not really sure what you want from him. It’s not like he asked you to just fuck him with your mouth! That was all your doing. Okay, yes, maybe he did provoke you. But did that mean he didn’t deserve to orgasm?!

You’re pumping him slowly with your right hand, gripping tightly and stroking enough so that he’s still edging close to his climax. But not close enough to actually reach it.

“I thought I was supposed to be showing you appreciation,” you say pointedly. “Take my time with you and all that.”

He shakes his head ferociously, his hips snapping up into your fist. 

“Babe—Please—I’m so—” he groans when he feels you slow your pace again. 

“So what?” you ask, feigning naivety. You really are the devil.

He shakes his head. He can’t speak. Can’t even think. Just frustrated with how your lips aren’t wrapped around his fucking dick anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’ll do anything, baby. Please—Just stop teasing—Please—”

His sobs are music to your ears. Your wrist’s pace on him quickens, as your mouth engulfs his swollen tip. Your tongue circles the head, pumping him up and down with all your strength and might. Jake’s hands are clutching the sheets, hips pistoning up into your sticky fingers. He feels his load threatening to spill over. 

“Fuck—Yes, baby—There—” He pulls your head back, hand encasing yours, pumping ferociously with you. Your mouth is wide open, tongue sticking out, eyes looking directly up at his. An invitation.

Spurts of his hot, white release coat your pink tongue. He unloads everything within him all over your features. Your cheeks. Your chin. Your cute ass nose. All covered in his milky cum. His mouth parts at the sight. So pretty. His girlfriend is so fucking pretty.

“I love you,” he whispers, as he wipes dribbles of his liquid off your chin with his thumb. “I love you so fucking much…”

You hum back in approval as he lifts you back up and onto his lap. Your face, still stained with his orgasm, comes up to kiss him. He grimaces slightly. You taste infinitely better than he does. He’s almost thankful you part ways with his lips so that you could pepper kisses down his neck.

And when you start sucking and nipping in the same way you did that game night, he smiles. His arms wrap around your waist as you suction his pulse point.

‘I could get used to this,’ Jake thinks.

The audition the next day went surprisingly easily. He truly was the only one trying out for the main role, while Suji was already pre-selected to play the female lead. Jake thinks it’s a bit unfair. What if other people wanted to audition too? But whatever. At least he got the part.

He finds you in between your lectures, holding out a boba for you in his hand. Jake’s not wearing a turtleneck this time, proudly wearing the battle scars of your teeth on his neck. No one’s brave enough to bring it up to him yet, to his dismay. Except you, who promptly smacks him in the arm for his shamelessness. 

“You look like a pervert,” you grumble, still taking the drink from him.

He chuckles at your cute expression. You say that like it wasn’t your intention to have him show the bites off. To show that he is very much occupied with someone else. Not Choa. Or whoever this other girl was.

“I was wearing my jacket the whole day,” he reassures. “Just took it off when I came to see you.”

He flexes slightly. “You think I’ve bulked recently?”

You roll your eyes and ignore his obvious fish for compliments. “So how’d it go? The audition?”

He smiles. “You’re looking at the male lead of Singing Striker,” he says proudly, hand to chest. “And before you ask, the name was not my choice.”

You scoff at the cheesiness. “Congrats,” you say through small sips of your gifted drink. “Break a leg.”

“Babe… when you say it like that, I feel like you mean it the other way.”

You shake your head, speaking robotically. “So who’s the female lead? It’s a romcom, you said?”

“The girl,” he starts, snapping his fingers like he doesn’t already know who she is. “Suji. From the restaurant. The one who recruited me.”

Your eyes morph into a squint, like you’re glaring at him. 

“...Interesting,” you say, willing yourself not to overreact. So Jake is hot now (always was). Girls just love to approach him with invitations to stuff. And he gets to act in a musical with someone that Jay described as “the baddest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.” Great! You love that, actually.

You bite down hard on the boba straw. “You know what… Are they casting for extras?"

And it's like a bad habit now. How you nip and scar his neck like you’re feeding off him every time a girl even so much looks in his direction. It’s easier than saying you’re jealous, easier than admitting that you have a sick sort of need to control who Jake interacts with.

You almost bent a metal spoon in the cafeteria when a girl asked for his number while you were sitting right in front of him. Granted, you did denounce being in a relationship with him pretty heavily the first few weeks at school. You knew she had every right to shoot her shot, but that didn't stop you from taking Jake right into a janitorial closet and making you eat him out as an apology.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans into the space between your thighs as your hands push him deeper into your wetness. “I've never even seen that girl in my life—”

You grit your teeth, angry that he even mentioned her.  “Did I ask?” you growl through sharp breaths. “Just shut up.”

He smiles against your clit, sucking harshly to elicit more of your beautiful noises. He hums into you. Happy that you're mad at him. Happy that he gets to do dirty things with you without having to practically be on his knees and begging. Well, really, he already was.

His tongue laps at your folds, thrusting in and out to prolong his stay in between your thighs. Maybe he is teasing, but really, he’s just taking it all in. Your addictive noises. Your sweet taste. The feeling of his fingers digging into your ass just to hold you up. The way you clench around his tongue when he arches it inside, real deep. Yeah, he needs you bad.

Jake is lapping at you, your legs constricting around him even tighter when he finds his way back to your clit. When he tugs on it with his teeth, you jolt.

“Jake—” He does not care. He nips again, flattening his tongue to soothe the slight pinch. You arch your back into him, riding his face until you stop yourself. You look desperate. Pathetic even. But Jake groans.

“Keep going,” he huffs. “Use me, babe. Use me like I’m your fucking toy.”

You tsk, wondering where he learned to talk like that. 

“Fucking pervert,” you mutter through harsh breaths. But your grip on him does tighten, and he whimpers at the feeling of you tugging on his locks.

“You like it when I'm like this, don't you?” You grit your teeth, pushing him in further. His nose is practically buried into your clit as he fucks his pink muscle into you at a merciless pace.

“Like when you get attention. Like when everyone fucking wants you.”

You're seething, practically riling yourself up. He tries to speak, but you clench around his tongue, trapping his voice. He hums into your folds instead, licking the roof of your warm hole as he finds the exact spot he's been searching for. You mewl.

“Fuck! T-there!”

You're grinding onto his face now, smothering him with your scent. Yes, he thinks to himself, please suffocate him. Tremors go through your body as you feel something intense build in the lower pit of your stomach. So close. So fucking close.

Jake’s grip on your ass loosens as he lets you do all the work. Your legs over his shoulder pump furiously into his face. Like, Jake is just a mere vessel for your climax. And he wouldn't have it any other way. He doesn't even nurse his own hard-on, one that's painfully stretching his jeans. 

You're fucking his tongue, whining with each thrust, eyes starting to roll back, fingers almost pulling Jake’s hair from his scalp. Your hips stutter and then—

“Fuuuck…” Your orgasm pulses through you in ways that have you screaming silently. Your legs are trembling as his mouth vibrates with his hums against your core. Jake’s lapping up all your juices with an urgency.

Everything. He wants to taste everything. When you gently push him off from the oversensitivity, he resists at first. He holds you in place until he gets his fill, until tears are threatening to spill over. But your legs finally find the ground as he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, out of breath. 

‘Whore’ you want to say out loud, but you know that would only make him hornier. He’s weirdly into stuff like that. But you smile as you comb through his hair. He doesn’t have complaints about you messing it all up as long as you’re fucking him, huh?

Jake, still on his knees, looks up at you with a lick of his lips, savoring the remaining taste of you on it. You wish he could see how he looked. Flushed. Damp. Yours. You almost lift him up to kiss him when—Ding.

The loving gaze you two share is cut off by the sound of his phone. He finally gets up from his knees, checking the notification.

“Oh shit,” he mutters. “Suji says I missed the costume fitting. I think I need to head out soon—”

You smash your lips against his, interrupting his train of thought. You moan at the taste of yourself on his devious tongue. Jake smirks, wrapping his arms around your waist. Maybe you could add a few more hickeys to his collection before he heads out... Just for good measure.

jake: let’s go to jay’s together?

For one of your weekly hangouts. The nights you try to avoid because they always end with you ignoring the pile of assignments you’ve already been putting off. 

you: sure. wya rn?

You smack your forehead the second you realize how quickly you sent that text. You swear you weren’t waiting. It wasn’t like you were staring at the last message he sent five hours ago, ruminating over whether it was appropriate to tell him how much you missed him.

jake: meet me by the bleachers :D practice is ending soon.

The speed at which you change outfits is impressive, already heading to the damn field before you realize it. He’s there, dribbling with a couple of his teammates. You sit at the top of the stands, a bit out of his sight. He catches a glimpse of you anyway and waves. You shoot him a simple smile of acknowledgement that dampens almost immediately.

Because you also see Choa, handing him a water bottle. When Jake reaches for it, trying to avoid brushing her hand, she purposefully finds his fingers anyway. It’s enough for your stomach to sink.

Even though he’s just smiling politely. Even when it looks like their conversation lasts for two seconds. It doesn’t feel any less bad. Choa notices you staring, and she scoffs. “This is a closed practice—”

“She’s with me,” Jake corrects her immediately. “I told her to come. That’s okay, right?”

You lift an eyebrow, challenging her. Jake said it the nice way. If she had to hear you speak, you would have probably been escorted off the field by now. She coughs awkwardly and nods, instantly folding under Jake’s attention. Your boyfriend, by the way.

“O-of course,” she stammers. “Just make sure she doesn’t see the playbook.”

The guys continue playing, and you move down a few rows, keeping Choa in your line of sight. It’s like she feels the daggers you send her way because she whips around to glare at you.

“It’s kind of pathetic,” she starts. “How you cling onto him.” You squint at her, not sure if you heard her correctly. You turn around, too, to check if she really had the audacity to speak to a stranger like you in that way.

“You talking to me?” you ask, pointing at yourself mockingly. She clicks her tongue.

“Who else?” she bites back. “Do you even have a name, or do you usually just go by Jake’s guard dog?”

Your cheeks burn in anger. Oh, if you were in high school… She’d have been on the ground by now, makeup stained with turf and pebbles. But unfortunately, you’re trying to stick to your resolution. A reformed delinquent girl at a prestigious university—

“You mute too?” Choa adds in for good measure. You stand, and it’s like Jake’s Spidey senses tingle because he stops to watch, monitoring if he needs to step in.

“You know,” you say, voice cool and devoid of emotion, “you’ve got a lot to say for someone who has to talk like a baby to get a man’s attention.”

She snarls. “Excuse me?”

“Jake’s not gonna let you hit,” you mock, scanning her up and down with a disgusted face. You only say the next part just to piss her off. “You’re not really his type.”

“And you are?” She steps in closer. “You’re stuck in the fucking friendzone, acting like hot shit—”

Oh, if only she knew. The truth is sitting on your tongue, burning, begging to be spoken just so you can wipe that stupid smirk off her face. But you’re not that angry yet. Not enough to expose yourself.

“You seem like such a loser,” she continues, voice laced with malice. “Everyone already thinks you look like some stray puppy following Jake everywhere he goes. Don’t you have a life of your own? Any hobbies? Isn’t it sad showing up where you’re not wanted?”

Ouch. Jake was your puppy. He follows you around everywhere. 

She digs right into that ugly little fear in the back of your mind. That you look as pitiful as you feel. That you truly were just biding your time in this dumb university until Jake showers you with attention. Is this what a relationship’s supposed to feel like? Like you’re waiting for him, all the damn time?

You inhale a deep breath. You’re better than this. Better than catfights over someone that’s already yours. A man who sleeps on your chest almost every night... But you’re not above being petty.

“And did he tell you all that,” you ask with fake sweetness, “or are your delusions that Jake’s gonna fuck you starting to get to your brain?”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off. “I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you,” you continue, sarcasm dripping in your voice. “Make sure Jakey knows exactly the kind of girl you are.”

Choa bites the inside of her cheek. “Not like I said anything wrong.”

“Oh, right.” You pitch your voice up to that grating baby tone she uses with Jake. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate you calling me a ‘fucking loser,’ since you care so much about what he thinks.”

You could laugh at her suddenly hunched shoulders, but you just drop back down onto your seat, fake scrolling through your phone. “Don’t you have a team to manage?”

Choa whips her bob around, stomping back toward the group and desperately hoping that no one heard. But Jake is already staring. He doesn’t look mad. Just resigned. 

“Choa?” he calls out, voice low and almost inaudible. He’s not smiling like usual.

“Yes?” she answers immediately, with that lilted tone that sounds like nails on a chalkboard. You don’t hear the conversation that takes place, so curious as to why Choa’s expression suddenly drops.

“Don’t ever talk to her like that again,” he says, and the entire team stiffens around them. 

“And next time,” he adds, walking past her, “Just mind your fucking business.”

–

You never, in all your years of living, thought you’d be sitting in an auditorium seat watching your boyfriend act like he was in love with another girl on stage. But here you are, leg bouncing and forearms itching from the irritation bubbling in your chest.

“But don't you get it?!” Jake rehearses, script in hand. His hands flail in fake exasperation. You cover your mouth to hide the wince forming on your lips. “How can I choose between the stage and football?!”

“You don't have to choose,” Suji steps in, acting much better than Jake, at least. “You can do both.”

Jake sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. He's facing her now.

She's pretty, you think. Really pretty. Probably one of the most gorgeous girls you've ever seen in your life. And Jake is staring right into her eyes. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks the same. You grit your teeth at the thought.

“But what would people think of me?” he sighs. Suji shakes her head, moving closer. Your brows knit. That's not part of the script.

“Who cares what other people think?” she says softly, resting her hand on his chest. Your expression darkens immediately. “If it feels like you're alone… Then I can be there to support you.”

Maybe Jake's character should care what other people think, especially if he’s gonna prioritize singing on stage with some pretty girl over his football career—

You slap your own cheek lightly. Relax.

“Cut,” the musical director calls out. “Great job, you two! After this is the dance scene. We can rehearse that tomorrow. I think that's all for the day.”

When the actors and stage crew finally funnel out, you watch Jake stay behind, chatting with his costars onstage. So radiant, smiling at them with his toothy grin and cracking jokes as he says goodbye. He never used to be like that. Used to be so painfully shy that Jay had to accept his academic awards for him in high school.

And yeah, you feel like shit when he's standing there, surrounded by people who have stars in their eyes when he talks, while you're grumpily waiting in a faraway seat with no real excuse to interrupt. You're just part of the stage crew, after all. Just one of the invisible people who move props in between scenes while Jake and Suji’s characters fall deeply in love with each other. Yuck.

But you’re not gonna do the usual thing of dragging him to the nearest secluded area and fucking his brains out. No—you’re better than that. You’re not a loser! You’d let this pass.

“Bye, I’ll catch up with you guys soon! My friend’s waiting for me.”

The word ‘friend’ digs deep into your heart. But that’s your own fault.

Jake walks toward you, and the quick smile he throws your way is cut short the moment he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He stops in front of you, forehead still glistening from the stage lights, eyes glued to the screen even as he talks.

“I have practice in like thirty minutes,” he sighs, scrolling through his calendar. “And then the crew wants to have, like, a group dinner later tonight.”

He cranes his neck to release some tension, finally looking up at you. “Damn. My character is lowkey right. It really is hard balancing the two.”

You roll your eyes and stand up. “The crew? Like Jay and Sunghoon?”

He shakes his head as he walks beside you, still a bit occupied with his phone. He's sending text messages to some massive group chat, text bubble after text bubble popping up.

“The main acting crew,” he says, emphasizing the second word. “I think they wanna run the lines at En Bar and get a couple of drinks.”

You almost stop in your tracks, but you force yourself to continue walking with him, arms crossed. Good for him, you think. And you mean it. He's adjusted so well to university life, while yours feels like it revolves around him.

What's Jake up to? Is his practice done? Who's he talking to? Is it Choa? Is it Suji? Is it every girl that makes eye contact with your newly socially adept boyfriend, who just so happens to have the most gorgeous face known to mankind?

You want to punch yourself real bad.

“Do you wanna come?” he asks when he notices you've fallen silent. He thinks it's cute when you're jealous. Sulking and pouty—when it’s obvious why you’re upset. Not when you're quiet. Not when you're creating distance between you two as he walks beside you.

“I can ask them if we can reserve more chairs—”

“It's fine!” you interrupt, but even you don’t convince yourself. “I have work to catch up on anyway.”

His lips part as if recalling something important, something he promised you. 

“I'm so sorry, babe!” he gasps. “I totally forgot that you needed help studying for your exam tomorrow!”

You shrug your shoulders. You’re a cool girlfriend. Super chill. Not crazy at all.

“No, it's okay,” you say, chain necklace feeling heavy on your chest. “I'll just go to the tutoring center. You're busy, I get it.”

His eyes are still laced with concern. You sound so disconnected, so not yourself. Did he do something wrong?

“I can come over tomorrow?” he suggests, but it almost comes out as a plea. “We can watch the new movie you wanted—”

“My roommate’s gonna be home.”

“Okay…” he says, voice fading. “What about my dorm?”

You shake your head.  “I'm not really up for a movie, I guess.” 

Jake’s expression sours. It feels like you’re shoving sheets of metal down his throat. He can take you angry. Can handle you screaming, kicking, crying, and calling him names. He can’t take whatever this is.

“I can just cancel,” he says quickly. “I’ll come over tonight!”

And Choa’s voice resounds in your ear.

“You seem like a fucking loser.”

You bite your bottom lip and stare at his wavering gaze. You wonder if he pities you. 

Has he noticed? How quickly you reply to his texts? How often you show up to his extracurricular activities? How you can’t seem to admit that you’re hurting, even when he’s right here in front of you? God, you hate this feeling.

“It’s okay,” you say, and it’s small like a whisper. “Need some alone time anyway.”

“Alright,” he breathes, relenting to whatever boundary you’ve set with him. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your face, but when you flinch, he retracts his hand instantly.

“I love you?” he tests.

You give him a small smile and nod, pushing past him. He moves like he wants to catch your hand and stop you. But as always, he lets you walk just a little too out of his reach.

Because you still don’t say it back.

–

So this is what it feels like to twiddle your thumbs and try not to scream as Jake misses yet another hangout... He’s busy with his daily practices and rehearsals. You get that. But it’s still physically torturous to sit through Jay and Sunghoon stoking the fires of your insecurities.

“He’s gotta be seeing someone,” Sunghoon sighs, reclining into the beanbag in Jay’s apartment. “Dude just abandons his friends without any pussy involved? There’s no way.”

You smash a throw pillow from the couch and into his face, and Jay throws another one for good measure.

“Why do you always think with your dick?” Jay mutters. “Just let Jake be. This is his moment. Not like he had much to work with in high school.”

Sunghoon sighs. “Yeah,” he mumbles, almost apologetic. “He was pretty lame back then.”

You never thought so. Maybe you joked about it, but you never really meant it. He was kind. A little shy. So eager to please and follow you around. And now that the roles were reversed, you weren’t sure how to feel anymore. Fuck. Why couldn’t you just be happy for him?

He has this amazing life outside of you now. Cool friends (not Jay and Sunghoon). Great prospects for the future. It’s like a bird leaving the nest. Your carefully cultivated nest.

You felt like a cloud raining over his head when you’re around him now. After Choa, you started to notice the whispers around campus a little more. How people avoid him when you’re around because you can’t carry empty conversations about upcoming exam scores the same way Jake can.

It’s just different. He is. And it feels like you are too. But not a good different. It’s the kind that makes you feel like this isn’t how you should be. That you aren’t who you want to be… Maybe Choa was right.

And now a pillow is thrown in your direction. You shoot daggers at Sunghoon with your glare.

“What?!” you yell. He pounces in fear.

“I asked,” he coughs. “Is college treating you okay? You making friends?”

You roll your eyes. “Are you my dad?”

Jay sighs. “We always talk about Jake. Sue us for wanting to know how you’re doing for once.”

The words linger. What are you doing?

–

You’re stewing in it, marinating in how lonely it feels to stand in a corner with the stage crew while Jake, Suji, and the rest of the main cast laugh amongst themselves. Whatever.

“Those two are so cute,” a girl beside you says. Gaeul. So sweet, so bubbly. So oblivious to how tightly you clench your teeth. “They’d be like the it couple on campus, no?”

When you look between Jake and his toothy grin and Suji with her sweet laugh, you can’t help the way your heart constricts. “Yeah,” you mutter in disgruntled agreement. “I guess.”

Jake sends you sneaking glances, ones you don’t notice despite your eyes lingering on him. 

You haven't been the most responsive lately. He texts you a lot in between practices and rehearsals. Whenever he has the chance. He asks to come over. Asks you to come over. And you’ve turned him down almost every time.

You didn’t attend his last two games, you’re skipping rehearsals that you used to sit through for hours, and Jay knows where you're holed up more than he does. He’s worried about you. Worried that you’re avoiding him. Were you avoiding him?

“I heard you two are really good friends,” Gaeul asks you with sparkling eyes. “He seems like such a catch. How’d you not fall in love?”

You shrug. What answer are you supposed to give? It’s not like you were resistant to his charm either. “He went through a transformation recently,” you admit. “We were both kind of outcasts in high school.”

“Me too!” she says excitedly. “I bleached my hair, and everything before uni started. What about you? Were you two like super shy?”

You shake your head. “Jake was. I was just a bad student. Got in trouble a lot. My parents literally laughed when I told them I wanted to go here.”

And your heart thuds in your chest from a memory. Because Jake believed in you. Sat through hours of studying, teaching you the difference between derivatives and whatever the fuck linearization was, just for the chance to attend the same university. So he could spend time with you, so he could be with you. And now you barely see him.

“Really? I’m not surprised, though. You seem like such a chill girl. Like you don’t care what other people think of you.”

“Trust me. I’m far from it.” You catch Jake’s longing gaze again, but you turn away.

“Starting to think it was a mistake joining this thing,” you mumble, “with how often everyone forgets their lines.”

She laughs. “I like how straightforward you are,” she says with a wide smile. “Don’t really mince your words, do you?”

You smile too, in what feels like forever. It felt free to talk about something—anything—outside of him.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know how to hold back what I say.” Which is a lie. Because you hold back a lot. More than you let on. 

“Alright!” the stage manager yells. “Let’s get in position for the final scene.”

The kiss scene. The one you’ve dreaded for so long. You and Gaeul move across the stage, setting up the mics and instruments in their right place. You move past Jake with your head down. He frowns. So you are avoiding him.

“Places, people!”

You watch, from the wings, as Jake pours his heart out into the lyrics. A song about breaking free from stereotypes and whatever other inspirational stuff this whole musical’s about. He’s good. Really good. He moves like a natural on stage, throwing Suji these soft, tender glances that look so painfully real. She glows under the lights, stars in her eyes. And as the song comes to an end, he picks her up to spin her.

Just like the script says. And you clutch your forearm at the sight.

“I feel like I can really be myself with you,” he says to her. “Like I don’t have to hide or pretend.”

Whatever.

“And you make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.”

The two stare at each other. A pause. Jake leans in. And so does she. Fuck.

You can’t do this. Can’t watch. You turn and walk out the back exit. Your chest is heavy, constricted with that ugly pang of envy.

Fuck this feeling. It hurt. Why did it have to hurt? You hate the tears that well up in your eyes, hate the shivering of your shoulders as you hug yourself in the parking lot of the stupid auditorium. You need to go back in. Save face. Show how little that kiss scene affected you because you’re supposed to be his friend in the eyes of everyone else.

You clutch your necklace through your shirt, fingers twisting the ring. Jake, who loves you. Who desperately wants your relationship to be public, to show you off. The same Jake on stage kissing another girl for a stupid musical you didn’t even want to be a part of.

He doesn’t deserve this. This monstrous version of you, who cares too much but gives too little. Overbearing to the point of suffocation.

So you walk back in, face steeled and tears wiped. He’s talking to the director with Suji, like nothing happened. Like all semblance of your self-esteem wasn’t just ruined a few minutes ago. But you need to stop. Because it isn't his fault. It isn't even Suji’s.

It’s yours. You hurt your own feelings.

Jake sees you and immediately lights up, calling your name as he jogs over. You don’t smile back.

“I have some time after rehearsals,” he says lovingly, his hand tugging your arm. “Wait for me?”

This would be the last time you would.

–

He tries to hold your hand on the walk back home to steady his heart rate. Opening night creeps closer and closer, and preparation alone won’t save him from the nerves. But when you pull away before his fingers can intertwine with yours, he flinches.

Maybe there are too many people around, Jake tells himself. You’re probably worried about being seen. And so he continues his merry yapping. He doesn’t notice the defeated glint in your eyes or the slow steps you take next to his. He’s still riding the high from rehearsal, still proud he finally made it through every line without stuttering or needing the script.

Maybe he’ll do well enough on opening night that you’ll let him kiss you afterward. Maybe you’ll walk toward him with flowers while he wraps you in his arms. He’d spin you around, brag to the whole world that you’re his girlfriend. Say it loud and proud in front of annoying ass Jay and Sunghoon, who got front row seats.

The thought pulls a grin onto Jake’s face, making him skip ahead a little. And you both keep walking toward the dorms. Just like any other day.

Until you ruin it.

“I’m dropping out of the stage crew,” you say, casually. He stops in his tracks. All semblance of a smile wipes from his face. The show is sold out. It’s too late to get you tickets. 

“You won’t be able to watch,” he says, panic laced in his voice. You’re at a standstill, in the middle of campus, surrounded by trees and concrete. “You should’ve told me! I can see if I can pull some strings—”

He’s already taking his phone out to text someone. Probably the director. He doesn’t even ask why. Just goes straight to problem-solving. Your Jake. Too good. Too kind. Too forgiving.

It’s too much.

“I’m not coming to watch,” you say, harsher this time, stopping him from sending the message. Guilt washes over you instantly. Because he looks at you with his brows knit together, eyes wavering.

“I don’t understand.”  You don’t want to come? You don’t want to support him?

Your mouth opens to say something. Anything. But your throat feels hoarse, shoulders too heavy. Shit. Don’t cry. You don’t cry in front of anyone.

“Jake,” you start, clenching your quivering hands open and closed. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His heart drops. 

“Do what anymore?” he swallows, his mouth dry. “I’m confused—”

“I think we need to break up.”

Numb. Everything is numb.

“W-what?” Tears sting Jake’s eyes before he can blink them back. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

You shake your head. “Jake,” you whisper, careful not to get too close. Careful so you don’t make the mistake of taking back your words. “I don’t think we’re good for each other.”

He inches forward. You take a step back.

“Do you think that? That I’m not good enough—”

“No,” you interrupt. But he isn’t listening. And he doesn’t want to. Because this feels like a fucked up joke, a prank on him that’s been taken too far. Won’t you stop?

“Because if it’s something I did, I can change,” he begs. And your heart breaks a little at how desperately he searches for a hint of emotion in your face. But you don’t relent. You can be the bad guy. You always are. 

“Please. We can talk this through.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, an unusual softness in your voice. “I don’t want to change my mind—”

“Why not?!” he asks, voice louder. The quiet that falls between you two is masked by the rustle of surrounding trees, orange and red leaves falling around you two. The cool, autumn air brushes your face. His eyes sting with redness. 

“Why don’t you tell me anything?” His voice cracks. The aching in your heart makes you want to give in, to take it all back. But you aren’t like Jake. You can’t adjust, can’t welcome change so openly. 

So as you look at him with his slicked back hair and sharp features, so different from a year ago, it feels like you've already lost something. The version of yourself who had more to give than hollow excuses and marks left on his skin.

You couldn’t admit to it even now. That you hate who you’ve become. “I’m telling you right now,” you gulp, bracing your own words. “That I want to break up.”

And the first semblance of tears falls down Jake’s cheeks as he lets out a bitter laugh. He doesn’t believe it. Can’t accept it. He won’t let this be the end.

“If it’s because of what Choa said—”

Your brows furrow. “You heard what she said?” 

His hands are in his hair, tugging at it with frustration. You seem angry, but he doesn’t know why. He never does.

“I told her to mind her business,” he explains quickly. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. So if you’re breaking up with me just because she called you clingy or whatever…”

And he doesn’t know it, but the words trigger something in you. Something you’ve been pushing down over and over again. The feeling of seeming weak, of needing him. The need to monopolize. It sickens you.

“It matters what I think Jake!” you finally burst out. Frustration etched in your voice, shaky from the cold air and your wavering emotions. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“All I ever do now is wonder who you’re with, why you’re with them, and I just… I just feel so fucking lonely.”

He reaches for you, but you push him away. Your grievances spill out of you before you can hold them back.

“I’m paranoid of anyone who talks to you. I couldn’t even fucking watch you do that stupid kiss scene,” you continue. 

“We didn’t even kiss!”

“That’s not the fucking point!” you scream, before you can stop yourself. You inhale sharply when he flinches. Calm down. This is not his fault. Why are you getting angry with him?

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, taking one more step back. He holds your wrist gently to keep you in place.

Jake stares at you with his lips parted, stunned. “So why can’t we just go public?” he pleads. “You wouldn’t have to feel this way if—”

“That’s not the issue either,” you scoff, but you can’t even convince yourself. Because isn’t this how it all started? Your unwillingness to be embarrassed, to seem vulnerable in front of others. Was this not the root of it all?

“Then what is?!” he cries, his grip on your wrist tightens, not to hurt you, but so that you don’t run. Because you’re good at that. Running.

“I get insecure too,” he reassures, but you look past him now. “But I tell you. I tell you when I’m hurt, I tell you when I’m down. Because I… I want you to understand me. I want to understand you too…”

He swallows hard before continuing. “So I don’t get why you would even bring up breaking up before we even try to solve the problem together—”

“Because I don’t want to solve it, Jake.”

His hold on you loosens instantly, arm dropping to his side. You feel colder as he steps back. Jake stares at you, hurt laced in his gaze. Like you stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife in to marinate.

“...You're always like this,” he mutters under his breath. “Always saying hurtful things without thinking about how they make me feel.”

He feels his throat close up as he draws in some baited breaths. The tears come in more heavily, his cheeks damp as they roll down his pained face. 

“So you see what I mean?” you say, your own tears threatening to spill over without you even realizing. A part of him instinctively wants to wipe them away, to pull you close and make it stop. But all he feels is anger. Because you’re the one breaking up with him. You’re the one choosing to end things. What right do you have to cry? What right do you have to look shattered when he's the one in pieces?

“I’m horrible to you,” you let out with pained laughter. He shakes his head immediately. 

“No, you’re not—”

“I always pick fights—”

“You don’t—”

“I act like a fucking bitch—”

“Don’t call yourself that—”

"I feel like I’m insane when I’m around you,” you let out, before you can stop yourself.

“I don’t think that at all—”

“But I do, Jake,” you cry. “I hate how jealous I get when you’re surrounded by other people. I hate feeling like I’m holding you back. I hate what I’ve become since…”

And you can’t finish because his tears have stopped. He’s looking at you with a new kind of anguish. The kind that you don’t necessarily expect. The kind that feels like disgust. 

“Since you started dating me?” he says like he correctly finished your statement. But that’s not what you're going to say. Never that.

“Since you didn’t need me anymore,” you whimper. “I’m not a good girlfriend, Jake. You’d be so much happier without me. Everyone would think it if they knew.”

He stands in front of you, hollow. If they knew. He has to laugh. That’s the problem. No one does. You don’t want them to. It’s clear now.

“Fine,” he says, and the steadiness of his voice makes you shudder. Good. This is what you wanted. 

He’s staring at you, jaded like he had come to terms with it. He used to love how insistent you were about your point of view on things, how firmly you stood by your opinions. Used to envy it. But now, he detests it. That stubbornness. 

“Whatever you want,” he sighs, hands slipping in his pockets. “Let’s break up. Pretend we never happened.”

Your mouth parts. “Excuse me?”

Jake scoffs, hands tightening into a fist. They’re trembling, but he won’t let you see. He can do what you do. Act like he’s okay. Act like you didn’t just kill him. He’s gotten very good at that. Acting.

“I’m being honest, Jake—”

“You don’t love me,” he cuts in. And your heart sinks. “That’s all this is. You never show it. You never say it. And I’m tired of hearing you pretend like you’re doing me a favor when I’m practically begging you not to leave.”

His voice cracks, but he continues. “So fine,” he mutters. “Have it your way. You won’t ever have to admit that we dated, start a clean slate without me. Just like you want.”

He presses his lips together and gives you one last look before he takes his hands out of his pockets. He’s fiddling with the ring. His ring. The ring that matches yours.

“You know,” he starts, voice trembling and bitter, “when it was the other way around… when I felt like shit about myself…. I never once thought of leaving you.”

His gaze is on the ground. “Because I always thought I was better with you than without. Because you made me want to be better.”

His voice falters. He looks at you now, sniffling. 

“I tried to be better.”

And in one swift motion, Jake takes off the ring.  “...But you didn’t even want me enough to stay.”

“Jake, no—” 

But it’s too late. You see him throw it, the bushes rustling nearby. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He shoves his hands back in his pockets and walks past you to the direction of the dorms.

“There,” he says quietly behind you. “Like we never happened.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even spare you a glance. It’s only when he’s fully out of sight that you dig through the orange and red pile of leaves, through dirt and branches. Tears stream down your face as you sob, searching for it like a mad woman. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic. 

But you can’t find it. No matter how hard you try to find a silver glint in the greenery, there is nothing. And you clutch onto yours like it’s your lifeline. He threw it away. How could he throw it away?

And you wonder then if you made the biggest mistake in your life.

–

You thought the pit in your stomach would fade once you ripped the bandage, but the hole in your heart opened wider. And it’s only been a week.

Jake used to dodge questions about his love life, but now he admits to anyone with ears who walks by that he’s single. You have ears. And you walk by often. You’re not sure if he’s taunting you or if you just want him to be.

When your eyes meet his at the one lecture you still share, he’s the first to turn away. Jake used to sit beside you, shoulder brushing yours, tilting his laptop so you could keep up when the professor switched the slides too quickly. When you pass the football field, you try not to wince when you see Choa latch onto his arm like she belongs there. He used to always pull away. 

The worst part is that these stolen glances are all you have of him. He’s blocked you on everything, which feels weird to think about. Jake, who’s always gentle, always forgiving, always offering second chances—even to people who don’t deserve it. Maybe this time you’re one of them.

You have no right to be upset. Not anymore.

And so you wrap yourself in your studies, check out new extracurriculars, even try to make new friends on campus who know nothing about Jake. You try to rebuild, try to go back in time before that fateful day in high school when you met him. But it’s been far too long. 

He was a part of you, so deeply ingrained in your daily life. How could you act like you two never happened? Like your relationship never existed? How could he do it so well?

And then, you have to remind yourself. You'd already been doing that anyway.

–

“So what did he do?” Jay questions, tuning his guitar while Sunghoon and you sit in his living room. “Did he tell you he was done paying for your stuff or…”

“Shut up,” you grumble, already agitated enough as you scroll through Suji’s Instagram. You couldn’t even muster the energy to be jealous over a photo of Jake and her holding up peace signs next to each other. You just feel empty. “Nothing happened.”

Jay rolls his eyes. “He’s usually texting one of us to get you to answer his messages by now. It’s been crickets from him for the last two weeks.”

You swallow hard. He used to do that?

Jay’s gaze flickers toward you and sighs as he fiddles with his guitar strings. “You know, I really don’t get the two of you,” he mumbles. “Like you already rejected him in high school, you’re practically just stringing him along at this point—”

You sit up. “Excuse me?”

He shakes his head, dropping the guitar onto his lap. “Jake told us,” he starts hesitantly. “That you ran away when he tried to confess last year.”

‘But that’s not the full story,’ you want to scream out loud. 

“Yeah,” Sunghoon laughs as if recalling a memory. “Dude! Remember in the summer when he started going to the gym with me?”

Jay cringes. “Yeah, and he told us it was because he’d be starting this season, but we knew it was just because you said you liked macho guys.”

You shake your head, ears warming at the thought. That’s insane. 

“Oh, and that stupid ass ring,” Sunghoon adds, clutching his stomach. Your hand instinctively clutches at your necklace, fingers brushing the chain. “His mom beat the shit out of him when she found out how much he spent on it.”

You twiddle with the ring through your shirt. You should've taken it off by now. He'd already thrown his away. So what use was it leaving him if all you were going to do was hold on?

“Why would he do all that for me?” you mutter, not realizing that you said your thoughts out loud. 

Jay shrugs. “Love makes you do stupid things.” And then he sighs. “Go easy on him, okay? You know how he is. Jake’s a sensitive boy. Especially when it comes to you.”

You look down at the ground, shame bubbling up in your chest. Jake loved you. He really did.

–

You smile from your view of the auditorium, even from the back, feeling like a speck of dust in the full house. A bouquet is in your hand as you nervously find your seat. Jake’s right. Everyone’s here to watch.

You could see Jay and Sunghoon’s tiny heads toward the front, pushing down the bitterness of not being able to sit as close as they were. It's not fair, you think. You had to buy a last minute ticket off a student who could no longer make it while they don’t even like musicals. You shake your head.

This isn’t about you. It’s Jake’s big night. 

The lights dim. Your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—steps onto the stage in a football jersey that looks almost exactly like his real-life one. The audience quiets at his entrance. As he delivers his cheesy opening monologue, you mouth the words with him. He’d practiced it so much in front of you. Pride wells up in your chest. He doesn’t stutter once. 

Even when Suji joins him on stage, even as they sing together during their characters’ first meeting, you couldn’t help but smile. 

The scenes blur as you lose yourself in the show. You watch the characters as they are and not as your ex and the girl you desperately wanted to hate. It was actually fun. The cheeky glances, the perfectly rehearsed dance scenes. The way the main character so seriously thought that singing was going to affect his football career. It made you laugh, made you tear up, made you suck in a deep breath when Jake leaned into her. 

And because you’re still you, and because the wounds still feel fresh, you close your eyes. You don’t have to know if he really did it or not. It doesn’t matter. It’s his moment.

‘If only I felt like this the whole time,’ you thought to yourself. Then maybe you wouldn’t have to psych yourself up to find him afterward and pour your heart out to him. You shiver at the thought.

But Jay had said it: love makes you do stupid things.

And you do. Love him. 

Enough to buy him flowers. Enough to admit that you’re done hiding. Enough to risk asking him to love you again—even if there’s a chance that he already moved on.

–

“Bro,” Jay starts, with tear-stained cheeks. “Don’t ever do that again. I can’t be crying like that in front of everybody.”

“Quit football,” Sunghoon says, patting Jake on the back with unusually red eyes. “Just focus on this musical shit. I swear you could make it big time.”

Jake chuckles, watching as the auditorium empties of guests. “Thanks, guys. I’m glad you two liked it.”

God, he wishes you were here. He could imagine exactly what you’d say when you walk up to him, with a small smile you try to suppress. Saying good job while ruffling his hair. Trying to act like you didn’t cry like everyone else. Jake smiles, quietly, at his own thoughts. It’s ridiculous, coming up with hypotheticals when you’d already made it clear. You don't want to be with him anymore. 

“Jake.” 

His heart instinctively skips a beat.

When he turns, the air in his lungs escapes him. You’re holding a bouquet so big it hides most of your frame, looking at him expectantly as you push it towards him. His eyes widen, unable to speak or even take the flowers from you. Is he dreaming?

“You did a good job,” you say, trying to sound as genuine as possible, wanting him to feel your sincerity.  “You killed it up there.”

“Thanks,” he says shortly, finally taking the flowers from your hands. He can’t help but stare. 

“I—” you try to push out, but Suji rushes to the stage to tap Jake on the shoulder.

“Hey.” She smiles up at him. “We're heading out soon for the celebration. Did you still want a ride with me?”

“Damn, even musicals got afterparties?” Sunghoon mutters to Jay, who attempts to shush him.

Jake returns a smile. “Yeah, just give me a second.”

And when he turns around to look at you, to finally hear what you have to say, your eyes are glossed over. Maybe you’re too late. Maybe this is idiotic after all. It's been weeks. There's no guarantee he'll even listen.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” you mutter, though you've changed the words you meant to say entirely. It's supposed to be: ‘I’m so proud of you. Will you take me back? I’ll stop being so mean. We can tell everyone we’re in love—yes, even Jay and Sunghoon.’

But old habits die hard. And Suji—beautiful fucking Suji—crushed every ounce of confidence you had to come up to him in the first place.

“That's all,” you say, shooting him a small grin. It doesn't quite reach your eyes. He notices. Jake always does. Just never knows the reason why.

Before you can step back, he grabs your wrist, spinning you into his arms. Like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms.

“Don't,” he whispers. “Please… don't run away this time.”

You stare up at him, searching his gaze.

“Man, what the fuck is going on…” Jay whispers behind the two of you.

Sunghoon shrugs. “You think they finally…?”

Jake turns his head to give a disgruntled look to his two idiotic friends, and they shrink, making their way down the stage to finally give the two of you more privacy. He turns his attention back to you, wrist still in his hand, and gently moves it down to take your hands in both of his.

“I thought you didn't want to come,” he starts, licking his lips through the nerves. “Why are you here?”

Your cheeks heat up. Fuck. Where do you even start?

He draws circles with his thumb on the back of your palms. “Why?” he asks again, more confident this time.

It would be easy to act like your old self and push out a half-assed excuse. That you just want to be supportive, even after you’ve broken up. That you don’t miss him at all. But you're too tired to pretend like Jake's absence in your life didn’t feel worse than when you were with him. 

“Because…” you start, with a shaky breath. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

His brows furrow. “About what?”

And you feel your heart pumping in your chest, your palms slick with sweat. This is harder than you thought.

“I wanted to—” You swallow, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “I wanted to apologize. With the ring. The one you threw away.”

You see Jake's ears turn a bright shade of crimson. “Actually—”

“But I couldn’t find it,” you cut in. “No matter how hard I looked. I tried. I really, really…”

You start to choke up. Because fuck. He'd gotten you that ring to confess to you. Spent all his pocket money so that he could get something he knew you'd love. Had it engraved with the letter J. Your Jake. Your handsome, talented, smart, and wonderful Jake.

“...really want to get back together,” you finally let out, eyes shining underneath the stage lights as tears threaten to spill over. “I'm sorry, Jake.”

His breath hitches, hands releasing yours so suddenly. Your heart clenches. “You broke up with me,” he mutters.

You nod. “I-I thought I needed to. To find myself. But… you were right. I was just running away from my problems.”

You swallow hard, correcting yourself. “Our problems.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “So is this the part where you expect me to forgive you?”

Your heart clenches. “I'm sorry,” you say again softly.

“You still haven’t even given me a reason,” he scoffs. “So tell me why. Why do you want to get back together when—”

It’s like slow motion, what you do next. You cup Jake’s face right into your hands, crashing your lips onto his. In front of Sunghoon. In front of Jay. In front of the whole cast and crew who were packing up to leave. The same people he’s had to make excuses to about why he suddenly looked so distraught these past few weeks. You pull back, breathless.

“Because I love you,” you say, loud enough to elicit gasps from your watchers. You don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed anymore. Because the words fall naturally from your lips, like breathing. And it's like music to his ears. 

“I fucking love you,” you repeat, hands still on his cheeks. His mouth parts open, breathless. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then he smiles, tears forming in his eyes. Jake swoops in, his lips finding yours again. His mouth moves against yours in tandem, slow and passionate. Your eyes flutter shut, soaking in the taste of him. You missed him so much.

When he pulls away, a shit-eating grin lights up his face. “Finally,” he whispers, cheeks flushed. “You finally said it back.”

You lightly swat his shoulder. You should've known he was trying to egg you on. Jake and all his damn questions.

“I love you too,” he mutters against your temple, squeezing you against him. “I love you so much.”

He peppers kisses all over your face, and you hear gagging on the sidelines.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” he mutters into your hair. “That shit fucking hurt.”

You smile sadly. “I promise—”

“YOU TWO WERE DATING?!” a familiar voice cries out. Of course. Nosy-ass Sunghoon. You resist the urge to drop kick him right then.

“I have a better question,” Jay pipes in. “Are we invited to this afterparty too or…”

Jake furrows his brows, turning to the idiotic duo. “What afterparty?”

Sunghoon and Jay bombard you with questions about your secret relationship, but mainly just start arguing about who was gonna call the taxi for the party they still desperately wanted to go to, since Suji had already left.

Running far away from the auditorium, Jake and you giggle as the two idiots try to chase after you. When you both reach his dorm, he doesn't waste one second after you close the door to lift you over his shoulder. You yelp as your feet lift off the ground, squeaking when your back hits the mattress with a soft bounce.

He sets the bouquet softly on his nightstand before hovering over your frame, and his knees sink into the mattress as he traps you underneath him. Jake strokes your cheek lovingly, his hand trailing down and down until it reaches the edge of your skirt. Still as short as ever. Thighs so pretty underneath the thin fabric.

“I missed you,” he sighs, hands trailing to the edges of your panties. He strokes your plush skin, sending shivers down your spine. You want to roll your eyes, deflect the warm stirring in your core as he scans your figure, eyes clouded with lust. But you’re supposed to be turning over a new leaf. Honesty and all that.

“Imissedyoutoo…” you mutter lowly, rushing through your words.

He moves closer, ear practically touching your lips. “Hm?” 

You lose patience, baring your teeth and nipping his helix. He flinches, glaring at you with a playful scoff.

“You said you weren't gonna be mean anymore…” Jake sighs, tone dripping in mockery as he pouts. And you want to say something more, but Jake’s hands land on your ass, giving you a subtle squeeze.

You know what. You'll humor him. Just this once.

You bring your lips to the ear you just bit, kissing it lightly. Steady hands trail down the fake football jersey he adorns, and to the painful bulge of his shorts. Jake sucks in a deep breath.  You chuckle, amused at how suddenly it hardens. So easy to arouse. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, licking his outer shell. He shudders against your touch, your breath on his neck triggering goosebumps all across his arms. You squeeze him through the fabric, his head falling to your shoulder. “I’ll stop…”

“Don’t,” he lets out through ragged breaths, as you stroke him languidly. You chuckle. He’s so cute. Cheeks tinged with pink. It makes you want to do worse things to him...

“Lie down,” you command, and he gladly takes your place on the bed. Your knees encase him now, tugging his stupid jersey over his head. “Let me make it up to you…”

His muscles are so well-defined, glistening under the light of your dorm room. You trail kisses down his chest, licking down his abs. Salty. Just how you like him. Jake squirms underneath you as you tug his shorts down, his dick slapping your chin on the way up as it springs free. Jake almost cums from the sight, tip flushed red and pulsing with need. To feel you. To be so buried deep inside you that he can feel the head poking through your stomach. 

When you move your head down to kiss his hardness, he digs his fingers into your shoulder. “No, baby,” he mutters. “Come up here, hm?”

You furrow your brows. Why the fuck was he trying to interrupt you during your apology?

“Wha—” 

Jake cuts you short, manhandling your waist as his fingers press into your hips. He positions your knees on both sides of his head, turning you around. He pushes your mini skirt all the way up to scrunch around your midsection. Yes, you might have an amazing view of his throbbing cock, but now you can't see his beautiful fucked out face. He breathes in the scent of your panties with hooded eyes, nose grazing your clothed folds. 

You pout. “I thought I was the one making it up to you—”

“You are,” he chuckles, interrupting you instantly. He pushes your ass down to his face with one hand, using the other to press your chest flush against his body. Your face inches closer to his member. Oh. That's what he's doing.

“Pervert…” you mumble, coyly reaching out for him. So thick and large that you need to use both hands to engulf him, pre-cum dribbling out of him as if on command. 

“I am,” he mumbles, pulling your panties low enough to give him access to your cunt, lying just below your knees. He licks a stripe up your drenched folds all the way to your puckered hole. You wither against him. “Call me whatever you want, baby. Just sit on my face when you do it.”

Your hips land down on him softly as your thumb spreads his liquid down his engorged length. This position was new to you, meaning it was also new to him. But Jake moves expertly like the quick learner he is. He plants open-mouthed kisses on your folds, pink muscle lapping at your labia like a man starved. Your tongue sticks out to offer kitten licks over his tip. 

But Jake hasn’t had you in weeks. And he knows what he wants. And it’s not the weak jutting you do against his face, or the shallow sucking you offer his engorged cock. No. He wants all of you. The sick part of you that would degrade him, that would rile yourself up like all those nights before. And he doesn’t want to have to mention a stupid nickname some stupid girl said to bring it out of you.

There were more healthy methods, he’s sure, to guide you right where he wants to be. And so Jake’s hands grip your ass, pushing you down on him harder. Forcing your hips to grind back and forth against his face at the rabid pace he sets, nose sticking in between your folds slightly as his tongue laps at your clit. Like this. Dirty. Raunchy. Aggressive. He fucking loves it. 

“Ngh—” you cry out, propelling him to push himself deeper in your mouth. You take a deep breath so his cock can slide through more easily, taking as much of him as you can to drown out your warbled moans. Your tongue finds the underside of his thickness, tapping him as you start to gag. And when Jake reaches the back of your throat, he gives you a second to calm yourself before he bucks his hips up into you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, remembering to hollow your cheeks as he shoots forward. But it’s hard to stay focused when his wet, pink muscle pushes into you. 

“Fuck—Taste so good, baby—” The squelching sounds that mix with Jake’s moans against your bundle of nerves are obscene, sucking and flicking his tongue with a fervor you try to match now. Your tongue curls up to meet the underside of his girth, bobbing your head up and down with ferocity. Anything to please him. 

“Mmmm—” you moan around him. Your mouth feels so fucking good, but your pussy on his lips was like actual heaven. He could eat you out all day. As a reward. As a punishment. Anything. 

And he breathes your scent in again, groaning once more. He pushes his nose closer to your folds, the tip of it engulfed in your wetness. You almost gag around his dick at the intrusion, saliva pooling at the base of his cock. You wrap your thighs around him tighter, bouncing on his face like he was nothing but a sex toy. Erratic. Desperate. Yes. Just like that. Fuck him like you never want him out of your sights again.

He knows you're close, knows by the way you start scratching at his thighs like an agitated pet. But, no. Jake needs it. Needs you to cum all over his face. Make a mess on him. Of him. His tongue plunges into you now, index finger coming up to play with your clit.

His cock pops out of your mouth with little resistance as your body goes slack with pleasure. You're just licking at his dick with a loose hand at this point, eyes rolling back from ecstasy. 

You whimper against the slickness of his sloppy mouth, drool continuing to fall out of the corners of your mouth through your slurred speech. “Ngh—No—Let me—Fuck—Jakeeee—” you try to say, but it all sounds nonsensical.

Jake understands, more than you know, as his heart constricts so deliciously. 'My poor baby,' he thinks. Just wants to make him feel good. Wants to make it up to him so bad. But you don’t know that the only thing that could make him happy right now is for you to choke him out with your sopping cunt. 

“Mmm—Ngh—Ahh—” He’s too good down there. Too fucking messy. Why does he do this? Why does he love making you sound like a fucking animal? Your toes curl, the grip around his shaft tightening as your back arches even more into him. 

You feel it. But it's different from usual. It feels like too much. Like an impending explosion. You claw at his thigh even more, all of a sudden panicked. “Jake—Let go—Jake—” 

When he shakes his head, his tongue swipes your clit left and right. His grip on your ass pushes his nose more deeply into your soaked folds. You whimper, cheek nuzzling against his length in desperation. 

“I'm serious….” you whine as you try to pull away. This is weird. You feel weird. You try to run away from it, that foreign feeling. But it's no use. Jake's too smart, too quick. He presses you down on him harder, hugging your waist, suctioning your clit, cheeks flushed from how quickly his mouth works against you. 

“JAKE!” you scream as your thighs clamp around him, hips shuddering uncontrollably. Like a hose turning on for the first time, a spray of your juices lands onto Jake's chin and neck, coating him in your dampness. He welcomes it, tongue sticking out to taste as much of it as he can.

You cry above him, tears landing on his dick that still rubs against your heated face. He laps up every last remaining bit of your climax desperately, like they’d dry up too quickly if he didn’t. You whine, grinding yourself on him to steady your heart rate. When he’s fully satisfied, Jake frees you from his clutches, lying you down on the bed so your head can finally rest on a pillow.

His cock is still incredibly stiff. And you're still in tears.

“You… fucking… dick,” you say in between sniffles, not believing you could ever climax that hard in your life. “Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?”

And he knows what’s going through your head. Because old habits do, in fact, die hard. And now you probably think he was out fucking anyone and everyone during the weeks-long hell that was your breakup. Jake chuckles, pulling your skirt down. He bites his bottom lip at the sight of your folds. Glistening with his saliva and your juices. He fists himself tightly. 

“Still so jealous, baby?” He smirks. God, please let him indulge in his pouty girlfriend at least once more.

“No, but be honest,” you mumble. “Did you—”

“Fuck other girls?” he finishes your sentence, scoffing playfully at the ridiculousness. Your eyes narrow.

“Well, did you?”

Jake spent almost every day crying, unblocking and blocking your number over and over again just to see if you'd notice. But he can tell you all that later. Because right now, you're giving him a death glare that only makes his cock throb harder. 

“No, babe,” he mutters, swiping his wet tip against your even more drenched folds. So puffy after all he's put it through. He peppers kisses on your shoulder. “You know I’d never.”

And you do. He’s only ever been with you. Will only ever be with you. You know that. But still. The wheels are already turning in your head. You know… you're usually the one worried about these things. Doesn't he deserve a taste of his own medicine?

“Imagine if I did—”

And he slams his dick into your plushness, eliciting a scream from you. He doesn’t even let you complete your evil plan.

“FUCK—”

“Don't finish that sentence,” Jake glowers, brows furrowed. You lick your lips deliciously. "That's not funny."

“See how it feels?” you whimper, as he delivers another harsh thrust, your shirt riding up your stomach from the impact. You arch your back off of the bed as Jake groans into your neck, licking a stripe up your jaw.

“All this just ‘cause I made you squirt,” he mumbles angrily, wincing as your pulsing walls squeeze his length into a tighter grip. “So fucking immature.”

You chuckle evilly. “Immature like who? Sungho—”

His childhood friend’s name doesn't even leave your lips when Jake clamps his teeth into your neck. Hard. “OW—”

A taste of your own medicine. But his skin grazes something then—a thin chain that he's seen before but never questioned.  You never wore it when you fucked. A circular hardness underneath your shirt that weirdly looks like…

He tugs on it before you can protest, and there on the chain is a ring. With J engraved on the inside. His gaze softens. And you become a blumbering mess underneath him, shy with embarrassment. “I can—Explain—Just—” 

Jake pulls out enough so his tip is the only thing suctioned in your folds before pistoning into you harshly once more. You whimper.

“Shut up and let me fuck you,” he mutters into your ear, before engulfing your lips in his. With a newfound energy, Jake pounds into you with urgency, pace brutal against your already sore pussy. His hand comes up to grab your tits, spilling over your bra from the impact of his movements. So rough. So mean. Damn, you were rubbing off on him.

You have this aching desire to flip him over and ride him back into submission, but the slapping of his hips into yours devolves your thoughts into unintelligible moans. 

“Ngah—Fuck—Oh my god—”

Jake’s mouth leaves yours as his eyes travel downwards to the piece of jewelry. He likes how it looks on you. Sitting so nice between your bouncing breasts. Maybe, he’d buy you a necklace next. A pretty Tiffany necklace to go with the pretty Tiffany ring on his pretty girlfriend’s pretty finger. Fuck. You’re so fucking pretty.

He brings the ring up to his mouth, biting down on the metal, before he lowers himself onto your lips once more. With the ring in between his teeth, he grabs at your jaw to open for him. Jake transfers it over to your parted lips as you catch the ring with your tongue, coated in his saliva. He dives down into you, your tongues battling as the coolness of the metal moves between your mouths. His thrusts are slower now, but you moan just the same.

Drool drips down both of your lips, the ring getting passed between you two in the movements of your open-mouthed kisses. He lets up, the necklace falling wetly onto the pillow. He admires the red marks the chain leaves on your neck. Maybe a Tiffany choker instead?

And his thrusts deepen, until your cervix repeatedly kisses his mushroom tip. He wished you could see your expression right now. So needy. So perfect. 

“Jake—Baby—” When the pet name leaves your lips, Jake lets out a deep, guttural groan. Like he'd been waiting his whole life for you to say it.

“Yes, baby?” He repeats after you, sweat beading down his forehead as he continues to split you open, pumping into your tightness with urgency. His hands are pushing your thighs open now, admiring how the ring sits sloppily on your neck as he jackhammers into you.

“I love you,” you moan out, your hands reaching for his face. “I love you so much.”

He looks at you with glassy eyes, soft and tender. He kissed you again, sweeter this time. 

“I love you too.” 

And he spreads you apart further, fucking you into the squeaking mattress with his pulsing dick, so big that it fills you everywhere you need him. He pushes in and out, evoking a new set of tears to stain your cheeks. “Baby,” you cry out. “I'm almost—”

“Wait for me,” he pleads, elbows falling to the sides of your head. He buries himself in the crook of your neck. “Can you, baby? Please—”

You try to nod as he's ramming into you as deep as he can go. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear, about how good you are for him, how pretty, how perfect, how he loves the marks you leave him, how he wants you to control him, how you’re the only one he’d ever be with in any lifetime ever.

“Ngh—” His hips snap forward with everything he can give. He feels it now, too. That coil that threatens to spill inside you. But he can't. No condom. No birth control. 

And when your hips rise, clenching around him, your orgasm hits you like a truck. You mewl out in pleasure, crying as Jake tries to pull out of you. But you suction him so well, too well, that it's a little too late. He twitches deep inside of your pussy. And his mouth falls open as the first spurts of cum spill, but nothing escapes his lips. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whines. He needs to pull out. But your cunt feels so damn good… So warm… So wet… And so much of himself has already spilled inside you… It's okay, right? To fill you up with all of it? But he has self-control. He swears it.

“No…” You whimper when he actually pulls away, his seed dribbling everywhere.

“...’m sorry, babe,” he groans, as his hand wraps around himself, stroking languidly. “I’m so sorry.”

Jake’s cheeks are flushed as he pumps the remainder of his climax on your drenched folds, painting your clit a milky white. He sees the first of his juices push out of you, his fluids like cream all over your puffiness.

“Fuck,” he moans, his fingers coming up to spread it all across your folds. But when you look down, all you feel is empty. All you feel is the need to push down against his fingers and take him all over again. 

Jake's eyes widen as he lets out a shaky breath. You look so desperate. For what? He's not sure. But he can't deny his baby anything. He can't deny himself either. He wants to see it just once. Seems like you do too. 

“Can I?” he asks in a low whisper, fingers spreading your folds apart to watch more of his load seep out of you. And you nod, shyly, relieved you didn’t have to beg for it yourself, already going through too much exposure therapy for one day.

And so Jake gathers the cum that's gushed over his digits, and with a shaky breath, he pushes them back into you. You tighten your grip on his biceps.

“Fuuuuck—” You cry out when he starts pumping them in and out, slow but still so fucking deep. His veiny fingers always know which parts to knead. 

Jake’s eyes are in a daze, obsessed with how his cum goes back in so easily—even when you’re still so tight and so sensitive. Everything feels so fucking drenched. And like this, he wants to see you come undone again.

“One more, baby…” he pleads in a low whisper, pressing butterfly kisses on your eyelids. He licks the tears that spill from your eyes. So pretty like this. “You want to make it up to me, right?”

You can only whine in response, hands shaking as they clutch onto him for dear life. 

“Hm?” He asks for confirmation, curling his fingers up to the spongy spot inside you. He grinds his palm on your engorged clit. Whimpering out a pathetic ‘yes,’ you let the pleasure overtake you once again. Your body feels like it's on fire. Too hot. Too much. But still, your back arches up into him, whimpering.

“Come on,” he whispers into your ear. Low and steady. “Give it to me.”

And you can practically hear the mess that his three fingers are creating as they pump into your folds, can feel the stickiness of your mixed juices coat your inner walls. But you shut your eyes, letting the warm tingling overtake your core. Yes—Right there—Fuck—

“I'M—” you screech, but it's no use. Your head falls back against the pillow as you sob. And Jake curses underneath his breath as you spray all over him once again, massaging your clit as he pulls his fingers out to watch. Your hips rise to meet nothing, just your body spraying so beautifully against his torso. His dick could harden once more any second now from the sight. He relishes in it, admiring his work as his cum pushes out of you again. Thick and creamy.

You look down too, seeing the fucked-out state he's put your body into. Maybe you would've been right to flick his forehead and call him every insult in the book for filling you up like that. But fuck. Could you ever have him cum outside of you again if it felt that good to have his cum inside you? No, you'd definitely need to get on the pill ASAP.

Jake’s gaze falls onto your face now, at your bruised lips and your dried tears. But the ring catches his eye once more, the one he hadn’t seen in a year. And his heart flutters.

“Babe?” he starts, lying softly next to you. He wraps you in his arms, not minding the dampness of the sheets below. He’ll clean you up later.

“Mmm?” You respond, on the brink of unconsciousness. Satiated. He touches your chain, the other hand wrapped around your stomach, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“How long have you been wearing our ring like this?” Your breath catches. You'd hoped that he'd forgotten, that the conversation could wait for the morning when your heart wasn't thumping so loud. It takes you a second before you respond.

“Since you gave it to me,” you admit, slowly. Jake can feel the warmth creep up to your ears. And he wonders how he's never seen it, how you seem to hide it so well after all the times he's undressed you before. But then again, you’ve always been good at keeping secrets.

Still, he smiles. Because even after you walked away, even when you said you were done, you still kept this piece of him. Wore it so beautifully around your neck, too.

Fuck—he’s never letting you walk out on him like that again. If you even hint at breaking up, he might actually end up begging on his knees and—

“Not like it matters anyway,” you cut through the silence grumpily. “You threw yours away.”

He lets out a surprised laugh and pulls you closer, squeezing you tight. You pout. What’s he so jolly for?

“What do you mean?” he asks cheekily. “That never happened.”

You turn around abruptly, facing him with furrowed brows. “I literally saw you—”

Your words are cut short when his mouth finds yours, one hand steadies your jaw as the other reaches blindly into his nightstand. A drawer opens. He pulls back just enough to show you the turquoise box, one eerily similar to the one you have in your closet, as he flips it open.

His ring. Silver and engraved with your initial. But how…?

“I guess I'm really good at pretending to throw things,” he answers before you can even ask. Thought I’d be a little dramatic that day…”

You smack his shoulder, but your hand massages the spot soon after, swallowed by the wave of relief that crashes over you. He didn't really let go like he made it seem. He was still yours, even when you thought you lost him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you grumble, pinching his cheek. All he does is chuckle. 

In one smooth motion, Jake lifts your necklace and unclasps it, letting the ring unfurl out and into his palm. You don’t stop him. 

He looks at you for a second, as if asking for permission. You offer Jake your hand instead of speaking. He slips the piece of jewelry onto your ring finger, kissing your knuckles. Then he slides his own ring back where it belongs, to where he’s always kept it. Jake smiles up at you, planting another sweet kiss on your lips.

And you know you’ll wear it proudly this time. Without him having to ask. 

“I love you?” he says, gently, like he needs to hear you say it back just one more time. Just to make sure. And you kiss him again, warmth coating your features.

“I love you too.”

His heart clenches in the best way possible.

Damn, he could really get used to this.

epilogue

Jake runs to the benches, grabbing at his water bottle like it’s his last salvation. He gulps it all down in seconds, sweat seeping down his body. Practice was way too intense today.

“Oh my god, Jakey,” a lilting voice punctures through his ear. “You're literally dripping.”

His eye twitches as she enunciates the last word. 

“Choa,” he starts, shooting daggers at her. He's too exhausted to put up with this today. Or ever. She was graduating in a few months anyway. He might as well say his piece. “First of all, my name is Jake. And second of all, it makes me really uncomfortable when you say things like that.”

Choa pouts, tugging his sleeve like a toddler. “Why?” she giggles. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No.” He pulls away, not even bothering to look at her. “I just don't appreciate how you talk to me.”

She glowers, thrown off by his disposition. He's usually so sweet, so polite. What happened?

“It's ‘cause of your friend isn't it? You know she was so fucking rude to me—”

“My girlfriend,” he corrects immediately. Choa’s hands drop down to her sides. Jake pays her no mind, packing his stuff into his duffle bag instead.

“W-what?” she stutters out. “Since when?”

He shrugs, finally slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Since forever.”

“What?!” she screeches. “How come you never told—”

“Oh Jakeyyyy,” you sing out in an octave higher than your regular speaking voice. He presses his lips together to prevent the laughter that almost seeps through his mouth.

“Yeah, babe?” He calls out, looking past Choa. You're standing with your arms crossed, eyeing her down from a few meters away. A bright new necklace shining above your shirt. 

Your gaze flickers back to him, not bothering to waste your precious energy on the small, vicious girl. You tilt your head to the side, beckoning him over in a silent command. And he follows.

Your loyal little puppy.

Jake takes your hands into his just to really rub salt on Choa's wound, your matching rings clinking against each other.

“Do you remember Gaeul from the backstage crew?” you announce proudly, the bob-headed girl long-forgotten. “She wants to hang out with me tomorrow!”

Jake smiles, ruffling your hair. “That’s great!”

“She's throwing something at her apartment this weekend, too,” you slide in. “Maybe… we can go together?”

“Oh yeah, Suji told me—” And he stops himself. But it’s too late. You’re already frowning.

“Okay, so let me go ahead and take Jay instead…” And he pouts at your words.

“Not fair,” he mutters, but you see the smile he suppresses. 'What a freak,' you think to yourself.

You click your tongue, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “...I'm biting the shit out of you later.”

And if Jake had a tail, it most definitely would’ve started wagging.

“Promise?”

fin.

A/N: Don't save him, he don't wanna be saved.

Your (for now) youngest screamed at the attack and launched at the elder in aggression.

“Aghhh!!!”

Fists, nails, teeth, really anything, were used. "Doyun, buddy." Jake's gentle hands tried to pull him away.

But yet again, he was being too soft and too gentle to seperate them.

"We don't use violence," he tried again, hands going between the two boys, but they were ultimately also bitten and scratched.

"BOTH STOP BEFORE I LOSE MY GODDAMN MIND!"

Everybody—including Jake—flinched at that. You yanked the toy forcefully away, the boys sure as hell held onto it with all of their strength. You already felt the energy draining out of your body. You definitely weren't supposed to be doing all of this at your vulnerable state.

Yet somehow, even though you used your most frightening voice, they managed to scream and fight again.

Doyun’s fist flew right in his hyung’s face.

Maybe it happened because of the ongoing chaos during the whole day. Maybe because you were so exhausted, and the boys felt that their mommy wasn’t giving them the attention like she used to. Or maybe because their dad never really scolded them and, thus, gave them unwillingly a green light to be troublemakers.

“Doyun! Stop right now!”

Your eyes stung, frustration bubbled in your chest.

You loved Jake. You really did. He was the best husband and father you could've ever imagined. But you just wished he would get mad once. Just once be the frightening father.

He was always way too soft with your boys. Naturally, it became your job to be the scolding parent.

And now that they were getting older, you began to realize how they started to favour their dad over you. I mean, of course, children would prefer the always smiley, happy parent, who could never say no to their round eyes and pouty faces, melting his heart with a ‘daddy, pwease.’

It was natural that they would like the parent more who let them eat ice-cream before dinner, who let them stay up late at night, or let them put their vegetables on his own plate.

Rather than the parent who made the rules and boundaries clear, who took away the ice cream before they could dig in, who made them wear three layers of clothes even though they were 'tough guys and could handle the cold', who furrowed her eyebrows at them most of the time — more than she intended to.

People on the outside, like your parents, loved your parenting dynamic. A bad and a good cop. One parent the children respected — who would shape them into disciplined, mannered young men. And the other parent who they could play with freely; who would fill their childhood with happiness and laughter.

The perfect balance.

But to you, sometimes, there was no real balance. It felt as if, when it came to the boys being rowdy and disobedient, you were the only one who was really parenting. And you knew he would be devastated if you told him exactly that, so you never worded it like that.

Don't get it wrong, Jake was not an absent parent, he just didn't know how to be strict.

You tried to tell him, especially now that you were pregnant, that you didn't have the energy to scold them and that he needed to be the one who told them no whenever it was appropriate.

Of course Jake, ever the attentive and loving husband, listened and nodded. He kissed the back of your hand and told you not to worry, that he got your back and that you were a team. Which is why he made his way out of the kitchen to handle the fight. Or any fights after you had your talk.

Until now, he wasn't really successful, and you always had to step in—despite his efforts.

Jake watched your lips tremble, a hand on your hip as your throat bobbed to swallow down the lump forming there.

"No more toy! No more screaming and crying-! No more talkin at all! And no more TV for one week!" You inhaled sharply, trying to stop yourself from bursting into tears.

The boys stopped for a moment. Jake watched you with big, sorry eyes.

“NOO!!” Here came the loud protest.

For a second, your vision blurred. The noise was too much. Your head began to spin. The feeling of dread spread through your veins.

You turned around, a hand holding your face, as the other, who held Superman, came to your round belly instinctively. Jake stood up immediately, concern taking over him.

"Jake, give them some toast for dinner and bring them to bed."

"NO! I DON'T WANT TOAST! I'M NOT GOING TO BED!" Hyeyun screamed, hot tears flowing down his face as he stomped his foot.

The younger one copied his behaviour, equally angry. “NO SWEEP!! NO!!”

"Do not!” Your head snapped back, a crease formed between your eyebrows, “do not talk back! Both of you!”

The overstimulation started to become too much.

“SHUT UP! I HATE YOU!” Hyeyun screamed.

Jake's eyes widened in shock, his mouth agape in disbelief.

Your heart cracked open.

That’s when you couldn't hold it in anymore. Your hands cupped your face, letting the toy fall on the ground as you just sobbed loudly.

How could this happen? Weren't you doing enough?

What am I doing wrong?

You were so tired.

Jake quickly went to you, "baby..." he pulled you in his arms. Your head nestled in his neck as your body continued to shake from the sobs. "Baby, shh... it's okey, it's okey," he stroke your hair to calm you down.

His intial shock turned into worry as he registered how badly you were shaking and sobbing. He tightened his hold around you and turned to look at his sons with a deep frown. Who had gone mute all of the sudden.

"Don't you ever talk to your mother like that again!" His eyes darkened.

"You two have been fighting and screaming the whole day! Don't you know your mom's pregnant?! You are stressing her so much, it's really dangerous for her health! You are not only putting her in danger but also your little sister! We have told you that a million times before, but you never seem to listen nor to care!"

The boys looked at him with round, shaky eyes. They have never seen their dad angry. The crease between Jake’s eyebrows deepened even more.

"Hyeyun." The boy flinched at his stern tone. "You will never talk to your mom like that ever again. No son of mine will ever be disrespectful towards my wife. You will never tell her again to shut up. Got it?"

Hyeyun’s lips wobbled in fear.

Your heart clenched painfully at the reminder of your son’s words.

I hate you. Shut up.

A louder sob left your mouth.

Where did you go wrong? You only tried your best. And that’s the result of all your hard work?

His attention immediately went back to his wife. "Hey... it's okey," he kissed your head, "it's okey. Deep breaths, honey. Take deep breaths." He rubbed his hand on your quivering back, your hiccups worrying him as the minutes went by.

Every sob, every tear drained more and more energy from you. Your head was spinning from the on going fights and screaming.

Then, suddenly, everything went dark.

“Yn!” He called out as you slumped in his arms. His heart sank in his stomach.

“Hey, hey, hey.” His arms tightened around, holding you impossibly closer. He tapped your cheek lightly with his open palm, “baby, wake up.” His tone strained.

Your eyes lazily blinked open. Your glassy eyes looked at him, your vision fuzzy.

He carefully guided you to the couch, almost carrying you by the way his arms were wrapped around you. "Careful, baby.” You leaned against the backrest, closing your eyes, hoping the dizziness stopped.

"Drink some water." Your eyes fluttered open, only then did you spot your children watching the whole scene, the fear was evident in their faces. Instant worry took over you, your children shouldn't be seeing this. You tried to sit up but you felt too lightheaded.

"What are you doing? Lay back." Jake’s voice was laced with worry and frustration. His comforting hand guided you to lay back. He brought the glass of water to your lips, "drink."

"Go to your room, boys," Jake ordered, he didn’t turn around to look at them.

“But-“ Hyeyun started.

“Now.” His tone firm, there was no room for discussion. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m really disappointed in you guys today.” He spoke as he entered the kids’ bedroom. Jake’s eyes weren’t sparkling like they usually did around his children. The boys understood right away that their dad was angry at them.

Doyun began to wail. Through a heavy sigh, Jake knelt down and pulled him in his arms. In response, his tiny arms immediately wrapped around his neck.

Later that night, you were lying in your bed in your husband's arms. You were feeling a lot better now.

After he had talked with the boys, he changed them into their pyjamas, fed them, brushed their teeth and hair. Then he had done the same to you, and you didn't bother to protest, all of your energy was flushed away anyways.

"Were they really okey?" You muffled against his shirt for the 50th time, your eyes misty.

"Yes, honey," his lips brushed your forehead, resting them there as he reassured you patiently for the 50th time. He didn't bother to tell you that Hyeyun didn't say a single word whilst Doyun was crying the whole time, calling for his mama. He knew you had heard it anyways, so why sadden your heart even more than it already was?

"And they fell asleep?"

"Yes, my love, I checked earlier."

"Are you sure they ate enough before going to bed? You gave them more than just toast, right? I didn't mean that-"

He hummed sleepily against your forehead, "they had a feast, baby."

You let out a shaky breath against his neck, "it feels so wrong to go to bed without kissing them good night."

Silence echoed through the house. Your ears were alert to any noises coming from your sons' bedroom, but there weren't any.

"It's okey, we will talk with them tomorrow, alright?" He kissed your eyebrow, closing his eyes as the exhaustion of the day was catching up on him.

You on the other hand couldn't fall asleep. You hated going to bed with unresolved conflicts, be it with your husband or parents, above all with the most precious lights of your life. So you waited for your husband’s breath to even out and his chest under your head to follow the usual, soft rhythm, before you would stand up and tiptoe to your sons' room. He would never allow you to get up from the bed after you fainted today.

You slowly removed yourself from your husband, pushing the blanket away in the quietest motion possible.

Just as you were about to sit up, a hand wrapped around your swollen belly, stopping you. “Where are you going?”

You gasped softly. “I thought you were sleeping-“

“Yn. You’re not getting out of this bed.”

“But-“

“No buts.” He laid you back in his arms, one hand holding protectively your pregnant belly.

“But I just wanna check on the boys-“

“Yn, no.” His voice strained from frustration.

He was not frustrated at you. He was disappointed in himself. And he didn’t understand why you couldn’t understand him right now. That he didn’t want to risk you getting hurt again. The guilt was eating him alive. It was his fault that you fainted. He should’ve taken care of you better.

“But why-“

“Can’t you just stop??”

You stiffened in his hold. He closed his eyes briefly, frustrated at himself for taking it out on you. Your hand was about to push his away from your belly, wanting to distance yourself. But before you could do it, he tightened his arms even more around you.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “Baby…” he tucked your face in the crook of his neck, pressing a kiss on your temple. “I’m sorry.” He repeated. Your hand curled in his shirt.

When you didn’t respond, he tried again. “I’m sorry, okey?” He felt your head nodding against his neck. “I just don’t want to risk you getting hurt again, okey? We’re all tired, and the kids are already sleeping, baby. We will talk with them tomorrow. After you rested properly.”

You let out a small, hoarse “okey.”

He pressed a lingering and soothing kiss on your forehead. “I love you, my love.”

“I love you too.”

Tomorrow, you thought as you closed your eyes, your husband’s kiss on your forehead lulling you to sleep.

"Mommy?"

You and Jake jerked in each others embrace, the sudden voice in your bedroom startled you. "Fu- Doyun! You scared me." Jake clutched his chest dramatically.

You sat up quickly, worry taking over as you saw the silhouette of your son standing there at the door. “What's wrong, baby?" You opened your arms, “come here.” Doyun climbed on the bed and nestled himself between his parents, right in your arms. Jake turned on the bedside lamp, that's when you spotted Hyeyun standing in the hallway, near the door. His eyes were filled with tears, lips trembled in a pout.

"Hyeyun, baby... what are you doing there?" You stretched out your arm for him. He hesitated for a second. Then he gave in and broke down completely. "Mommy!" He rushed to you. Jake quickly put a hand on your swollen belly, protecting it from any impact.

"MOMMY!" Both boys wailed in your arms.

You chuckled softly, kissing both of their foreheads.

"I'm- I'm sorry," Hyeyun hiccuped.

"Sowwy!" Doyun sobbed.

"It's okey, my boys. I forgive you, hm?"

Doyun was about to climb on your lap when Jake pulled him back on the bed, "Doyun, be careful of your sister." The little one shot him a stubborn glare before whipping his head to you. His big eyes looked at you, pleading, "mommy?". You chuckled softly, "let's lay down together, okey?"

With that both of your boys snuggled against your sides.

Hyeyun wrapped his arms around your neck, "I'm sorry for the b-bad thing I said. I- I promise I won't ever say it again."

"I forgive you, my love." You kissed his cheek. "Mommy is not mad, okey?"

“I- I promise from now on, I- I will take care of my little sister! I will be the best big brother an- and protect her and help you with her!”

You chuckled softly, your heart swelling in awe.

“Me too!” Doyun added.

You caressed Hyeyun’s hair gently, “where did you learn this from?”

“Daddy!”

“Yeah? Is this what daddy had told you to do?” He nodded earnestly. Your eyes crinkled with amusement, “did daddy scold you, boys?”

Doyun gasped dramatically, “he scowlded us soooooooo much!!! He was so angwy!!!”

You faced your husband with a smirk, “daddy showed you a new side of himself, hm?” Jake’s eyes sparkled proudly, suppressing a smile.

“He was really really angry and told us that we have to be more re-repondle?”

“Responsible.” You helped.

“And he said we have to be good brothers.”

“-and good sons!-“ Doyun added.

“And he said we have to take care of our baby sister in your belly and cuddle your belly and-“ he snuggled against your round belly, his voice lowering to a hushed tone now, “and talk quietly so the baby isn’t scared.”

“Dada said we’re rweal men if we take cware of mommy.” Doyun whispered enthusiastically.

“Did dada really say all of this?” You gazed at Jake. He shrugged his shoulder with a smug expression, clearly feeling himself.

“Yes!”

“Then I have to give dada a reward for this, don’t I?”

You leaned in to give Jake a kiss, the boys were too busy cuddling your belly to notice the love eyes their parents were exchanging.

If Jake had known that this would be your reaction to him disciplining your sons, then he would’ve been the scolding parent all along.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Jay/Heeseung Ver.

Masterlist.

@kristynaaah @babyybunny06 @teddybeartaetae @sunhrtss @aishigrey @ijustwannareadstuff20 @multicolorfandoms @jakeyjakey-143z @bottleduptear @jazz7gnab @ikeupups @amatariki @hoonjysn @in-somnias-world @globaloppaaa @miraeluv @kiikiisblog @millyloves2read @jakeyjakey-143z @nishimurasgff @iluvagoodashy @itzzhana05 @starryui @jjenniess @justpassingdontworry

Lmk if you wanna get tagged.

And to be honest? they're not exactly wrong. Jake is the kind of guy who makes a mess just to see if someone else will clean it up. The kind who smiles like he knows all the answers to everything and doesn't care to share them. Jake's never had to try hard for anything—not attention, not girls, not the kind of casual popularity that clings to people like him for no reason other than sheer gravity.

He floats through life on charm and instinct, making trouble look too effortless.

Well, not until you.

You never belonged in Jake's world, like not even a little bit. You didn't chase parties or post thirst traps. You weren't loud, or flashy, or easy to figure out. But you were soft spoken and self contained, always in those oversized knit sweaters and delicate little necklaces. You said "pardon?" instead of "what," and you never once looked at Jake like you wanted anything from him. In fact you never looked at him at all.

Maybe that's why he couldn't stop staring, because you didn't orbit around him like everyone else did. You truly just existed in your own world and you didn't give a toss that he was attractive in the way that made people act stupid. You were genuinely kind, irritatingly kind Jake would say, and it made him feel like a walking glitch in your perfect little universe.

He was the kind to ghost girls. You were the kind to remember everyone's birthdays. He blew off midterms sometimes. You sent people your notes when you noticed they weren't in class.

You weren't his type in any sense and he sure as hell wasn't yours. But that didn't stop him from going after you anyway.

It didn't stop the way he'd linger outside the library when he knew you were in there, with his eyes low and his fingers twitching. It didn't stop him from getting your number from someone he'd never even spoken to in his life but he saw them speak to you once and that was enough for him. It didn't stop whatever this became—this quietly consuming, slow burn kind of obsession that made Jake Sim, the most unserious, nonchalant boy in the world, go dead serious when it came to you.

So dead serious that he made you his girlfriend quicker than you could think to even consider saying no, and goddamn if you didn't love him and the intensity of it all too.

The promise ring he asked you to be his girlfriend with was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. You remember how red in the face he was, a little awkward too, holding out a tiny velvet box.

You'd slipped it on without hesitation, and now it lives on your finger, always warm from your skin and twirled endlessly whenever you're anxious or shy or thinking a little too hard. Jake watches you do it sometimes when you're talking to him, or even when you're not. It makes his chest tight in the best way possible.

You're still not officially living with him. But your things are everywhere, all over his apartment. Your makeup clutters the edge of his bathroom sin, your slippers sit beside his sneakers at the front door, your clothes even hang in his closet, slowly but surely taking over, and your lacey panties end up in his laundry pile more often than not—a discovery Jake reacts to every time like it's Christmas morning.

He swears he loves it, all of it, all of you.

He loves the way you hum to yourself when you cook, loves how you taste everything off the spoon and make him do the same thing. He loves waking up to the smell of something sweet in the oven, loves hearing you sing along to songs you think he can't hear from the other room. He loves the softness you bring into his space, it’s like his whole apartment exhales when you're in it.

And right now, he's trying not to smile like an idiot as you leave the tray of cookies fresh from the oven on the coffee table for him and his friends, they’re still warm and rich with the scent of vanilla and browned butter. The boys dive in immediately, tearing into them like they've been starving all day.

"Dude," Sunghoon mumbles with his mouth full. "What does she put in these?"

"Crack," Heeseung says, reaching for another. "Crack cocaine, I’m so damn sure."

Jake just smirks, watching you tidy up in the kitchen with your hair pulled back, phone in hand before heading toward the living room again, eyes already on him.

"I'm heading to the mall with my friends," you tell him sweetly, swinging your purse over your shoulder and leaning down to kiss one cheek, then the other. "Don't eat all the cookies before I get back." You tell them even though you know it’ll all be gone by the time you’re back.

Jake smiles up at you. "No promises."

You glance at the guys. "Enjoy, boys."

"Thanks, sweetheart," Sunghoon replies automatically, and Heeseung raises his cookie in salute.

The door to the apartment shuts behind you and the silence gets loaded.

Jake barely has time to reach for another cookie before Heeseung squints at him over the edge of his glass and says, "Okay but like...how often do you jerk off?"

Jake blinks. "What?"

"You know," Heeseung gestures vaguely. "When she's not around. Or even when she is. Like, how bad's the drought?"

Jake frowns. "What are you even—"

"Come on dude. She bakes, she cleans, she kisses your cheeks like a fucking disney character," Sunghoon says, shaking his head like he's genuinely concerned. "And she's got you wearing a promise ring, bro. Be serious."

Jake raises an eyebrow.

"She's your girlfriend, not your chastity coach," Heeseung adds, mouth full. "It's okay to like her, man. Be whipped or whatever, but every guy's got needs." He does air quotes with his fingers at whipped.

"Exactly," Sunghoon nods. "You're telling us you haven't cracked once? Eight months and she's still playing house instead of playing with your dick?"

Jake laughs.

It's low and easy as he tosses a cookie up in air, catching it in his mouth like he doesn't have a care in the world. "You guys don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Oh, come on—"

He doesn't let them finish.

Just shrugs, wipes a crumb off his jeans, and leans back against the couch cushions with that same frustratingly calm grin. Not confirming anything or denying either and definitely not offering a damn thing more.

And maybe that's what gets them most. Sunghoon is about to continue with his drilling but the apartment door bangs open and Jay barrels in like he was trying to break the door open.

"I had to park three fucking blocks away—why are there so many delivery trucks on your str—" He stops question when he spots the half empty cookie tray and Jake's face. "Ah. What’s going on?"

Heeseung and Sunghoon exchange a look that says perfect timing.

Sunghoon jerks a thumb toward Jake. "We're staging an intervention. Lover boy here claims he hasn't touched himself for eight months because little miss betty boop apparently doesn't—"

"Dude," Jake warns, voice flat.

Heeseung dives in anyway. "We're just saying every guy's got needs, and she's not exactly—" he twirls a hand, searching for a polite word and failing—"open access."

Jay slumps into the couch slowly, suddenly wary. "Okay, first? Why is this our business? Second, she literally did my laundry when I was half dead with the flu last month. She's an angel—"

"Exactly," Sunghoon interrupts, irritated that Jay isn't backing him. "She's too angelic. Jake's basically wasting away. I know a girl who wouldn't care that you’re taken—she'll rock your fucking world, no strings."

Jay's eyebrows shoot up. "Bro, are you actually telling him to cheat? That's fucked up."

Heeseung waves him off. "Look, pastor Jay, spare us the sermon. We’re being practical."

Jay crosses his arms. "Practical? Or fucking sleazy?"

Sunghoon's jaw tics. "Fine, keep your halo. I'm trying to help our boy here."

"Help?" Jay snorts. "You're insinuating his girlfriend's a prude and pushing him toward some side piece because you can't fathom a relationship that isn't twenty-four/seven fucking."

Heeseung lets out a low laugh. "Prude? She's sweet, yeah—but let's be real, she's a little stuck-up. Bet she makes him say please and thank you before he even—"

"Enough."

His voice isn't loud, but it's close to lethal and it make the room still. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Heeseung. "Don't talk about my girlfriend like that."

The silence is as thick as caramel.

Heeseung opens his mouth, thinks better of it and just shrugs instead. Sunghoon raises both hands in a mock surrender. "All right, all right. We're just looking out for you, man."

Jake sits back, expression unmoving except for the tight belt of muscle along his jaw. "Appreciate the concern but drop it."

Jay exhales, tension easing from his shoulders as he snags a cookie. "Cool. Crisis averted. Let's talk about literally anything else—basketball, stocks, the weather—"

But the mood has unfortunately shifted too far. Under the warm scent of sugar and butter, something colder threads the air, like a line drawn or a warning given.

Jake breaks off a crumb, flicks it onto the tray, and doesn't say another word.

The hangout's pretty much dead, even though they try to shift the conversation, try to joke but nothing lands. Not with Jake sitting there, stiff as a statue, jaw tight, barely looking up. Heeseung's chewing slower, the cookies don't taste as good anymore, and Sunghoon keeps checking his phone like there's somewhere else he needs to be.

Because there is.

Anywhere but here that’s for sure.

Jake's not even yelling, but does he have to? The way he's gone quiet should be enough. He's not laughing at their dumb jokes, not biting back with sarcasm like usual. He’s just sitting there on his own couch like he doesn't even recognize it.

Jay finally clears his throat. "Uh...I should probably get going. Early shift tomorrow."

Heeseung stands. "Yeah. Same." He doesn’t even have a job.

Sunghoon mumbles something about traffic, already halfway to the door. No one says it, but they all feel it, feel the vibe shot and Jake's silence holding the smoking gun.

Jay lingers a little longer near the door. He glances back, eyes softer than before. "Hey...sorry, man. I’m sure they didn't mean for it to go there."

Jake doesn't look at him. Just rubs the heel of his palm into one eye. "Yeah. Whatever."

Jay nods once and doesn't push. The door clicks shut behind them, and Jake's left alone in the quiet. He slumps back on the couch, eyes drifting to the half empty cookie tray on the coffee table.

You made those for them.

And they still had the audacity to talk about you like that. To reduce you to some outdated stereotype of some sweet, doting, sexless girlfriend he must clearly be suffering through.

The door creaks open a moment later, and you waltz bouncing with happiness, arms overflowing with shopping bags. You toe off your shoes at the door, grin still plastered on your face as you make your way inside, the scent of your perfume trailing behind you like sunshine.

"Babyyy," you call out cheerfully. "You will not believe the sale I hit today."

You find him on the couch, slouched deep into the cushions, hoodie up, face shadowed by the TV glow and a silence that immediately makes you feel like something is wrong.

Your grin falters. "Jake?"

He turns his head toward you, offers a weak smile that’s just a twitch of his lips, not the real one that crinkles his eyes and melts your stomach.

You pause at the edge of the couch, looking at him, then the table, at the cookie tray that’s half full. There’s not a crumb in sight on the cushions or floor, which is odd because the boys always devour them like wolves.

Your heart sinks a little.

Something is wrong.

Without a word, you gently set your shopping bags down and crawl into his lap, settling your weight carefully over him, but his hands stay limp at his sides. He doesn't even tuck them around your waist like he always does. Doesn't nose into your neck or murmur a "missed you."

You touch his face, frown deepening. "Jakey..." you whisper, brushing his hair off his forehead. "Talk to me. What happened? You were fine when I left."

He shrugs once and his eyes stay distant, so you lean in and kiss his cheek, then the other, then his forehead, then the corner of his mouth but still nothing.

You press a soft slow kiss to his lips and his eyes flutter shut for a second.

He finally breathes out a sigh at that, like you've loosened something that was wrapped too tight in his chest.

"Just..." he mumbles, pulling you in by the waist now, finally holding you, finally here with you. "Some stupid shit with the boys."

You lean your forehead against his. "Hmm…what kind of stupid?"

He shakes his head, exhaling through his nose, jaw still ticking. "Doesn't matter."

"It matters if it makes this face," you say, gently pinching his pout. "Talk to me, baby."

He sighs again, but this time it's softer and a little less bitter. For a second, he just holds you, arms snug around your waist, your fingers in his hair, the scent of fresh cookies and the ghost of something ugly lingering in the air between you.

But at least you're here now and he’s already starting to feel better.

"They were just..." He swallows, jaw clenched. "Saying shit. About you. About us."

You pull back just a little, just enough to look into his eyes, head tilting softly. "Like what?"

He doesn't answer at first, he just presses his lips together like the words taste unpleasant on his tongue.

"That you're too sweet," he says finally. "Too innocent. That I must be struggling. That I'm not getting...what I need." He can't even say the rest while looking at you so his gaze drops to your collarbone. "Sunghoon even suggested that I should cheat. That he knew some girl who wouldn't care if I had a girlfriend."

“Jay was different though, he wasn’t having any of it.”

Your breath stutters just a little, but it’s enough that he notices and enough that it makes his stomach drop.

There it is—your face crumpling, it’s not dramatic, it’s like your heart folded in on itself for a second, and you're working quickly to iron it flat again.

Jake hates himself for putting that look there.

But then—God, your smile. It comes immediately after and it’s soft and unshaken.

"That's really shitty," you say, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. "But it doesn't matter what they think."

Jake's eyes flick up, searching yours for any signs of insincerity.

"You know that's not true," you continue. "Right?"

He nods, slowly. "Of course I do."

"Then that's all that matters," you whisper. You lean in and kiss his forehead again, warm and reassuring. "Maybe you just need to reevaluate your little bro club. Pick the ones who don't suggest cheating on your girlfriend over cookies she baked for them."

Jake exhales a breath of a laugh, tension starting to ease from his shoulders.

You smile again, a little sly this time. "Honestly, I always liked Jay more than the rest, anyway."

Jake huffs through his nose. "Yeah?"

You nod. "He defended my honor. What a man."

Jake finally smiles, real and wide and completely helpless. "I love you."

"I know, baby. I love you too." You kiss the corner of his mouth. "Now help me carry in all my bags. I got new panties." You say and push off him and that shuts him up fast, he’s already standing and following you into the bedroom like a possessed man, with eyes that gleam and hands that twitch, absolutely thrilled to see what you spent his money on.

You're already pulling out bags, giggling as you place each one on the bed like a dramatic little fashion show.

"Okay, ready?" you ask, grinning as you kneel on the mattress, surrounded by tissue paper, paper bags and receipts.

He flops down beside you, eyes wide, nodding like this is the first time you’ve done this, it’s not.

You hold up a dainty little silk top. "Cute, right?"

"That’s so hot, princess."

Followed by a miniskirt. "Too short?"

"No such thing."

He leans back on the bed, hands behind his head, watching you with an easy smile as you sift through your shopping bags, showing him more of what you got. He doesn't even bother hiding how proud he is watching you flaunt everything you bought.

You hold up a cute little white dress next. "This one was kinda expensive..."

Jake hums, eyes raking over you. "Worth every cent if you're wearing it."

You snort, but you're smiling as you slip it over your head. You smooth the fabric down and twirl once. "Do I look like someone's sugar baby?"

"You are someone's sugar baby," Jake grins, "you just cook too well for it to be obvious."

You giggle, tugging the hem down before sighing. "Okay, I'm not about to stain this with lipstick or lotion—hold on."

You casually peel the dress back off and toss it onto a nearby chair, standing fully naked in front of him without a second thought.

He lets his gaze drag slowly down your body, the same way it always does when you’re naked in his presence, so lazy but heated and familiar. Like he knows every inch of you by heart and never gets tired of seeing it.

"C'mere," he says, voice so deep, you already know what’s on his mind and you barely take a step before he's already got his hands on your waist, pulling you into his lap so he can have you straddling him, arms wrapping around his neck, and he just leans in, pressing his face into your skin, right at the curve of your neck.

"You always smell so fucking good," he tells you, lips brushing your collarbone. "And you're warm."

"I'm always warm," you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair.

He grins into your skin. "Yeah. Especially when you're on top of me like this, titties in my face and everything."

His lips trail along your collarbone, soft and slow, and his hands stay steady at your waist, thumbs pressing into the dip of your back, holding you in place

You sigh when he kisses your neck, just below your ear, and he feels the way your body softens in his lap, you're melting just for him.

He nips your jaw, then lower, moving his mouth down your throat, so warm and unhurried, open mouthed kisses skating down your chest until he reaches one of your breasts, wrapping his lips around it with a low groan like he's finally getting something he's been craving all day.

You arch into him instinctively, fingers curling in his hair as his tongue swirls around your nipple—lazy at first, then firmer and hungrier.

"Jake," you whisper, breath catching a little.

He hums against you, sucking slow and deep, one hand sliding up to cup the other side, thumb circling with the same rhythm his mouth sets.

Your hips shift without meaning to grind down unto him, and he catches that too, cock already hard beneath you.

"I’m so fucking in love with you," he mumbles into your skin, kissing across your chest to the other side.

His mouth stays wrapped tightly around your nipple, sucking on it so hard you moan a little, then he continues trailing wet kisses over your chest, his lips drag down your sternum before slipping one of his hands between your thighs. He's lazy about it at first, tracing idle circles against the inside of your thigh, like he's in no rush, or like he doesn't already feel how warm and wet you are sitting right on top of him.

You shift your hips, needing more, trying to grind down on him, but Jake just smiles against your skin. "Getting needy already, baby?" he murmurs, moving your panties to the side with two fingers, knuckles brushing deliberately light against your folds, teasing. "You're already wet," he mutters, almost to himself. His thumb grazes just barely over your clit, featherlight. "You know what that does to me?"

You whine and he grins like he's won something. But then his grin falters when you grab his wrist and hold it still.

Your voice is soft. "Jake."

He glances up at you.

"Stop teasing."

Before he can say anything back, you push firmly at his chest with both hands and he lets you. Lets himself fall back onto the mattress with a small gasp of surprise that turns into a breathless laugh.

"Shit," he laughs under his breath, one arm behind his head now, the other resting on your thigh. "You don't even let me pretend I'm in control anymore, huh?"

You raise a brow as you settle over him properly, your hands moving down his torso, nails dragging just enough to make him tense.

He bites his lip, eyes flicking between yours and your mouth, already drunk on the way you’re naked above him and so sure of what you want.

Jake's always had game. He's had his fun, knew what it meant to chase and win. But with you? With you, it's never been a game.

Your palm works him over his cock through his sweats, slow and deliberate, your thumb catching the outline of him through the fabric just right, and Jake's head tips back into the pillow with a strangled sound, breath hitching like he absolutely cannot help it.

"F–fuck," he whimpers, hips twitching up into your hand. "I love you. I'm so in love with you."

You lean down, nuzzling your nose against his cheek, voice soft and syrupy as you coo, "Yeah? You love me, Jakey?"

He nods fast, his chest rising and falling hard beneath you, completely gone for you already, and you hum sweetly like you're proud of him, almost like you're indulging a boy who's trying so hard to be good.

You tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, just enough to free his cock, and he lifts his hips obediently, still panting.

And when you finally pull him out, your eyes widen.

"Oh my god," you gasp, like you haven't seen him a hundred times before.

Jake lets out a breathless laugh, flushed and glowing with affection. "You do that every time," he grins.

You wrap your hand around him, giving one firm, languid stroke, eyes still fixed in reverence. "It shocks me every time."

Jake groans, both hands flying up to grip your hips now cause he needs to hold on to something, as if the worship in your voice is just as dangerous as your touch.

"Baby," he breathes, already dizzy, "please..."

His hands tighten on your hips. "My heart," he says, breathless but steady, "can you sit on it for me?"

Your brows lift in teasing surprise. "You asking nicely now?"

He leans up, kisses the swell of your breast before dragging his mouth to your neck. "Please," he murmurs against your skin.

You giggle, glancing down between your bodies where he's hard and leaking pre cum against your stomach. You drag your fingers over his tip and grin when he twitches. "Jakey, I don't know...it's so big. Not sure I can take it."

He lets out a full bodied groan and his hands shoot up to cover his face like your words physically broke something in him. "Fuck—don't say that."

You laugh, warm and wicked, and reach down to line him up with your pussy.

He peeks through his fingers at you, eyes dark and glassy. "You know what that does to me."

You lean in, kiss his jaw and whisper, "I do, baby." Slowly sinking yourself down on his cock, and Jake's mouth falls open around a gasp so needy it makes your stomach flip.

All his confidence and playboy charm melts into raw want for you. And you know he wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world, so when you settle fully on him with you clit nearly brushing his pubic bone, you gasp at the stretch like it's brand new, even though he's been inside you more times than you can count.

Jake watches with blown pupils, biting down on a groan as your walls flutter around him. You're breathless, clutching his shoulders, eyes glazed and already starting to tremble from how deep in your cunt he hits.

But it's still you who says it first, voice all sweet, whiny, and almost demanding. "Please fuck me, Jakey."

That’s truly all he needs and he doesn’t even hesitate, his hands lock under your thighs and he drives his cock up into you, fucking you from below with a pace so sharp it knocks the air from your lungs. The slap of skin on skin fills the room instantly, his hips pistoning up into yours like he's making up for every second he ever spent apart from you.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, clinging to him as your head tips back. “Oh!—Just like that, baby!”

"You take me so well," he pants, staring up at you with so much love and adoration. "Always do. So fucking good for me."

You can't even answer cause with every snap of his hips, your body jerking helplessly every time he hits that spot inside you just right and you're jus too far gone, moaning as your thighs start to tremble,

Your moans get higher, needier, and Jake just holds you tighter, fucking you harder like he knows you're getting close. “Ah—Shit! I love this pussy—I love you.”

And the you whimper his name in that high pitched tone, he already knows what’s coming.

"Jake...Jake, please..." He groans, lifting his whole body and head to kiss you through it, breath hot and desperate against your mouth.

His hand slips between your bodies without thinking too much, fingers finding that sensitive little clit and the moment he starts rubbing tight, practiced circles into it, your whole body jolts, your hips stutter as well as your breath.

"Jake—" you cry out, the sound thin and wrecked as your orgasm nears.

"I've got you," he says, voice husky and strained as he keeps thrusting up into you. "Come on, baby. Cum for me."

Your eyes roll back, mouth falling open as your walls clamp down hard around his cock. You never had a shot, not with his cock so deep and thick inside you, not with his fingers rubbing so deliciously at your clit.

Your orgasm slams into you with a force that makes your back arch and your nails dig into his shoulders, shaking as pleasure floods your veins. “Oh my—F-Fuck! Jake! I’m cumming! I’m cumming for you!”

You're moaning his name like it's the only word you know, clenching around him so tight he practically growls.

"Fuck—you're so tight—" Jake's hands grip your hips, fingers digging in. "Gonna cum, baby—gonna fill you up—"

He snaps his hips up one, two, three more times before burying himself deep with a sharp gasp, thick ropes of cum spilling inside you as he lets out a low, trembling groan against your shoulder. “Just like that, take it baby.”

His whole body tenses, as he continues to fuck his cum deeper into your pussy, before melting beneath you and wrapping his arms around your waist cause he needs to come back to earth.

You sit there on his cock, fucked out with your body is still twitching from aftershocks, then he sits up presses a soft kiss to your collarbone and speaks, almost dazed, "I love you. You know that right?."

Your chest heaves just like his as you try to catch your breath as well, your skin is dewy and flushed, thighs still trembling slightly where they cradle his hips. Jake lies beneath you, hair stuck to his forehead and completely ruined and glowing in the aftermath.

His cock stays buried inside you, still thick but it’s starting soften and warm from his and your cum.

Jake's eyes are barely open when you start to move again, just with slow and lazy rolls of your hips, like you're testing him, like you already miss the stretch. His eyes snap up to meet yours, wide and glassy.

"Baby..." he rasps, voice rough with the tail end of his orgasm. "Again?"

You nod, bottom lip between your teeth, hands planted firmly on his chest as you grind your hips just right. He twitches inside you, not fully hard yet again, but your walls squeeze around him like you're coaxing him back to life.

"Need you hard again, baby." You whisper, a little whine slipping into your voice. "Want more."

Jake actually groans but his hands flying to your waist regardless, it’s not to stop you, it’s to anchor himself.

"You're insatiable," he mutters, head dropping back on the pillow. "You know that?"

You giggle breathlessly, grinding down again. "But you like it, don’t you?"

He laughs, weak but wrecked, already feeling himself swell inside you again. "Fuck, of course I do, you know I do."

He’s already giving in, letting you use him, letting you move how you want, letting you chase what you need. Because you always take what you want from him and Jake fucking lives for it.

His finger squeeze your waist as your hips keep rocking against him, slow but hungry and so greedy, so fucking sweet about it, whining for more when he's still soft and sensitive. It has his head spinning.

"God, you're gonna kill me," he groans, voice low and shaky.

But you just smile down at him, hips grinding insistently, eyes all sparkly with mischief and need.

That's what does it.

He sits up with a sudden growl and grabs your thighs, flipping you onto your back in one smooth quick motion that makes you squeal and giggle. Before you can protest, he's sliding your leg up, hooking it over his shoulder and settling between your thighs again, his cock already twitching back to life as it presses against your slick pussy.

"Since you don't know when to stop..." he mutters, leaning over you, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot against your lips, "guess I'll have to fuck it out of you."

You gasp, fingers digging into his arms as he ruts forward slowly, stretching you out and you're still so wet and swollen around him from your first orgasm that he slips right back in. A shaky moan tumbles from your lips as he bottoms out, and Jake watches your face melt with satisfaction.

"There she is," he breathes, cupping your jaw. "Always so ready for me."

You try to sass him, you open your mouth with something smug, but then he draws his hips back and slams back in deep, and all you can do is cry out and clutch at his arms. “Jake! Fuck!”

He grins. "Yeah? You like that, baby?"

With your leg slung over his shoulder, every thrust drives his cock in at a perfect, punishing angle, he’s so deep it punches the air from your lungs, makes your head tilt back and your fingers claw down his back.

"Yes Jake—"

He groans low at the sound of his name from your lips, fucking in harder and rougher now, one hand gripping your thigh, the other pressing down beside your head.

"Fuck, baby," he pants, voice wrecked and breathless. "You feel so good—so tight, still?"

You're barely holding on, moaning so high and needy with your eyes fluttering. "Because I want you all the time," you whisper, drunk on the stretch and the rhythm of him. "Wanna fuck all the time."

Jake curses, a deep groan rumbling from his chest. "That's fucking insane," he gasps, his hips jerking for a moment. "You're—Fuck."

You hold him tighter, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as your leg slips from his grip, both feet now planted flat so you can rock up to meet every thrust. Your mouths meet in a messy kiss, full of panting breaths and whispered "I love you"s between the moans as he fucks you into the sheets.

You gasp, "Oh baby, please don't stop," he just nods frantically, already lost in you all over again.

His thrusts slow as he feels your body start to tighten again, that telltale tremble of both your orgasms building. You're gasping his name, legs shaking on either side of his hips, hands gripping at his arms so hard he’s sure you’re gonna leave marks.

"That's it, baby," he pants, breath hot against your cheek as he presses his forehead to yours. "You gonna cum for me again? I can feel it—fuck, you're squeezing me so tight—"

Your nails dig into his shoulders and your voice breaks. "Jake—Jake—I'm—"

He doesn't let up his thrust, he continues to fuck his cock into your cunt deeper and faster. "Make you cum for me. Let me feel it."

Your back arches, mouth falling open in a soundless cry, and then it hits again and your whole body jolts as you gush your release around him, warmth flooding between your legs. Jake groans, deep and raw, watching you as it happens.

"Holy shit, baby—look at you," he breathes, eyes glued to where your bodies meet. His fingers slip down instinctively, sliding through the mess of cum and squirt and pushing two inside you with ease, curling them so deep, you jerk under him, overstimulated, crying out, but he's grinning like he's the one being worshipped.

"Yeah baby," he rasps, fucking his fingers into your cunt so fast and deep, he's coaxing out every last tremble, every aftershock. "You're so fucking perfect—fuck, I love when you do that."

You're whining, twitching beneath him, but not stopping him either and he knows you won't, especially when you don't even pause to catch your breath. You're already pushing up, hands slipping against his sweat-slick skin, eyes glassy and blown wide with lust.

"Baby—" he starts, but you're pushing him on his back again and wrapping your mouth around his cock in one desperate and hungry motion.

Jake chokes on a moan, his head falling back with a thud against the pillow. "F—fuck, baby..."

You're still shaking from your own orgasm, but your mouth sucks him so good with your lips stretched wide and your eyes fluttering shut as you take his cock deeper in your throat that tightens around him. He's still wet from you, slick and throbbing on your tongue, and the mix of it all makes your head spin.

"Jesus—shit," Jake growls, both hands fisting in your hair as he begins thrusting into your throat, fast and controlled, his hips twitching as he groans through his teeth.

"You're—fuck—you're gonna make me cum," he breathes, voice strained, eyes locked on the obscene sight of you between his legs with your cheeks hollowed, looking so fucking pretty even now.

You hum around him, fingers digging into his thighs for balance, tears prickling at your lashes as he hits the back of your throat again and again. He swears under his breath, tightening his grip in your hair, one hand cupping the back of your head as he starts to move a little rougher, chasing that high you're dragging out of him like it's yours.

"Fuck—just like that—don't stop—don't—"

"Y/n—Baby." He groans, jerking into your mouth as he cums hard, hips stuttering, holding your head down on him while he spills down your throat.

His hands fall away, and you finally pull back, swallowing his cum with a soft gasp. Your lips are swollen and your cheeks are flushed but you're smiling up at him cause to you, you've done nothing out of the ordinary.

"Holy shit," he whispers, grinning up as you flop half on top of him and on the bed.

His skin is warm, still damp from sweat, and his voice is soft and sweet when he starts talking.

"We should go to the farmer's market tomorrow," he says through breaths, turning his face toward you with a sleepy smile. "Get that jelly you like. Maybe brunch after...or just come back and stay in bed all day."

You hum in agreement, eyes half-lidded as you turn to face him. "Mhm. That sounds perfect."

He's still talking, "We could also check out that new restaurant you wanted to try—" Then he feels your leg slides over his, bare skin gliding against his thigh as you spread yourself open beside him. His voice stutters, pauses, but he doesn't think much of it until your hand finds his.

Still speaking so sweetly, like he doesn't even notice what's happening, Jake continues, "And maybe get stuff for dinner too. We could try that new reci—"

You take his hand and slowly guide it down your stomach, between your thighs...but instead of stopping on your pussy like he expects, you slide his fingers just a little further back.

He stops talking and his brows knit. "Wait..." he breathes, lifting himself onto one elbow to look down at where you're gently positioning him, not quite shy, but quiet.

"Oh?" His voice lifts a little, soft and surprised, fingers frozen in place.

"Here?" he asks, tilting his head, eyes searching your face.

You nod, biting your lip, pupils wide, cheeks heated, just the tiniest bit nervous but far more excited. Jake's heart patters at the sight.

He blinks, then lets out the softest, most reverent little, "Fuck," as his fingers twitch against your hole.

He goes still for a second before glancing down at you with a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jake huffs a soft laugh, rubbing his fingers gently where you've placed him. "You really want that again?"

Your lips part in a quiet sigh. "Mhm. Haven't stopped thinking about it."

He grunts in his throat, already adjusting his position to hover over you, his hand still between your thighs. "God, baby...you're unbelievable."

"Please," you whisper.

Jake leans down, kissing your neck with a grin. "Okay, baby."

Jake does exactly what you ask without question, without teasing this time, without dragging it out. Just the steady glide of his fingers, slick with you, working your hole open with practiced care. He knows what you like now. Knows how to curve them just right, how much pressure to apply, when to slow down and when to ruin you.

You're shaking under him, body arching, fists gripping at the sheets. Your eyes flutter back and your mouth falls open but no real words are coming out, just breathy, broken sounds that melt into helpless little moans.

"Fuck, princess," Jake breathes, watching your face like he's obsessed. "Look at you."

You're drooling and you don't even care. Your brain's gone soft and syrupy, babbling nonsense, hiccupping between whines. "So full...s'too good, Jake— I—"

"You can," he murmurs, curling his fingers deeper. "You asked for it, baby."

You whimper hard at that, thighs squeezing around his hand.

Jake leans down, kissing your jaw, your ear, whispering all the filth you crave like praise. "My pretty girl. So greedy for me, huh? Couldn't even wait. Got your fill twice and now you want more."

"Need it," you mewl, "need you— please, please—"

"You have me," he says, voice thick devout as he strokes his own cock back to life, and pushes it in your hole just enough to have you gasping again, moaning as your body clenches hard around his cock.

His thrusts start slow, so deep into you and deliberate, loving the way you squeeze around him and trying not to lose it too fast. Every push forward is a grind of his hips and a filthy exhale against your skin.

But then he hears that sweet little whine you make and he feels your fingers dig into his back, he loses all his patience.

"That's it, baby," His voice is shaking. "Doing so good."

Then his pace starts to speed up, his hips snap harder and sharper. Each thrust makes the pressure mount, your breath hitching as your body rocks forward with every stroke. He holds you firmly, one hand pressing into the mattress, the other one at your hip—dragging you down so his cock can slide deeper and deeper into your ass.

The drag of him against your walls is so intense, even his hips are starting to jerk erratically in their movements, his body slick with sweat, every nerve in him frayed and completely on fire, but he doesn't stop. He can't. Not when you're shaking like this beneath him with tears in your eyes from how good he’s fucking you, so good that you're clawing at him.

He's already come twice and his body sore and overstimulated, but none of it matters cause he has to make you cum one time.

"C'mon, princess," he pants into your neck, his voice is bordering on a little whimper now, "need you to cum for me—give it to me, yeah?"

You nod, your fingers digging into his back. "Jake—I'm—I'm close—"

"I know," he says, sliding a hand between your bodies, thumb immediately circling your clit just the way he knows you like it as he continues to fuck your ass faster and harder, his rhythm never faltering even when his whole body twitches from the overstimulation.

"Fuck—!" you cry out, eyes squeezing shut, thighs locking around him.

Jake moans when he feels you start to clench again, the grip of your body making him curse into your skin. "That's it. Just like that. Be good for me, baby—cum for me."

Your body listens to him and you cum so hard and loud, you’re nearly sobbing through it, your whole body shaking as you gush your release around him again.

Jake groans like he's in pain and pleasure all at once, overstimulated out of his mind but still working his thumb through your orgasm, riding it out with you, whispering, "That's my girl. So good for me. So good."

He's trembling too, face buried in your neck, still inside you, still twitching, but all he cares about is the way you're still falling apart in his arms.

"You've got one more in you," Jake whispers, lips brushing your cheek. "I know you do. Be good for me, baby. Just one more, yeah?"

You're still shaking with how hard your third orgasm just rocked you, but you nod, because you know he knows exactly how to touch you that’ll have that fourth orgasm he wants dragged it out of you.

"You know," he says, lips curling into something darker, "the guys still think you're some sweet little thing who doesn't even let me touch her."

Your eyes snap open.

"They really think I'm suffering over here. Poor Jake, dating the world's most innocent girl," he chuckles in your ear, his fingers pressing harder, cock thrusting faster and faster just the way you need. "Wonder what they'd say if they saw you like this."

"Jake—" you gasp, nails raking down his back. "Don't— don't say that—"

"Why not?" he groans, barely holding on himself. "Look at you. Fucking soaked for me. Begging me to fuck your ass. Taking my cock like this—over and over."

You're gone, completely unraveling under him with your hips bucking, your back arching and a scream caught in your throat as you fall apart, wet and messy and uncontrollable.

Jake watches it all with a dark, fucked out smile, his lips on your cheek as he whispers, "Yeah...real fucking innocent, huh?" His words slam into you like a wave. You arch off the bed, fingers tangling in the sheets, mouth falling open in an enraptured cry.

"Fuck!" you sob, hips bucking involuntarily around his hand and his cock. "Oh god—Jake—"

You're shuddering and everything going white at the edges, and then you cum again, for the fourth time. You squirt around his fingers and cock again, every muscle spasming as you cry out his name again and again, lost in the release.

Jake drops his mouth right where you’re squirting so he can get some into his mouth and suck down on your clit, to guide you through each quaking wave. One of his hands trails back to finger your ass while the other one strokes his cock until he cums into the sheets.

“Yes baby—Oh shit!”

His tongue keeps tracing delicate patterns over your clit and your whole pussy that keep you teetering on the edge even as you ride out your climax before pulling back and looking down at you.

When you look up at him, he looks like he’s on the verge of passing out, then he drapes himself over you, chest slick against yours, breath heavy and shallow as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

"Baby..." he starts, boneless and spent. "You're insane."

You giggle, tracing lazy circles along the curve of his spine, still catching your own breath.

He gave you everything, held you down and pulled you apart until your body trembled under his, until he had nothing left to give. And now he's here, lips brushing your collarbone with every exhale, trying to hang on to consciousness.

"We should try double penetration." You say, running your fingers through his hair and feeling his body stiffen at your words as his head lifts slightly to look into your eyes.

"What?"

You grin. "You know. Your cock and a dildo. Just once."

Jake's eyes flutter close and open again, the look he gives you is somewhere between bewilderment and disbelief. His mouth opens like maybe he wants to say something, but doesn't even know where to start.

"Princess," he breathes, collapsing back down on top of you with a dramatic groan. "You might actually kill me one day."

You hum sweetly, threading your fingers through his damp hair. "You'd like it."

"I know I would. That's the problem." He grins against your skin. "Let me survive tonight first."

You laugh, soft and warm beneath him, already thinking about which toy you'll pick and feeling his breathing go even.

He falls asleep like that, with his arms wrapped around you, utterly spent, murmuring something about needing to train for you like it's a sport. And as you run your fingers through his hair, smiling to yourself, one thing's crystal clear.

Jake's friends have no idea just how completely undone he is by you.

nene’s note ── who wants a boyfriend like jake? MEEEEE!!!!

© nephynes 2025

Client Name: Jake Sim.

Age: 23.

Diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder (Level 1/High Support Needs during sensory events). Notes: History of high caregiver turnover. Client experiences acute sensory overload. Rigid adherence to routine is required. Previous workers reported difficulty establishing rapport."High caregiver turnover." That was the phrase that stuck. In the social work world, that usually meant the client was "difficult"—aggressive, non-verbal, or physically demanding.But looking at the photo clipped to the inside of the file, you didn't see "difficult." You saw a boy—no, a young man—looking away from the camera. He wasn't smiling. His hair was a fluffy, dark brown mop that seemed to be trying to swallow his head. He was wearing a hoodie that looked three sizes too big. He didn't look aggressive. He looked… retreating. Like he was trying to fold himself into a shape that the world wouldn't notice.You closed the file. You drank your lukewarm coffee. You adjusted your blazer, which felt too stiff and too "adult," and grabbed your keys. "Okay," you whispered to the empty apartment. "Don't mess this up." The house was in a quiet suburb, the kind with manicured lawns and basketball hoops in every other driveway. It was a beige two-story with a wrap-around porch.

You parked your beat-up sedan on the street, checking your watch. 8:55 AM. Five minutes early. "On time is late, early is on time," your practicum supervisor used to say. You walked up the path, your heels clicking loudly on the pavement. You made a mental note to wear sneakers next time if you got the job. Click-clack sounds could be a sensory trigger. Think, Y/N. Think.

You rang the doorbell.It opened almost immediately, revealing a woman who looked like she hadn't slept a full eight hours in a decade. She was beautiful, with the same dark eyes as the boy in the photo, but there were deep lines etched around her mouth."You must be Y/N," she said. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were scanning you, assessing you. It was the look of a mother bear who was tired of fighting off wolves but was ready to do it again if she had to. "Hi. Yes, I am," you said, extending a hand. "It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Sim."

"Sarah, please," she shook your hand firmly. "Come in. Take your shoes off at the door, if you don't mind. We try to keep the outside noise… outside."

You stepped into the foyer. It was cool and smelled faintly of lemon pledge and lavender. It was aggressively tidy. Not a speck of dust, not a stray shoe.

"So," Sarah said, leading you toward the kitchen. "You've read the file?"

"I have."

"Forget half of it," she said bluntly. She leaned against the granite island, crossing her arms. "The agency writes those reports to cover their liability. They make him sound like a list of symptoms. 'Sensory processing disorder.' 'Social deficits.' It makes him sound broken." She looked at you, her expression fierce. "Jake isn't broken. He’s just… on a different frequency. He’s brilliant. He’s funny, in his own way. But he feels everything. Imagine if you couldn't turn down the volume on the world. That’s Jake’s life. Every light is a spotlight. Every sound is a siren." You nodded, listening intently. "I understand. My goal isn't to 'fix' him, Sarah. It’s to help him navigate the volume."

Sarah softened. She let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. "The last girl… she treated him like a toddler. She used that high-pitched 'baby voice.' Jake hated it. He’s twenty-three. He’s a grown man. He just needs help with the logistics of being a grown man."

"I promise," you said seriously. "No baby voice."

Sarah smiled, a real one this time. "Okay. He’s in the living room. It’s his… sanctuary. He’s having a good morning, so he’s building. Just… go in slow. Let him come to you. If you push, he’ll shut down."

"Got it."

"Good luck," she whispered. You walked down the hallway. The floorboards were carpeted here, muffling your footsteps. The house was unnaturally quiet. No TV, no radio, no hum of appliances. You reached the archway of the living room and stopped.The room was large, with heavy blackout curtains drawn halfway, filtering the morning sun into a soft, hazy glow. The furniture was pushed to the perimeter of the room.The center of the floor was occupied by a city.There were thousands—literally thousands—of LEGO bricks. But they weren't scattered. They were organized into plastic trays by color, size, and function. Grey plates. Blue pins. Technic beams.

And sitting in the middle of it all was Jake.

He looked exactly like the photo, but realer. Vivid. He was sitting cross-legged, hunched over a massive, half-built grey structure. He was wearing a faded brown hoodie with fraying cuffs, the hood down, revealing that fluffy hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck.He was muttering. A low, rapid-fire stream of words.

"...clutch power on the 2x4 is insufficient for the torque... need to reinforce the sub-frame... bag twelve, bag twelve, where is the axle connector..."

You took a breath. You stepped into the room.

"Hi, Jake," you said softly. He didn't flinch. He didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge you existed. His long, elegant fingers continued to snap pieces together with a rhythmic click-click-click. You remembered your training. Parallel play. Don't force interaction. Join the space. You walked over to the sofa, which was a safe ten feet away from his construction zone. You sat down slowly. You placed your bag on the floor. You didn't pull out your phone. You just sat there, hands in your lap, watching him. Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Most people would have been awkward. They would have cleared their throat or tried to start small talk about the weather. But you found yourself strangely captivated. There was something hypnotic about the way he worked. He wasn't playing. He was engineering. He would pick up a piece, rotate it, inspect it for flaws, and then place it with the precision of a surgeon.

He was beautiful. That was the unprofessional thought that popped into your head. He had a strong jawline, soft lips that were currently pursed in concentration, and eyelashes that were unfairly long. Fifteen minutes in, he paused. He held a long, grey Technic beam in his hand. He frowned. He looked at the instruction booklet—which was thick enough to be a phone book—then back at the beam. "The inventory is incorrect," he said. He didn't look at you. He spoke to the air. But it was an opening.

"Is a piece missing?" you asked, keeping your voice low and level.Jake stiffened slightly. He turned his head slowly, like a wary deer. For the first time, you saw his eyes. They were big. That was the only word for them. Big, dark, liquid brown eyes that held a depth of innocence that hit you right in the chest. They were "puppy eyes" in the truest sense—guileless, open, and slightly fearful.He looked at you. He blinked. He looked at your feet. He looked at your hands. Then, finally, he looked at your face.

"It’s not missing," he corrected you. His voice was smooth, deep, and sounded very matter-of-fact. "It’s the wrong molding variant. This is a 32523, but the instructions call for a 32524. The friction ridges are different. If I use this, the stabilizer fin will wobble." He held the piece out, not to you, but in your general direction.

"That sounds frustrating," you said. "A wobble would ruin the structural integrity."

Jake’s eyes widened a fraction. He pulled his hand back. "Yes. Structural integrity is the primary variable. Most people don't care about the wobble."

"Well, if you're building the UCS Millennium Falcon," you said, gesturing to the box you recognized in the corner, "you want it to be perfect. It’s a collector's item."

He froze. He turned his body fully toward you now, abandoning the LEGOs for a second. "You know the model number?" he asked. It was a test. "75192," you said. "Released in 2017. It’s the biggest set they ever made, right?"

You thanked your lucky stars for your younger brother, who had begged for this set for three Christmases in a row.Jake stared at you. He was processing this data. New girl. Not loud. Not baby voice. Knows the Falcon.

"It was the biggest," he corrected gently. "Until the Art World Map. But the World Map is just tiles. It’s 2D. The Falcon is 3D engineering. It’s superior."

"I agree," you smiled. "Maps are boring compared to spaceships."

The corner of his mouth twitched. A micro-smile. It was there and gone in a second, but you saw it. "I'm Jake," he said. He looked at your name tag, which you had clipped to your blazer. "You are Y/N."

"I am."

"Are you going to tell me to clean this up?" He gestured vaguely to the chaos on the floor. "The last one... Jenny. She said it was a tripping hazard. She made me put it in bins before I was done." The distress in his voice was subtle, but clear. He remembered the disruption of his routine. "No," you said firmly. "I am not going to make you clean it up. It’s not a mess, Jake. It’s a system. I can see you have the plates sorted by size." Jake let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since you walked in. His shoulders slumped, the tension draining out of him.

"It is a system," he whispered, relieved. "Sorted by function, then color."

He picked up the grey beam again. He looked at it, then at you.

"Do you want to... inspect the sub-frame?" he asked. "It’s very dense."

It was an invitation into his world.You stood up and walked over. You didn't rush. You sat down on the floor, crossing your legs, keeping a respectful distance.

"Show me," you said.For the next two hours, Jake Sim taught you about the physics of plastic bricks. He showed you how the internal technic frame supported the weight of the outer shell. He explained the concept of "SNOT" (Studs Not On Top) building techniques.

He didn't make eye contact often. mostly he looked at his hands or the model. But every now and then, when he was explaining a particularly clever bit of engineering, he would look up at you to see if you were following. And when he saw that you were listening—really listening, not just nodding politely—his face would light up.It wasn't a loud happiness. It was a quiet, glowing satisfaction."You're a good listener," he said abruptly, around 11:30 AM. "Thank you, Jake."

"Most people stop listening after the first sentence about gear ratios."

"I like gear ratios," you lied. Well, a half-lie. You liked him talking about gear ratios.

"Okay," he said. He turned back to the pile. "I'm hungry now. It is Tuesday. Tuesday is grilled cheese."

"Do you want me to make it?"

He paused. He looked anxious. "Do you know the cut?"

"Diagonal?" you guessed. He nodded vigorously. "Diagonal. It tastes better. The surface area of the crust is distributed more evenly."

"I can do diagonal." You went to the kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, pretending to read a magazine, but she was clearly listening to the silence in the living room. She looked up as you entered. "He’s... talking," she said, sounding stunned. "I heard him talking."

"He was telling me about the Falcon," you smiled, grabbing the bread. "He’s brilliant, Sarah. He knows more about engineering than I know about anything."

Sarah’s eyes welled up. She blinked them back quickly. "He likes you. He usually ignores them for the first week. Or hides in his room."

"I think we're going to get along just fine."You made the grilled cheese. You cut it diagonally. You placed it on a plate (blue, his favorite color, according to the file).

You brought it to him. He ate it sitting on the floor, wiping his hands meticulously on a napkin between bites so he wouldn't get grease on the LEGOs.

When the shift ended at 3 PM, you felt exhausted but exhilarated. You gathered your bag."I have to go now, Jake," you said.He didn't look up from bag thirteen. "Okay."

"I'll be back tomorrow."He paused. He placed a brick. Then, without looking up, he spoke."Bring sneakers," he said.

"Sneakers?"

"Your shoes," he pointed to your heels you put back on without looking. "They go click-clack. It echoes. Sneakers are quieter. Stealth mode."

You smiled. "Stealth mode. Got it. Sneakers tomorrow."

The morning sun was hitting the pavement differently today. Yesterday, it had felt like a spotlight of judgment; today, it felt like a gentle invitation.You parked your sedan in the same spot, checking the time. 8:50 AM. You were establishing your own routine: ten minutes early, park, breathe, enter. Consistency was the currency of trust, and you intended to be rich in it. You looked down at your feet. Gone were the stiff, "professional" black heels that pinched your toes and echoed like gunshots in a quiet hallway. In their place were a pair of white Converse—clean, soft-soled, and silent. You had spent twenty minutes the night before scrubbing a scuff mark off the toe, irrationally worried that a smudge might disrupt the visual harmony of Jake’s morning. "Stealth mode," you whispered to yourself, grabbing your bag. You walked up the path. You made a conscious effort to step lightly, rolling from heel to toe. The silence was noticeable. You felt less like an intruder and more like a ghost, slipping into the ecosystem without disturbing the wildlife. Sarah opened the door before you could ring the bell. She was holding a mug of coffee with two hands, looking slightly more awake than yesterday, though the tired lines were still etched deep around her eyes. She wore a soft grey cardigan wrapped tight around her frame. She looked down immediately. She saw the sneakers. A small, genuine smile touched her lips—not the polite, strained smile of yesterday, but something softer. A crack in the armor.

"You listened," she said, opening the door wider. "He asked for sneakers," you said simply, stepping into the cool, lemon-scented foyer. "I figure he knows his ears better than I do."

"You’d be surprised how many people argue with him on that," Sarah murmured, closing the door with a soft click. "They say, 'Oh, you'll get used to the noise.' As if he can just will his neurology to change."

"I'm not here to argue with him, Sarah. I'm here to work with him."

"I'm starting to believe you." She gestured toward the kitchen. "He’s eating. It’s a... process. Keep your voice low. Morning transitions are hard. His brain is still booting up." You followed her down the hallway, your rubber soles making no sound against the hardwood. The house was still unnaturally quiet, a sanctuary of stillness against the chaotic world outside. When you entered the kitchen, the scene was almost tableau-like in its precision. The kitchen was bathed in natural light, but the blinds were tilted just so to prevent any glare. At the round wooden table sat Jake.

He was wearing a different hoodie today—a navy blue one, equally oversized, the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He was hunched slightly over his plate, his focus absolute. On the plate were two scrambled eggs and three strips of bacon. But "scrambled eggs and bacon" didn't quite do justice to what you were seeing. The eggs were a uniform yellow—no brown spots, no runny bits. They were separated perfectly from the bacon. The bacon itself had been cut into precise, one-inch squares.Jake held his fork in his right hand. He didn't shovel the food. He speared one square of bacon, lifted it, inspected it for a brief second, and then ate it. He chewed rhythmically. He swallowed. He took a sip of water from a clear glass (no ice, you noted—ice clinks). Then, and only then, did he spear a forkful of eggs.

It was a ritual. A sequence.

"Hi, Jake," you said, pitching your voice to a soft murmur, staying near the doorway.

He paused mid-chew. He didn't look up immediately. He finished chewing, swallowed, and took his sip of water. Then, slowly, he turned his head. His hair was messy from sleep, sticking up in tufts in the back, giving him a disarmingly boyish look. His eyes were heavy, blinking slowly as they found you. He looked at your face. Then, immediately, his gaze dropped to the floor. He stared at your white Converse for a long, intense five seconds. You stood perfectly still, letting him inspect the data.

"White," he said. His voice was raspy with sleep, deeper than it had been yesterday.

"White," you agreed. "And rubber soles. No clicking."

He nodded once—a sharp, decisive chin dip. "Stealth mode active."

"Active," you smiled. He turned back to his eggs. "Acceptable." Sarah let out a silent breath beside you. She touched your elbow gently and tilted her head toward the sunroom adjacent to the kitchen. It was close enough to see him, but far enough to talk without hovering over his plate. You followed her, sitting on a wicker chair while she perched on the edge of a loveseat. She watched her son eat with a mixture of fierce love and terrified vigilance. "Okay," Sarah whispered, turning to you. "Lesson number one: The morning sets the algorithm."

You pulled a small notebook out of your bag. "I'm listening."

"Jake’s energy is a battery," Sarah explained, keeping one eye on the navy-hooded figure at the table. "Most of us start the day at 100%. We spend energy, we get tired, we sleep. Jake starts the day at maybe... 60%. Just existing costs him energy. The lights, the texture of his sheets, the smell of the coffee I’m drinking—it all costs him."

You wrote down: Baseline energy lower. High sensory tax.

"If breakfast goes wrong," Sarah continued, her voice tight, "if the eggs are slimy, or the bacon is burnt, or the spoon is the wrong weight... he loses 20% right there. Then he starts the day in a deficit. And a deficit means a meltdown is almost guaranteed by noon."

"So the routine isn't just about being picky," you said, realizing. "It’s about conservation."

"Exactly," Sarah nodded, looking grateful that you got it. "He’s controlling the variables he can control, because the rest of the world is completely out of control for him. That plate?" She pointed to his breakfast. "That’s safety. He knows exactly what the bacon will taste like. He knows the texture of the eggs. It’s predictable. Predictability is safety." You watched Jake spear another square of bacon. The deliberate nature of it made sense now. He wasn't just eating; he was grounding himself for the day ahead. "Tell me about the food," you asked. "I noticed he cut the bacon before he started." "Texture and size," Sarah said. "He has trouble with proprioception—knowing where his body is in space, and sometimes, manipulating utensils while chewing is too much multitasking. If the food is big, he worries about choking. Or getting grease on his face. He hates having a dirty face. It feels like burning to him."

"So we keep it bite-sized," you noted. "Clean face, no unexpected textures."

"And no mixing," Sarah added quickly. "The eggs cannot touch the bacon. If the syrup from a waffle touches the sausage? The whole meal is ruined. It’s contaminated."

"Separation is key."

"Yes." Sarah took a sip of her coffee, her eyes darkening slightly. "The last aide... she thought it was 'silly.' She tried to mix his corn and mashed potatoes to 'save space' on the plate. He flipped the table." You looked at the calm, quiet boy eating his squares of bacon. It was hard to imagine him flipping a table. "He felt bad about it for weeks," Sarah whispered, seeing your expression. "He cried for two days. He kept saying, 'I broke the plate, Mom. I’m bad.' He’s not violent, Y/N. He’s never hurt a fly on purpose. But when the sensory overload hits... it’s like a power surge. His body just explodes to get the feeling out."

"I read about the meltdowns in the file," you said gently. "But the file called them 'behavioral outbursts.'"

Sarah scoffed. "Behavioral implies he’s doing it to get something. To manipulate. He’s not. It’s a system crash. It’s pain. Imagine someone blasts an airhorn in your ear while flashing a strobe light in your eyes and scratching a chalkboard. That’s what a disrupted routine feels like to him. The screaming, the rocking? That’s him trying to survive the input." You looked at Jake again. He had finished his food. He was now wiping his mouth with a napkin. Once. Twice. Fold. Wipe again. "What do I do if he crashes?" you asked. "You don't talk much," Sarah said firmly. "That’s the biggest mistake people make. They try to talk him down. 'Calm down, Jake. Use your words, Jake.' He can't use his words. His language center shuts off. Talking just adds more noise."

"So... silence?"

"Presence," Sarah corrected. "Quiet, heavy presence. He responds to deep pressure. You saw the weighted blanket yesterday? He lives under that thing when he’s stressed. If he’s spiraling, don't touch him lightly—light touch feels like bugs crawling on him. But a firm squeeze? A hand on his shoulder, pressing down? That tells his brain where his body is. It anchors him." You wrote down: No light touch. Deep pressure. Silence > Words. "He’s an empath, you know," Sarah said suddenly, her voice softening. You looked up. "The file said he has 'social deficits.'"

"The file is garbage," Sarah waved a hand dismissively. "He struggles with social cues. He doesn't understand sarcasm or hidden agendas. But emotions? He absorbs them like a sponge. If you are stressed, he will be stressed. If you are sad, he will be devastated. He can't filter out other people's feelings. That’s why he withdraws. It’s too loud emotionally." She looked at you pointedly. "So, you have to be calm. Even if you’re panicking inside, you have to be a rock on the outside. If you bring chaos into this house, he will shatter." It was a heavy responsibility. You were twenty-two. You were barely an adult yourself. But looking at Sarah’s exhausted face, and Jake’s solitary figure at the table, you felt a steel rod of determination form in your spine.

"I can be calm," you promised. "I can be a rock." Just then, the chair scraped against the floor in the kitchen. Jake stood up. He picked up his plate and glass. He walked to the sink, rinsed them both, and placed them in the dishwasher. Then, he turned and walked toward the sunroom. He stopped in the doorway, his hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie. He looked at his mom, then at you. "Breakfast is complete," he announced. "Good job, honey," Sarah said.

Jake looked at you. His eyes were clearer now, the sleepiness gone, replaced by that keen, observant intelligence you had seen yesterday. "Are we going to the living room?" he asked you.

"We can," you said, standing up. "Or we can do something else. What’s the plan for Wednesday?"

Jake frowned slightly. "Wednesday is... mid-week. The energy is medium." He tapped his fingers against his thigh. "I want to disassemble the sub-frame of the Falcon. I dreamed about a better anchor point for the hyperdrive."

"Disassembly," you nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

He turned to leave, then paused. He looked at your feet again.

"They really are quiet," he murmured, almost to himself. "Like a ninja." Then he disappeared down the hallway. Sarah let out a laugh, a short, breathy sound. "A ninja. That’s high praise. He likes ninjas. They have discipline."

"I'll take it," you smiled.

"Go on," Sarah shooed you gently. "I'm going to actually take a shower without worrying the house is burning down. You have the conn."

"I have the conn," you repeated. You walked down the hallway, your sneakers silent on the carpet. You found Jake in the living room, exactly where you left him yesterday. He was kneeling beside the massive LEGO structure. He didn't look up when you entered, but his shoulders didn't tense up either. He knew you were there. He accepted you were there.You walked over to your spot on the sofa and sat down.

"So," you said softly. "The hyperdrive anchor. What was wrong with the old one?"

Jake picked up a section of the ship. He rotated it, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "It was too rigid," he said. "If the ship moves, the stress fractures the connector. It needs flex. The universe has flex. Ships should too."

"That’s a good philosophy," you noted. "Flexibility prevents breaking."

He looked up at you then. A long, steady look. "Yes," he said. "

People break because they don't flex. They are rigid about the wrong things."

You felt a chill go down your spine. For someone who supposedly struggled with social concepts, he had just nailed the human condition in two sentences.

"I'll try to be flexible, Jake," you said. "Good," he said. He handed you a small bucket of grey pins. "You can sort these. By length. The short ones go on the left."

It was an order, but it was also an inclusion. He wasn't just letting you watch; he was letting you help. You took the bucket. You slid off the sofa and sat on the floor—keeping a respectful three feet of distance.

"Short ones on the left," you repeated. You worked in silence for twenty minutes. It was a comfortable silence. The only sounds were the click-click of his building and the soft rattle of your sorting.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah, Jake?"

He didn't look up. He was fitting a gear into place.

"Thank you for the shoes," he said. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the room. "The clicking... it hurts my teeth. It makes my spine feel itchy."

"I didn't know," you said. "I'm sorry about yesterday."

"You didn't know the variable," he said simply. "Now you have the data. You updated your software."

"I did."

"That is efficient." He paused, then added, "Jenny never updated her software. She just wore the loud shoes every day." Your heart broke a little for him. You could imagine him sitting here, day after day, his spine "itching" from the sound, unable to articulate why he was so agitated, while a well-meaning but oblivious support worker clattered around him. "I will always try to update my software, Jake," you vowed. "If something hurts, you tell me. I’ll fix it."

He looked at you. He studied your face, your eyes, your posture. He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the condescension. He didn't find it. "Okay," he said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, red 2x4 brick. He held it out to you. "This doesn't belong in the Falcon," he said. "The Falcon is grey and beige. This is red. It’s an anomaly." You reached out and took the brick. It was warm from his pocket. "What should I do with it?"

"Keep it," he said, turning back to his work. "It’s a good color. High saturation. But it needs to be somewhere else. You can hold it."

You closed your hand around the red brick. It felt like a token. A peace offering. A key. "I'll keep it safe," you said.You spent the rest of the morning sorting pins and listening to him explain the difference between torque and horsepower. You watched the way his hands moved, so sure and graceful. You watched the way the sun caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes.You thought about Sarah’s warning: He feels everything.You looked at the boy who was building a spaceship to escape to a galaxy far, far away, and you thought, I will make sure this room is safe enough that you don't have to leave.By lunchtime (grilled cheese, diagonal cut, blue plate), you had learned more about thermal exhaust ports than you ever thought possible.

But more importantly, when you put the plate down in front of him, he didn't just stare at the food.He looked up. He gave you a micro-smile—a tiny quirk of the lip.

"Diagonal," he noted approvingly.

"Flexibility," you countered with a smile.

"Touché," he whispered.

And as he took his first bite, you realized that the crooked diploma on your wall didn't matter. The textbooks didn't matter. This mattered. The quiet boy, the blue plate, the silent shoes, and the fragile, beautiful bridge you were starting to build, brick by brick.

The warm, soapy water in the kitchen sink was turning a pale, creamy orange—the remnants of the roasted tomato bisque you had served for lunch. You moved the sponge in slow, rhythmic circles against the bottom of the ceramic bowl, the motion meditative. Three months. It had been ninety days since you first walked into this house with your squeaky dress shoes and your imposter syndrome. Ninety days of learning that "on time" meant ten minutes early, that "quiet" meant silent, and that the world was a cacophony that Jake Sim fought to tune out every single minute of his life. Sarah had left an hour ago. It was a milestone, really. For the first two months, she had hovered. She was a ghost in the periphery—folding laundry in the next room, "checking emails" at the dining table while you and Jake were in the living room, watering plants that were already drowned. You didn't blame her. The stories she had told you about previous support workers were horror shows of incompetence and impatience. But last week, she had looked at you, then looked at Jake, who was calmly explaining the aerodynamics of a LEGO helicopter to you, and she had exhaled. A long, heavy breath that released years of tension.

"I'm going to the grocery store," she had said today, pulling on her coat. "Alone. And then... I might go to the library. I might be gone for three hours."

"Go," you had smiled, handing her keys. "We have the conn."

"You have the conn," she’d repeated, a small, terrified smile on her face.

And she had left. Now, it was just you, the soup bowls, and the faint sounds of explosions coming from the living room. You rinsed the bowl, placing it in the drying rack. You wiped your hands on the towel, taking a moment to scan the kitchen. It was spotless. Jake liked spotless. Clutter was "visual noise." If a spoon was left on the counter, he wouldn't say anything, but he would stare at it, his brow furrowed, his internal processor snagging on the anomaly until you moved it.You thought about the lunch you had just shared. Tomato soup. Pureed. No chunks. You had learned the hard way about Jake’s dietary landscape. It was a map filled with landmines.

No surprises. That was the golden rule. A piece of onion in a smooth sauce was a betrayal. A crunch in a soft food was a systemic failure. And the colors... that was a fascinating chapter in your education. Jake hated white foods. You remembered the "Cauliflower Incident" of Month Two. Sarah had been sick, so you tried to make dinner. You mashed cauliflower, thinking it was a healthy alternative to potatoes. You put a scoop on his blue plate. Jake had looked at it like it was radioactive waste. He had pushed his chair back, his breathing hitching.

"It’s a ghost," he had whispered, his eyes wide with genuine distress. "It has no data. It’s blank."

"It's cauliflower, Jake," you’d said gently.

"It’s deceptive," he’d countered, his voice trembling. "It looks like nothing, but it tastes like wet earth. It’s lying to my eyes." He hadn't eaten it. He hadn't eaten anything that night until you brought him a glass of milk. Milk was the exception. You had asked him why, fascinated by the logic. "Milk is structural," he had explained, drinking it down in three large gulps. "It builds bone density. Calcium is a metal. It’s not food; it’s construction material. Therefore, the color is irrelevant."

Logic. It was always about logic. You smiled to yourself, folding the dish towel. You checked the clock. 1:15 PM. Transition time. You walked out of the kitchen, your worn-in Converse making zero sound on the hardwood. You moved like a shadow, a skill you had perfected to avoid startling him.You stopped in the archway of the living room.The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a twilight effect that Jake preferred. The only light came from the massive 65-inch TV screen, which was currently exploding with red and blue light. Spider-Man: No Way Home. Again. Jake was sitting on the floor. He never sat on the couch when he was watching Spider-Man. He needed to be grounded, literally. He sat on the plush rug, his legs crossed, his posture rigid with focus. And he was wearing the pajamas. It was 1:15 PM on a Tuesday, but Jake was wearing a matching set of flannel pajamas covered in little Miles Morales masks. He had three sets. One with the classic logo, one with the Venom symbiote (which he only wore when he was moody), and this one.

He loved them because they were "high-tensile cotton," soft but durable, with no tags. He loved them because Peter Parker was his hero. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, just watching him.It was... cute. There was no other word for it. He wasn't just watching the movie; he was participating in it. He held a small LEGO minifigure of Spider-Man in his left hand. Every time Tom Holland shot a web on screen, Jake’s left hand would twitch, mimicking the thwip motion. It was a subtle stim, a way of processing the action. You knew why he loved Spider-Man. He had told you, in bits and pieces, over the last three months. "He has to wear the suit," Jake had said once, tracing the logo on his pajama shirt. "Because the world is too loud. The suit dampens the input. It holds him together."

"And the Spidey Sense?" you had asked. "Overload," Jake had replied, his voice serious. "When the air changes pressure. When he hears everything at once. He has to learn to dial it down. That is... relatable." Peter Parker was a boy who was overwhelmed by his own senses, who had to hide his true self to survive, who was awkward and nerdy but deeply good. Of course Jake loved him. Jake was him, just without the radioactive spider bite. On the screen, Spider-Man was swinging through New York, the camera panning dizzyingly. Jake rocked slightly back and forth, syncing his vestibular system with the movement on screen.You waited for a quiet moment in the dialogue before speaking. You never interrupted an action sequence. That was a rule. The scene changed to Peter and MJ talking on a roof. "Does the mask fit today?" you asked softly. Jake didn't jump. He knew you were there. He had probably heard your breathing change when you entered the room.

He turned his head slowly. His hair was a chaotic, fluffy halo around his head—he had shampooed it this morning, and it always got extra floofy on wash days. His big brown eyes blinked at you behind his glasses. "The mask is theoretical," he said. His voice was that familiar, soothing baritone. "But the pajamas are optimal. The flannel is at peak softness."

"They look very comfortable," you said, walking over and sitting on the sofa behind him. You didn't sit on the floor with him unless invited. "Is that the bridge scene?"

"It is the preamble to the bridge scene," Jake corrected gently. He turned back to the TV, but he leaned back slightly, resting his shoulders against the front of the sofa, right between your knees. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world. It meant you are safe. You are part of the furniture. I can rest on you. You resisted the urge to reach out and run your fingers through his hair. You knew he liked head scratches, but only when he initiated. Unexpected touch was "bugs." Initiated touch was "grounding."

"I made a discovery today," Jake said, his eyes still glued to the screen.

"Oh?"

"The soup," he said. "The viscosity was different."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Different bad or different good?"

He paused. He tapped the LEGO minifigure against his knee three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Different... efficient," he decided. "You roasted the tomatoes longer. The caramelization added depth. It reduced the acidity. It was... surprisingly pleasant."

You let out a breath. "I'm glad. I tried a new recipe."

"It is approved," Jake said. "You may add it to the rotation."

"Noted. Roasted tomato bisque: Approved." He went quiet for a moment, watching Peter Parker awkwardly try to explain his feelings to MJ. "Peter is bad at talking," Jake observed. "He is," you agreed. "He gets nervous."

"He has too many variables in his head," Jake said, twisting the LEGO figure. "He wants to say 'I like you,' but his brain is saying 'villains, aunt may, geometry, web fluid.' The output gets jammed."

"Does your output get jammed, Jake?" you asked softly.

He went still. The rocking stopped. He turned his head around to look up at you, craning his neck. His face was upside down from your perspective. His eyes were wide, searching yours. "Sometimes," he whispered. "With you."

Your breath caught. "With me?"

"Yes." He blinked. "Usually, with people, the output is jammed because I don't have the script. I don't know what they want me to say. It’s... static."

He paused, thinking hard, his brow furrowing.

"But with you," he continued, "the output jams because... there is too much data. I want to tell you about the soup. And the LEGOs. And the way your shoes don't make noise. And the way you smell like vanilla and oats. It all tries to come out at once. And I get... stuck."

He looked so earnest, so frustrated by his own inability to verbalize the torrent of thoughts in his head.

"That’s okay," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "You don't have to say it all at once. You can just give me one piece of data at a time."

He seemed to consider this. He righted his head and turned back to the TV.

He reached into the pocket of his Spider-Man pajama pants. He pulled something out.

He held his hand up over his shoulder, blindly offering it to you.

"Data point one," he said.

You reached out and opened your hand. He dropped a small, plastic object into your palm. It was a LEGO piece. A translucent blue "power blast" piece that came with the Spider-Man sets. It was meant to look like energy or webbing.

"It’s a web," he explained, staring at the screen. "It connects things. It holds things together when they are falling." You closed your fingers around the small, sharp plastic. It was better than a diamond ring."Thank you, Jake," you whispered. "I love it."

"It’s polycarbonite," he added practically. "It won't break."

"Neither will we." He hummed—that happy, vibrating sound that meant he was content. He leaned harder against your legs. "Do you want a snack?" you asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "It’s 1:30." Jake stiffened. The snack question. It was always a gamble. "No sweets," he said immediately. "Sugar makes my teeth feel fuzzy sometimes. It makes my brain go bzzzzzt." He made a chaotic hand gesture. "No sweets," you promised. "I was thinking... pretzels? Or cheese cubes?"

"Cheese cubes," he said decisively. "Cheddar. Sharp. Cut into 1x1 centimeter blocks."

"I can do that."

"And... maybe milk?"

"Milk is structural," you recited his rule back to him.

"Correct," he said. "Milk is structural."

You stood up to go to the kitchen. Jake turned to watch you go.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah, Jakey?"

He looked at you, really looked at you, with that puppy-dog innocence that masked a profound, deep-feeling soul.

"Sarah is gone," he stated.

"She is."

"And the house is not on fire."

"Nope. No fire."

"And I am not screaming."

"You are definitely not screaming."

He nodded, a slow, satisfied movement. "This is a successful variable test."

"I think so too."

"Okay. Cheese cubes now."

He turned back to the movie, lifting his LEGO Spider-Man in the air to help Peter Parker swing across the screen. You walked to the kitchen, clutching the translucent blue LEGO piece in your pocket like a talisman. You opened the fridge and pulled out the block of sharp cheddar. You got the knife. You cut the cheese into precise, measured cubes. You thought about the last three months. You thought about the crooked diploma on your wall that you used to feel unworthy of. You didn't feel unworthy anymore. You didn't feel like a social worker "managing a case."

You felt like a web. You were holding him, and he was holding you, and together, you were swinging through the chaos of the world, one quiet, comfortable afternoon at a time. You put the cheese on the blue plate—making sure none of the cubes were touching—and poured the milk. "Coming through," you whispered to the empty kitchen. "Stealth mode active." You walked back into the living room, where the boy in the Spider-Man pajamas was waiting for you, safe in the sanctuary you had built together.

The six-month mark didn't arrive with fireworks. It arrived with a quiet, steady hum of competence. You were no longer the nervous grad with the squeaky shoes. You were Y/N, the keeper of the routine, the translator of the static, the one who knew that if the humidity was above 80%, Jake’s hair would frizz and the sensation would make him irritable unless he wore his hood up. You knew him. You knew the specific cadence of his breathing when he was happy (slow, deep) versus when he was anxious (shallow, catching in his throat). You knew that he categorized people by color auras he imagined for them—Sarah was a soft yellow, you were a "protective blue." Sarah trusted you completely now. She had started taking yoga classes on Tuesday mornings. She had gone to lunch with a friend. She was reclaiming pieces of her life because she knew that when she left the house, you had the conn. "We need apples," Jake announced one Tuesday morning. He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the fruit bowl. It contained three bananas (too ripe, brown spots—he wouldn't touch them) and one orange. Zero apples. "We do," you agreed, closing the dishwasher. "Honeycrisp. No bruises."

"The Gala ones are mealy," Jake said, a shudder running through his shoulders. "Mealy is... bad texture. It feels like wet sand."

"Honeycrisp it is." He looked at you then. He was wearing his "going out" clothes: dark jeans that were soft and worn-in, and a grey hoodie that didn't have logos. He looked calm. His hands were steady at his sides. "I can assist," he said. You paused. "You want to come to the store?"

"Yes." He nodded once, firmly. "I have calculated the variables. It is Tuesday. The store is statistically less crowded at 10:00 AM. I can select the apples myself. To ensure quality control."

It was a big step. You hadn't taken him to the grocery store in two months. The last time had been... okay, but tense. He had gripped the cart handle so hard his knuckles turned white."Are you sure?" you asked gently.

"I am operating at 90% battery," he stated confidently. "I have my hoodie. I am prepared."

"Okay," you smiled, grabbing your keys. "Let’s go on a mission."

The drive was easy. You played his favorite playlist—lo-fi hip hop beats with no lyrics. He tapped his fingers against his thigh in time with the rhythm, looking out the window at the passing trees. "The leaves are changing," he noted. "Entropy."

"It’s pretty though."

"It is acceptable decay," he conceded. You pulled into the parking lot of the massive supermarket. It wasn't too full, just as he predicted. Tuesday mornings were for retirees and stay-at-home parents. You turned off the engine.

"Okay," you said, unbuckling. "Game plan. In, apples, maybe some of that specific cheddar you like, and out. Fifteen minutes max."

"Stealth mission," Jake whispered. You got out of the car. Jake got out.

He reached into his hoodie pocket. And froze. He patted his left pocket. Then his right. Then his jeans. He turned to look at the backseat of your car. "Y/N," he said. His voice wasn't calm anymore. It had a sudden, sharp edge to it.

"What is it?" You walked around the car to him.

"My headphones," he said, staring at the empty backseat. "I... I put them on the table. By the door. I didn't pick them up."

Your stomach dropped. The headphones. The Sony noise-canceling over-ear ones. His shield. His buffer against the world. He never left the house without them.

"Oh, Jake," you said, scanning the car quickly, hoping they had just fallen. But you knew. You had seen them on the console table when you grabbed your keys. You had been so focused on making sure you had your wallet that you hadn't done the equipment check. "I forgot them," he whispered. He looked at the looming sliding glass doors of the supermarket. Suddenly, the building didn't look like a store. It looked like a monster's mouth.

"We can go back," you said immediately. "It’s a ten-minute drive. We’ll go get them."

Jake shook his head. He was clenching his fists at his sides. "No," he said. He looked at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to show you he could do it. "No. It’s Tuesday. 10:00 AM. Low crowd density. I can do it. I have to flex."

"Jake, you don't have to flex on this. The store is loud."

"I can do it," he insisted, his voice rising slightly. "If we go back, we lose the window. The crowd density increases after 11:00. We are here. I am capable."

He looked so determined. He pulled his hood up over his head, tightening the strings until only his nose and eyes were visible.

"Hood up," he muttered. "Muffled." You hesitated. Every instinct in your social worker brain said abort mission. But every instinct in your heart wanted to support his autonomy. He was an adult. He was telling you he could handle it. "Okay," you said, your voice low. "But the second—the second—you feel the static getting too loud, you squeeze my hand three times. And we leave. We leave the apples, we leave the cart, we just go. Deal?" "Deal," he said. "Three squeezes. Emergency exit." He took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks. "Let’s execute." The mistake became apparent the moment the automatic doors whooshed open. You had forgotten how aggressive a grocery store is. You filtered it out—your brain ignored the hum of the freezers, the beep of the scanners, the squeak of cart wheels, the generic pop music playing over the PA system. But for Jake, without his headphones, there was no filter.

He flinched as we stepped onto the linoleum. The air conditioning blasted him, a physical wall of cold air.

"Okay?" you checked, moving close to his side.

"Buzzy," he muttered, keeping his head down. "Lights are... flickering. 60 hertz cycle."

"We'll be fast," you promised. "Produce is right here."

You steered him toward the apples. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He was making himself small.

"Honeycrisp," you said, grabbing a plastic bag. "Help me pick three good ones."

He focused on the task. The task was a lifeline. He inspected the apples with intense scrutiny, turning them over in his hands.

"Bruise," he whispered, rejecting one. "Soft spot."

He found three perfect apples. He placed them in the bag gently.

"Good," he said. "Done."

"Okay. Cheese next? Aisle four."

"Aisle four," he repeated. "Dairy. Cold."

You started walking. The store was indeed mostly empty, but 'mostly' isn't 'completely'.

A cart rattled past us. One of the wheels was stuck, making a rhythmic thud-squeak-thud-squeak sound.

Jake winced. He pressed his shoulder against yours. You leaned back into him, offering your solidity.

"Almost there," you murmured.

We turned into Aisle Four. And that’s when the variables shifted. An employee was restocking the yogurt. He was tossing the plastic containers onto the shelf. Clack. Clack. Clack. At the other end of the aisle, a price scanner beeped loudly. BEEP. And then, the intercom crackled to life. "Price check on register three. Clean up in aisle nine." The voice was distorted, loud, and metallic. It echoed off the high industrial ceilings. Jake stopped walking. "Jake?" you whispered.He didn't answer. He was staring at the yogurt cups. His breathing had gone shallow. In-in-out. In-in-out. "Too many," he whispered. "Too many layers."

"Okay," you said instantly. "We're done. Let’s go."

You reached for his hand.But then, the final variable dropped. A woman turned the corner into the aisle. She was pushing a stroller. Inside the stroller was a baby.

The baby wasn't just crying. It was shrieking. It was that high-pitched, piercing wail that evolution designed to be impossible to ignore. It cut through the air like a jagged knife.Jake gasped. It sounded like he had been punched in the stomach.

His hands flew out of his pockets and slapped over his ears, pressing the fabric of his hood tight against his head. "No," he whimpered. "No no no."

"Jake," you said, stepping in front of him. "Look at me. Eyes on me." But the baby screamed again. A sharp, fluctuating cry. Jake’s knees buckled.

He didn't fall; he crumbled. He dropped straight down to the cold linoleum floor, curling into a tight ball. He tucked his head between his knees, his hands clamped over his ears so hard his knuckles were white. "Make it stop," he keened. It was a high, thin sound of pure distress. "It’s needles. It’s needles in my ears."

The woman with the stroller stopped. She looked at the grown man curled on the floor. She looked at you.

"Is he okay?" she asked, her voice loud, concerned but intrusive.

"He's fine," you said, your voice sharp, protective. "Please, just keep moving. The noise." She looked offended, but she pushed the stroller away. The crying faded, but the damage was done. Jake was rocking now. Fast. Forward and back. Forward and back. Thump. His head hit his knees. Thump. "Jake," you said, dropping to your knees beside him. You abandoned the cart. You didn't care about the apples. "Jake, I'm here. I'm right here." He couldn't hear you. The static had swallowed him. He was in the red zone. System failure. You saw the panic in his posture. He was hyperventilating, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a relentless strobe to his overloaded brain.You knew what you had to do.You moved in. You sat on the floor behind him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling his back against your chest.

You wrapped your arms around his chest, over his arms, locking your hands together.

And you squeezed. "Deep pressure," you whispered into his hood. "I've got you. I am the shield." You squeezed him with everything you had. You compressed his ribcage, grounding him. He fought it for a second, his body rigid and trembling, radiating heat. He let out a sob—a broken, terrified sound. "Hurts," he choked out. "Everything hurts."

"I know," you murmured, resting your chin on top of his hooded head. "I know, baby. Transfer it to me. Give me the noise." You started to rock with him. You synchronized your movement with his. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.People were staring. A manager was walking over, looking concerned.You held up one hand, palm out. Stop.

The manager paused. He saw the way you were holding him. He nodded once and backed off, diverting traffic away from the aisle. Thank god for small mercies.

"Breathe with me," you commanded softly, pressing your sternum against his spine. You took a deep, exaggerated breath. In. You held it. Out. Jake struggled. His breath was catching in jagged hiccups. "Focus on my arms," you said. "Feel how heavy they are. Feel the floor. The floor is hard. You are here. You are Jake. I am Y/N."

"Y/N," he gasped. It was a lifeline.

"That’s right. I'm right here. I forgot the headphones, Jake. I’m so sorry. I messed up. But I’ve got you now." He was shaking violently, the adrenaline crash hitting him.

We sat there on the floor of Aisle Four for what felt like an eternity. It was probably ten minutes. Slowly, the rocking slowed. His hands, still clamped over his ears, loosened their grip slightly.

"Static," he whispered. "It’s... lowering."

"Good. Keep breathing."

"The baby?"

"Gone. The baby is gone."

He slumped back against you, his weight fully supported by your chest. He was exhausted. A meltdown burned energy like a marathon. "I fell down," he whispered, shame creeping into his voice. "You sat down," you corrected firmly. "You did what you needed to do to survive the input. That is valid."

"People are looking."

"Let them look. They’re just jealous of how good I am at hugging."

He let out a weak, watery huff of laughter. It was a tiny sound, but it broke the tension. "Okay," you said, loosening your grip just a fraction. "Can we move? Or do we need more time?"

"Car," he said immediately. "I want the car. The bubble."

"Okay. We're going to the car. Do you want to walk, or do you want me to help you?"

"Help," he whispered. "My legs are... jelly. The signal is weak."

"I've got you."

Standing up was an ordeal. You had to hoist him up, his arm draped heavy over your shoulders. He kept his head down, eyes squeezed shut, hiding inside his hood.

You left the cart with the apples and the cheese. You didn't look back.

The walk to the exit was a gauntlet, but you moved fast. You glared at anyone who lingered too long with their gaze. Move along, your eyes said. This is my person.

When the automatic doors whooshed open, the humid, real air hit you. It was better than the recycled freeze of the store.

You got him to the passenger side. You opened the door. He practically collapsed into the seat. You ran around to the driver's side and got in. You locked the doors. You didn't start the car. You just sat in the sudden, blessed silence of the sedan.

Jake pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball on the seat. He pulled his hood down further. "I failed," he said. His voice was muffled and thick with tears.

"No," you said, turning to him. "No, you didn't."

"I did," he insisted, a sob breaking through. "I said I could do it. I said I could flex. But I broke. The baby cried and I broke." He turned his head to look at you, and your heart shattered. His face was wet with tears, his eyes red and swollen, looking at you with such profound disappointment in himself. "I wanted to be good for you," he whispered. "I wanted to show you I could be normal." You unbuckled your seatbelt. You reached across the console. You couldn't hug him fully, so you put your hand on his knee and squeezed hard. "Jake," you said fiercely. "You are good. You are so good. You don't have to be 'normal.' Normal is boring. Normal is overrated."

"But I ruined the mission. No apples."

"Screw the apples," you said. "Jake, look at me."

He blinked at you. "This was my fault," you said. "I forgot the headphones. I am the support worker. It is my job to check the equipment. I sent you into a construction zone without a hard hat. Of course it hurt. That’s not you failing. That’s physics."

"Physics?"

"Yes. If you pour too much water into a cup, it spills. The store poured too much noise into your ears. You spilled. That’s just cause and effect."

He sniffled, processing this logic. "So... I didn't malfunction?"

"No. Your sensors were just overwhelmed. And you know what? You signaled. You didn't scream at the lady. You didn't throw the yogurt. You sat down. That was control."

He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "It felt like dying."

"I know," you softened. "I know it did. And I am so, so sorry I let that happen to you."

He looked at your hand on his knee. He reached out and covered it with his own. His hand was cold and clammy. "You squeezed me," he said softly.

"Always."

"You blocked the noise. You felt like... a wall."

"I will always be your wall, Jake." He looked up at you then, and the look in his eyes was so open, so raw, it took your breath away. It wasn't the look of a client looking at a worker. It was the look of a man looking at his safe harbor. "I don't like it when you're sad," he whispered, reaching up to touch your cheek. You hadn't realized you were crying until he brushed a tear away with his thumb. "I'm not sad," you lied, your voice wavering. "I just... I hate seeing you hurt."

"I'm okay now," he said. "The static is gone. You're here."

He leaned his head across the center console, resting it awkwardly on your shoulder. It wasn't comfortable, the gear shift was digging into his side, but he needed the contact.

"Can we go home?" he asked. "To the blanket?"

"Yes," you sniffed, resting your cheek on his head. "Home. Blanket. And I’m ordering pizza. No cooking tonight."

"Pizza," he agreed. "Pepperoni. Symmetrical distribution."

"Symmetrical distribution," you promised.

You started the car. The engine purred to life. As you drove out of the parking lot,  He reached over and took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. He squeezed three times.

Thank you

It was the signal you had established for "emergency exit," but in the quiet of the car, with the sun filtering through the trees, it felt like it meant something else entirely.

You squeezed back three times.

You're Welcome 

You drove home in silence, hand in hand, the apples forgotten, but the trust between you stronger than any reinforced concrete. You had weathered the storm. You had survived the spill. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that as long as you had the conn, he would always be safe.

The plan for New Year’s Eve was simple, safe, and delightfully boring. You were going to wear your ugliest, most comfortable sweatpants, order an obscene amount of pad thai, and binge-watch the new drama that had dropped on Netflix. You had bought a bottle of cheap sparkling cider (because champagne gave you a headache) and planned to be asleep by 12:05 AM. You were looking forward to the silence. After 9 months of working as a support specialist—a job that required hyper-vigilance, constant emotional regulation, and a lot of noise management—silence was a luxury.

Then, at 9:45 PM, your phone buzzed.

Caller ID: Sarah Sim.

Your stomach did a little flip. Sarah never called after hours unless something was wrong. You answered immediately, pausing the drama where the lead actors were staring longingly at each other in the rain. "Sarah? Is everything okay?"

"Y/N, I am so sorry," Sarah’s voice was breathless, pitched high with stress. In the background, you could hear the distinct panic motion. "I hate to do this to you on a holiday. I really, really hate it."

"Sarah, breathe. What’s going on?"

"It’s my sister. Linda. She slipped on some ice in her driveway and... well, it looks like she broke her hip. She’s at the ER, and her husband is out of town on business, and the kids are..." She trailed off, a jagged sound of frustration escaping her. "I have to go. I’m preparing to go there now. But I can't take Jake. The ER waiting room on New Year's Eve? It would be a nightmare. The sirens, the people, the smell of antiseptic... he’d spiral before we even checked in."

"Say no more," you said, already standing up and reaching for your keys. "I’m coming over."

"Are you sure? It’s New Year’s. You must have plans. You’re twenty-three, you should be out at a party."

You laughed, grabbing your coat. "My plans involved noodles and pajamas, Sarah. I’m not missing anything. I’ll be there in twenty minutes."

"Thank you," she sobbed, a sound of pure relief. "Thank you. He’s... he’s anxious. The fireworks have started early in the neighborhood. He’s got his headphones on, but he’s pacing."

"I’ve got him," you promised. The drive to the Sims' house was a gauntlet of festive chaos. Even though it wasn't even 8:00 PM yet, the suburbs were alive. You saw teenagers running on lawns with sparklers, and every few minutes, a distant pop-pop-pop of firecrackers echoed off the houses.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter. You knew exactly what those sounds were doing to Jake. To him, a firecracker wasn't a celebration. It was a sonic assault. It was unpredictable, sharp, and threatening. It was a breach of the peace he worked so hard to maintain. When you pulled into the driveway, Sarah was already standing on the porch. The front door was open behind her, spilling warm yellow light onto the snow-dusted concrete. She had her purse over one shoulder and her car keys clutched in her hand like a weapon. She looked exhausted, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a coat over what looked like lounge clothes.

"You made good time," she said as you walked up the path, your sneakers silent on the pavement.

"Traffic was light," you said. "Go. Go take care of your sister. Don't worry about anything here."

"He’s in the living room," Sarah said, glancing back at the house. "He ate dinner—chicken nuggets, oven-baked, no sauce. He’s... rigid tonight. The noise is getting to him. He keeps checking the windows."

"I'll handle it," you assured her. "We'll build a fort if we need to. We'll turn up the white noise."

She squeezed your arm, her eyes wet. "You're a lifesaver, Y/N. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, Sarah."

She hurried to her car, and you watched her back out before you turned to the house. You took a deep breath, shaking off the cold and the residual stress of the drive, and stepped inside.The transition was instant. The outside world was a cacophony of wind and distant explosions. Inside, it was a sanctuary. The air smelled of lemon and old books. It was warm.You locked the door behind you, turning the deadbolt with a soft click. "Stealth mode active," you whispered to yourself, toeing off your shoes and leaving them on the mat.You walked down the hallway. The house felt different at night. The shadows were longer, the silence heavier. You could feel the tension in the air, a static charge that radiated from the living room. You reached the archway.

The blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room against the flashing lights outside. The only illumination came from the TV screen. Jake was sitting on the couch.Usually, he sat on the floor with his LEGOs, or in his recliner. But tonight, he was curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees pulled to his chest.

He was wearing a blue hoodie you hadn't seen before. It looked incredibly soft, a velvet-touch fabric that caught the light of the TV. His pajama pants were a dark plaid flannel. He had his big Sony headphones on, but they were slightly askew, as if he had been adjusting them frequently.He was watching Big Hero 6. The scene where Baymax and Hiro are flying over San Fransokyo at sunset. It was a quiet, visually stunning scene.

He didn't hear you come in.

You stood there for a moment, just watching him. He looked small. He was a grown man, broad-shouldered and tall, but curled up like that, protecting his vital organs from the invisible threat of the noise, he looked like the boy in the file photo from six months ago.You stepped into his line of sight, moving slowly so you wouldn't startle him.Jake’s head snapped up. For a second, there was fear in his eyes—a deer-in-headlights look. Then, recognition flooded in. His face transformed. The tension in his jaw released. His shoulders dropped three inches.

His eyes—those big, expressive, puppy-dog eyes that had hooked you from day one—lit up. It wasn't a dramatic smile; it was a softening. A light turning on in a dark room. He pulled his headphones down around his neck.

"Y/N," he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in hours.

"Hi, Jake," you said softly, walking over to the couch. "Your mom had to go help her sister. So you're stuck with me tonight."

"I am not stuck," he corrected immediately, uncurling his legs. "This is an upgrade. Mom is stressed. Her aura is jagged yellow. You are blue. Blue is calm."

You smiled, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, giving him space but close enough to be an anchor. "I'm glad I'm blue. How are you holding up? It’s loud out there." Jake frowned, looking toward the curtained window.

"The explosions are irregular," he murmured. "There is no pattern. Pop. Then silence. Then boom. My brain tries to predict the next one, but it can't. It’s a broken algorithm."

He picked at the fuzz on his blue hoodie. "I hate the sound. It vibrates in my teeth."

"I know," you said sympathetically. "It’s the worst kind of noise."

"But..." He hesitated. He looked at the TV screen, where colorful lights were dancing. "I like the data. I like the chemistry."

"The chemistry?"

"Strontium carbonate," he said, listing it like a fact from a textbook. "That makes red fireworks. Barium chloride makes green. Copper chloride makes blue. It’s just burning metal. It should be beautiful. Physics is beautiful."

He looked at you, his expression wistful and sad. "I want to see the chemistry. But I can't handle the physics of the sound wave."

Your heart gave a little tug.You thought about the parking lot downtown. The one on the hill that overlooked the river. It was a popular spot, but if you stayed in the car...

An idea formed."Jake," you said slowly. "What if I told you there was a way to see the chemistry without feeling the sound wave?" He tilted his head. "That is impossible. Light and sound travel together. Well, light is faster, but the sound always arrives."

"Not if we're in a bubble," you said. "My car. It’s insulated. If we drive to the lookout, park, roll the windows up tight, turn on the heater, and put your headphones on... you’d see them through the windshield. But you wouldn't hear the boom. Or at least, it would be a tiny thud. Not a bang."

He stared at you. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He was calculating the risk. "The car is a Faraday cage," he whispered. "For sound."

"Exactly. A shield." He looked at the window, then back at you. He trusted you. You had established that over six months of grilled cheese sandwiches and LEGO builds. You were the one who saved him in the grocery store. You were the one who brought the frozen peas for his headache.

"Can I bring my blanket?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And the headphones?"

"Non-negotiable."

He took a deep breath. He stood up. He smoothed down the front of his soft blue hoodie.

"Okay," he said. "Let’s go to the bubble."

The preparation for the expedition was precise.

Jake put on his shoes (velcro, no laces to trip on). He grabbed his grey weighted blanket. He put his headphones on, checking the battery life (84%—acceptable). He grabbed a small bag of pretzels, just in case he needed to chew to regulate his jaw tension.

You walked him to your car. The cold air bit at your cheeks. Somewhere down the street, a firecracker went off—a sharp CRACK. Jake flinched violently, stopping in the middle of the driveway. His hands flew to his ears over the headphones.

"Hey," you said, stepping in front of him, blocking his view of the street. "Eyes on me. Look at my coat. Look at the buttons." He focused on your coat. He breathed in. He breathed out.

"Car," he gasped.

"Car," you agreed.

You got him inside and slammed the door. You ran to the driver's side and got in. You immediately cranked the heater and turned on the radio to a classical station—low, steady cello music. "Status?" you asked, looking at him. He was adjusting his headphones. He pushed the noise-canceling button. The world outside muted.

"Status green," he said, though his voice sounded far away to himself. "The seal is tight."

"Okay. We're moving."

The drive to the lookout took twenty minutes. The traffic was light; most people were already at their parties. You drove carefully, avoiding potholes, keeping the ride as smooth as possible. Jake sat in the passenger seat, clutching his weighted blanket to his chest. He watched the streetlights pass by, counting them under his breath.

"You look nice," he said suddenly. You glanced at him, surprised. You were wearing sweatpants and a puffy coat. You had zero makeup on. "I look like a marshmallow, Jake."

"No," he said seriously. "Your face is... nice. And you look calm. You always look calm. It makes the inside of the car feel slow."

"Slow is good?"

"Fast is scary. Slow is safe. You feel safe."

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the heater. "Thank you, Jake. You look nice too. That hoodie looks very soft."

He looked down at his chest. He rubbed the fabric. "It is velvet-fleece blend. Sarah bought it. I usually only wear hoodies with zippers, but this one... the texture is superior. It feels like a cat."

"A cat hoodie. I like it." You reached the lookout. It was a large paved lot on a bluff overlooking the River. Across the water, the city skyline was lit up. There were other cars parked there, facing the river, their engines idling, mist rising from their tailpipes.

You found a spot near the edge, away from a truck that was blasting bass-heavy music. You put the car in park. "We have arrived," you announced.

Jake leaned forward, peering through the windshield. The view was panoramic. The dark water reflected the city lights, creating a shimmering mirror.

"The vantage point is optimal," he noted.

"We have about fifteen minutes until midnight," you said, checking the dashboard clock. 11:45 PM.

"Fifteen minutes," Jake repeated. "900 seconds."

He leaned back, relaxing slightly. He pulled the weighted blanket up so it covered his chin, leaving only his eyes and nose visible. He looked like a cozy, anxious turtle. "Y/N?"

"Yeah, Jake?"

"Why are you here?"

The question caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"

"It’s New Year's Eve," he said. "The social convention is to be at a gathering. Drinking ethanol. Counting down with many people. You are twenty-three. The data suggests you should be partying." He turned his head to look at you. His eyes were searching yours in the dim light of the dashboard.

"I didn't want to be at a party," you said honestly. "Parties are loud. And the floor is usually sticky. And you have to talk to people you don't know."

"You don't like loud?" Jake looked surprised.

"Not really. I do it for work, but... I like quiet. I like slow."

"Like the car."

"Like the car." You turned in your seat to face him fully. "And besides... I’d rather be here. With you." Jake went still. He stared at you. You could see him processing the statement, turning it over in his mind, looking for the hidden meaning.

"With me?" he whispered. "But I am... work."

"No," you shook your head gently. "You stopped being just work a long time ago, Jake. We're friends. Right?"

He blinked. "Friends."

"Yes. And I like hanging out with my friend. Especially when he teaches me about strontium carbonate." A slow, shy smile spread across his face. It started at the corners of his mouth and reached his eyes, crinkling them. He snuggled deeper into his blanket. "Friends," he tested the word. "That is... acceptable. Highly acceptable."

He looked back out the windshield. "Sarah says friends don't get paid to hang out."

"Well, tonight I'm not getting paid," you lied (technically the agency would bill for this, but the sentiment was real). "Tonight I’m just Y/N."

"Just Y/N," he echoed. "And just Jake."

"Just Jake."

The dashboard clock clicked to 11:59 PM.

"One minute," you said. "Sixty seconds."

Jake tensed up. He pressed his hands over his headphones, ensuring the seal was perfect. "The bubble holds," he whispered to himself.

"The bubble holds," you confirmed.

Across the river, in the city center, a single flare shot up into the sky. A white streak against the black. Then—bloom. A massive golden sphere exploded in the air. It was huge, glittering, and silent. Inside the car, you heard nothing. Just the cello music and the heater. Jake flinched visually when the light exploded, his shoulders jerking up. He waited. He braced himself for the boom.

One second. Two seconds. No boom. Just a soft, dull thud that vibrated vaguely in the floorboards, barely noticeable. Jake let out a breath. His shoulders dropped.

Another one went up. Red this time. Strontium carbonate. It burst into a heart shape.

Jake leaned forward. He pressed his hands against the dashboard. His eyes went wide. "Red," he breathed. Then came the finale. The sky erupted. Greens, blues, purples, golds. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of chemistry and light. The river below caught the reflections, doubling the show.

You weren't watching the sky.

You were watching Jake.

The colored light from the fireworks washed over his face in waves—blue, then red, then gold. His glasses reflected the explosions, making his eyes look like they held galaxies.

His mouth was slightly open in awe. The fear was completely gone, replaced by a childlike wonder that was so pure it made your chest ache. He wasn't the anxious young man in the grocery store aisle. He wasn't the client with the file. He was just a boy loving the lights.

He looked beautiful.

The soft slope of his nose, the messy hair falling over his forehead, the way his eyelashes caught the light. You felt a swell of emotion so strong it almost knocked the wind out of you. It wasn't just affection. It wasn't just protectiveness.

It was love. You had known it for a while, but here, in the quiet bubble of the car, with the new year raining down in sparks of fire, it felt undeniable.

Suddenly, Jake turned his head.

He caught you staring. Usually, when you were caught staring, you would look away. You would check your phone. You would pretend you were looking past him.

But tonight, you didn't. You held his gaze. The fireworks were still exploding behind him, framing his silhouette in halos of light.Jake looked at you. He saw the way you were looking at him. He didn't flinch. He didn't look down at his shoes.

He smiled.It wasn't his polite smile. It wasn't his nervous smile. It was an innocent, soft, intimate smile that said I see you seeing me, and I am okay with it.

He reached up and pulled one side of his headphones back, just an inch, breaking the seal.

"Happy New Year, Y/N," he said softly.

The cello music swelled. The heater hummed.

"Happy New Year, Jake," you whispered.

He didn't put the headphone back. He kept looking at you. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes. It was a fleeting glance, one he probably didn't even realize he made, but you saw it.

"The chemistry is beautiful," he said.

"Yeah," you breathed, looking right into his brown eyes. "It really is."

He held your gaze for another long second, the air between you thick and warm and incredibly soft. It felt like the start of something. Not a frantic race, but a slow, steady walk.Then, he turned back to the windshield as a massive blue weeping willow firework drifted down toward the water. "Copper chloride," he noted, sliding his headphone back into place. But he reached out his hand, the one not holding the blanket, and placed it palm-up on the center console.

It was an invitation. You reached out and placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours. His hand was warm. He squeezed three times.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You squeezed back three times.

The fireworks ended. The smoke drifted over the river. The year turned over.

But in the quiet car, holding Jake’s hand while he hummed a happy little tune under his breath, you knew the best part of the year had already begun. The new year didn't come in with a bang. It came in with a soft, steady warmth, wearing a blue hoodie and holding your hand.

March arrived with a slow, hesitant thaw, washing away the stubborn winter snow and leaving behind a world that felt raw, muddy, and ready to wake up.

It had been months since you first walked up the driveway of that quiet suburban home, a fresh-faced social work graduate clutching a file folder that tried to summarize a human being into a list of clinical symptoms. Back then, you had been terrified of making a mistake, of wearing the wrong shoes or breathing too loudly. Now, as the first hints of spring began to show through the living room windows, you navigated the complex, beautiful landscape of Jake Sim’s life with a quiet, practiced confidence.

You were officially his support worker. But unofficially, you had become his translator, his anchor, and his closest confidante. The boundaries of your job description had blurred into a deep, unwavering affection. You weren't his girlfriend—you strictly maintained your professional role, aware of the ethics and the fragile nature of his trust—but the feelings you harbored for the twenty-four-year-old were a warm, heavy reality in your chest that you could no longer deny.

Over the winter, the walls Jake had built to protect himself from a world that was too loud, too bright, and too unpredictable had slowly begun to lower. He was more trusting now. The rigid, closed-off young man from the file was gone, replaced by someone who sought out your presence.

You knew him completely. You knew his dietary map so well you didn't even need to consult the notes Sarah had left you on your first day. You knew he despised the texture of anything "mealy," like certain types of apples or boiled potatoes. You knew he had a strict rule against white-colored foods because they felt "deceptive" to his brain, with the sole exception of milk, which he categorized as "structural calcium" rather than a beverage. You had even managed to successfully introduce new variables into his routine. It had happened on a quiet Tuesday in early March. You had taken a massive gamble and driven him to a small, dimly lit Mexican restaurant on the edge of town for a late lunch. Jake had been rigid in the passenger seat, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his gray hoodie.

"Spicy is a pain signal," he had informed you, his brow furrowed anxiously behind his glasses. "Capsaicin tricks the brain into thinking the tissue is burning. I do not wish to be tricked. My baseline for sensory input is already at capacity."

"I promise we won't get anything spicy," you had assured him, parking the car in the empty lot. "But they have chips. Corn chips. And I think you’ll like the texture. They're uniform and crunchy." He had agreed to the mission, trusting you enough to step inside. The restaurant was practically deserted, which kept his anxiety at bay. When the basket of warm tortilla chips arrived, Jake had inspected one like a scientist examining a new element. He noted the uniform triangle shape. He took a tiny bite.

The loud, satisfying crunch made his eyes widen. He hummed, a low vibration of approval in his chest.

Then, you introduced the mild salsa. You explained that it was blended completely smooth—no hidden chunks of onion or tomato to surprise his palate. He had dipped the microscopic corner of a chip into the red sauce. He ate it. He blinked, processed the flavor profile, and dipped again, a little deeper this time.

"The acidity of the tomato cuts through the oil of the corn chip," he had observed, looking at you with a profound sense of realization. "It is mathematically balanced. It is... highly acceptable."Chips and smooth salsa had instantly become a staple. You started keeping jars of it in the pantry, and he would happily eat it as a snack while watching his shows.That same evening, the shift in his trust had become distinctly physical. You were sitting on the couch in the living room, the blackout curtains drawn, watching an animated movie.Usually, when you watched movies, Jake would either sit on the floor, grounded on the rug, or he would sit on the far end of the sofa, leaving a careful, deliberate two-foot gap between you. He wasn't big on physical proximity unless he was in the middle of a meltdown and needed deep pressure to ground himself.But that night, he had sat down on the sofa and looked at the gap. He looked at you. And then, he scooted over.He didn't press flush against you, but the gap shrank to a mere inch. You could feel the warmth radiating from his arm. When he leaned forward to watch a visually intense scene, his shoulder brushed against yours, and he didn't pull away.You had frozen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering tap-dance against your ribs. You didn't pull away, but you didn't push closer, either. You just sat there, hyper-aware of his presence, feeling incredibly honored that he felt safe enough to let his guard down and share your personal space.

A few days later, a new sensory challenge presented itself.

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. The house was quiet, but Jake was not. He was pacing the length of the living room, his steps heavy and agitated. He kept reaching up to swat at the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders, and grimacing as if something invisible was attacking him. "Jake?" you asked softly from the kitchen counter, where you were organizing his schedule for the week. "Is your shirt tag bothering you? I can cut it out."

He stopped pacing. He looked at you, his brown eyes clouded with severe distress. He reached up and grabbed a handful of his dark, fluffy hair at the nape of his neck. It had gotten long over the winter—curling over the tops of his ears and brushing against the collar of his hoodie. "It’s not the shirt," he said, his voice tight and breathless. "It’s my hair. It’s touching me. Every time I turn my head, it feels like cobwebs. Constant, heavy cobwebs. It is distracting my processor. The input is overwhelming."

"Do you want me to ask your mom to make an appointment at the barber?" you suggested gently. The look of sheer, visceral terror that crossed his face made you instantly regret the question. The barber was a sensory nightmare for him. It meant the loud buzzing of electric clippers vibrating against his skull, the strong smell of chemical barbicide, the bright fluorescent lights, and the unpredictable, light touch of a stranger’s hands on his sensitive scalp."No," he breathed, taking a step back, his hands flapping slightly at his sides as he tried to regulate his rising panic. "No barber. The buzzing hurts my teeth. The cape is too tight on my throat. I can't. I can't go."

"Okay," you said instantly, keeping your voice low and soothing. "No barber. I promise, Jake. We won't go." You thought for a second, watching him scratch frantically at the back of his neck.

"What if... what if I did it?" you offered.

He blinked, his hands freezing. "You?"

"Me. Right here in the kitchen. No buzzing clippers, just regular scissors. We can take breaks whenever you need to. I won't tie a cape around your neck; we'll just use your favorite soft towel."

He considered this. His logical brain weighed the risk of a bad haircut against the immediate relief of getting the "cobwebs" off his neck. He looked at your hands. He trusted your hands."Do you have the data?" he asked skeptically. "Are you trained in cosmetology?"

"I don't have the data yet," you admitted with a reassuring smile. "But I have YouTube. Give me ten minutes to study the algorithm."

He let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "Okay. Ten minutes."

You set up a wooden dining chair in the middle of the kitchen linoleum. You found a pair of sharp styling shears Sarah kept in the bathroom vanity. You propped your phone up against the sugar bowl and watched a video titled How to Trim Men's Medium Length Hair - Scissors Only.When you were ready, Jake walked into the kitchen. He had changed into an old, faded t-shirt. He sat down in the chair, his posture rigid as a board. You draped his favorite plush bath towel over his shoulders, securing it loosely with a binder clip so nothing constricted his throat."Okay," you murmured, standing behind him. "I'm going to touch your hair now. Deep pressure, just like we always do."

"Deep pressure," he echoed, closing his eyes tightly.

You placed your hands firmly on his scalp, letting him feel the solid weight of your touch before you ran a comb through his dark waves. He shivered slightly, but he didn't pull away."I'm going to start at the back," you narrated, knowing that unexpected sensory input was his biggest trigger. "You're going to hear the scissors. They make a sharp snip sound."

Snip. Snip.

"It sounds like a metronome," Jake observed softly, his hands gripping the edges of the wooden chair seat. "A fast metronome."

"Just focus on the rhythm," you soothed, working meticulously.

You weren't a professional, but you were infinitely careful. You trimmed the heavy curls away from his collar. You cleared the bulk from the sides. Every time you had to fold his ear down to cut around it, you warned him first.

It took forty-five minutes. A barber would have been done in ten. But this wasn't about efficiency; it was about safety. He sat perfectly still for you, enduring the falling hair and the metallic snip of the blades because he knew you were on the other end of them."Alright," you said finally, stepping back and carefully brushing the loose trimmings off the towel. "I think we're done, Jake. The cobwebs are gone."

He opened his eyes. He reached a hesitant hand up to the back of his neck. He felt the smooth skin, the clean line of hair that no longer brushed his collar. He felt around his ears, marveling at the empty air.

A slow, brilliant smile broke across his face. He stood up, shaking off the towel, and turned to look at you."It is optimal," he breathed, running his long fingers through the top of his hair, which you had left perfectly fluffy. "The static is reduced. My head feels... lighter. The processing speed is back to normal."

"You look very handsome," you smiled, reaching out to brush a stray clipping from his shoulder."Thank you, Y/N," he said softly, holding your gaze for a long moment. "I trust your scissors."

The trust they shared spilled over into the following week.

It was a chilly afternoon, the kind that made the house feel like a cozy, insulated bubble. It was the perfect afternoon for baking. "Cookies," Jake had announced around 2:00 PM, pulling his favorite glass mixing bowl from the cabinet. "The barometric pressure is low. We need to introduce a superior olfactory variable. Vanilla and butter."

"Sugar cookies?" you asked, rolling up your sleeves and washing your hands.

"Cutouts," he specified, retrieving his plastic container of cookie cutters.

Baking with Jake was a science experiment. He didn't believe in "eyeballing" ingredients. Everything was leveled with the flat edge of a butter knife. The dough had to be chilled for exactly thirty minutes. You did the main work—measuring, mixing, and rolling the heavy dough out flat on the counter—while he stood close beside you, supervising the chemistry of it all.

When it was time to cut the shapes, Jake took over. He treated the rolled-out dough like a puzzle of spatial geometry. He had chosen the star cutter and a specific dinosaur cutter.

"The goal is optimization," he explained seriously, pressing the star into the very edge of the dough. "We must minimize the negative space between the shapes to reduce the need for re-rolling. Re-rolling introduces excess flour and toughens the gluten matrix."

"You are a cookie architect," you laughed, watching his precise, careful movements.

"I am maximizing yield," he corrected gently, pressing the dinosaur cutter down directly next to the star.

You took the filled trays and slid them into the oven. "Okay, timer set for twelve minutes." But variables happen. Your phone buzzed on the counter—it was a call from the agency about a sudden change in scheduling protocols. You answered it, stepping into the hallway so you wouldn't disturb Jake, who was focused on washing the mixing bowl. The coordinator on the phone was chatty, and you got pulled into a frustrating, complicated discussion about paperwork.

You didn't hear the oven timer go off over the sound of the phone call.

You smelled it first. The sweet, buttery scent of baking cookies suddenly turned sharp, followed by the undeniable, acrid smell of burning sugar.

"Oh, shoot!" you gasped, hanging up on the coordinator mid-sentence.

You ran into the kitchen, grabbed the oven mitts, and yanked the trays out. Smoke billowed into the air.You slammed the trays onto the stovetop. The cookies were ruined. The stars were a dark, unhappy brown, and the dinosaurs looked like they had been caught in a prehistoric meteorite strike. They were hard as rocks and blackened around the edges."Dammit," you sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. You felt a hot prickle of tears in your eyes. You were his support worker; you were supposed to be on top of things. You had ruined his perfectly optimized geometric dough because you were distracted.Jake turned around from the sink, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at the smoking trays. He looked at your face.

He saw the disappointment. He saw the way you were picking at your thumbnail—a nervous habit he had memorized over the last six months.

He walked up to the stove. He looked at the burnt, sad little dinosaurs.

He reached out and picked one up. It was still hot, but he barely flinched.

"Jake, don't, it’s going to taste like ash," you warned, reaching out to stop him.

He lifted the burnt cookie to his mouth and took a bite.

A loud, aggressive CRUNCH echoed in the kitchen. You winced, waiting for him to spit it out. You knew how sensitive his palate was. Bitter flavors were usually an instant, gag-inducing rejection.He chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed. He looked at the cookie, then looked at you.

"The structural integrity is phenomenal," he stated, his face completely serious.

"Jake, they're burnt."

"They are heavily caramelized," he corrected smoothly. "The Maillard reaction was simply allowed to progress further than usual. It adds a... bold, smoky complexity."

He took another bite. Another loud crunch.

"And the crunch is superior," he continued, holding eye contact with you. "Soft cookies crumble. These cookies are resilient. They require effort. I appreciate the effort."

He was overriding his own intense sensory aversions. He was eating a burnt, bitter cookie just to protect your feelings, to make sure you didn't feel like you had failed him. He was a total sweetheart, wrapping his rigid sensory needs around his care for you.Your heart melted right into the linoleum. You couldn't help yourself—you walked over and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your face into his chest in a brief, fierce hug.

"You are the absolute sweetest guy in the world, Jake Sim," you mumbled against his shirt.He patted your back awkwardly but affectionately with his free hand. "I am just analyzing the data," he said, taking a third, agonizingly crunchy bite. "But thank you. They really are good."The emotional safety established on those quiet afternoons paved the way for something far more delicate.

It happened late one evening, a few days later. Sarah had gone to a late movie with a friend, leaving the two of you in the living room. The lights were dimmed, and the TV was playing softly in the background.

Jake was sitting on the couch, his knees pulled up to his chest, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his hoodie. He had been quiet for an hour, a heavy, contemplative silence that usually preceded a deep thought.

"Y/N?" he murmured finally. His voice was low, lacking its usual confident, factual cadence."Yeah, Jakey? I'm here."

He kept his eyes glued to the loose thread. "I had a birthday a few months ago. Before you started working here."

"I know," you smiled gently. "Your mom told me. You turned twenty-four."

"I am twenty-four," he repeated, rolling the number around in his mouth like it tasted strange and unpleasant. "You are twenty-three."

"That’s right. You’re older than me."

He didn't smile. His brow furrowed deeply, and he stared down at his hands.

"Twenty-four is a prime integer for adulthood," he said softly. "I read articles online. At twenty-four, normal men are... doing things. They are driving on the interstate. They are navigating tax brackets. They are going to loud places and drinking ethanol. They wear suits that scratch their necks. They live alone."

He swallowed hard, the vulnerability in his voice jagged and painful to hear.

"I do not do those things," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I cannot drive on the highway because the cars move too fast and the input overwhelms my processor. I cannot do taxes. I wear pajama pants with cartoon characters on them. I spend hours sorting plastic bricks. I need Mom to help me make doctor appointments. I need you to help me go to the grocery store."He turned his head to look at you, his brown eyes swimming with a profound, deep-seated insecurity. It was the awareness of a man who knew he was out of sync with the timeline of the world, a man who felt like he was failing a test everyone else inherently knew how to pass.

"I feel... broken," he choked out, the word hitting the quiet room like a dropped glass. "Like I missed the manual on how to be an adult. And you... you have a degree. You fit in the world. I don't understand how you can stand being here with someone who is stuck on the wrong setting."Your heart cracked right down the middle. You shifted on the couch, turning fully toward him, and reached out to take both of his hands in yours. You held them tightly, anchoring him to the present moment."Jake, look at me," you said fiercely.He blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek, but he met your eyes."There is no manual," you said, your voice steady and full of absolute conviction. "There is no 'normal' in adulthood. Everyone is just guessing and hoping they don't mess up."He sniffled, processing this. "But they do the normal things."

"Normal is a myth," you promised him. "You think because I have a degree I know everything? Jake, I had to Google how to fix a leaky pipe yesterday, and I still couldn't do it. I am terrified of making phone calls to strangers. I eat cereal for dinner three nights a week. Everyone has things they can't handle. Adulthood is completely new for everyone, and we're all just trying to survive the input."

You let go of one of his hands to reach up and cup his cheek, gently wiping the tear away with your thumb.

"You aren't broken, Jake. You are just you. You built a working replica of the Titanic from memory. You notice when the air pressure drops before the weather app does. You ate a burnt, charcoal cookie just so I wouldn't feel bad about my baking skills. Do you know how rare that kind of empathy is? How brilliant your brain is?"

He leaned into your palm, closing his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips.

"You don't have to like loud bars or scratchy suits to be a man," you whispered, maintaining your professional boundary but pouring every ounce of your care into your words. "You just have to be kind, and honest, and try your best. And you do that every single day. You don't have to fit into the rest of the world, Jake. Everything is new, and you just find where you fit most."

He opened his eyes. The fear was slowly draining away, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful relief.

"Find where I fit most," he repeated, testing the weight of the concept.

"Exactly. And you fit beautifully right here, just the way you are."

He let out a shaky breath, a small smile finally breaking through the sadness. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck, pulling you into a tight, grounding hug.

"You are my favorite variable, Y/N," he mumbled against your skin. "Thank you for the data." To prove your point that his interests were valid and wonderful, you stopped by a department store the very next morning before your shift. When you walked into the house, you handed him a plastic shopping bag. "What is this?" he asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously. "A reminder that what you like is perfectly fine," you smiled.

He reached in and pulled out a brand new, neatly folded package of pajama pants. They were dark navy blue, covered in small, minimalist red Spider-Man logos.

"I checked the tags," you said proudly. "They are tagless. And it’s a modal-cotton blend. Super soft." Jake’s eyes lit up instantly. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, checking the friction coefficient.

"It is superior," he breathed, a wide grin stretching across his face, the insecurities of the previous night completely forgotten. "The texture is incredibly smooth. Thank you, Y/N."

"You're welcome, Spidey. Go test them out."

He hurried down the hall. When he returned, he was wearing the new pants, looking incredibly cozy and relaxed. He did a small crouch in the living room, testing the stretch of the fabric."Range of motion is uninhibited," he declared happily. "They are perfect."The final days of March brought the first true, undeniable breath of spring. The sun came out, warm and insistent, waking up the dormant life in the backyard.

It was a Saturday morning. You were standing at the kitchen sink, washing out your coffee mug, while Sarah sat at the island, looking over some mail. Jake had been outside in the backyard for twenty minutes, "patrolling the perimeter" in his new Spider-Man pajamas and a light jacket.

You watched him through the window. He was pacing the fence line, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the gentle breeze.Suddenly, he stopped. He knelt down in the grass, inspecting something on the ground. Carefully, with precise, deliberate movements, he pinched something between his fingers and plucked it from the earth.

He stood up and turned around, walking back toward the house with a determined stride.

When the back door opened, he walked straight into the kitchen, bypassing his usual routine of wiping his shoes exactly three times. He walked right up to you, holding his hand out, his fist closed around something delicate.

"I found anomalies in the grass," he announced.

He opened his hand.

Sitting in his palm were a half-dozen dandelions. They were bright, aggressive yellow, their stems slightly crushed from his firm grip.

"They are weeds," Jake explained, looking at you earnestly. "Most people apply herbicide to them to make their lawns uniform. But I researched them. They are the first food for bees in the spring. They are incredibly resilient. They grow through cracks in the driveway. They do not care if they belong; they just grow where they fit."

He held the messy, yellow bouquet out to you."I picked them for you," he said, his brown eyes locking onto yours. "Because you are resilient. And because you help me find where I fit."You stared at the bright yellow flowers.You were horribly, violently allergic to dandelions. The pollen made your throat itch, your eyes swell, and your nose run like a broken faucet. If you held them too close, you’d be sneezing for the rest of the day in absolute misery.You didn't hesitate for a microsecond.

You reached out and gently took the crushed, beautiful weeds from his hand. You would never, ever tell him."They are the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen, Jake," you said, forcing your breathing to remain shallow so you didn't inhale the pollen directly. "Thank you so much. I love them."

His chest puffed out slightly with pride. "They require water. A small vessel. Their stems are short."

"I’ll put them in a shot glass right now," you promised.

You turned around, grabbed a small glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and arranged the dandelions carefully on the windowsill above the sink. As soon as his back was turned to grab a glass of water, you quickly turned your head and stifled a massive, aggressive sneeze into the crook of your elbow.

"Bless you," Jake said, drinking his water.

"Just dust," you lied smoothly, your voice thick as you quickly washed your hands with soap to remove the pollen. "Spring dust."

Sarah had watched the entire exchange from the kitchen island, her mail forgotten. As Jake wandered into the living room to adjust the volume on the TV, feeling successful and completely at ease, Sarah stepped closer to you.

She looked at the dandelions in the shot glass, and then she looked at you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You're allergic to those, aren't you?" she whispered, having seen you pop an antihistamine just yesterday when a neighbor mowed their lawn.

"Deathly," you whispered back, rubbing your itchy nose with the back of a clean hand.

Sarah let out a soft, watery laugh. She reached out and squeezed your arm, her grip tight and full of a mother's profound gratitude.

"He hasn't picked flowers for anyone since he was six years old," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Before the world got too loud and he folded in on himself. I used to wonder if I’d ever see that sweet, expressive little boy again."

She looked out toward the living room, where Jake was happily sitting on the couch, completely in his element. He wasn't hiding behind his hands or his headphones. He was just a young man, comfortable in his own skin, wearing the Spider-Man pajamas you bought him."He’s not just surviving anymore, Y/N," Sarah said, looking back at you with fierce, unwavering respect and praise. "He is living. He is confident, and he is himself again. But he’s not doing it alone. He has you. You brought him back."

You looked at the dandelions, their bright yellow petals soaking up the sun in the window, stubborn and resilient against all odds. You weren't his girlfriend, and you were technically just doing your job, but looking at the life and light that had returned to Jake Sim’s eyes, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

"I think we're just finding where we fit, Sarah," you smiled, your eyes watering from the pollen, but your heart completely full. "I really do."

April crept in with a deceptive warmth, bringing days that started crisp and ended bathed in golden, gentle sunlight. Over the past month, the trust between you and Jake had solidified into something unbreakable. The boundaries of your job title as his support worker had softened so completely that you often forgot you were on the clock. You were just Y/N and Jake, navigating the world together, one carefully calculated variable at a time.

Because he had been doing so well—expanding his safe foods, managing his sensory input, and initiating communication—you had planned a special outing.

There was a specialty hobby shop about twenty minutes away. It wasn't a big-box toy store with screaming children and blinding fluorescent lights; it was a quiet, dimly lit collector’s shop. It smelled of old cardboard, modeling clay, and dust. More importantly, they carried retired, vintage LEGO sets. Jake had been talking about a specific, out-of-production Architecture set for three weeks. He had saved his own money for it, meticulously budgeting his allowance in a small notebook.

"The crowd density on a Thursday at 11:00 AM will be approximately 12% of peak capacity," Jake had announced that morning, standing by the front door.

He was prepared. He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones securely around his neck, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. Underneath his unzipped, soft grey hoodie, he wore a subtle, vintage-wash Spider-Man t-shirt you had found for him online. It didn't have any scratchy tags, and the seams were flat.

"The math is solid," you agreed, jingling your car keys. "We have a clear window. Are you feeling good? Battery at 100%?" He closed his eyes for a brief second, running an internal diagnostic. "Battery is at 94%. I slept well. The eggs were uniform. I am ready to initiate the mission."

"Let's go get that set, Spidey."The drive was peaceful. You kept the radio volume low, playing a soft instrumental track that Jake liked because the time signature was mathematically consistent. He spent the drive looking out the window, his fingers tapping a complex, rhythmic pattern against his thigh. He was excited. It was a subtle excitement to anyone else, but to you, it was loud and vibrant.

When you pulled into the strip mall where the hobby shop was located, the parking lot was blissfully empty."Twelve percent capacity might have been an overestimation," you smiled, turning off the engine. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves."

Jake unbuckled his seatbelt, a small, proud smile on his face. "My calculations included a margin of error. Empty is an optimal variable."

You walked into the store together. The bell above the door chimed—a soft, pleasant ding that made Jake blink, but he didn't flinch. The shop owner, an older man reading a magazine behind the counter, offered a quiet nod and went back to his reading. It was perfect.

Jake immediately navigated toward the back corner of the store, where shelves were stacked high with pristine, sealed boxes.

You hung back a few feet, giving him space to explore his element. This was his territory. He moved down the aisle with absolute reverence, his eyes scanning the boxes, reading the piece counts and set numbers like they were lines of poetry.

"They have it," he whispered suddenly.You stepped closer. "The Architecture set?"

"Yes." He pointed to a high shelf. "Set number 21010. The Robie House. 2,276 pieces. It was discontinued years ago. The dark red brick count is unprecedented."

His hands started to move. It was a happy stim—his fingers fluttering rapidly in front of his chest, a physical manifestation of the joy bubbling over in his brain. He bounced slightly on his heels, a soft, high-pitched hum of pure excitement vibrating in his throat."I have the exact funds required," he said, turning to look at you, his brown eyes shining with absolute delight. "This is... this is a highly significant acquisition."

"I'm so happy for you, Jake," you beamed, your heart swelling at the sight of his unbridled joy. "Let me help you get it down."

You reached up and carefully pulled the box from the top shelf, handing it to him. He took it as if it were made of glass, tracing the edges of the cardboard, his happy humming growing a little louder.

And then, the bell above the door chimed again.

You didn't think much of it at first. But then the voices carried down the aisle. Loud, booming, aggressively casual.

"Bro, I swear they sell Warhammer stuff here, just look."

Three guys turned the corner into the aisle. They were roughly Jake's age, maybe a year or two younger. College kids. They were wearing baseball caps backward, reeking of sharp, chemical body spray that immediately made your nose wrinkle. They were talking over each other, their voices echoing harshly in the quiet shop.

You saw Jake stiffen instantly. The happy humming cut off. His fingers stopped fluttering and clenched into tight fists around the edges of the LEGO box. He instinctively took a step back, pressing his shoulders against the shelving unit, trying to make himself smaller. He lowered his head, his hair falling forward to shield his eyes.

You casually moved, placing yourself slightly in front of him, creating a physical buffer between him and the newcomers.

The guys walked down the aisle, completely oblivious to the sudden tension. One of them, a guy in a bright red polo shirt, stopped to look at the shelf right next to where Jake was standing.

"Man, who drops three hundred bucks on plastic bricks?" the guy scoffed, laughing loudly. Jake flinched at the volume. His hands were shaking. He pulled the box tighter to his chest. He was trying to be invisible, but the movement caught the guy's attention.The guy in the red polo looked at Jake. He looked at the way Jake was hunched over, avoiding eye contact. He looked at the vintage Spider-Man t-shirt peeking out from the hoodie.Then, the guy smirked. He nudged his friend.

"Hey, check it out," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "We got a real-life man-child over here. Hey buddy, aren't you a little old for the kids' aisle?"

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

Jake froze entirely. His breathing hitched, catching in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut."Excuse me," you said immediately, your voice cold and sharp as a razor. You stepped fully in front of Jake, locking eyes with the guy in the red polo. "Back off."The guy raised his hands in mock surrender, letting out an obnoxious laugh. "Whoa, chill out. I was just making a joke. Didn't realize his mommy was here to defend him."

"I said, back off," you repeated, taking a step toward him, the protective fury blazing in your chest. You didn't care about professionalism. You didn't care about causing a scene. You only cared about the man trembling behind you. "Keep your mouth shut and walk away."The second friend sneered, looking Jake up and down. "Jeez, what's wrong with him? He's shaking like a weirdo. Does he need a diaper change or something?"

Snap.

You moved forward, jabbing your index finger hard into the second guy's chest. "If you say one more word to him, I am going to have the owner throw you out by your hair. You are pathetic, miserable little bullies. Walk. Away. Now."

Your voice wasn't yelling, but it was deadly. The guys looked at your face, realizing you were genuinely a second away from a physical altercation. The bravado faltered.

"Whatever, crazy bitch," the red polo guy muttered, rolling his eyes. "Place is a freak show anyway. Let's go."They turned and swaggered out of the aisle, laughing loudly to save face ,mimicking disabilities, their heavy footsteps echoing as the front door chimed and they left the store.The silence that followed was suffocating.You turned around instantly, your heart hammering. "Jake," you breathed, reaching out. "Jake, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"

He wasn't okay.He was staring blankly at the floor. His face was entirely devoid of color. The box he had been holding so carefully slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the linoleum with a loud, hollow thud.

"Jake?" you asked softly, not touching him, knowing better than to initiate contact when he was in shock.He didn't look at the box. He didn't look at you. He reached up with shaking, jerky movements and pulled his noise-canceling headphones over his ears. He turned around, completely ignoring the set he had saved up for, and began speed-walking toward the exit."Jake, wait!" you called, abandoning the box on the floor and jogging after him.You caught up to him just as he pushed through the front door. The bright April sun hit him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his hands coming up to grip the edges of his headphones so hard his knuckles turned stark white.

"Car," he choked out, his voice thick, rough, and entirely monotone. "Take me to the bubble."

"Okay," you said instantly, unlocking the car with your fob. "We're going. We're going right now."

He practically dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. He didn't put his seatbelt on. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curled into a tight, defensive ball, and pulled his hood over his head and his headphones. He was burying himself alive.

You got in, started the car, and drove.The twenty-minute drive back to his house was the longest of your life. The silence in the car wasn't the comfortable, companionable quiet you were used to. It was a heavy, toxic, suffocating silence. It was the sound of a mind tearing itself apart.You wanted to reach over. You wanted to pull over to the side of the road, wrap your arms around him, and squeeze the pain out of him. But his body language was a massive, neon DO NOT TOUCH sign. He was completely closed off. The static in his head had turned into a roar.

When you pulled into his driveway, you noticed Sarah's car was gone. She was at her yoga class. It was just the two of you.

Jake opened his door before you even put the car in park. He scrambled out, almost tripping over his own feet, and half-ran to the front door. You hurried after him, unlocking it quickly.He didn't take his shoes off. He walked straight down the hallway, into his bedroom, and slammed the door.

You stood in the empty, quiet living room, your heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.You gave him ten minutes. You knew he needed time to process the massive spike of negative data. You went to the kitchen, poured a glass of ice water, and tried to steady your own breathing. Your hands were shaking with residual anger at those boys. You wanted to drive back and key their car.

But anger wouldn't help Jake.

After fifteen minutes, you walked down the hall and stood outside his bedroom door. You listened.You didn't hear crying. You heard a rhythmic, dull thump. Thump. Thump.Your stomach dropped.It was a sound you had only heard once, during his worst meltdown months ago. He was hitting his head. Not hard enough to cause a concussion, but hard enough to try and physically jar the overwhelming thoughts out of his brain. It was a frustration stim.

You didn't knock. You opened the door.

The blackout curtains were drawn, plunging the room into darkness. Jake was sitting on the floor in the corner, wedged between his bed frame and the wall. He had his knees pulled up, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He was rocking violently forward and backward.

Every time he rocked back, the back of his head hit the drywall. Thump.

"Jake, stop," you said, your voice firm but laced with panic. You crossed the room in three strides.

You dropped to your knees in front of him and slid your hand between the back of his head and the wall. When he rocked back again, his head hit your soft palm instead of the drywall.He gasped, the unexpected texture breaking his rhythm. He opened his eyes, glaring at you through the darkness. His cheeks were wet, but he wasn't sobbing. He was hyperventilating, trapped in a spiral of pure, toxic shame.

"Get out," he rasped, his voice raw.

It was the first time he had ever told you to leave. It felt like a physical blow to the chest, but you held your ground. You kept your hand behind his head.

"I'm not leaving you, Jake."

"Get out!" he yelled, a sudden, desperate burst of volume. He grabbed your wrist, trying to pry your hand away from the wall. His grip was frantic. "You are off the clock! Go away! Go back to your adult life!"

"I don't care about the clock," you said fiercely, refusing to let him push you away. You slid closer, ignoring his attempts to push you back, and grabbed both of his wrists, holding them firmly against his chest. Deep pressure. "Look at me. Look at my face."

"No!" He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away, trying to hide his face in his knees. "Don't look at me. I am... I am a freak show. I am a man-child."

He was echoing their words. The toxic data had infiltrated his system, overwriting all the confidence you had built together over the last six months.

"They were wrong, Jake," you pleaded, leaning in until your forehead was almost touching his. "They were stupid, miserable bullies who don't know anything about you."

"They were right!" he cried out, a ragged sob finally breaking through his throat. He stopped fighting your grip, his whole body slumping in defeat. "I am twenty-four years old! I wear a superhero shirt! I play with children's toys! I can't even go to a store without my mom or my... my paid caretaker to defend me!"

He pulled his hands out of your grip and buried his face in his palms, weeping openly. The sound of his heartbreak was agonizing.

"I thought I was doing good," he sobbed, his chest heaving. "I thought... I thought I was finding where I fit. But I don't fit anywhere. I am broken. The world looks at me and they see a joke. And you... you just pity me."

"Jake, no," you gasped, the tears finally spilling over your own eyelashes.

"You do," he insisted, his voice muffled by his hands. "You are beautiful. You are smart. You fix leaky pipes and drive cars and yell at scary men. You are a real adult. I am just your charity case. I am a job. You just pretend I am a man so I don't feel bad."

The absolute devastation in his voice, the deep-seated insecurity that had been completely laid bare by three cruel strangers, ripped through you. He didn't just feel humiliated; he felt unlovable. He felt like an imposter in his own life.

You didn't try to reason with him. You couldn't fight this level of emotional static with words alone.You moved. You uncrossed your legs and slid directly into his space. You didn't ask for permission. You wrapped your arms tightly around his trembling shoulders and pulled him forward, practically dragging him out of the corner until his chest hit yours.You wrapped your legs around his hips, trapping him in a tight, full-body embrace. You buried one hand in his dark, fluffy hair, pressing his head firmly against your shoulder, and wrapped your other arm tightly around his back. You applied as much deep pressure as your body could physically muster, crushing the space between you.

He stiffened violently, a gasp tearing from his throat at the sudden, overwhelming input. But he didn't fight it. He never fought your pressure.

"Listen to me," you whispered fiercely into his ear, your voice trembling with unshed tears and absolute conviction. "Listen to my voice. You are going to delete that data right now. Do you hear me?"

He let out a broken, hiccuping sob against your neck, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides.

"You are not a charity case," you continued, holding him tighter. "You have never been just a job to me. Those boys in the store? They are cowards. They tear people down because they have nothing interesting or beautiful inside their own heads. But you? Your brain is a masterpiece, Jake."

He shook his head weakly against your shoulder. "I'm a child."

"You are a man," you stated firmly, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you. You grabbed his face in both of your hands, your thumbs wiping away the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

His brown eyes were wide, bloodshot, and utterly shattered, staring at you in the dark room. "A real man isn't someone who wears a scratchy suit and drinks at a bar," you told him, staring directly into his eyes, refusing to let him look away. "A real man is someone who is kind. Someone who is honest. A real man notices when I'm sad and gives up his favorite weighted blanket to comfort me. A real man eats a burnt, awful cookie just so I don't feel like a failure. A real man picks resilient yellow weeds for me because he knows I love them."He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

"You are the strongest, bravest, most incredible man I have ever met, Jake Sim," you whispered, your voice cracking. "And I don't pity you. I am in awe of you."

You didn't plan the next part. You didn't calculate the professional boundaries or the risk of sensory overload. You just acted on the overwhelming, desperate need to prove to him that he was loved exactly as he was.You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.It wasn't a hesitant, chaste peck. It was firm, grounding, and full of every ounce of love and fierce protectiveness you harbored for him. You kept your hands cradling his face, anchoring him to the sensation.For one agonizing second, Jake froze. He went completely rigid beneath you. The new sensory input—the softness of your lips, the heat, the overwhelming intimacy—was massive.

But then, he melted.

A soft, desperate whimper vibrated in his throat. His hands, which had been hovering uselessly, came up and gripped your waist with a frantic strength. He didn't know what he was doing, but his instincts took over. He pressed back into the kiss, his lips moving clumsily but eagerly against yours. He clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly turned to quicksand.

You kissed him until the shaking in his body finally, slowly began to subside. You kissed him until the frantic rhythm of his heart slowed to a manageable beat against your chest. When you finally pulled back, you kept your foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping softly for air in the quiet, dark room. Jake's eyes were closed. His eyelashes were wet with tears, but his face had lost that pale, terrified pallor. His hands were gripping your hips so tightly it almost hurt, grounding himself in your physical presence. "Did you mean it?" he whispered, his voice incredibly small, incredibly fragile. "I meant every single word," you promised, stroking your thumbs over his cheekbones. "You are my favorite person in the entire world, Jake. I don't want a 'normal' guy. I want you. With your Spider-Man shirts and your LEGOs and your beautiful, brilliant brain." He opened his eyes. The shattered glass look was gone. The insecurity hadn't vanished completely—it never did, not instantly—but the toxic shame had been washed away by the absolute certainty in your voice and the lingering heat on his lips.

He swallowed hard. "I dropped the Robie House set."

You let out a wet, tearful laugh, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "We can go back tomorrow. Or we can order it online. Whatever you want."

"Online," he decided immediately, his voice gaining a fraction of its usual factual cadence. "The crowd density in that store is heavily polluted with negative variables."

"Online it is." He took a deep breath, processing the massive emotional shift that had just occurred. He loosened his death-grip on your waist, moving his hands up to carefully, hesitantly wrap his arms around your back, returning the full-body hug. He rested his chin on your shoulder, burying his nose in your hair.

"You smell like vanilla and anger," he murmured into your neck.

You laughed again, burying your face in his soft hoodie. "I was very angry. I wanted to hit them."

"I am glad you didn't," he said seriously. "Assault is a felony. That would disrupt our routine."

"You're right. No felonies."

You sat there on the floor for a long time, tangled together in the dark. The sting of the outside world, the cruelty of strangers, was still there, but it was locked outside. Inside this room, inside the circle of your arms, he wasn't a man-child. He wasn't a broken algorithm.

"Y/N?" he whispered after a long silence.

"Yeah, Jakey?"

"When you kissed me... the static stopped completely."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It was... highly effective. Superior to the noise-canceling headphones."

You smiled against his shoulder, your heart finally settling into a steady, peaceful rhythm. "Well, then I guess I'll just have to keep doing it. For medicinal purposes, of course."

"Agreed," he hummed, the vibration rumbling happily against your chest. "Frequent application is recommended." And as you held him in the dark, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, you knew that no matter how loud or cruel the world got, you would always be his quiet place. And he, in all his honest, beautiful complexity, would always be yours.

The aftermath of that afternoon on his bedroom floor shifted the entire axis of your relationship. The kiss had been an impulsive, desperate act of protection on your part, meant to shock him out of a spiral of toxic shame. But for Jake, it had fundamentally rewritten his internal algorithm.

You had become his baseline. In the weeks that followed as April blossomed into a warm, gentle May, Jake became undeniably, profoundly clingy. It wasn't a demanding, suffocating kind of clinginess. It was a quiet, constant gravitational pull. He simply needed to be in your orbit.

Before, he had valued his solitary space. He would spend hours in the living room building LEGOs while you read in the armchair, comfortable but separate. Now, if you sat on the sofa, he sat on the sofa, his hip pressed firmly against yours. If you stood at the kitchen island cutting his grilled cheese or pouring his milk, he would stand right behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

He initiated touch constantly. It was never light or brushing—he still hated the "spiderweb" feeling of gentle contact. Instead, it was firm and deliberate. He would reach out and wrap his long fingers securely around your wrist while you were talking to Sarah. He would drop his heavy head onto your shoulder while waiting for the microwave to beep. He would randomly press his palm flat against the center of your back as you walked down the hallway.He was seeking deep pressure, but more than that, he was seeking you. You were the variable that made the static stop, and he wanted that quiet safety as much as possible.

You didn't mind it. In fact, your heart swelled every single time he reached for you. You returned his affection in equal measure, leaning into his weight, squeezing his hand back, and resting your cheek against his fluffy, dark hair whenever he ducked his head into your neck.

Nothing was labeled. You hadn't sat down and had a formal discussion about being "boyfriend and girlfriend." You were just existing in this warm, safe bubble of mutual adoration, letting Jake process the new physical and emotional data at his own pace.

Sarah, of course, noticed the shift immediately.

It was impossible to miss. One Tuesday morning, you were standing at the stove, carefully stirring a pot of oatmeal (no lumps, perfectly smooth). Jake had padded into the kitchen wearing his tagless Spider-Man pajama pants and a soft grey t-shirt. Instead of sitting at his usual spot at the round table, he walked straight up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, and let out a long, contented sigh that vibrated against your back.You had simply smiled, leaning back against his solid chest, and kept stirring. "Morning, Jakey. Did you sleep well?"

"Eight hours and twelve minutes," he mumbled into your skin, his arms tightening in a firm squeeze. "The humidity dropped. The sheets felt correct."

Sarah had walked in right at that moment, pausing in the doorway. She froze, a mug of coffee half-raised to her lips. She stared at the way her son, who had spent his entire life flinching away from unexpected contact, was willingly, eagerly anchoring himself to another human being.She caught your eye over Jake’s shoulder. You offered her a soft, reassuring smile.Sarah’s eyes immediately filled with tears. She didn't say anything to disrupt his peace; she just pressed her lips together, gave you a shaky, incredibly grateful nod, and quietly backed out of the kitchen to give you both privacy.Later that afternoon, while Jake was in the backyard inspecting the growth of his beloved dandelions, Sarah sat next to you on the porch."I have never seen him like this," she whispered, watching him carefully step over a line of worker ants on the patio. "He’s always been so guarded. Even with me, sometimes. His sensory threshold is just so delicate. But with you... it’s like he doesn't have a threshold at all. You’re just part of him.""He makes it easy, Sarah," you said honestly, pulling your cardigan tighter against the spring breeze. "He’s so honest. There’s no guessing games with him. I know exactly where I stand."

"You know he likes you, right?" she asked gently, turning to look at you. "More than just as a support worker. I know the agency has rules, but Y/N... I am his mother. And I have never, ever seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."

"I like him too," you admitted, the truth feeling warm and bright in the cool air. "I really, really do. We’re just... taking it slow. I want him to figure out the feelings on his own timetable."

"Take all the time you need," Sarah smiled, her shoulders dropping in profound relief. "Just... thank you. For seeing him. For really seeing him."

The culmination of all those quiet, clingy weeks happened on a rainy Friday evening.

It was Movie Night. The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a cozy, insulated cave in the living room. The TV was glowing brightly with the saturated colors of Spider-Man: Far From Home.

Jake was sitting on the sofa. You were tucked seamlessly into his side. His arm was wrapped heavy and secure around your shoulders, and your legs were tangled together beneath his favorite fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket. The pressure of the blanket combined with the solid weight of his body pressing against yours was incredibly grounding.

On the screen, Peter Parker was awkwardly fumbling through a conversation with MJ in Venice, clearly overwhelmed by his circumstances and his desperate, clumsy desire to just tell her how he felt.

Jake was usually hyper-focused during Marvel movies, cataloging the physics of the web-shooters or the structural damage to the buildings. But tonight, he was distracted.

His fingers were tracing a repetitive, rhythmic circle on your upper arm. One, two, three. One, two, three. It was a self-soothing stim. He had been doing it for twenty minutes."Is the volume okay?" you whispered, tilting your head up to look at his profile. The blue and red light from the television painted sharp angles across his jawline."The volume is at level 14. It is optimal," he replied softly.

He didn't look down at you. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, but his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. He stopped tracing circles on your arm.

"Y/N?" he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest against your side.

"Yeah, Jake?"

"Peter's heart rate is elevated," he observed, watching the animated panic on Tom Holland's face. "He is experiencing a stress response. But there is no immediate physical threat. The elemental monsters are not present in this scene."

"No," you agreed softly. "There are no monsters. He's just stressed because he's trying to talk to MJ."

"Because he wants to give her the black dahlia necklace," Jake stated factually. "Because he likes her."

"Exactly. He likes her, and he's terrified of messing it up. Feelings can cause a stress response too, Jake. Adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A fast heart rate."

Jake went completely still. The slight, rhythmic bouncing of his foot beneath the weighted blanket stopped. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I have been experiencing a stress response," he said. The admission was quiet, almost a whisper, as if he were confessing a systemic error.

Your heart did a tiny, nervous flip. You shifted slightly under the heavy blanket, turning your body more toward him. "Are you experiencing one right now? Is the environment too loud?"

"No," he said quickly, his grip on your shoulder tightening in a firm, reassuring squeeze. "The environment is safe. The blackout curtains are closed. The blanket is heavy. You are here. The variables are all controlled."

"Then what's causing the stress response, Jakey?"

He finally pulled his eyes away from the television screen. He looked down at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, intensely focused, and swimming with an emotion so raw and heavy it practically took your breath away.

"You," he said simply.

You froze. "Me?"

"Yes," he nodded, his expression deadpan but his eyes betraying a frantic, searching vulnerability. "I have been analyzing the data for weeks. Ever since... ever since the incident at the hobby store. When you kissed me. My baseline changed."

He pulled his hand away from your shoulder, bringing it up to rest flat against the center of his own chest, right over his heart.

"It feels heavy in here," he explained, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to articulate the abstract chaos inside his mind. "But it's not the bad heavy. It’s not a meltdown. It’s like... like when I put the weighted blanket on, but it’s on the inside of my ribs."He reached out and carefully took your hand, lacing his long, elegant fingers through yours. He squeezed firmly.

"When you are not here, the static comes back. When you leave to go to your apartment, I count the hours until 8:50 AM when your car pulls into the driveway. I check the window. And when I see you wearing your quiet white shoes... my heart beats very fast. Like Peter Parker." Tears immediately pricked the back of your eyes. The absolute, unvarnished honesty of his words was staggering. There were no games. There was no posturing. He was laying his entire internal processor bare for you to see. "Jake," you breathed, your voice thick.

"I didn't know how to categorize the data," he continued, his thumb rubbing firmly over your knuckles. "I read the diagnostic criteria for anxiety, but the symptoms didn't match perfectly. Because anxiety makes me want to hide. This feeling... makes me want to be exactly where I am. Sitting right next to you. With no gap between the cushions."

He looked back at the TV for a split second, pointing at Peter and MJ, who were now sharing a quiet, charged moment on the screen.

"Peter feels it," Jake said, looking back down at you. "He feels the heavy, fast thing in his chest. And he calls it love." A single tear spilled over your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. Jake saw it. He immediately let go of your hand, his face falling into a mask of panic. "You are leaking. I said the wrong thing. I processed the variable incorrectly—"

"No, no, Jake, look at me," you interrupted quickly, reaching up with both hands to cup his face. You held his cheeks firmly, applying the deep pressure he needed to stay grounded in the moment. "I'm not crying because I'm sad. I'm crying because I'm happy. Because it's a good heavy feeling."

He stopped pulling away. He leaned into your palms, his wide eyes searching yours for confirmation. "It is a good variable?"

"It’s the best variable," you sobbed out a watery laugh, swiping your thumbs under his eyes. "You're saying you love me, Jake?"

"Yes," he said. He didn't hesitate. He didn't stutter. He looked at you with an innocence and a certainty that shattered every doubt you had ever harbored. "I love you. I love your quiet shoes. I love that you know I need the cheese cut into squares. I love that you fought those loud men for me. You are my safe place, Y/N. I love you."

Your heart took a massive, soaring leap against your ribs. You pulled his face down and pressed your lips firmly against his.

It was better than the first kiss. The first kiss had been born of panic and desperation. This kiss was born of absolute, undeniable clarity. Jake responded instantly, his hands coming down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you with that same meticulous, focused attention he applied to everything he cared about, learning the exact pressure and rhythm that made you sigh into his mouth.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. Jake’s glasses were slightly askew, and his cheeks were flushed a beautiful, vibrant pink.

"I love you too, Jake," you whispered, resting your forehead against his. "So much. My chest gets heavy when I look at you, too."

He let out a long, shuddering exhale, a massive weight lifting off his broad shoulders. He bumped his nose affectionately against yours. "Optimal," he whispered, a huge, gummy smile breaking across his face. You laughed, tangling your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "Since we both have the same data... does this mean you want to be my boyfriend?"

Jake paused. He blinked, processing the terminology. He tilted his head slightly.

"Boyfriend," he repeated slowly. "And you would be my girlfriend."

"If you want to be."

He thought about it. "Labels are useful. They categorize relationships so the boundaries are clear. A girlfriend is a primary, permanent variable."

"I would very much like to be a permanent variable, Jake."

His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. "Yes. I will be your boyfriend. That is... a very pleasing symmetry."

"It's perfect symmetry." He pulled you back against his side, wrapping his arm securely around your shoulders, tighter than before. He dragged the weighted blanket higher up over your chests, cocooning the two of you in the dim, flashing light of the television.

"Y/N?" he asked softly, resting his cheek on the top of your head.

"Yeah, boyfriend?" you teased gently. He hummed, a deep, happy vibration that rattled pleasantly against your ribs. "I do not need to buy you a black dahlia necklace like Peter Parker, do I? Because you do not like jewelry that clicks against the table. And glass is fragile."

You couldn't help the joyous laugh that bubbled out of you. "No, Jake. No glass necklaces required."

"Good," he said practically. "I will buy you more smooth salsa instead. It is a superior investment."

"I'd love nothing more." As Spider-Man swung across the screen, saving the city from chaos, you sat safely in the dark, anchored by the weight of the blanket and the boy who held you. There was no more static. There was no more confusion about where you fit into his life. You were dating Jake Sim, and as he pressed a firm, deliberate kiss to your hairline, you knew absolutely that you had found exactly where you belonged.

The transition from support worker to girlfriend wasn't just an emotional shift; it required a logistical one, too.

Two days after that rainy movie night on the couch, you walked into the drab, fluorescent-lit office of New Horizons Support Services and placed your ID badge on your supervisor's desk. You explained that you could no longer remain objective. You didn't give them the deeply personal details, but you told them enough: the professional boundary had dissolved, and it was no longer ethical for you to clock in and bill the state for the time you spent at the Sim household.

Your supervisor had sighed, citing "high turnover" again, but you didn't care. You walked out of that office feeling lighter than air.

You drove straight to Jake’s house. When you walked through the front door, you weren't wearing your agency polo. You were just wearing a comfortable sweater and your quiet white Converse. Jake was sitting at the kitchen island, meticulously peeling an apple in one continuous ribbon. Sarah was at the stove, boiling water for pasta. "I quit my job today," you announced softly, standing in the archway.

Sarah froze, the wooden spoon pausing in the pot. She turned to look at you, panic momentarily flashing in her dark eyes. "You... you quit? Y/N, what happened? Did the agency—"

"No, Mom," Jake interrupted. He didn't look up from his apple, but his voice was remarkably steady, imbued with a quiet, undeniable pride. The apple peel fell to the cutting board in a perfect spiral. "She did not quit me. She quit the agency. It is a conflict of interest for her to be on the payroll." Sarah blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you. "Conflict of interest?"

Jake finally looked up. He set the paring knife down carefully. He walked over to where you were standing in the archway. He didn't hesitate, didn't check the room for variables. He simply reached out, took your hand in his, and intertwined his long fingers with yours. He gave your hand a firm, grounding squeeze.

"Y/N is my girlfriend now," Jake stated, looking at his mother with absolute clarity. "She is my permanent variable. We are dating."

For a full ten seconds, the kitchen was dead silent. The only sound was the rolling boil of the pasta water.

Then, Sarah dropped the wooden spoon. It clattered against the stove. She covered her mouth with both hands, a loud, wet sob escaping her throat.

"Oh, my God," she wept, the tears spilling over her cheeks in a flood of sheer, unadulterated joy. "Oh, Jakey." She crossed the kitchen in three quick strides and wrapped her arms around both of you, pulling you into a crushing, messy hug. Jake stiffened slightly at the suddenness of the contact, but he didn't pull away. He just patted his mother’s back awkwardly with his free hand, while keeping his other hand locked tightly in yours.

"I am so happy," Sarah cried into your shoulder, squeezing you tight. "I am so, so happy for both of you. Y/N, you... you are family. You were already family, but this... thank you. Thank you for loving him."

"I couldn't stop if I tried, Sarah," you whispered, wiping your own eyes.

From that day on, it wasn't a job anymore. You were just taking care of your love, and he, in his own brilliant, meticulous way, was taking care of you.

As the damp chill of spring gave way to the heavy, golden warmth of summer, Jake bloomed.The boy who used to flinch away from unexpected contact became entirely, wonderfully unabashed about seeking it from you. He didn't care who was watching. If he needed grounding, he took it.

You started going to the local metro parks together. It was a massive sensory step for him—parks were unpredictable. There were off-leash dogs, shouting children, and the sudden, sharp crack of baseball bats from the nearby diamonds. But he wanted to go, because he knew you liked the walking trails.

To manage the input, he wore his noise-canceling headphones, a pair of dark polarized sunglasses to cut the glare of the sun, and, most importantly, he held your hand.

Jake’s hand-holding wasn't a casual, loose grip. It was a firm, deliberate anchor. He would press the palm of his hand flush against yours, locking your fingers together so tightly you could feel his pulse beating against your skin.

"Deep pressure," he would murmur, adjusting his grip as you walked down the shaded, tree-lined paths. "It keeps the static away. You are my tether."

"I've got you, Spidey," you would smile, swinging your joined arms gently.

One particularly warm afternoon in late June, a golden retriever slipped its leash and came bounding toward you on the trail, barking excitedly. Before you could even react, Jake stepped directly in front of you, placing his body between you and the dog. He was terrified of loud, unpredictable animals, his shoulders hitching up to his ears, but his first instinct was to shield you.

When the owner ran up apologizing and leashed the dog, Jake let out a long, shaky breath."You stepped in front of me," you said softly, rubbing his tense back as he watched the dog walk away.

"I am the boyfriend," he stated, his voice trembling slightly from the adrenaline, but laced with a fierce, protective logic. "The boyfriend protects the girlfriend from biological anomalies. It is in the protocol."

You had pulled him down by the strings of his hoodie and kissed him right there on the trail, surrounded by the buzzing cicadas and the summer heat. He had melted into the kiss instantly, his hands finding your waist, the fear of the dog entirely overridden by the overwhelming, consuming input of your lips against his.

Summer evenings in Jake's backyard became your sanctuary.

When the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple, pink, and deep, saturated orange, the temperature would drop to a comfortable coolness. The neighborhood would quiet down, and the sensory input of the world would finally dial back to a manageable hum.

One evening in July, you had brought a cheap, plastic bottle of bubbles from the grocery store.Jake had been sitting on the patio chair, watching the fireflies begin to blink in the grass. You sat on the grass in front of him, unscrewed the cap, and blew a stream of bubbles into the warm evening air.Jake’s eyes went wide. He watched the translucent spheres float upward, catching the dying light of the sunset.

"They are perfectly spherical," he breathed, leaning forward, utterly captivated. "Surface tension forces the liquid into the shape with the least surface area. It is... mathematically flawless."

"They're pretty, aren't they?" you smiled, blowing another stream toward him.

He reached out and caught one on the tip of his finger. It didn't pop immediately. He brought it closer to his face, his dark eyes reflecting the shimmering, rainbow-colored surface of the soap film."Thin-film interference," he whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The light waves are bouncing off the inner and outer boundaries of the soap film. They are interfering with each other to create the colors. Magenta. Cyan. Yellow. It is chemistry and physics working together."

Pop. The bubble vanished, leaving a tiny drop of soapy water on his skin. He laughed. It was a rare, full-bellied sound that bubbled up from his chest, pure and bright.

"Do it again," he requested, his eyes shining.

You spent an hour blowing bubbles for him. He didn't just watch them; he analyzed them. He tried to catch them without popping them. He tracked their flight paths, calculating the wind currents. And every time he laughed, your heart swelled until you thought it might burst.He looked so beautiful in the fading light. He was stripped of all his anxieties, all his fears about fitting into the "normal" world. He was just a brilliant, joyful man marveling at the physics of a soap bubble.

When the bottle was empty, he slid off the patio chair and sat on the grass beside you. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head on your shoulder.

"That was a superior activity," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck. "The visual input was highly stimulating, but not overwhelming. It was... soft."

"We can get more tomorrow," you promised, resting your cheek against the top of his fluffy hair.

"Yes. But only the brand with the pink wand. The fluid viscosity was excellent."

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his chest and pulling him backward until you were both lying flat on the cool grass, looking up at the first stars pricking through the twilight. He rolled onto his side, throwing a heavy leg over yours and burying his face in your chest.

"I love you, Y/N," he whispered into the fabric of your shirt, his voice drowsy and content.

"I love you too, Jakey."

As the summer wore on, your integration into his daily life became seamless. You didn't just watch him build LEGOs anymore; you built them with him.

It was a profound level of trust. Jake was highly territorial over his LEGO sets. They were his system of order in a chaotic world. But one rainy August afternoon, he pushed the massive instruction booklet for the LEGO Rivendell set toward the middle of the coffee table.

"You may assemble the roof tiles," he announced, handing you a plastic sorting tray filled with hundreds of tiny, earth-toned pieces.

You took the tray, deeply honored. "Are you sure? I don't want to mess up the symmetry."

"I have observed your fine motor skills," he stated pragmatically, clicking a wall piece into place. "You are careful. You do not force the bricks if they resist. And... I like seeing your hands next to mine."

You spent four hours sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor. You learned the specific, satisfying snap of a perfectly placed tile. You learned not to talk when he was counting studs. It was an intimate, quiet language you developed together.

When you finished the Elven council ring, Jake stopped. He looked at the structure, then looked at you."We built this," he said, the realization settling heavily on him. "Together as a unit."

"We make a good team."He reached out and traced the edge of the plastic roof you had assembled. "My life used to be a solo build. I did not want anyone to touch my pieces because they always knocked them over. But you... you reinforce the structure. You make the build stronger."By the time the leaves began to turn the vibrant reds and oranges of October, months had passed since the kiss.And with the passage of time came the deepest intimacy of all: spending the night.

The first time it happened, it hadn't been planned. You had been watching a marathon of animated movies, and the heavy rain outside had lulled you to sleep on the sofa, your head pillowed on his chest.

When you woke up, it was 2:00 AM. Jake was still awake. He was sitting perfectly still, not moving a muscle, his arm wrapped tightly around you.

"Jake?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Why didn't you wake me up? Your arm has to be numb."

"My arm is numb," he confirmed softly. "But you were in the REM cycle of sleep. Your breathing was deep. Interrupting the REM cycle causes cognitive fatigue. And... I liked the weight of you. It is better than the blanket."

You had smiled sleepily, stretching your stiff back. "I should probably drive home."

Jake’s grip on your waist tightened instantly. His heart rate spiked against your cheek.

"The roads are slick," he said, his voice rising in that familiar, anxious pitch. "The visibility is reduced by 60%. The statistical probability of an accident is elevated."

He looked down at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading in the dim light of the living room. "Please do not drive. The variables are unsafe. My bed is... it is a king size. There is room. You can sleep there."

You hadn't hesitated. "Okay. I'll stay."

Sleeping in Jake’s bed was a sensory experience in itself. His mattress was firm. His sheets were 100% Egyptian cotton, washed in unscented detergent because artificial lavender made his nose itch.

When you climbed into the bed, wearing a spare oversized Spider-Man t-shirt he had given you, he immediately pulled his heavy, fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket over both of you."Is the weight acceptable?" he asked anxiously, hovering over you. "It can be crushing to neurotypical nervous systems."

"It feels like a hug," you assured him, settling into the pillows.

Jake climbed in beside you. He didn't leave a gap. He closed the distance immediately, turning on his side and wrapping himself around you like an octopus. He pulled your back flush against his chest, throwing his heavy arm over your waist and tangling his long legs entirely with yours.

He buried his face in the back of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

"Optimal," he whispered into your skin.

You reached down and laced your fingers through his where they rested on your stomach. "Goodnight, Jake."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You learned that Jake didn't move in his sleep. Once he found his anchoring position against you, he was dead weight. He slept deeply and heavily, his breathing a steady, soothing rhythm against your spine.

Waking up to him was even better.The first time you opened your eyes in his bed, the morning sun was filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. Jake was already awake.He was propped up on one elbow, his chin resting on his hand, just staring at you. His hair was an absolute bird's nest of fluffy, chaotic curls sticking up in every direction. His face was soft, relaxed, completely devoid of the tension he carried during the day.

"You have a freckle on your left eyelid," he whispered, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. "I never noticed it before. It is very small. Exactly 1.5 millimeters."

You smiled lazily, reaching up to push a stray curl out of his eyes. "Good morning to you too, Spidey."

"You look different when you sleep," he observed, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Your facial muscles lose their tension. You look very peaceful. It made my chest feel heavy again. The good heavy."

"I was peaceful because I was sleeping next to you," you murmured, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt until his chest rested against yours.

He hummed happily, nuzzling his nose against your jaw. Waking up together became a staple of your weekends. You learned that he needed exactly ten minutes of quiet transition time before speaking about complex topics. You learned that he liked it when you traced light patterns on his bare back to help him wake up his sensory receptors.You learned that you had never, ever felt a love like this before.

It was a love completely stripped of games, manipulation, and societal expectations. It was a love built on raw honesty, calculated variables, and an intense, unwavering loyalty.

Now, exactly six months since that rainy New Year's Eve, you were sitting in the living room on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

The Thanksgiving break was approaching, and the air outside was biting and crisp. Inside, the fireplace was crackling.

Jake was sitting on the floor, leaning back between your legs as you sat on the couch. This was his favorite position. He called it "the grounding chair." You were running your fingers slowly and rhythmically through his dark hair, scratching gently at his scalp.He had his eyes closed, practically purring.

"The tactile input is superior," he murmured, his head tilting back against your knee to give you better access. You smiled, looking down at him. He was beautiful. He was so incredibly bright. You thought about the file you had read a year ago. Difficulty establishing rapport. Rigid. High support needs. They had missed everything that mattered. They missed the way his mind was a kaleidoscope of logic and empathy. They missed the way he noticed the iridescent colors in a soap bubble. They missed the fierce, protective way he would step in front of a strange dog for the person he loved.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking up at you upside down."I'm thinking about you," you said softly, cupping his face in your hands.

"Is the data positive?" he asked, a small, teasing lilt in his voice. He was learning how to joke with you, understanding the cadence of playful banter.

"The data is overwhelmingly positive," you assured him, leaning down to kiss him upside down, like Spider-Man.

He smiled against your lips. He reached up, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrists."I am operating at 100% battery," Jake whispered, looking at you with those deep, liquid brown eyes that held his entire, beautiful soul. "And you are the power source. I love you, Y/N."

"I love you too, Jake. Forever."

"Forever is a mathematical concept denoting infinite time," he stated, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I accept those parameters."

He closed his eyes and leaned back against you, completely at peace, and you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that your parameters were perfectly, infinitely aligned.

The seven-month mark of your relationship with Jake, the world outside the house had grown cold, brittle, and gray. But inside the house, the atmosphere was a saturated, brilliant gold.

You knew the exact rhythm of his breathing when he was relaxed; you knew the precise weight of the fifteen-pound blanket; you knew that when the world got too loud, you were the quiet room he retreated into.

It was a Friday night. The wind was howling outside, rattling the windowpanes with a chaotic, unpredictable rhythm that would have usually sent Jake into a spiral of sensory defense. But tonight, the blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the unpredictable elements away. The living room was bathed in the warm, colorful glow of the television screen.

You were having a movie night. It was a comedic, wildly colorful animation film about a chaotic family trying to save the world from a robot apocalypse. Jake had initially been skeptical of the plot's disregard for basic physics, but he had quickly become captivated by the vibrant, symmetrical animation style and the logical, deadpan humor of the family’s pug.For the last hour, you had been spooning on the sofa.

It was a position that had required careful calibration over the last few months. Jake’s sensory processing meant that light, feathery touches felt like crawling insects on his skin. But deep, firm pressure was his anchor. So, he lay behind you, his broad chest pressed flush and firm against your back. His heavy arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach, grounding you both. His long legs were tangled with yours beneath the plush velvet blanket.

He was incredibly warm, a human furnace radiating a steady, comforting heat through his vintage, tagless t-shirt.On the screen, the animated pug did something ridiculous, and a bright, bubbly laugh escaped your lips. Behind you, Jake laughed —a bright, resonant vibration in his chest that you could feel all the way down your spine. It was his version of a laugh, a happy, contented sound that meant his battery was operating at optimal capacity."The canine’s center of gravity is entirely disproportionate to its mass," Jake murmured into the shell of your ear, his breath sending a pleasant shiver down your neck. "It is impossible for it to run that fast."

"It's a cartoon, Jakey," you smiled, tilting your head back slightly to rest against his shoulder. "Physics take a holiday in cartoons."

"Physics never take a holiday," he corrected softly, his nose brushing against your hair. "But I will suspend my disbelief because the color palette is soothing."

You relaxed further into his hold, feeling utterly, completely safe. But after another ten minutes of lying in the exact same position, biology demanded a shift. Your left arm, which was tucked beneath your body and wedged against the cushions, was beginning to tingle uncomfortably.

"Jake," you whispered, squirming just a fraction. "My arm is falling asleep. The nerve is pinched."

"Paresthesia," he noted immediately, his grip on your waist loosening just enough to allow you to move. "You need to restore the blood flow."

"Yeah. Just give me a second."

You pushed backward against him to free your trapped arm, using your hips to gain leverage against the cushions. You shifted your weight, pressing your backside firmly against his lap to brace yourself as you pulled your arm free and rolled your shoulders. As you pushed your hips back into him, Jake made a sound you had never heard before. It wasn't his happy, vibrating hum. It wasn't the sharp, panicked gasp of a sensory overload. It was a low, breathy whimper that hitched in the back of his throat—a sound that was raw, involuntary, and entirely instinctual.

You froze. Before you could ask if you had accidentally hurt him, you felt it. Pressed flush against the soft curve of your backside, right through the fabric of your sweatpants and his soft flannel pajamas, was a distinct, solid ridge of heat.

He was hard.For a microsecond, the living room was dead silent, save for the cartoon explosions on the TV screen. You stopped breathing, your mind racing to process the new variable. Jake’s body, however, didn't wait for his logical brain to catch up.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming biological imperative, Jake’s hips twitched. He pushed forward, pressing that hard, aching heat deliberately into your backside, seeking the friction.Another soft, ragged moan escaped his parted lips, hot against your neck. His heavy arm, which was still wrapped around your waist, suddenly tightened, his large hand gripping your hip with a frantic, desperate pressure.

"Jake?" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, erratic flutter against your ribs.

He jerked slightly, as if your voice had snapped him out of a trance. The physical pressure against your back remained, but his breathing had turned shallow and erratic.

"I... I apologize," he stammered, his voice thick and wavering. He tried to pull his hips back, a sudden wave of panic radiating from his tense muscles. "I did not calculate that reaction. The friction... when you moved... the sensory input was massive. It bypassed my primary processor." You didn't let him pull away. You reached down and placed your hand firmly over his where it gripped your hip, anchoring him to you.

"Jake, it's okay," you said softly, keeping your voice low and steady. "You don't have to apologize. It's just biology. It's a natural variable."

"My heart rate is elevated to 110 beats per minute," he whispered, his chest heaving against your back. "The blood flow has heavily redirected. The physical sensation is... it is loud, Y/N. It is very loud."

"Is it a bad loud?" you asked carefully. "Is it overwhelming like a meltdown, or... is it something else?" He went still, analyzing the internal data. He pressed his forehead against the back of your shoulder, taking a shaky breath.

"It is not a meltdown," he confessed, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "It does not feel like the static. It feels like... gravity. Like I am being pulled toward the center of the earth. It is a very heavy, concentrated need. I want..." He swallowed hard. "I want to press against you again. The pressure felt... optimal."

Your pulse skyrocketed. You had navigated countless sensory challenges together, but this was uncharted territory. Over the last seven months, your physical intimacy had been limited to deep kisses, fierce hugs, and the quiet comfort of sleeping tangled together. You had let him set the pace, knowing that the intense vulnerability of sex could easily turn into a sensory nightmare if not handled with absolute care and trust.

But right now, his body was telling him what he needed, and he was trusting you enough to vocalize it.

You slowly turned over in his arms, shifting until you were facing him on the sofa.

His dark eyes were wide, blown out, and swimming with a chaotic mix of desire, confusion, and vulnerable trust. His chest was rising and falling rapidly under his t-shirt. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, making him look devastatingly beautiful in the flickering light of the television.

"You can press against me, Jake," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face in both hands, applying the firm, grounding pressure he loved. "If you want to. We can explore this data together. But only if you feel safe."

He leaned into your palms, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "I always feel safe with you. You are my permanent variable."

"Do you want to turn the TV off?" you asked. "To reduce the audio-visual input?"

He opened his eyes and nodded once, a jerky, decisive motion. "Yes. The flashing lights are distracting. I only want to focus on one input. I want to focus on you."

You reached for the remote on the coffee table and clicked the power button. The room was instantly plunged into a soft, velvety darkness, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. The silence in the room was profound, amplifying the sound of your mingled breathing.

"Is the dark okay?" you murmured, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

"The dark is good," he rasped, his hands sliding from your waist to grip your thighs. "It limits the variables. I can only feel."

"Okay," you breathed. "We're going to go very slow, Jake. If anything feels like too much—if the texture is wrong, or the pressure changes, or the static gets too loud—you just squeeze my hand three times. The emergency exit. And we stop immediately. Deal?"

"Deal," he agreed, his voice trembling slightly with anticipation. "Three squeezes."

You moved closer, swinging one leg over his hips so you were straddling him on the wide cushions of the sofa. You settled your weight down carefully.

The moment your center pressed directly against the hard ridge behind the zipper of his flannel pants, Jake let out a sharp, fractured gasp. His head fell back against the armrest, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands clamped down hard on your hips.

"Deep pressure," he groaned, his hips bucking upward instinctively to meet your weight. "Y/N... the pressure is... oh."

"I know, baby," you whispered, leaning down to press your lips to the erratic pulse beating wildly at the base of his throat. "I'm right here. Just feel it."

You began to move, establishing a slow, rhythmic rock against him. You knew better than to be unpredictable. He needed a pattern. Forward, back. Press, release. You created a physical metronome with your body, allowing his sensory processor to latch onto the predictability of the friction. Jake’s response was breathtaking. Stripped of his anxieties and grounded by the heavy weight of your body, he surrendered completely to the sensation. His hands roamed over your back, mapping the curve of your spine with firm, deliberate strokes. He was learning the topography of your body in a whole new way. "I need..." he panted, opening his eyes to look up at you. "The barrier. The fabric is creating a secondary friction that is confusing my receptors. I want... skin."

"Okay," you said, your own voice thick with desire. "Let's remove the barriers."

You sat up, reaching for the hem of your sweater. You pulled it over your head and tossed it onto the floor, leaving you in just your bra. Jake’s dark eyes widened, tracing the exposed skin of your chest and stomach. He didn't reach out with a light, tentative touch; he placed his large, warm palms flat against your ribcage, anchoring himself to your warmth.

"Symmetrical," he whispered, a breathless awe in his voice. "You are structurally perfect."

You smiled, a rush of pure affection warming your blood. You reached down and grabbed the hem of his vintage t-shirt, pulling it up and over his fluffy hair. His chest was broad and pale, his muscles tense and defined under the amber light.

You leaned down, pressing your bare chest flush against his.

The skin-to-skin contact was electric. Jake let out a long, shuddering sigh, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing, desperate hug.

"The thermal transfer is optimal," he murmured into your hair, his heart hammering against your breasts. "You feel like... you feel like the sun, Y/N."

"You feel amazing, Jake."

You reached down, your fingers fumbling with the waistband of your sweatpants. You shimmied them down your legs, kicking them off the edge of the sofa. Jake followed suit, his hands shaking slightly as he shoved his flannel pajama pants and boxers down, kicking them away with a clumsy urgency.

When you settled back over him, entirely bare against him, the reality of the moment hit him. It was his first time. Twenty-four years of guarding his body against a world that was too loud, too bright, and too sharp, and he was opening all the doors for you.

"Y/N," he whispered, his hands gripping your waist tightly. Panic flickered in the depths of his brown eyes, a sudden spike in his data processing. "I do not have the manual for this. I have read the biological mechanics online, but... the practical application... what if I malfunction? What if my rhythm is inefficient?"

You stopped moving. You cupped his face again, bringing your forehead down to rest against his."There is no manual, Jake," you promised him, repeating the words you had told him months ago when he felt broken. "There is no malfunction. This isn't a test with a pass or fail grade. This is just you and me, talking to each other in a different way. You just have to tell me what feels good, and I’ll tell you what feels good. We write our own code."

He blinked, processing the logic. "We write our own code," he echoed.

"Exactly. And I promise you, everything you do is perfect to me."

He let out a shaky breath, the panic subsiding. "Okay. Initiate the sequence."

You reached down, guiding his thick, incredibly hot length to your entrance. He was trembling beneath you, a fine, high-frequency vibration of pure anticipation.

"I'm going to go very slow," you whispered, locking your eyes with his. "Deep pressure. Ready?"

"Ready."

You sank down.The entry was a slow, deliberate stretch. You took him inch by inch, allowing his body to process the immense, overwhelming sensation of being enveloped.When you were seated fully at the base, you stopped.

Jake’s reaction was instantaneous and profound. His eyes rolled back slightly, his jaw dropping open in a silent shout. His hands flew up, not to your hips, but to your back, pulling you down into a crushing, desperate embrace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body going rigid as he absorbed the data.

"Jake?" you whispered, your hands stroking his hair. "Are you okay? Is it too much?"

He shook his head frantically against your collarbone.

"No," he gasped, a wet, fractured sound tearing from his throat. "It is not too much. It is... everything. It is all the data in the universe at once, but it is organized. It is quiet. Y/N, you are so quiet."

He meant it as the highest compliment his brain could formulate. You were the only thing in his life that silenced the chaotic noise of the world.

He didn't wait for you to establish the rhythm. His instincts, buried under layers of logic and sensory defense, roared to life. He surged upward, his hips snapping off the cushions, driving himself deep inside you. You cried out, a loud, breathless sound of pleasure that echoed in the dark room. The sound was a positive variable for him. It fueled him.He began to thrust. It wasn't clumsy, and it wasn't hesitant. It was a firm, relentless, driving rhythm. He found the mathematical perfection of the friction and locked onto it. Up, down. Press, release. He held your hips in a vice grip, ensuring the angle never deviated, maximizing the sensory input for both of you.

"Jake... oh my god, Jake," you moaned, your hands bracing on his broad shoulders as you rode the incredible wave of his momentum.

"Is the depth acceptable?" he panted, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Is the velocity optimal?"

"It's perfect," you gasped, leaning down to capture his lips in a fierce, messy kiss. "Don't stop. You feel so good."

He growled into your mouth—a primal, masculine sound that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. The logical, quiet young man who meticulously sorted LEGO bricks was completely subsumed by the overwhelming, consuming fire of his love for you. The pleasure began to build, a tightening coil of heat that radiated outward. The sensory input in the room narrowed down to just him—the smell of his clean sweat, the sound of his ragged breathing, the solid, heavy impact of his hips against yours. "I'm going to fall," he whimpered suddenly, breaking the kiss. His rhythm became erratic, frantic. His eyes squeezed shut, his head tossing back against the armrest. "Y/N, my system is overloading. The pressure is too high. It's too high!" He wasn't panicking; he was climaxing.

"Let it overload, Jakey," you cried out, feeling your own climax rushing forward to meet his. "I've got you! Just let go!"

With a final, desperate, upward surge, Jake broke.

A high, fractured whimper tore from his throat—a sound of absolute, overwhelming release. He froze, his body bowing upward off the couch, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring. He buried himself as deeply inside you as physically possible, his hands digging into your lower back to anchor you to him as he flooded you with his warmth.

The intensity of his release pushed you right over the edge. You shattered around him, your internal muscles spasming and milking him dry, crying out his name into the quiet, dark room.For a long, endless minute, neither of you moved. You lay collapsed against his chest, your breathing ragged and out of sync.

Slowly, the tension drained out of Jake's body. He slumped back against the cushions, his arms wrapping limply but securely around your waist.

You lifted your head, your hair falling in a messy curtain around your face, and looked down at him.His eyes were closed. His chest was heaving. And tracing down the sides of his flushed, sweat-dampened cheeks were two steady streams of tears.

Your heart constricted in a sudden panic. You reached down, wiping your thumb across his cheek. "Jake? Baby, what's wrong? Why are you crying? Did it hurt? Was the static too loud?"He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, wet, and incredibly bright.He looked up at you, reaching a trembling hand up to cover yours where it rested on his cheek. He turned his face into your palm, pressing a kiss to your skin.

"It didn't hurt," he whispered, a watery, brilliant smile breaking across his face. "The static is completely gone. There is no noise left in my head at all."

"Then why are you leaking?" you asked softly, using his terminology.

"Because my capacity is full," he explained, his voice thick with a profound, overwhelming happiness. "I processed the data of the physical connection, and I combined it with the data of my emotional attachment to you. The resulting sum was larger than my internal storage. It had to spill over."

He let out a shaky, joyful laugh, pulling you back down until your ear was resting right over his racing heart."I am crying because I am exactly where I belong," he murmured into your hair, wrapping his arms around you like a shield. "You are my favorite variable, Y/N. You are the only math that makes sense."You closed your eyes, a few happy tears of your own slipping onto his chest, and held your permanent variable as tightly as you could.

Epilogue 

The two years following that rainy autumn night unfolded with a rhythm that was entirely your own. Your relationship with Jake wasn't built on grand, unpredictable gestures or spontaneous cross-country road trips. It was built on the quiet, steady accretion of reliable data. It was built on Tuesday grilled cheese, the specific hum of the dryer on Thursdays, and the absolute certainty that when the world outside grew too sharp, you were each other's soft landing.

The seasons cycled —the oppressive, humid summers fading into the stark, brilliant colors of autumn, giving way to the biting cold of winter, and melting back into the muddy hope of spring. Through it all, Jake continued to bloom.

He still wore his Spider-Man pajama pants. He still organized his LEGOs by size, function, and color. He still required a predictable morning routine to conserve his daily battery. He was still undeniably, beautifully Jake. But the fear that had once defined his interactions with the world had largely dissipated. He was anchored. He had found where he fit.

It was a Saturday morning in late May. The air was warm, and the morning sun was filtering through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.

You were sitting at the kitchen island, wearing one of Jake's oversized grey hoodies, nursing a mug of coffee. You were twenty-five now, working full-time at a local community center. Your imposter syndrome hadn't vanished completely, but you no longer felt like a fraud playing at being an adult. You had a handle on your life, mostly.

Jake was standing at the counter, completely absorbed in the meticulous preparation of his breakfast. Two scrambled eggs (uniform yellow), three strips of bacon (cut into one-inch squares). "The humidity is rising," Jake noted, spearing a piece of bacon with his fork. He didn't look away from his plate. "It is currently at 68%. By mid-afternoon, it will likely exceed my comfortable threshold. My hair will experience frizz."

"We can stay inside," you offered, taking a sip of your coffee. "We have the new Star Wars puzzle. The 3,000-piece one."

Jake paused mid-chew. He swallowed and took a deliberate sip of his water.

"No," he said, finally looking up at you. His dark brown eyes were serious, but there was a subtle, nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface. He was tapping his left foot against the linoleum—a sign of processing complex variables. "I have calculated a different trajectory for today. I require a change in routine."

You lowered your mug, intrigued. A voluntary change in routine was rare. "Oh? What's the new variable?"

"I would like to visit the city Park," he announced, his posture straightening slightly. "The one with the botanical gardens. The rhododendrons are currently in peak bloom. They are highly saturated in color."

"The Park on a Saturday?" you asked, verifying the data. "It might be crowded, Jakey. High density."

"I am aware," he said, reaching up to adjust the collar of his t-shirt. "I have packed my noise-canceling headphones. I have assessed my battery level. I am operating at 98% capacity. I believe I can manage the input. It is... important."

There was a weight to the word important that made your heart skip a tiny beat. You had learned to trust his self-assessments. If he said he could handle it, he meant it.

"Okay," you smiled warmly. "Let's go see the rhododendrons."

The drive to the Park was filled with the familiar, comforting silence of Jake's lo-fi hip hop playlist. He sat in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping a complex rhythm against his thigh. He was wearing his favorite soft, navy blue hoodie and a pair of clean, comfortable jeans.When you arrived at the park, it was, as predicted, relatively busy. Families were walking dogs, joggers were navigating the paved trails, and children were shouting near the playground.Jake immediately deployed his headphones, pulling them over his ears to muffle the auditory chaos. He reached out with his right hand, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, and waited.You slipped your hand into his, intertwining your fingers tightly. Deep pressure. The anchor.

He squeezed your hand three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I love you.

You squeezed back three times.

I love you too.

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and together, you began to walk down the main path toward the botanical gardens. The gardens were a stark contrast to the rest of the park. They were quieter, designed for contemplation rather than recreation. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming flowers.Jake led the way, navigating the winding stone paths with purpose. He stopped occasionally to examine a specific leaf structure or to identify a flower species under his breath."The Fibonacci sequence is evident in the petal arrangement of the Echinacea purpurpea," he murmured, pointing to a purple coneflower. "Nature relies heavily on mathematical efficiency."

"It's beautiful," you agreed, leaning against his side.He guided you deeper into the gardens, away from the main thoroughfare, until you reached a small, secluded clearing. In the center of the clearing was a large, ornate wooden gazebo, surrounded on all sides by massive, blooming rhododendron bushes. The flowers were a blinding, saturated magenta.The clearing was entirely empty.

Jake stopped walking. He pulled his headphones down so they rested around his neck. 

The sudden exposure to the ambient noise of the park made him blink rapidly for a second, but he didn't put them back on.

He turned to face you.

His breathing had grown shallow. You could feel the slight tremor in his hand, which was still gripping yours tightly.

"Jake?" you asked softly, recognizing the physical signs of a stress response. "Is it too loud? Do you need your headphones?"

"No," he said, his voice hitching slightly. "The noise is acceptable. The variables are within manageable parameters."

He let go of your hand. You frowned, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your chest. Jake never let go of your hand in a public place. It was his primary grounding mechanism.

He took a step back, putting a careful two feet of space between you. He reached his hands into the front pocket of his navy hoodie. He was searching for something.

"Y/N," he began, his voice taking on the formal, factual cadence he used when he was nervous. "I have spent the last two years analyzing the data of our cohabitation. I have observed the statistical probability of a successful, long-term human partnership."Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird."The data indicates," Jake continued, his dark eyes locked intensely on yours, refusing to look away, "that relationships are prone to entropy. They break down due to poor communication, mismatched variables, and a lack of systemic maintenance."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He pulled his hands out of his hoodie pocket. He was holding a small, square object made of dark, polished wood. It wasn't a standard velvet jewelry box. It looked distinctly handmade.

"However," he said, his voice softening, the clinical distance dropping away to reveal the raw, beating heart beneath. "My internal processor has run the simulation a thousand times. And in every single simulation, the variable that prevents the entropy... is you."

He took a step forward, closing the gap between you. He didn't drop to one knee—he knew that societal conventions didn't dictate the validity of an action, and the ground was damp—but he held the wooden box out between you."You do not try to rewrite my code," Jake whispered, his eyes shining with an overwhelming, profound sincerity. "You learned my language. You understand that the static is loud, and you are the only thing that makes it quiet. You eat burnt cookies, and you do not make fun of my Spider-Man pajamas, and you provide optimal thermal transfer when I am cold."A tear slipped free from your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe."I do not possess the vocabulary to adequately express the magnitude of my attachment to you," he admitted, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the small wooden box. "But I have learned that human tradition utilizes symbolic gestures to denote permanent, primary variables."

He opened the wooden box. Inside, resting on a bed of dark blue velvet, was a ring. It wasn't a massive, flashy diamond. It was a simple, elegant band of polished titanium, inlaid with a thin, continuous stripe of dark, starry lapis lazuli.

"I selected titanium," Jake explained, his voice gaining confidence as he presented the data. "It has the highest strength-to-weight ratio of any metallic element. It is incredibly resilient. It will not warp or degrade. And the lapis lazuli is blue. You are my protective blue aura." He looked up from the ring, his gaze finding yours. The puppy-dog innocence was still there, but it was anchored by the unwavering conviction of a man who knew exactly what he wanted."Y/N," he said, his voice clear and resonant. "Will you agree to be my permanent, legally recognized variable? Will you marry me?" A sob tore from your throat—a loud, messy, uncalculated sound of pure joy. You didn't answer with words initially. You couldn't. You closed the remaining distance between you, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his face down to yours. You kissed him with every ounce of love, gratitude, and fierce devotion you possessed.

Jake gasped against your lips, his hands instantly finding your waist, the wooden box clutched safely in one fist. He kissed you back eagerly, grounding himself in the familiar, perfect pressure of your touch.When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless. You rested your forehead against his, your tears mixing with the warmth of his skin."Yes," you whispered, your voice thick and wobbly. "Yes, Jake. A million times, yes. I will be your permanent variable."His face broke into a blinding, full-teeth smile—the kind of smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute relief."Optimal," he breathed. "The simulation was accurate." He carefully extracted the ring from the wooden box. He took your left hand, his fingers steady now, and slid the titanium band onto your ring finger. It fit perfectly. He had likely measured your finger while you were sleeping, calculating the exact circumference."It's perfect, Jakey," you sobbed, looking at the band. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"It is mathematically precise," he agreed, admiring his handiwork.

He pulled you back against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You buried your face in his navy hoodie, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of unscented detergent and the crisp spring air.

You stood there in the quiet clearing, surrounded by the blinding magenta rhododendrons, holding your fiancé. The static of the world was entirely absent.

The wedding, like your relationship, was exactly what you both needed it to be: small, controlled, and deeply personal.There was no massive reception hall filled with hundreds of strangers. There was no loud DJ blasting bass-heavy music. There were no flashing strobe lights.Instead, six months later, you stood in the backyard of the beige two-story house. The late October air was crisp and smelled of fallen leaves. The trees surrounding the yard were ablaze in oranges and reds.

Sarah had spent weeks transforming the backyard into a quiet, intimate sanctuary. Fairy lights—warm white, non-flickering—were strung through the branches of the old oak tree. The grass was meticulously trimmed.

There were only twelve guests. Your parents, your brother, Sarah, and a few close friends who understood the rules of the environment.

You wore a simple, elegant white dress with no scratchy lace or heavy, restrictive corsetry. You wore your new white Converse sneakers beneath the hem.

Jake stood at the end of the short aisle. He wasn't wearing a suit. He had tried one on during the planning phase, but the stiff collar and the tight constraints of the jacket had sent him into a near-meltdown.Instead, he wore a dark navy blue cashmere sweater over a collared shirt, and dark, comfortable trousers. He looked incredibly handsome, comfortable in his own skin, and entirely at peace.He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones around his neck, a comforting weight, but he didn't need to turn them on. The environment was safe.When you walked down the aisle, your eyes locked onto his. He wasn't looking at the ground. He wasn't looking at your shoes. He was looking directly at your face, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears.

He held his hand out to you as you approached.

You took it, feeling the immediate, deep pressure of his grip.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I love you.

The ceremony was short. The officiant, a close family friend, spoke softly and clearly.

When it came time for the vows, you hadn't written traditional promises. You had written your own code."Jake," you said, your voice steady, holding both of his hands in yours. "I promise to always be your quiet place. I promise to never mix the eggs with the bacon. I promise to always check the weather for humidity spikes, and to always have your noise-canceling headphones charged."

Jake smiled, a single tear slipping down his cheek."I promise to fiercely protect your routines," you continued, your own vision blurring. "Because your routines are what allow your brilliant, beautiful mind to thrive. I promise to love you, exactly as you are, in every variable, in every simulation, for the rest of our lives."

Jake took a deep, shaky breath. He didn't have notes. He had memorized his data.

"Y/N," he began, his voice carrying the deep, resonant timbre that always grounded you. "Before I met you, the world was a chaotic, unmanageable input. I survived by building walls and closing doors. You did not try to break the walls down. You simply sat outside them, in your quiet shoes, until I realized I wanted to open the door."

He squeezed your hands, his thumb brushing over the titanium ring on your finger.

"You are the most statistically improbable, incredibly fortunate anomaly of my life," he said, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that defied any clinical diagnosis. "I promise to provide optimal thermal transfer when you are cold. I promise to eat the burnt cookies so you do not feel inadequate. I promise to step in front of the unpredictable variables to shield you. I promise to be your permanent, primary partner, until the entropy of the universe consumes us both."

There wasn't a dry eye in the small gathering. Sarah was openly weeping into a tissue, clutching your mother’s hand.

When the officiant pronounced you husband and wife, Jake didn't hesitate. He pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kissed you with the firm, deliberate passion of a man who had finally found his permanent place in the world.The small crowd cheered softly, clapping their hands—a muted, respectful applause that didn't startle him.The reception was a dinner held in the living room and kitchen. The food was carefully curated. There was a macaroni and cheese bar (no mixing required), a tray of perfectly uniform, sharp cheddar cheese cubes, and a massive bowl of smooth, roasted tomato bisque, a roast Sarah made, a salad.For dessert, there wasn't a traditional, multi-tiered wedding cake.Instead, there was a large platter of sugar cookies and other desserts. The cookies were cut into precise geometric shapes—stars and Stegosauruses. They were baked to a perfect, light golden brown.Jake stood by the dessert table, holding a star cookie. He looked across the room at you. You were talking to your brother, laughing at something he had said.Jake walked over to you. He didn't care that you were mid-conversation. He stepped up behind you, wrapping his arm securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

"Deep pressure," he murmured into your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Always," you smiled, leaning back into his solid warmth.

Your brother smiled warmly at the two of you and excused himself to get more macaroni and cheese.Jake held the star cookie out in front of you.

"The bake on these is optimal," he noted, his voice a low, happy rumble against your back. "The structural integrity is sound. The Maillard reaction was controlled."

"I set three timers," you laughed, turning your head to kiss his cheek. "I wasn't taking any chances today."He took a bite of the cookie. It crunched satisfyingly.

"They are very good," he decided, chewing thoughtfully. "But..."

"But?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"But I think I prefer the fossilized dinosaurs," he said, his eyes crinkling with a subtle, teasing humor. "They possessed a superior... smoky complexity. And they proved that you are fallible. Which makes you mathematically perfect for me."

You let out a loud, joyous laugh, turning fully in his arms to wrap your hands around his neck."You are ridiculous, Jake Sim," you beamed, looking up at your husband.

"I am entirely logical," he corrected softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. "The data supports my conclusion." He leaned down and kissed you again, right there in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the soft murmur of your families and the warm, golden light of the fairy lights.Outside, the world continued its chaotic, unpredictable spin. The traffic roared, the sirens wailed, and the variables shifted without warning.

But inside, wrapped in the arms of the man who organized his life with plastic bricks and unyielding honesty, everything was perfectly, mathematically still. The static was gone. You were home. And you knew, with the absolute certainty of a scientifically proven fact, that you would never need to run from the noise again.

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Tonight, apparently, was yours. The music at Delta Phi Gamma is loud enough to make the drywall sweat. Bass thumps through the floor, cups spill on every staircase, someone’s already passed out in a doorway and the night isn’t even halfway over. The living room smells like sweat, vape clouds, and spilled Jungle Juice. Basically: romance’s natural habitat. And you’re getting dumped in the middle of it. Not gently. Not privately. Not even with the decency of a lowered voice. You push your way through the crowd, throat tight, mascara clumping at the corners of your eyes as you replay the last thirty seconds of the conversation that just detonated your night.

Your ex, now officially, gloriously, miserably your ex, didn’t even bother lowering his voice when he said it. “I just don’t think we want the same things.”He’d said it like he was commenting on the weather. Like you hadn’t just spent two years learning the exact way he liked his eggs or pretending you didn’t hate his friends or memorizing the shape of his back in the dark.  Which was bullshit, because the thing he apparently wanted was your roommate’s cousin. Emma, you mimicked, mouth turning upwards unpleasantly. At a frat party. During midterms week.

A laugh bubbles up in your chest, hysterical and painful, and you choke on it as you shove into the bathroom. You sob as you burst into the stall, slamming the stall door behind you. The lock barely holds. The music bleeds through the walls in a rhythmic, mocking pulse. You slide onto the toilet seat fully clothed, one hand pressed to your mouth to stifle the sound, the other gripping your phone like you could strangle the memories out of it. The first tear falls. Then another. Then the flood sits you down and wrecks your life.

“Fuck him,” you whisper to yourself, but your voice cracks so hard it sounds like a bad karaoke mic. You open your photo gallery. There he is, smiling in the sun, arms around you on the beach, the stupid fake-candid he forced you to take because he loved the lighting. Delete. Delete. Delete, your thumb hovers over the last one: you wearing matching hoodies, kissing your cheek. Your vision blurs. “God, I hate him,” you choke, wiping at your eyes with the sleeve you don’t realize has mascara stains already smeared on it.

A knock rattles the stall. “Babe? You good? You’ve been in there forever,” your friend calls. “I’m FINE!” you lie, voice cracking like a broken violin. You are absolutely not fine. You hit delete. A pop-up appears: Delete 247 photos? This action cannot be undone. You choke. “Two hundred and—? Ugh, I have no life.” You press confirm. The screen goes blank. Another sob. You grab a half-empty tequila bottle someone left on the counter and take a swig so aggressive it burns all the way down.

The night air out on the balcony isn’t much better, cold, smoky, buzzing with drunken laughter and cigarette glow. You lean against the railing, gulping in breaths like you could rewind your brain. Your friend hands you a drink. “Honey, it’s okay—”

“It’s NOT okay,” you snap, then immediately burst into tears again. “I wasted TWO YEARS of my life on a man who wears socks during sex.”

“Oh no.” “Oh YES,” you say dramatically, waving the bottle. “Guess who’s single and insane and probably going to die alone with seventeen cats?” “Babe—”

“He dumped me during a beer-pong tournament, Alyssa! Who DOES that?!” “Uh—” “And his stupid face, ugh, I hope he trips into a puddle. Of acid. Actually, I hope someone steals his favorite hoodie. And his Spotify playlist.”

Your friend pats your hair. “Okay, you’re spiraling.” “I am FLOURISHING.” You are absolutely spiraling. She takes the bottle before you drown yourself in it and disappears inside to get water, leaving you alone on the balcony with your misery (and the rest of the lot). Someone snorts behind you. You whirl around, ready to fight, and come face-to-face with Jake Sim, leaning against the balcony doorframe like he’s posing for a frat-boy-magazine cover. Backlit by neon lights, jaw sharp, eyes amused, blonde hair slightly messy from the crowd. He’s wearing a black tee that fits like sin, jeans that should be illegal, and a smile that’s gotten at least fifteen people in trouble this semester alone.

DPG’s worst decision. DPG’s biggest problem. DPG’s prettiest manwhore. Everyone knows exactly who he is. Everyone has heard the stories. Half the campus claims to have hooked up with him. The other half wants to. Jake lifts his brow slowly, cigarette resting between two fingers, his smirk lazy and unfairly beautiful. “Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says, clearly lying. “I just wasn’t prepared for the… socks comment.” You sniff, flipping him off with wet lashes and a quivering lip. He grins wider. Your friends abandon you with a pat to your back, not wanting to be caught in whatever cosmic embarrassment cloud is forming above you. Now it’s just you and Jake. And your humiliation. And your tequila bottle. “You uh…” Jake gestures vaguely toward your face. “You’ve got, like—” He traces under his eye. “Mascara. Everywhere.”

You glare. “You don’t say.” He steps closer, plucks the tequila bottle from your hand, and inspects the label. “Top-tier coping mechanism,” he muses. “Very classy. Very ‘my life is falling apart but I’m committed to the bit.’”

You grab the bottle back. “Mind your business, Sim.”

He places a hand over his heart. “Ouch. Using my last name? Cold.”

Someone walks past him and smacks his ass. Someone else waves and shouts, “Jake, last night was INSANE! Call me!” He finger-guns at her without looking away from you. You roll your eyes. “Wow. Delta Phi’s favorite prostitute.” “Harsh,” he says, amused. “But not incorrect.” You sniff hard, wiping your face. “What do you want, Jake?” “Me?” He shrugs, taking a drag from his cigarette before flicking it aside. “I want to help.”

You stare. He cannot be serious. Jake gestures around. “Breakup at DPG? That’s… brutal. You’re one tequila shot away from crying into someone’s protein shake.” You let out a pathetic half-laugh half-sob. “And,” he continues, stepping closer until he’s uncomfortably, comfortably, warm, “I’m great at fixing people’s lives. Or ruining them. Depends how you use me.” Before you can retort, a girl in a tight red dress walks by behind him and taps his shoulder. “Hey, Jake,” she purrs, giving him a wink so practiced it should be copyrighted.

Jake lifts a hand in greeting. “Hey, Emily.” Emily? Evelyn? Eliza? You can’t keep his roster straight. As soon as she’s out of earshot, you give him a look. He shrugs. “We’re… friendly.” “Friendly,” you repeat flatly. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”

His smile widens, dimples appearing like tiny weapons. “Want me to pray for you?” “Actually, yes,” you say, wiping your face again. “Pray I forget I ever dated that walking red flag.”

You blink at him through thick, salty lashes. Jake softens, just barely. “Come on,” he says gently. “Let me help you forget that loser.” You deadpan. “How?” His grin returns, slow, wicked, lethal. “I’ll be your wingman.” You choke. “You?” “Yeah.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I’m good at this.” “I bet you are.” “I can teach you everything you need,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. “Confidence. Flirting. Getting over someone. Getting under someone. Whatever works.”

Your heart stutters. Your mascara is a disaster. Your night is ruined. Your ex sucks. And the campus playboy, Delta Phi Gamma’s crowned prince of bad decisions, is offering to rebuild your sanity. You stare at him. Jake smirks. “So what do you say? Want the Jake Sim Experience?” You take a shaky breath. “God help me,” you whisper. “Fine.” Jake beams like he just won something. And maybe he did. You don’t remember agreeing to leave the party. One second, Delta Phi Gamma is vibrating under your feet, the balcony lights buzzing, Jake Sim smirking like the devil with a solution, and the next, you’re sitting on the front steps of the frat house with cold concrete seeping through your skirt and a paper towel pressed under your nose. Jake crouches in front of you, elbows on his knees, assessing you like a particularly dramatic puzzle. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Good news is, you’re alive.”

You sniff. “That’s debatable.” He snorts, reaching into his pocket and producing a packet of tissues like this is not his first emotional emergency rodeo. “You cry like someone who hasn’t slept and definitely hasn’t eaten.”

“I had half a pretzel,” you mutter. “Tragic.” You take the tissues, blotting your face. Mascara comes away in thick black streaks. You groan when you see it. “I look insane.” Jake tilts his head, studying you with a seriousness that makes your stomach flip. “Nah. You look like someone who cared. That’s not the same thing.” You stare at him. He freezes, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. Then, instantly, Jake Sim Mode snaps back on.

“But,” he adds lightly, “you are smearing eyeliner onto your chin, so let’s manage expectations.” You huff out a weak laugh despite yourself. From inside the house, someone screams along to a song that hasn’t been relevant since high school. A group stumbles out the front door, one of them pausing when she sees Jake.

“Jake!” she slurs happily. “You coming back inside?” He doesn’t even look at her. “In a bit.” She blinks, clearly unused to that response, then shrugs and wanders off. You notice. Of course you do. “So,” Jake says, rocking back on his heels. “Walk me through it. What did the idiot do?”

You hesitate. Then everything spills out in one ugly rush. “He said he felt ‘stuck,’” you ramble, voice wobbling. “That I was too serious. That I didn’t know how to have fun. And then I find out he’s been flirting with someone else all night like I’m not even standing there—” Your throat closes. Jake’s expression shifts, something sharper flashing behind his eyes. “He’s an idiot,” Jake says flatly.

“That’s not helpful.” “It is,” he counters. “It’s just not comforting.” You drag a hand through your hair. “I feel stupid. Like… how did I not see this coming?” Jake leans back against the railing, crossing his arms. “Because you trusted him. That’s not stupidity. That’s optimism.” You squint at him. “Are you always like this?” “Like what?” “Emotionally competent when it’s inconvenient.”

He grins. “I contain multitudes.” A beat passes. The noise from the party feels farther away now, like it belongs to another world. Jake glances at your phone, still clutched in your hand. The screen lights up with another memory, your ex’s stupid grin. “You wanna do something cathartic?” he asks.

You look at him suspiciously. “That depends.” “Hand me your phone.” “No.” “Come on,” he coaxes. “I won’t text anyone. Promise.” You hesitate, then reluctantly hand it over. Jake scrolls with lightning speed, thumbs flying. “Okay, first of all, why do you have this many photos of him?” “Because we were together for two years!” “And in none of them is he outshined by you,” Jake mutters. “Tragic.” He starts deleting.

You gasp. “Hey! That one—”

“Gone.”

“That was from our anniversary!”

“Double gone.” You laugh despite yourself, trying to grab the phone back. He holds it out of reach easily, standing to his full height.

“Oh my god, Jake, give it back!” 

“Only if you admit this feels a little good.” You freeze. He stops too.

Then you sigh. “…Okay. It does.”

Jake softens. Hands the phone back. “There we go.” You look at the empty gallery, chest aching and lighter all at once.

“I don’t know how to be alone,” you admit quietly.

Jake studies you for a moment. Then he says, casual but certain, “You won’t be.”

You glance up. “What?”

He shrugs. “Not like—” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “But I’ll help you. Get your groove back.”

Your eyebrow arches. “My groove?”

“Yes. Your post-breakup glow-up montage,” he says, dead serious. “Everyone deserves one.”

“And you’re… volunteering?”

He smirks. “You kidding? I live for reinvention arcs.”

You snort. “You’re the worst person to ask for help.”

“And yet,” he says lightly, “here I am.” A pause settles between you, comfortable, unfamiliar. Jake stands, holding a hand out. “Come on. I’m getting you water and greasy food before you pass out dramatically on these steps.” You take his hand without thinking. It’s warm. Steady. He pulls you up easily, doesn’t let go right away. Inside, the party feels louder, messier. Jake guides you through the chaos with a hand on your lower back, protective without being possessive.

Someone yells his name. Someone laughs. Someone whistles. Jake ignores all of it. He plops you onto a couch in the living room, presses a cup of water into your hands, and dumps a plate of fries in your lap. “Eat,” he orders. You obey.

After a minute, you glance up at him. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugs, leaning against the arm of the couch. “Because I hate seeing people think they’re unlovable when they’re not.”

Your heart stutters. Before you can respond, someone plops down next to Jake and grins at you. “Oh my god, are you the girl from earlier?”

You blink. “Probably.”

She grins wider. “You’re cute. Jake never brings cute girls out of parties.”

Jake groans. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me in front of her.”

She winks at you and disappears back into the crowd. You stare at Jake. He rubs the back of his neck. “Ignore her.”

You smirk faintly. “So. The Jake Sim Experience comes with emotional support now?”

He meets your gaze, something unreadable flickering there.

“Only for you,” he says, then immediately clears his throat. “Temporarily. As a favor.” You smile into your fries. Outside, the night keeps going. And somewhere between the music and the mess and the man sitting too close beside you, you realize, this might be the beginning of something incredibly crazy, stupid.  And maybe… something kind of amazing.

You wake up with the distinct feeling that your skull has been hollowed out and refilled with static. Your phone vibrates somewhere beneath your pillow. You groan, roll onto your back, and squint at the ceiling of your dorm room like it personally betrayed you. The light feels too bright. Your mouth tastes like regret and cheap tequila. Your hoodie smells faintly like smoke and, you freeze. It’s not your hoodie. You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The fabric hanging off your shoulders is thicker than yours, darker, worn soft in a way that suggests it’s been stolen before. You stare down at the sleeve like it might explain itself. Your phone buzzes again.

Jake Sim: You alive?

You blink at the screen.

You: Unfortunately.

Three dots appear instantly.

Jake Sim: Good. Meet me for coffee. You owe me for emotional labor.

You groan and collapse back onto your bed. The café off campus is too quiet for the kind of hangover you’re nursing. The smell of espresso makes your stomach twist, but you order anyway, because you’re trying to be a functional adult. Jake is already there when you arrive, sprawled in a chair like he owns the place. Sunglasses on indoors. Baseball cap pulled low. Hoodie that looks suspiciously familiar. You stop short. “That’s my hoodie,” you say flatly.

Jake grins without looking up. “Correction. That’s my hoodie now. You left it in my car.”

“I did not get in your car.”

He finally lifts his sunglasses, eyes bright and far too awake for someone who was at Delta Phi Gamma until two in the morning. “You absolutely did. You cried about fries and declared them your emotional support food.”

You close your eyes. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he says easily. “Sit down before you fall over.”

You sit. There’s a beat of silence while you both sip your drinks. The normalcy of it is strange, sunlight through windows, students typing away, no bass rattling your bones.

Jake watches you over the rim of his cup. “How you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a bus. Reversed over. Then hit again.”

He hums. “Progress. You didn’t cry when you saw me.”

“Give it time.” He smiles. It’s quieter than last night. Softer. And it makes your chest do something uncomfortable. “So,” you say, wrapping both hands around your cup. “About… whatever that was.” “The breakdown?” he offers.

“The… you offering to fix my life,” you clarify. Jake leans back, chair creaking. “Ah. The Wingman Initiative.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“For tax purposes, yes.” You snort despite yourself. “Jake, I don’t need a project.” “Good,” he says immediately. “Because I don’t do projects. I do collaborations.”

You study him. He looks relaxed, joking, but there’s something deliberate in the way he’s paying attention to you, like he actually means this. “Okay,” you say slowly. “Say I agree. What does this… collaboration involve?” Jake straightens, suddenly all business. He pulls a napkin toward him and grabs a pen from his pocket. Step one: ominous.

“Ground rules,” he says. “Very important.” He writes THE WINGMAN PACT at the top of the napkin, underlining it twice. You laugh. “You’re insane.” “Focused,” he corrects. “Now. Objectives.”

He starts listing them off, tapping the pen with each point. “I help fix your confidence. Remind you who you were before your ex convinced you you were boring.” You flinch slightly. He notices. “I help you flirt,” he continues, gentler now. “Like, properly. Not apologizing for taking up space.” You roll your eyes. “I don’t do that.” “You literally apologized to the barista yesterday for ordering coffee.”

“Okay, I do that a little.” He smirks. “I take you out. Get you seen. Get you having fun again.” A pause. “And,” he adds, almost casually, “we make your ex painfully aware of what he lost.” Your lips part before you can stop yourself. “You’re serious.” Jake’s gaze locks onto yours. “Dead serious.” Something flutters in your chest. Dangerous. Hopeful.

“And what do you get out of this?” you ask quietly. He hesitates. Just for a second, but you catch it. “Entertainment,” he says finally. “And maybe a chance to do something that isn’t… meaningless.” That’s the crack. It’s small, but it’s there. You don’t comment on it. You don’t push. You just nod. “Okay,” you say. “What are the rules?” Jake exhales, relieved, and flips the napkin over.

“Rule one,” he says, writing as he speaks. “No feelings.” You snort. “That’s vague.” “Exactly,” he says. “Keeps us safe.” “Rule two,” he continues. “No jealousy.” You raise a brow. “You’re a literal campus legend.”

“And you’re freshly single,” he counters. “Trust me. It’s necessary.” “Rule three,” he says, slower now. “No kissing each other.” Your stomach drops. “Too intimate,” he adds quickly. “Messes with people’s heads.” “Right,” you say, nodding too fast. “Rule four,” he says, and this time his mouth twitches. “No sex.”

You laugh outright. “That should’ve been rule one.” “Hey, I’m trying to be respectful.” You look at him, really look at him. At the easy charm, the confidence, the danger wrapped up in a pretty smile. This is a terrible idea. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” you murmur. “But… okay. I agree.” Jake’s grin is immediate and bright. “Excellent. Welcome to your hot-girl era.”

“Do not call it that.” “Oh, I absolutely will.” He folds the napkin and slides it toward you like a contract. “Now,” he says, standing and tossing some cash on the table, “your first assignment.” You blink. “Already?” “Always,” he says. “There’s a mixer tonight. Sigma house. You’re coming with me.” Your nerves spike instantly. “Jake—”

“You’re walking in like you own the place,” he says firmly. “Head up. Shoulders back. No shrinking.” “And if I panic?” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Then you look at me.” Your heart skips. “I’ve got you,” he says. 

That night, you stand at the edge of the Sigma house living room, music thumping, people everywhere. Your palms are sweaty. Your heart is racing. Jake stands beside you, hands in his pockets. “Ready?” he asks. You nod, even though you’re not. You take a breath, and walk in. Jake watches you move through the room. The way you straighten. The way people look at you. The way you laugh when someone says something stupid. Something sharp twists in his chest. His pupils blow wide. He hates it. And he definitely doesn’t know why. The Sigma house smells like cologne, beer, and bad decisions.

Not the fun kind of bad decisions, either. The kind that end up as blurry Snapchat stories and half-remembered regrets. The air is warm, humid with bodies and sweat, every breath tasting faintly of hops and cheap perfume. Music pulses through the living room, too loud, too bass-heavy, vibrating in your ribs like a second heartbeat. Someone shouts your name from across the room, even though you’re not sure you know them. Red cups everywhere. Neon lights flickering against walls covered in banners, photos, and inside jokes you don’t understand but feel vaguely judged by. A couple is already arguing near the stairs. Someone spills a drink and laughs like it’s the best moment of their life. You take three steps in and immediately want to turn around. Your instinct is to shrink. To fold in on yourself. To make yourself smaller, quieter. To look for a corner, a wall, something solid to press your back against so nothing can sneak up on you. Your foot slows. Jake’s hand lands on the small of your back. Not gripping. Not pushing. Just there.

“Hey,” he murmurs, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath through your hair. “Don’t retreat.” Your spine straightens on reflex.

“I didn’t—” you start. “You did,” he says gently. “Shoulders back.” You do it. Your posture shifts. It feels unnatural at first, like you’re pretending to be someone braver than you are. “Good. Chin up. You walk like you’re apologizing for existing.”

“I am not.”

“You literally are.” You glare over your shoulder. He’s smirking, but his eyes are focused, sharp, locked on you like this matters. Jake leans in closer, voice dropping. “Rule one of flirting: you don’t chase attention. You allow it.”

Your pulse spikes. “Okay, Yoda.”

“Trust me.” He positions himself just behind you, not touching, but close enough that when someone bumps into you from the side, your back brushes his chest. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a jolt through you anyway. It feels… dangerous. Anchoring. A guy approaches, tall, loud, already tipsy.

“Hey,” he slurs, eyes flicking over you. “You—uh—you go here?” You open your mouth. Jake’s voice slips in first, low and smooth, meant only for you. “Pause. Don’t answer right away.” You hesitate.

The guy blinks. “…Hello?”

Jake continues, murmuring near your ear. “Smile first. Slow.”

You do. The guy grins like he’s just won something. “Now,” Jake says, “say something unnecessary.”

You swallow. “Depends,” you say lightly. “Is that your opening line?”

The guy laughs. “I mean—”

Jake hums approval behind you. “Good. Tease him a little.”

You tilt your head. “You ask that to everyone, or am I special?”

The guy chuckles again, clearly flustered. “I—maybe special?”

Jake’s breath ghosts your ear. “Eye contact. Hold it.”

Your gaze stays steady. The guy’s ears turn red. Jake exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself now. “See? You’ve got him.” The guy leans closer. “So what’s your name?”

Before you can answer, Jake murmurs, “Now disengage.” You blink. “What?” “Politely,” he adds. “You don’t give them everything.” You smile at the guy. “I’m grabbing a drink. Nice meeting you.” You turn away before he can respond. Your heart is racing. “What was that?” you whisper as Jake steers you toward the kitchen. “That,” he says, voice amused, “was flirting.”

You stare at him. “I didn’t even do anything.” “Exactly.” Someone brushes past you, and Jake automatically shifts closer, hand hovering at your waist without touching. “You see how easy that was?” he says. “You don’t need lines. You need presence.” You scoff. “Easy for you to say. You flirt by existing.”

He smiles faintly. “That’s a learned skill.” You snort. “No it’s not.” Jake opens his mouth to argue, then stops. Something flickers across his face. Gone before you can name it. “Okay,” he says instead. “Round two.” He guides you toward the couch area, where a group is playing some chaotic drinking game. “This time,” he says quietly, “you approach.” “I will die.”

“You’ll live.” A guy with dark curls looks up as you approach. “Hey.” You glance back at Jake. He gives you a tiny nod. You take a breath. “Is this game actually fun or are you all pretending?” The group laughs. Curly-Hair Guy grins. “Depends who’s losing.” Jake’s voice murmurs behind you. “Lean in. Not too close.”

You perch on the arm of the couch, relaxed. Curly-Hair Guy’s attention stays on you. “You wanna play?” Jake’s jaw tightens. “Ask a question,” he whispers. “Make him talk.” You tilt your head. “Only if you tell me your worst drunk decision.”

Curly-Hair Guy laughs. “Oh god—” Jake cuts in softly, almost involuntarily. “Careful.” You glance back. “What?” He clears his throat. “Nothing.” The game continues for a minute. You laugh. You joke. You’re… actually having fun. And Jake? Jake watches. Watches the way you smile easier now. The way you don’t fidget with your hands. The way people lean toward you like gravity shifted. He hates how good you look. You step away from the couch, cheeks warm, adrenaline buzzing. “I think I’m getting it,” you say quietly.

Jake nods. “Yeah. You are.”

A girl walks past and bumps into him. “Jake, where’ve you been hiding?”

“Busy,” he replies curtly.

She blinks. Looks between the two of you. Smirks. You don’t miss it. “So,” you say lightly, “do I get a grade?” Jake looks down at you. Really looks.

“An A,” he says, voice rougher than before. “Easy.”

Something tightens in your chest. You glance around the room, then back at him. “Okay. Your turn.”  “My turn for what?”

“You flirt,” you say. “I watch.”

Jake chuckles. “That’s not part of the curriculum.”

“I need to learn what not to do.” He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Fine.” He steps away, smooth as ever, strikes up a conversation with someone near the bar. You watch. It’s effortless. Too effortless. But you notice something strange. He keeps glancing back at you. And when he does, his smile falters just a little. When he returns, you raise a brow. “You were distracted.” He scoffs. “No I wasn’t.”

“You were,” you insist. “You didn’t even get her number.” Jake shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it.” You study him. “You okay?” He meets your gaze. “Yeah,” he says. “I just… wasn’t having as much fun.” Your heart stutters. Before you can respond, Jake straightens. “Alright. Lesson one complete.” “What’s lesson two?” He leans in, voice low, dangerously close. “Learning when to walk away.” You swallow. He offers his arm. “Ready?” You take it. And as you leave the room, head high, confidence humming, Jake knows something is very, very wrong.

Because teaching you how to flirt with strangers? Easy. Teaching himself how not to fall for you? Impossible. Jake steers you toward a quieter corner near the staircase, where the music dulls just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again. The wall vibrates faintly with bass, but it’s no longer rattling your bones. Just… background chaos. “Okay,” he says, folding his arms like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “Lesson two.” You take a sip of your drink. “I survived lesson one. I deserve a juice break. Or a medal.”

He snorts. “You’re doing great. Which means it’s time to teach you how not to immediately ruin it.” You squint at him. “Rude.” “Accurate,” he counters smoothly. “Listen. Not everyone who gives you attention deserves access to you.” You scoff. “You say that like you’re not emotionally accessible to exactly no one.” He ignores that with the grace of a man who absolutely heard it and chose self-preservation. He scans the room, nodding subtly toward a cluster of guys near the beer pong table.

“See them?” he asks. You follow his gaze. “Yeah. They look like they’ve been arguing about the rules for twenty minutes.” “Exactly,” Jake says. “Red flag already.” “Green flags versus red flags,” he says. “You need to know who’s worth taking home, and who’s worth avoiding like expired milk.” You choke on a laugh. “Okay, Professor Playboy.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.” He points discreetly with his chin. “Guy one,” he says. “Too drunk. Slurring. Thinks volume equals personality.” The guy in question shouts something unintelligible and spills half his drink on the table. You nod solemnly. “Avoid.” “Guy two,” Jake continues. “Won’t stop checking his phone. Either has a girlfriend or a fantasy football problem.”

You wince. “Both are crimes.” “Exactly.” “Guy three,” he says more slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. “Standing off to the side. Watching you, but not staring. Waiting to see if you notice him.”

Your chest tightens just a bit. “Take home?” Jake hesitates. Just a beat too long. “…Potentially,” he says. “If you want.” You study the guy. He really does look different. Calm. Not desperate. “And how can you tell?” you ask. Jake looks back at you. “Because the right kind of attention doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like curiosity.” Something about that lands deeper than it should. You blink. “Wow. That was… kind of deep.”

He grimaces. “Don’t spread that around.” You smile. “Too late. I’m tweeting it.” He straightens. “Rule of thumb: if you feel like you have to perform, walk away. If you feel like you can just exist? That’s the one you keep.” You hum thoughtfully. “So… no juggling. No personality auditions.” “Exactly. You’re not on America’s Got Talent.” You glance at him. “You talk like you’ve thought about this.” His jaw tightens. “I have.”

You open your mouth to ask why, before you can, he clears his throat and shifts gears. “Lesson three,” he says abruptly. “Eye contact.” You groan loudly. “Oh my god. I make eye contact.” “No,” Jake says instantly. “You flee eye contact.” “I do not flee.” “You look at people like you’re afraid they’ll invoice you for attention.”

“That is not, okay maybe once.” He steps closer. Too close. Close enough that your back nearly brushes the railing, close enough that you’re suddenly very aware of how tall he is. And how his cologne lingers with the faint smell of wood.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Stand still.” You freeze. “Don’t move,” he adds. “Just look at me.” You lift your gaze to his. His expression changes. The teasing fades, replaced by something intent, focused. Serious. “Now,” he murmurs, “don’t blink. Don’t smile. Don’t apologize with your eyes.”

Your pulse starts to race. “Think of eye contact like a promise,” Jake continues softly. “You’re not asking. You’re offering.” The room feels smaller. Quieter. He holds your gaze steadily, unflinching. “Count to three in your head,” he says. “Then look away first. Slow.”

You do. One. Two. Three. You turn your head slightly, heart pounding. Jake exhales sharply. “Jesus,” he mutters.

You blink. “What?” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing. That—” He clears his throat. “That’s what I mean.”

“Like that?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says too quickly. “Exactly like that.”

“Then,” he says quietly, “you make people forget what they were saying.”

“Oh,” you say, voice light. “That seems… powerful.”

“Don’t abuse it.”

“Absolutely abusing it.”

A guy nearby glances over mid-conversation, then visibly stumbles when you meet his eyes. You hold it. Calm. Steady. Just like Jake taught you. The guy loses his train of thought completely. You look away first. Jake watches the entire thing, something sharp and conflicted twisting in his chest.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “That worked.”

Jake forces a smile. “Told you.”

But his hands are clenched at his sides.

You turn back to him, glowing now, confidence buzzing under your skin. “Okay. What else, Sensei?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Too long. “Careful,” he says quietly. “You’re picking this up fast.”

You tilt your head. “That’s good, right?”

He nods. “Yeah.” Then, softer. Almost to himself. “Too good.”

You grin. “What? Afraid I’ll steal your brand?”

He scoffs. “Please. I’m irreplaceable.”

“Oh yeah?” you tease. “Because I just watched you short-circuit over eye contact.”

“That was—” He cuts himself off. “Irrelevant.”

You laugh, the sound light and easy. “Relax. You’re safe.”

Jake watches you, really watches you, and thinks, That’s exactly what I’m not. The music swells again. Someone yells. Someone drops a cup. Life barrels forward. But Jake stays rooted where he is, watching you like he just handed someone a loaded weapon and realized, far too late, that it’s pointed directly at his heart.

And the worst part? You’re smiling while you aim. You get home buzzing. Not drunk, just… lit from the inside out.

You kick your heels off by the door, toeing them aside without caring where they land, and drop your keys on the counter with a satisfied little sigh. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your chest feels light. Electric. You catch your reflection in the mirror by accident and freeze. You’re smiling. Like, really smiling.

The kind that creeps up on you without permission. You groan softly and press your palms to the counter. Get it together. It was just a party.  Just flirting. Just lessons. You peel off your jacket, toss it over a chair, and flop back onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. Your phone buzzes in your hand as if summoned by the thought.

Jake: You survive?

Your lips twitch. You kick one leg lazily, then type back:

You: Barely. I might never emotionally recover.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Jake: Liar. You were glowing.

Your stomach flips. You frown at the screen, then roll onto your side, hugging a pillow to your chest.

You: Don’t flatter yourself.

A pause. Longer this time.

Jake: Didn’t say it was because of me.

You scoff out loud, biting your lip.

You: Sure, Sim.

You stare at the screen for a second too long, then lock your phone and toss it aside. Rules. No feelings. No jealousy. No kissing.No sex. You nod to yourself like this is a pep talk. Then your phone buzzes again. You grab it before you can stop yourself.

Jake: wyd

Your heart does a stupid little hop. You kick your heels off completely, toeing them farther away, and glance down at yourself, dress half unzipped, hair messy, cheeks still warm from the night. A devilish thought sparks. You hesitate. Smile. Type.

You: Changing ;) wanna see?

The three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. You laugh quietly into your pillow, heart racing, already knowing this is a terrible idea. A beat later, your phone buzzes.

Jake: Absolutely not.

You blink. Then:

Jake:…unless you’re joking.

Your grin turns downright wicked.

You: Guess you’ll never know.

You drop your phone onto the bed and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling again, pulse loud in your ears, smile impossible to wipe away. Across campus, Jake Sim stares at his phone like it personally betrayed him. He locks it. Unlocks it. Throws it onto his bed.

“Rule four,” he mutters to himself. “No sex.” Then, quieter: “Fuck.”

You wake up late. Sunlight filters through your curtains in thin, accusatory lines, your phone warm beneath your palm like it’s been waiting. You squint at the screen. No new notifications. Which is, annoying. You roll onto your side and groan into your pillow. Last night replays in your head in humiliating HD: the party, the confidence, the way Jake watched you like he was trying to memorize something he wasn’t allowed to keep.

The text.

Changing ;) wanna see?

You bury your face in the pillow. Idiot. Rules were rules. You knew that. You’d agreed to them over lukewarm coffee and a stupid napkin contract. You weren’t supposed to be smiling like this the next morning, stomach fluttering every time your phone buzzed with nothing.

You drag yourself out of bed, shower, change into something comfortable, oversized tee, shorts, and make a half-hearted attempt at being productive.

You fail. Your phone buzzes on the counter while you’re pouring cereal. You jump.

Jake: I’m coming over.

You stare at the message.

You: Excuse me?

Three dots. Gone. Back again.

Jake: Relax. Daytime. Educational.

You snort.

You: You don’t just announce that.

Your phone buzzes again, immediate.

Jake: I do.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

You: Why?

A pause. Longer than usual. Then:

Jake: Lesson four.

Your pulse picks up. You’re still staring at the screen when there’s a knock on your door. You glance at the clock. There is absolutely no way, another knock. Firmer this time. You pad to the door, heart thudding, and open it.

Jake stands there like he belongs, sunglasses perched on his head, hair slightly messy, hoodie slung over one shoulder. He looks unfairly good for someone who definitely did not sleep properly. He grins when he sees you.

“Morning,” he says. “You look… awake.”

You scoff. “You’re early.”

“I’m punctual,” he replies, stepping past you without waiting for permission. “And motivated.”

You close the door behind him, watching as he glances around your place like it’s familiar already. “Nice space,” he says. “Very you.”

“What does that mean?”

“That you pretend you’re low-maintenance but own seventeen throw pillows.”

“Get out of my house.”

He laughs and drops onto your bed like it’s second nature, sprawling out, one arm tucked under his head as he props himself up on his elbow. Your heart does something stupid. He looks at you. Really looks. Jake is absolutely too comfortable in your room. He’s sprawled across your bed like it belongs to him, shoes kicked off, hoodie abandoned on your chair, one arm tucked under his head as he props himself up on his elbow. His phone rests loosely in his other hand, screen dark, attention fully on you.

Which is unsettling. Because Jake Sim does not stare. “…What?” you ask, breaking first.

He sits up instantly, like he’s been caught doing something illegal. “Lesson four.” You blink. “We’re still doing lessons?”

“Absolutely,” he says, nodding like this is very serious academic business. “This one’s important.”

You cross your arms. “Okay. Hit me.” Jake’s lips twitch. He glances at your phone on the desk, then back at you.

“Dirty texting.”

You choke. “Excuse me?” He grins, slow, cocky, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Relax. Words only. No pictures. No… extracurricular activities.”

“Jake.”

“You said you wanted to learn how to flirt,” he reminds you. “This is modern flirting.”

You hesitate. “I don’t sext.”

“Texting,” he corrects. “With intention.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

He scoots back against your headboard and pats the bed. “Sit.”

You do, reluctantly, legs crossed, heart already thudding for reasons you refuse to examine.

Jake unlocks his phone. “Rule one,” he says. “Dirty texting is about implication. You don’t spell everything out.”

“Thank god.”

“Rule two,” he continues, eyes flicking up to you, “confidence. You don’t ask permission.”

You snort. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is.”

He smirks. “That’s the point.”

He types something quickly, then nods at your phone.

“Read it.”

Your phone buzzes.

You pick it up.

Jake: You left your window open last night. Bet you slept cold.

Your brow furrows. “That’s not dirty.”

“Patience,” he says. “Now respond.”

“Respond with what?”

“Anything. But don’t apologize.”

You think for a second, then type:

You: I sleep fine.

Jake hums. “Too defensive.” He takes your phone without asking and types.

Jake: Didn’t say you didn’t. Just wondered if you thought about me noticing.

Your stomach flips. You look up at him. He’s watching you, really watching you, eyes bright, smug, pleased. “You’re evil,” you say weakly.

“Effective,” he counters. “Your turn.” Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, then type:

You: You notice a lot of things.

Jake’s grin widens. “Good,” he murmurs. “Now add intention.” You hesitate, then:

You: Be honest, how many times have you thought about me today? Because I'm losing count over here.

Jake inhales, closing his eyes as he runs his hand through his hair. You try to ignore how good he looks. Your phone buzzes immediately.

Jake: Maybe I like seeing you flustered.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh before you can stop yourself. Jake freezes. “What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

He clears his throat, shifting slightly. “Nothing. Keep going.”

You smile now, emboldened by the way his ears are faintly pink. You type:

You: You’re doing a terrible job hiding it.

Jake exhales, slow and controlled. He types back, eyes never leaving your face.

Jake: Careful. You’re assuming I want to hide it.

Your breath catches. You look up at him again, and this time you don’t look away. He swallows. For half a second, the room feels charged. Quiet. Too aware. Then he smirks, breaking it deliberately.

“See?” he says lightly. “Dirty texting isn’t about being graphic. It’s about making someone imagine things they shouldn’t.”

You laugh again, softer this time. Jake’s gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop himself. You notice. Your smile turns mischievous. “So… am I passing?”

He leans back, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter: “Unfortunately.”

You tilt your head. “Unfortunately?”

He catches himself and scoffs. “I mean, you’re learning fast.”

You grin. “You’re just mad I’m good at it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You have no idea.”

You stretch out on the bed beside him, phone resting on your stomach. “Any other tips, Professor?” He considers you for a moment. The flush in your cheeks. The spark in your eyes. That damn giggle.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “One last thing.”

“What?” He leans closer, not touching, but close enough that your breath mingles.

“Never dirty text someone you wouldn’t be okay with accidentally thinking about you at three in the morning.”

Your heart stumbles. You swallow. “Noted.” Jake straightens abruptly, claps his hands once. “Lesson over.” You blink. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he says too quickly. “We’ll, uh—continue next time.” He grabs his jacket, suddenly very interested in leaving. You watch him go, phone still warm in your hand. Outside your door, Jake pauses, presses his forehead briefly against the wall, and mutters under his breath, “Fucking hell.”

After Lesson Four, everything changes. Not in a big, dramatic way. No lines are crossed. No rules are broken. But suddenly, Jake is everywhere. Your phone lights up constantly, while you’re brushing your teeth, walking to class, lying in bed at 2 a.m. staring at the ceiling. It’s always him.

Jake: You flirted with your TA today didn’t you.

You: He’s married and forty.

Jake: Didn’t answer the question.

You smile every time. You hate that. Sometimes the texts are instructional.

Jake: Eye contact. Three seconds longer than comfortable. Then smile like you know something they don’t.

You: You’re evil.

Jake: And effective.

Sometimes they’re not instructional at all.

You: I hate group projects.

Jake: I hate when you use periods. It sounds aggressive.

You: I am aggressive.

You fall asleep with your phone in your hand more than once. You start measuring time in notifications. And that’s when it gets dangerous. Because you notice things. Like how every guy on campus suddenly feels… dull.

Too eager. Too awkward. Too obvious. You’ll be mid-conversation with someone cute, someone objectively hot, and catch yourself thinking:

Jake would’ve told him to slow down. Jake wouldn’t laugh like that. Jake would know when to shut up. You hate that thought.

You shove it down and remind yourself this is literally his thing. He’s done this before. With dozens of girls. Probably hundreds. He’s a playboy. A manwhore. You picture him sprawled across someone else’s bed, head propped on his palm, saying the same lines. Watching another girl flush. Smirking the same way.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You set your phone face down and stare at the wall. Get over it. That night, he texts you.

Jake: You okay? 

You hesitate. Then:

You: Yeah. Just tired.

Three dots appear. Disappear.

Jake: You don’t lie well. 

Your heart drops. Before you can respond, another message comes through.

Jake: Come with me.

You: Where?

Jake: I’ll pick you up.

You: Tell me why I’m concerned-

Your phone buzzes again.

Jake:Trust me.

You do. That’s the problem. His car smells like his woody cologne and something fried when you slide into the passenger seat. He hands you a paper bag without looking at you.

“McDonald’s,” he says. “Emergency therapy.”

You peek inside.

“Two cheeseburgers?”

“You strike me as a two-cheeseburger person.”

You snort. “Rude.”

He pulls out of the parking lot, one hand on the wheel, the other already unwrapping his burger. You sit in comfortable silence, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too used to someone. Grease drips onto his fingers. He licks it off without thinking. Your eyes flick away quickly.

“So,” he says casually. “What’s wrong?” You swallow. “Nothing.”

He hums, unconvinced, and parks somewhere quiet. The campus lights glow faintly in the distance. “You’ve been distant,” he says. “And before you deny it, yes, I notice.”

You pick at the wrapper. “You probably notice everything.”

He glances at you then. Really looks. “Only you,” he says, like it slips out.

The silence that follows is heavier. You force a laugh. “Bullshit.”

“Okay,” he says. “Mostly you.”

That makes your heart do something stupid. You take a bite of your burger, chew too fast, and finally say it. “Do you… do this a lot?”

He frowns. “Do what?”

“This,” you gesture vaguely between you, the car, the food, the late hour. “Helping girls.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “Used to.”

Your stomach sinks. “Oh.”

He sighs and leans back in his seat. “Not like this.” You look at him. “What does that mean?”

He meets your gaze. His usual cocky grin is gone. “It means I don’t usually care if they text back,” he says quietly. “Or if they’re smiling at someone else.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t usually replay conversations in my head like an idiot.”

The air shifts. You stare at him, heart pounding, every rule screaming in your ears. No feelings. No jealousy.  You swallow hard.

“Well,” you say lightly, forcing a smile. “Guess I’m special.” He laughs softly. “Unfortunately.”

You both eat the rest of your burgers in silence, knees almost touching, radio low, something warm and terrifying settling in your chest. When he drops you off, he doesn’t come in. He just looks at you, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. You’re halfway out of his car when he speaks.

“Wait.”

Something in his voice, low, rough, stops you cold. You turn back, one hand still on the door. “What?”

Jake’s jaw tightens like he’s made a decision he hates. He kills the engine, the sudden quiet loud between you. “I’m not done,” he says.

Before you can process that, he’s out of the car, keys abandoned, following you up the steps. You fumble with your door, heart racing, and the second it clicks open, he’s inside.

The door shuts behind him with a soft, final sound. “Jake,” you start, laughing nervously, “you said—”

“I know what I said.” He moves closer. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just inevitable. He doesn’t touch you at first. Just stands too close. Close enough that you can smell him, soap, something warm and familiar, a hint of fries still clinging to his hoodie. Close enough that when he exhales, you feel it brush your cheek.

You back up without realizing it until your shoulders brush the wall. Cool paint. Warm body. His hands come up, not touching you, not yet, but caging you in, palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. Your breath stutters.

“Jake,” you murmur, unsure whether you’re warning him or yourself. His jaw tightens. His pupils are blown wide, dark and unreadable, like he’s staring at something he shouldn’t want as badly as he does.

“You trust me?” he asks quietly.

The question shouldn’t feel dangerous. It does anyway. You nod. “Yeah.”

“This is lesson five,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Fake moans?”

“Yeah.”

He’s close enough now that you can see it, the way his pupils have blown wide, dark swallowing the brown. His chest rises and falls faster than before. “This is about control,” he says, voice rougher. “About sound. About knowing what you’re doing to someone without touching them.”

Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. “And you’re going to practice on me?” you whisper. A corner of his mouth lifts. Not smug. Strained.

“I trust you,” he says, like that’s the most dangerous thing he could’ve said.

Your breaths mingle. You can feel the warmth of him, the heat rolling off his body, the way he leans in just enough that your noses almost brush. You wet your lips, suddenly too aware of everything, how close he is, how the wall presses into your back, how his gaze flicks to your mouth and lingers a second too long.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Give me something believable.”

You laugh softly, nerves bubbling. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he asks, eyes never leaving your mouth. “Because you’re blushing.”

You hate that he’s right. The sound that leaves you is awkward, too loud, too forced, wrong in every way. It echoes faintly in the quiet apartment. He winces. “No.”

“Hey!”

“That sounded like you were mocking me.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, expert. You try not being weird about it.”

His laugh is short, breathless. “Trust me. I’m being very normal.”

He doesn’t move away. Instead, he exhales, long, slow, and the expression on his face changes. Like someone bracing for impact.

“This is a terrible idea,” he mutters.

Then he does something neither of you planned. Jake leans down. Not fast. Not rough. Deliberate. His hand slides up, not to your waist, not anywhere scandalous, but to the wall above your head, fingers curling slightly as he dips his face toward your neck. You feel the brush of his breath first, warm and teasing. Your pulse explodes.

“Jake—”

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Just, listen.”

His mouth ghosts along your skin. Not a kiss. Not really. Just the faintest press of lips near your collarbone, a gentle nip that makes you gasp despite yourself. Your hands curl instinctively in the fabric of his hoodie. He does it again, lighter this time, then drags his lips slowly upward, a soft tickle that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

Your body betrays you. A sound slips out. Not loud. Not practiced. Not fake. A soft, breathy sigh that you didn’t mean to make. The room goes still. Jake freezes. His breath turns ragged, shallow. You feel the tension snap through him like a wire pulled too tight. Your fingers slide into his hair before you can stop yourself, just for a second, just enough to feel how warm he is, how real.

His eyes meet yours. Dark. Shaken. Ruined. “Fuck,” he breathes, then catches himself. “Okay. That, yeah. That’s dangerous.”

Your heart flips. You look up at him. “Jake?”

He swallows hard. His gaze drops to your lips, then snaps back to your eyes like it burns. “You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “If you do that to the wrong guy, they won’t stand a chance.”

Something twists in your chest. “What about the right guy?”

The question hangs there, reckless and unguarded. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then he leans in, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours, and says, barely audible:

“The right guy would lose his mind.”

His breath ghosts your cheek. His control is fraying, you can feel it in the way he shifts, the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding himself back by sheer will. You shouldn’t notice that. You definitely shouldn’t love it.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like a caged animal. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “I knew better.”

You hug yourself, heart aching in a way you weren’t prepared for. “Jake…”

He looks at you then, really looks, and for a split second, the playboy mask is gone entirely. What’s underneath is raw and dangerous and far too honest. He pulls away suddenly, stepping back like he’s been burned.

“Lesson over,” he says too quickly.

Your lungs ache when you finally breathe. “Jake—”

“Rules,” he cuts in, not looking at you. “We said rules.”

He heads for the door, hand already on the knob. Before he leaves, he glances back once. His eyes are dark. Honest. Wrecked.

“Don’t practice that on anyone tonight,” he says. Then he’s gone. And you slide down the wall, heart racing, knowing, deep down, that something just broke. And it’s not going to be fixable.

You tell yourself it’s casual. You repeat it like a mantra as you walk beside Jake down the street, hands stuffed into your sleeves, the late afternoon sun warming your skin.

Casual. Educational. Very normal. “Coffee doesn’t count,” Jake says, like he’s reading your thoughts. “It’s a neutral setting.”

You snort. “You’re the one who suggested it.”

“For strategic reasons.”

“Sure.”

The café is small and warm, the kind with mismatched chairs and soft music playing just loud enough to fill the silence. Jake holds the door open for you without thinking. His hand lingers at the small of your back as you step inside.

You pretend not to notice. You order first. He remembers how you like your coffee without asking.

That should not make your chest tighten. You sit across from each other by the window. Sunlight catches in his hair. He’s wearing a simple black tee and a jacket, nothing flashy, no frat boy bravado, no playboy armor.

Just Jake. You wrap your hands around your cup. “So,” you say. “What’s today’s lesson?”

He leans back in his chair, studying you. “Observation.”

“Of what?”

“Of you,” he says easily.

Your stomach flips. “That’s not a lesson.”

“It is when you’re pretending you don’t notice things.”

You kick his foot under the table. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. “You like it.”

You hate that you don’t deny it. A couple at the table next to you laughs softly. Someone reaches for someone else’s hand. You look away too quickly.

Jake notices. “You okay?” he asks.

You hesitate. Then shrug. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile falters. “This doesn’t feel like training,” you say quietly.

His gaze sharpens. “What does it feel like?”

The truth sits heavy on your tongue. Like comfort. Like safety. Like something you don’t want to label because labeling makes it real. You stir your coffee instead. “Like we’re cheating.”

He blinks. “On who?”

You shrug again. “The rules.”

He laughs softly, but it dies too fast. “Yeah,” he admits. “A little.”

You both fall quiet, watching people pass by the window. Your knees bump beneath the table and neither of you moves away. Jake breaks the silence first. “You know,” he says, casual but careful, “I don’t usually do this.”

You look at him. “Coffee?”

“Daytime,” he clarifies. “Talking. Listening.”

Your heart stutters. “Why me?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers trace the rim of his cup. “Because you don’t want me to impress you,” he says finally. “You just want me to be… here.”

Your throat tightens. “Don’t,” you whisper.

“Don’t what?”

“Say things like that.”

He watches you for a long moment, eyes soft, almost vulnerable. “Okay,” he says. “Then don’t smile like that.”

You realize you are. You both laugh quietly, the tension easing just enough to be survivable.

Jake notices before you do. You’re mid-sentence, something stupid about how the foam art on your latte looks like a heart, when his posture changes. He goes still, eyes locking onto something over your shoulder.

His jaw tightens. “Hey,” you say. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s already standing, already reaching for you. “Jake?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, calm but firm. Not a question.

Your stomach drops. “Why—?”

Then you see it. Your ex. Across the café. Laughing. His hand wrapped around someone else’s wrist like it belongs there. Someone pretty. Someone new.

Your breath stutters. Jake’s hand closes around yours instantly. “Don’t,” he murmurs, already pulling you up. “Don’t look.”

“I—I can’t—”

He steps closer, blocking your line of sight with his body. You’re pressed briefly into his chest, the scent of coffee and him filling your lungs.

“I’ve got you,” he says, low and certain. “Come on.”

He doesn’t rush you, but he doesn’t give you time to spiral either. One hand stays firmly linked with yours as he steers you through the café, past the door, into daylight.

Only when you’re outside does your breath come apart. You shake. You didn’t even realize you were shaking until he notices.

“Hey,” Jake says softly. He guides you toward his car, opens the passenger door, and waits until you’re seated before closing it gently, like you’re something fragile. He circles to the driver’s side, gets in, but doesn’t start the engine right away. The silence is loud. Your hands are in your lap, fingers curled tight. You stare straight ahead, chest aching.

“I didn’t know he’d be here,” you whisper, embarrassed by how small your voice sounds.

Jake exhales slowly. Then he reaches over. His hand finds yours. Warm. Steady. No hesitation. Your breath catches. He laces his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “It just, caught me off guard.”

“I know.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and grounding. “He doesn’t get to ruin your day,” Jake continues. “Or your coffee. Or you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “That latte was expensive.”

“Exactly,” he says, lips quirking. “Criminal behavior.” You glance at him, expecting his usual teasing grin.

It’s not there. Instead, he’s watching you, really watching. Concern etched into his features, brows pulled together, jaw tight with something that looks dangerously close to anger. “He’s an idiot,” Jake says, suddenly sharp. “And I’m not saying that because I hate him.”

You blink. “You don’t?”

He scoffs. “Oh, I do. But that’s not why.”

He lifts his free hand and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering for half a second too long. “Anyone who lets you walk away,” he says softly, “doesn’t deserve a second of your doubt.”

Your chest tightens painfully. Jake seems to realize what he’s doing a beat too late. He pulls his hand back, loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go completely.

The engine hums to life. As he drives, your joined hands rest on the console between you, undeniable. You don’t pull away. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the set of his shoulders, the way he checks on you at every red light, thumb brushing your skin like a reassurance he doesn’t even know he’s giving.

And it hits you. This isn’t a lesson. This isn’t wingman behavior. This isn’t casual. Jake Sim has feelings. And the way his hand tightens around yours tells you he knows it too, even if he’s terrified to say it out loud.

The car slows to a stop outside your place. Neither of you moves. The engine hums softly, a low vibration beneath the silence. Your hands are still tangled together on the console. You can feel his pulse through his thumb. It’s fast.

Too fast.

“Hey,” you murmur, finally. “You okay?”

Jake exhales like he’s been holding it in for miles. He turns toward you, and stops.

You’re close. Too close. Close enough that you can see the faint freckle near his jaw. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath when he swallows. Neither of you lets go.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says quietly.

“Done what?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. “Touched you like that.”

Your heart thunders. “Jake—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, voice strained. “I crossed a line.”

You shift without thinking, drawn in by gravity, by comfort, by him. Your knee brushes his. “I didn’t mind,” you whisper.

That’s when it happens. He leans in. Slow. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to pull away.

You don’t. Your breaths tangle, soft and uneven. His forehead nearly touches yours. Your lips are a whisper apart, close enough that the moment feels suspended, fragile, electric, inevitable.

His thumb strokes your knuckle once. Your eyes flutter shut.

And for half a heartbeat, you’re certain—

He freezes.

His breath stutters. His hand tightens abruptly before dropping away like he’s been burned. He pulls back. Fast. Too fast. “Fuck,” he breathes.

You open your eyes. Panic flashes across his face, raw and unguarded. His pupils are blown wide, chest rising sharply like he can’t quite get enough air.

“I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I—I can’t do this.”

Your heart sinks. “Jake?”

“This is how it starts,” he continues, words tumbling now. “This is how I mess things up. And I promised, I promised I wouldn’t be that guy.”

“That guy?” you whisper.

“The one who ruins you,” he says, voice breaking just a little. “The one who pretends it’s nothing when it’s clearly not.”

Silence crashes down between you. You stare at him, chest aching. “I don’t think you’re ruining me,” you say softly.

He looks at you like that’s the most dangerous thing you could’ve said. “That’s the problem,” he murmurs.

He opens the door, stepping out into the night air like he needs it to breathe. You sit there, stunned, watching him rake a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back. “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes sincere, wrecked. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

You swallow hard. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He hesitates. “I did.” He closes the door gently, like earlier, like you’re still something precious.

“Text me,” he says, voice low. “Please.”

Then he walks away before you can answer. Inside, you lean against your door, heart racing, lips tingling with something that never happened.

Across the street, Jake stands beside his car for a long moment, head bowed, fists clenched. Because he knows now. There’s no lesson left that can save him from this.

And there’s no rule strong enough to stop what’s coming next. You don’t move for a long time after he leaves.

You stand there with your back against the door, fingers pressed to your lips like you might still feel him there if you try hard enough. Your heart won’t slow down. Your skin feels too tight, like it knows something before you’re ready to admit it.

You slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. And that’s when it hits you. Not all at once, no. It’s quieter than that. Heavier.

You like him. Not liked. Not maybe. You like Jake Sim like it scares you.

You like the way he remembers how you take your coffee. The way he notices when you’re lying. The way he got angry, not jealous, not possessive, just furious, on your behalf.

You like the way he touched your hand like it mattered. Like it was something to be careful with. You laugh weakly to yourself, dragging a hand down your face. “Oh, I’m fucked,” you whisper.

Because it isn’t a crush. It isn’t a rebound. It’s the kind of liking that settles deep and makes a home where it shouldn’t.

And somewhere across campus, Jake doesn’t even make it to his bed properly.

He kicks his shoes off, shrugs out of his jacket, and collapses face-first into his mattress like gravity finally won. He groans into his pillow, muffled and frustrated, then flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

Your face flashes behind his eyelids. Your mouth. Your breath hitching. How close he got, how close he almost went.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself.

He grabs his blanket and drags it over his head like it might save him, like it might smother the heat pooling low in his stomach and the ache sitting heavier in his chest. This isn’t just want.

That’s the terrifying part. He wants to text you. Wants to hear your laugh again. Wants to go back and do it differently,or not pull away at all.

He presses his forearm over his eyes, breathing hard. “I’m in love,” he says quietly, like a confession he never planned to make.

And the realization hits him just as cruelly as it hit you: There are no rules left that can protect either of you now. Not from this.

It happens when you least expect it. You’re walking with Jake across campus, too close, shoulders brushing, pretending this is normal, when someone calls his name.

“Sim.” She’s pretty. Effortlessly so. Cropped top, glossy lips, confidence dripping off her like she knows exactly where she stands in his life.

She doesn’t even look at you. She just steps in, cups his face, and kisses his cheek like it’s muscle memory. “Call me,” she says, low and sweet.

Then she walks away. Just like that. Your chest goes tight. Sharp. Ugly. You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until Jake does too.

He looks at you, eyes flicking over your face with far too much interest. There it is. The crack. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk.

“You jealous,” he asks lightly, “of something that’s not yours?” That does it.

You turn on him, fire flashing through you. “I’m not jealous of leftovers.” The smirk drops. The air between you crackles.

“Leftovers?” he repeats, incredulous. “That’s what you think?”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You act like I don’t know your reputation.”

“And you act like you don’t care,” he snaps back, stepping closer. “Which is it?”

Your heart is pounding now. “I don’t care.”

“Bullshit.”

You’re nose to nose before you realize it, breaths colliding, words spilling out sharper than you mean them to.

“You don’t get to touch me like that,” you say, voice shaking, “and then pretend it means nothing.”

“I never said it meant nothing,” he shoots back.

“Then what does it mean, Jake?” you demand. “Because you can’t keep doing this, looking at me like that, acting like I’m different, and then going back to them.”

His jaw clenches. “You think I want this?” he asks quietly. “You think I don’t notice every time you stiffen when someone looks at me?”

You laugh bitterly. “God, you love this.”

“No,” he says, low. “I hate it.”

That stops you.

His hand comes up, bracing against the wall beside you, not touching, not quite, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

“You want honesty?” he murmurs. “Fine. I don’t want to stop wanting you. But I also don’t know how to be anything else.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. “You’re such an asshole,” you snap, but your voice betrays you, too thin, too close to cracking.

Jake laughs under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Wow. Creative. Took you weeks to come up with that?”

“Don’t,” you warn. “Don’t do that thing where you joke like this isn’t exactly what you want.”

He tilts his head, eyes raking over your face like he’s cataloguing damage. “And what is it you think I want?”

You step closer, refusing to be the one who blinks. “You love this,” you say. “You love knowing you can have anyone. That you can flirt, disappear, come back, act like nothing sticks to you.”

“Careful,” he says quietly. “You’re projecting.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “I get jealous once and suddenly I’m crazy? One of your hookups kisses your cheek in front of me and I’m supposed to smile like it doesn’t feel deliberate?”

His jaw tightens. He steps closer instead of backing away, voice dropping. “I’m pissed you keep dangling yourself in front of me like it’s a game.”

Silence. Thick. Charged.

Jake exhales through his nose, eyes dark now, something volatile flickering there. “And you love pretending you don’t care,” he shoots back. “You roll your eyes, you make jokes, you act like you’re above it—”

“So don’t what?” you interrupt, heat crawling up your spine. “Don’t feel something? Don’t want you?”

That stops him. The words hang between you, reckless, naked, irreversible. For once, Jake has nothing ready. No smirk. No deflection.

Your chest rises sharply. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms like you need the pain to keep you grounded.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” you say, voice breaking despite yourself. “You don’t get to touch me, protect me, almost kiss me, and then act like I’m insane for reacting.”

“I’m trying not to hurt you,” he says too fast, like the line’s rehearsed.

You laugh, soft, bitter. “Congratulations. You’re failing.”

Something in his face fractures. The mask slips. Just for a second. And before you can overthink it, before fear can catch up, you grab the front of his jacket and kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Messy. Too much and not enough all at once. Every unsaid thing crashing into one breathless second. His lips are warm, familiar in a way that feels unfair, and for half a heartbeat, he kisses you back.

Hard.

Like he’s been starving. Then he freezes.You feel it instantly, the way his body locks up, the way his hands hover at your waist like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you. He pulls away like contact burns. “No,” he says, shaking his head, breath uneven. “We can’t.”

Your heart stutters. “Jake—”

“This is—” he drags a hand through his hair, panic and want tangled in his eyes, “—too messy. Too fucked up.”

He looks at you like he wants to say more. Like he wants to stay. Like walking away is the hardest thing he’s done all day. But instead, he turns.

“Jake,” you whisper, uselessly. He doesn’t stop. He leaves too fast, shoulders tense, like if he slows down even a little he’ll break.

He doesn’t see your eyes burn. Doesn’t see your lip tremble. Doesn’t see the tears spill the second he’s gone.

You stand there alone, chest aching with the weight of it. Because now you know the worst truth of all: You didn’t imagine it. He felt it too. And somehow, that hurts more than if he hadn’t felt anything at all.

You don’t remember how you get home. Your feet move on autopilot, vision blurred, chest aching like something has been scooped out and left hollow. The door clicks shut behind you and that’s all it takes.

You slide down the wall. Your breath comes apart immediately, broken, sharp inhales that don’t go anywhere. Your hands come up to your face like you can hold yourself together if you try hard enough.

You can’t. The sob that tears out of you is loud and humiliating and raw. It hurts your throat. Your shoulders shake violently as you curl in on yourself, knees to your chest, crying like you’ve lost something you never even got to have.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper to no one. “I didn’t mean to—”

Your phone is in your pocket. You don’t take it out. You already know there’s nothing there. You drag yourself to your bed, still crying, still gasping like the air is too thick to breathe. Your pillow is soaked in minutes. You clutch the blanket like it can anchor you, like it can replace the warmth that’s suddenly gone.

Your chest aches with every sob. You cry until your eyes burn. Until your head throbs. Until exhaustion finally drags you under, tears still slipping down your temples as sleep claims you.

Jake doesn’t drive far. He pulls over the second his hands start shaking too badly to grip the wheel. The car idles uselessly as he leans forward, forearms braced against the steering wheel, head dropping hard onto it.

And then he breaks. A sharp, broken sound rips out of his chest, half laugh, half sob. His shoulders cave inward like he’s folding in on himself, breath hitching violently.

“Fuck,” he chokes. Tears spill over fast, hot and relentless, dripping onto the wheel, onto his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut like that might stop it. It doesn’t.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “So fucking stupid.” He says it again. And again. Each time softer. Meaner. Like punishment. “You had her,” he mutters. “You had her and you ran.”

His chest heaves as he sucks in air that won’t settle. His jaw trembles. He presses his forehead harder against the wheel like he deserves the pain. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispers into the empty car. “I didn’t.” But it doesn’t matter.

Because he did. He stays there far too long, crying until his eyes burn, until the tears slow and leave him hollowed out and shaking. Two people, a few blocks apart. Both wrecked. Both awake in the dark. Both thinking the same unbearable thing: I love you. And believing, wrongly,that it’s already too late. 

The next day, the campus feels like a minefield.

You move like a ghost, head down, earbuds in, shoulders hunched. Every laugh, every shout, every passing glance makes your skin crawl. Even the familiar chatter of your friends sounds distant, muffled, like it’s happening underwater. You avoid everyone. Everyone except the one person whose presence is a damn knife to your chest.

Jake Sim.

You see him first in the lecture hall, half a dozen seats away, leaning against the back wall, shoulders slumped, gaze following you like a predator who doesn’t want to be seen. There’s no playfulness there today. No teasing smirk. His eyes are rimmed red, heavy, weary, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you realize he’s hurting too. You drop into your seat, pretending to bury yourself in notes. Pretending you don’t feel the weight of his stare, burning holes through your skull. Pretending you’re fine.

But you aren’t. The lecture drones on, a dull, lifeless hum under the storm building in your chest. Every movement from the back of the room, every slight shift in his posture makes your heart stutter. You catch glimpses of him in the corner of your eye, he doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t fidget. He just watches. And somewhere deep down, it terrifies you.

The hallway between classes is worse. You move fast, backpack tight against your chest, pretending not to notice him pacing nearby, pretending not to feel the pull like a magnet you don’t want to obey. Then you brush shoulders, brief contact, and your chest jumps, heart stuttering like a faulty engine. You don’t look at him. You can’t. You know if you do, you’ll melt entirely.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t stop. Not a word. Not a glance. Just the faintest brush of his presence, like a whisper in the back of your mind, dragging everything you thought you were over into sharp, aching clarity. The air around him hums, charged, dangerous, and you can’t breathe properly, can’t think properly, can’t even walk properly.

By the end of the day, you feel hollow. Exhausted. Your chest aches as if it knows exactly what’s coming. Every step home, every turn, every creak of the floorboards in your apartment makes you tense like a spring. And then the universe decides you cannot escape him. A knock at your door. You freeze. One hand gripping the doorknob, the other trembling at your side. You open it.

Jake stands there. Hair plastered to his forehead, clothes soaked through, rain streaming down in dark rivulets. His jacket hangs heavy and useless, dripping water across your threshold, and his eyes are wild, fevered, impossible to read.

“Jake—”

He doesn’t answer. He steps inside. Barely waits for a word. “You,” he growls, low and ragged, voice full of the kind of heat that makes your knees weak, “fuck the rules.”

Your stomach lurches. Your chest tightens. Every rational thought deserts you. “Excuse me?” you whisper, because what the hell else do you say to this?

He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t need to. There’s a predator’s confidence in the way he moves, a heat that doesn’t ask permission. In two long strides, he’s closing the distance between you. The air between you is electric, heavy with tension and rain and words unsaid.

His hands brush against yours as he grips your arms, lightly, teasing, but with enough pressure to make it clear he means it. Fingers dig in just enough to leave sparks along your skin. He leans closer, eyes dark, lips dangerously close, breath ragged. Every nerve in your body screams: he’s not supposed to be here like this. “I don’t care,” he mutters, low, almost a growl, the words scraping over your skin. “I don’t care about rules. I don’t care about anyone else. You. Me. Now.”

And just like that, the fragile, tentative walls you’ve built around your heart crumble. Something wild twists inside your chest. You’re trembling, your knees weak, your thoughts scattered like broken glass. The world narrows until there’s nothing left but him, the rain dripping down his jawline, the heat radiating off him, the pull that feels like gravity.

You realize, with a thud in your chest, that this is how it begins.

The FWB deal. The rules-free, messy, undeniably Jake-and-you dynamic. It doesn’t start with negotiation. Doesn’t start with words. Doesn’t start with agreements.

It starts with heat. Rain. Reckless, uncontainable desire.

And you know, deep down, that neither of you will survive pretending this is casual for long.

Not when his lips are so close you can feel the moisture of the storm. Not when his hands linger too long. Not when the ache in your chest is no longer just yours, it’s his too.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The door slams shut behind him, rain dripping from his hair onto the hardwood floor as Jake crowds you against the entryway wall. His mouth crashes into yours before you can catch your breath, no hesitation, no gentle prelude. Just hunger. His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, tasting like storm and want. Your hands fist in his soaked shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest.

His lips break away only to trail down your jaw, open-mouthed and messy, teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp. When he reaches your neck, he doesn’t hold back. He sucks hard at the sensitive spot below your ear, tongue soothing the sting before he bites down gently, then harder. You arch into him, a broken moan spilling out as heat floods your veins. Another mark, his mouth moving lower, branding your throat with wet, deliberate pulls that leave blooming bruises in their wake. Each one draws another helpless sound from you, louder, needier.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough and wrecked. His hands grip your hips tighter, fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You’re killing me.”

You can feel how far gone he is, the tremor in his shoulders, the way his breath stutters every time you moan his name. He’s unraveling, and it’s because of you. Suddenly his hands slide under your thighs, and he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. You cling to his shoulders as he carries you up the stairs, mouth never leaving your neck, adding another hickey just above your collarbone that makes your head fall back with a whimper. Every step jostles you against him, friction sparking white-hot where your bodies press together.

He kicks open your bedroom door, shoulders heaving, eyes dark and wild as he lowers you onto the bed without breaking the kiss. The mattress dips under your weight, and he follows immediately, covering you, caging you in. His knee nudges your thighs apart as he settles between them, and you both groan at the contact.

Jake pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, hair dripping, chest rising fast. His thumb brushes over one of the fresh marks on your neck, possessive and reverent all at once. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice low, almost pleading. “Tell me this isn’t just the rain talking.”

Your answer is to drag his mouth back to yours, legs tightening around him, letting him feel exactly how much you mean it. His hands, still icy from the rain, slip under the hem of your shirt, palms gliding over the warm skin of your stomach. You shiver hard, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the way he’s touching you, deliberate and slow, like he’s memorizing every inch.

Jake pulls back just enough to look at you, a crooked, wicked grin tugging at his lips. “Nervous?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb tracing lazy circles just below your ribs. “You’re shaking, baby.”

You try to scoff, but it comes out breathless. “I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are.” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “It’s cute. Been driving me fucking insane imagining you like this.”

The confession hits you low in the belly, heat surging through you. He’s thought about this. Not just tonight, not just in passing, too much, he said. The words hang heavy between you, raw and real.

Before you can respond, his hands slide higher, gathering the fabric of your shirt as they go. He peels it up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside without looking. Cool air hits your bare skin, and you instinctively move to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists gently, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your head.

“Don’t,” he says, eyes dropping to your chest. They darken instantly, pupils blown wide. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Any trace of teasing vanishes. He descends like he’s starving, mouth hot and eager as it closes over one breast. You arch off the bed with a sharp gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets as his tongue swirls around your nipple, teasing it into a tight peak before he sucks, hard. The pull shoots straight between your legs, and you moan his name without meaning to.

He groans against your skin, the vibration making you shudder again. Switching to the other side, he lavishes the same attention, wet, open-mouthed kisses, gentle scrapes of teeth, relentless suction that leaves you writhing beneath him. His hand cups the breast his mouth just left, thumb rolling the sensitive bud until you’re panting, hips rolling up against his thigh in silent plea. 

Jake lifts his head just long enough to look at you, lips slick and swollen, eyes feral. “Been thinking about this for months,” he rasps. “How you’d sound. How you’d taste.” He lowers his mouth again, grazing his teeth over your nipple just hard enough to make you cry out. “Not even close to how good the real thing is.”

Jake’s hands move to the waistband of your shorts, fingers hooking under the fabric along with your panties. He tugs them down slowly, eyes locked on yours the whole time, watching for any hesitation. There’s none. You lift your hips to help him, and he slides them off your legs, dropping them somewhere on the floor.

He eases you back against the pillows, the cool sheets a shock against your heated skin. Then he’s over you again, mouth finding yours in a deep, slow kiss before he starts moving lower, kissing along your jaw, your throat, between your breasts, down the center of your stomach. Every press of his lips is deliberate, reverent, like he’s mapping you with his mouth. You’re trembling again, not from nerves this time, but from the building ache he’s stoking with every touch.

He settles between your thighs, hands gentle as they part your legs wider. His breath ghosts over your skin, warm and teasing. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, then another a little higher, lips brushing so close to where you need him that your hips twitch involuntarily. Jake looks up at you, hair messy from your fingers, eyes dark but steady. His voice is low, rough with want but careful.

“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb stroking soothing circles on your hip. “Is this okay? Do you trust me?”

The question hangs in the air, simple and huge all at once. You can see it in his face—he needs to hear it. Needs to know you’re right here with him. You reach down, threading your fingers through his damp hair, and nod. “Yeah,” you breathe, voice shaky but sure. “I trust you, Jake. Please.”

The relief and hunger that flash across his expression undo you. He turns his head, pressing one more open-mouthed kiss to your thigh, a silent thank you, before his hands slide under your hips and he finally, finally lowers his mouth to you.

His mouth is on you the second the words leave your lips, hot, wet, devastating. Jake groans against you at the first taste, the sound rumbling through your core as his tongue parts you, slow and deliberate. He licks a long, flat stripe up your center, then circles your clit with maddening precision. Your hips buck, and he pins them down gently, holding you open for him.

You’re already soaked, trembling, and when he slides two fingers inside you, curling just right, your head falls back with a broken moan. The sounds you make, high, desperate, unrestrained, seem to unravel him completely. He growls against you, sucking your clit into his mouth harder, fingers pumping faster as your moans turn into breathless pleas of his name.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he rasps between licks, voice thick with awe and hunger. “These sounds… you’re gonna ruin me.”

It doesn’t take long. The pressure builds fast and fierce, your thighs shaking around his head as you clutch at his hair. When you come, it’s with a sharp cry, back arching off the bed, waves of pleasure crashing through you so hard your vision blurs. He doesn’t stop, gentle licks through your orgasm, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and boneless. Finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes glazed as he crawls up your body. There’s a smug, wicked tilt to his mouth as he hovers over you.

“Sensitive now?” he teases, voice low and rough, brushing a thumb across your lower lip. “Can’t handle a little more, huh?”

You’re still catching your breath, but the glint in his eye sparks something competitive in you. Before he can react, you surge up, hands on his chest, and flip him onto his back. He lands with a surprised huff, eyes wide as you straddle his hips, pinning him beneath you.

“My turn,” you murmur, grinding down just enough to feel how hard he is, straining against his soaked jeans, the outline thick and obvious.

Jake groans, head tipping back, hands flying to your thighs. “Jesus, fuck, okay.”

You lean down, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue, before sitting back. Your fingers make quick work of his belt and zipper, and he lifts his hips to help you drag his jeans and boxers down. His cock springs free, hard, flushed, a bead of precome at the tip, and you wrap your hand around him, feeling him twitch in your grip.

He hisses through his teeth, watching you with dark, half-lidded eyes as you spit into your palm and slide it down his length, slow and firm. Once, twice, twisting at the head just to watch his abs clench and his breath stutter.

“Shit,” he breathes, hips jerking into your hand. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you rise up on your knees, positioning yourself over him. His hands settle on your hips, steadying but not guiding, letting you take control. You meet his eyes as you sink down slowly, inch by inch, taking him in.

The stretch is perfect, overwhelming. You both moan at the same time, yours soft and shaky, his low and guttural. When you’re fully seated, hips flush against his, you pause, savoring the way he fills you, the way his fingers dig into your skin like he’s fighting not to thrust up.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel… so fucking good.”

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, and his head falls back against the pillow with a strangled groan. 

You start to move, slow at first, rolling your hips in deep, deliberate circles that drag a ragged groan from Jake’s throat. His hands grip your waist tighter, fingers flexing like he’s fighting to let you set the pace. But the way his eyes are locked on you, hungry, reverent, completely undone, gives you all the power you need.

You rise up slightly and sink back down, harder this time, and your breasts bounce with the motion. His gaze drops instantly, darkening as he watches them move. Another roll of your hips, faster now, and they bounce again, fuller, heavier with each thrust. The sight seems to snap something in him.

“God, fuck,” he rasps, voice breaking. He surges up, one arm banding around your lower back to pull you closer, mouth latching onto one breast without warning. His lips close hot and wet around your nipple, sucking hard as you ride him, the rhythm of your hips driving you both toward the edge.

Every bounce sends you down onto him deeper, and he meets it with a shallow thrust upward, groaning against your skin. The vibration shoots straight through you, making you gasp his name. He switches to your other breast, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, worshipping like he’s been starving for this exact moment.

Your name falls from his lips over and over, muffled against your skin at first, then louder when he pulls back just enough to breathe. “Baby… fuck… your name… been wanting to say it like this for so long…” It’s not a moan. It’s a confession.

Each time he says it, it cracks open a little more, like he’s been holding it behind his teeth for months, years maybe, waiting for the second he could let it spill out while buried inside you. There’s nothing casual in the way he says it. Nothing friends-with-benefits about the tremor in his voice or the way his free hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re something precious. You lean down, forehead pressing to his, riding him faster now, the slap of skin and the creak of the bed filling the room. Your breasts brush his chest with every bounce, and he chases them with his mouth whenever he can, moaning your name like a prayer, like a plea, like he’s finally allowed to admit what this has always been.

This isn’t fucking a friend. This is Jake unraveling beneath you, giving you everything he’s been holding back, and taking everything you’re finally ready to give.

You pick up the pace, grinding down harder, faster, chasing the building heat between you. Jake’s hands slide up your sides, gripping, guiding, urging you on as his hips snap up to meet every roll of yours. Your breasts bounce wildly with the rhythm, and he can’t resist, he surges forward again, mouth latching onto one, sucking and groaning around it like he’s lost all control.

Your name tears from his throat in broken, reverent moans, raw, desperate, nothing hidden anymore. It spills out of him like it’s been caged for months, every syllable laced with something deeper than lust. You feel it in your chest, sharp and undeniable, mirroring the ache in his eyes when he finally releases your breast and crashes his mouth to yours.

The kiss is different this time. Not hungry or frantic, it’s deep, slow, consuming. His tongue slides against yours like he’s trying to say everything he hasn’t dared to. One hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there, while the other tightens on your hip as you ride him through it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers tangled in his hair, bodies locked together, moving as one.

You’re both close, breath ragged, moans muffled against each other’s lips. When you come, it’s with his name on your tongue and his mouth still on yours, swallowing the sound. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan into the kiss, arms wrapping around you like he never wants to let go.

For a long moment, you stay like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard, hearts hammering in sync. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, but neither of you move to separate.

Then it hits him. His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of panic cutting through the haze. He pulls back just enough to look at you, voice rough and quiet.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, swallowing hard, like he’s trying to stuff the moment back into the casual box you both pretended to build. “The kissing thing. I wasn’t thinking.”

You’re still catching your breath, thighs trembling around his hips, but you don’t let him retreat. Not this time. You brush your thumb across his bottom lip, the one you just devoured, and meet his gaze steadily.

“Yes,” you say softly, “you did.” The words hang there, simple and devastating. His breath stutters. Something shifts in his expression, defenses crumbling, vulnerability flooding in. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t laugh it off or make a joke. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s seeing the truth you’ve both been dodging for way too long.

And the silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s electric. Feelings? Fully, irrevocably unlocked. Uh-oh doesn’t even begin to cover it. You’re still tangled together, limbs heavy, skin damp and cooling in the quiet aftermath. The storm outside has softened to a steady patter against the window, the only sound besides your slowing breaths.

Jake shifts first, easing out of you gently and rolling to the side so he doesn’t crush you. But he doesn’t go far, just enough to grab the sheet and pull it up over both of you. Then he settles back in, one arm sliding under your neck, the other draping across your waist, pulling you into the curve of his body like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’re lying face-to-face now, noses almost touching. His eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them, the earlier wildness replaced by something careful and unguarded. With the hand tucked under your neck, he reaches up, fingers brushing lightly at your cheek. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, slow and deliberate, thumb lingering on your skin a second longer than necessary. The touch is so tender it makes your chest tighten.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, voice low and rough from everything you just did. It’s not a casual check-in. There’s real worry threaded through it, like he needs to hear you say it out loud.

You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He searches your face for a moment, like he’s making sure you mean it. Then he leans in, not to kiss your mouth, but to press his lips to the column of your neck, right over one of the marks he left earlier. The kiss is feather-light, barely there, nothing like the hungry bites from before. It’s soft, lingering, almost reverent. Affection slips out unbidden, raw and unmistakable.

You feel him freeze the second he realizes what he’s done. He pulls back slowly, eyes flickering with something like panic again. Clears his throat. “That… meant nothing,” he says, too quickly, voice flat like he’s trying to force it back into the safe zone. “Just… habit. Whatever.”

You almost laugh at how badly he’s lying, the way his hand is still stroking your hair, the way he hasn’t moved an inch away from you. “Yeah,” you answer, voice just as unconvincing. “Totally. Meant nothing.”

You both hold the lie for about three seconds. Then his forehead drops to yours, a quiet exhale shaking out of him. Your fingers find his, lacing together under the sheet. Neither of you says anything else. But you both know. And for tonight, pretending is easier than admitting it out loud. 

The morning after feels wrong. Not bad, just off. Like the world didn’t get the memo that something seismic cracked open between you and Jake Sim, shifted gravity, rewired the rules. Campus looks the same. The sun is too bright. People laugh too loud. Someone kisses their girlfriend outside the café like nothing in the universe has ever been fragile. You don’t feel like that person anymore.

You sit in lecture with your coffee untouched, fingers wrapped around the cup long after it’s gone lukewarm. Your pulse keeps jumping, too fast, too sharp, every time your brain betrays you and replays him. His hands. His voice in the rain. The way he looked at you like he’d finally stopped running and didn’t know what to do with the momentum. You don’t look for him. That doesn’t stop you from feeling him.

When someone leans too close to you in class, a guy from your discussion section who smells like cologne and confidence, you laugh politely at something he says. It’s automatic. Harmless. You don’t notice Jake until the air shifts. It’s subtle. A pressure change. Like the room inhales. He’s standing near the door. Watching. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend. His jaw tightens, muscle ticking once, twice. His shoulders square like he’s bracing for impact. When the guy says something else, something that makes you smile again, just a little, Jake moves before he thinks.

He appears beside you like he belongs there.

“Hey,” he says easily, like this is normal, like he hasn’t crossed half the room on instinct alone. His hand lands on the back of your chair, casual, sure, but unmistakable. A claim without words. “You ready?”

The guy blinks, thrown. “For…?”

Jake’s smile is polite and empty. “She’s late.” You aren’t. But your body betrays you anyway. You stand, heart hammering, because something in the way Jake says it makes it feel true. Makes it feel inevitable. Jake doesn’t touch you as you walk out, but his presence crowds you, close enough to block anyone else, close enough that you’re aware of him with every step. It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.

It’s protective in a way that makes your stomach flip. Once you’re alone in the hallway, you finally exhale. “What was that?”

He keeps walking for a beat too long before answering. “Nothing.”

“Jake.” He stops. Turns. Finally meets your eyes.

“I don’t like people hitting on you.”

Your heart stutters, trips over itself. “You don’t get to—”

“I know,” he cuts in quickly, almost too quickly. “I know. I’m not saying I do. I’m just—”

He stops himself. His jaw flexes like the rest of the sentence is dangerous. Like if he finishes it, something permanent happens. You don’t wait for him to figure it out. You walk away before the conversation can pull you both apart at the seams. The rest of the day becomes a study in absence.

Jake doesn’t linger. Doesn’t lean in doorways. Doesn’t flirt in the halls. Doesn’t smirk back when people try to catch his attention. It’s like someone flipped a switch and stripped him down to something quieter. Sharper. You see it when a girl from his past finally corners him, someone familiar, comfortable, smiling like she knows him. “You never called,” she says lightly.

Jake barely hesitates. “Yeah. I’m not going to.”

She laughs, expecting charm. Expecting a joke. He doesn’t give her one. “Oh,” she says after a beat, confusion settling in. “Okay.” She walks away. You’re close enough to see it all. Your chest tightens. Because suddenly, painfully, it’s clear. He isn’t just spinning. He isn’t just reacting.

He’s choosing. The day drags after that. Every interaction feels loaded. Every glance lasts a second too long. You keep catching each other’s eyes across rooms, across crowds, quick, unspoken checks, like you’re both making sure the other still exists.

By the time evening rolls around, you’re exhausted. Your phone buzzes.

Jake: You done for the day?

You stare at the screen longer than necessary.

You: Yeah.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Jake: My place today?

Your breath catches. Not come over. Not want to hang out. My place today. Like it’s already a rhythm. Like this is something that continues. Like he’s done pretending it was just one night that got out of hand. You type back before doubt can talk you out of it.

You: Okay.

Across campus, Jake exhales for the first time all day. Because whatever this is, messy, dangerous, impossible, he doesn’t want it to end. And neither do you. 

Jake’s place is quiet. Not frat-house loud, not chaotic, no blaring music, no half-empty bottles, no careless mess. Just low lights glowing warm against clean walls, counters wiped down, shoes neatly lined by the door. It smells faintly like laundry detergent and something warmer beneath it, coffee, maybe, or vanilla, or just him.

It disarms you immediately. “Hey,” he says softly, like he’s approaching a skittish animal instead of someone he’s already held in the dark.

“Hey.”

He toes his shoes off and gestures you inside with an easy tilt of his head. “You want a drink? Water? Something stronger?”

“Water’s fine,” you say, suddenly hyperaware of how calm he sounds. How gentle. How normal this feels, like this is just another evening and not a turning point you’re pretending not to see.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you drift farther in, taking in the space. A couch with a blanket folded over one arm. A couple of books stacked neatly on the coffee table. A hoodie tossed over the back of a chair, one you recognize.

When he comes back, he doesn’t just hand you the glass. He pulls you into a hug first. It’s instinctive. Natural. Like neither of you even thought about it. His arms wrap around you, firm but careful, like he’s testing how much he’s allowed to hold you. Your body responds before your brain can interfere. You melt into him, cheek resting against his chest, his warmth seeping into you like it’s always belonged there. His heartbeat is steady, grounding, loud enough that you can feel it beneath your ear.

For a second, just one, everything goes quiet. You feel safe. You feel held. You feel… happy. The realization hits like cold water. You pull back slightly, breath catching, panic flaring sharp and sudden. You remind yourself of everything this isn’t. Everything it’s not supposed to be. The lines you promised not to cross. The way this ends if you stop being careful.

Jake doesn’t seem to notice the shift. He hands you the glass, fingers brushing yours in passing. “Careful,” he murmurs. “It’s cold.”

He moves back to shuffle into the kitchen. And you follow him, curious to see how the campus manwhore’s kitchen looks like. Surprisingly, it’s tidy, tidier than you would have expected it. Jake stood near the stove, his back to you. The glass is cold against your fingertips.

You nod, take a sip, and then something reckless takes over. Impulse. Need. A truth you haven’t learned how to swallow yet. Before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can analyze or overthink, you step forward and wrap your arms around him from behind.

A back hug. Your forehead presses into the soft fabric of his hoodie. It smells like him, clean, familiar, comfortingly Jake. Without thinking, you nuzzle closer, clinging like this is the only solid thing in the room. Like if you let go, something vital might slip through your fingers.

Jake freezes. Every muscle under your arms goes taut. His breath stutters, just once. You almost pull away. Almost apologize. Almost make a joke to defuse the moment, but then he exhales. Slow. Long. Like he’s been holding that breath all day. His shoulders relax. His hands come up to rest over your forearms, warm and steady, not pulling you closer but not letting you go either. A quiet laugh rumbles out of his chest, low, surprised, and you feel it vibrate through him.

“Touchy now, are we?” he says lightly, but his voice is softer than usual, stripped of its edge. You smile against his back, heart fluttering despite yourself.

“Maybe,” you mumble.

He tilts his head back just slightly, like he’s savoring the moment without daring to turn around. Like if he looks at you, something fragile might break.

“Good to know,” he murmurs. You stay like that longer than you should. No rush. No rules. Just the quiet hum of his apartment, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the dangerous ease of being wrapped around him like this is normal.

And that’s when it hits you. This isn’t just chemistry anymore. It isn’t just want, or tension, or heat you can explain away. It’s comfort. It’s the way your body relaxes without permission. The way his hands stay even when they don’t have to. The way neither of you says a word, because you both know, if you do, this moment might dissolve.

And that realization terrifies you more than anything else. Because comfort is where things stop being casual. And you’re not sure either of you knows how to walk away from that. He stays still for another heartbeat, just breathing with you pressed against his back, your cheek between his shoulder blades, arms looped loosely around his waist. The quiet stretches, thick and warm, until finally he moves.

Slowly, deliberately, Jake turns in the circle of your arms. His hands find your hips, guiding you backward until your lower back meets the cool edge of the kitchen counter. The movement is gentle but firm, no hesitation, no asking permission this time. He’s done pretending he doesn’t want this.

His eyes lock on yours for a second, dark, searching, a little reckless, and then he dips his head. The first kiss lands just below your jaw, soft, testing. You tilt your head back on instinct, giving him more, and he takes it. His mouth drags down the column of your throat, open and warm, lips parting to taste your skin. When he reaches the spot that made you fall apart last time, he pauses, breath ghosting over it, before he closes his lips and sucks, slow, deliberate, possessive.

A quiet moan slips out of you before you can stop it. He hums against your skin, pleased, the sound vibrating straight through you. Another pull, deeper this time, teeth grazing just enough to sting in the best way. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he answers by pressing his body fully into yours, pinning you gently between him and the counter.

He works his way across your neck, marking a slow path, each hickey placed like he’s memorizing the spots that make you shiver, make you sigh, make you arch into him. Every time you moan, softer ones turning sharper as he lingers, he growls low in his throat, like the sound alone undoes him.

One of his hands slides up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt, while the other stays firm on your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you. His mouth finds that sensitive place just above your collarbone and stays there, sucking steadily until your knees buckle a little and you have to grip his shoulders to stay upright.

When he finally pulls back, lips swollen and shiny, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to look at the fresh bloom of marks he’s left, eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied. His thumb traces one gently, reverently. Your breathing is uneven. So is his. He leans in again, but this time his kiss is softer, just a brush of lips against the newest mark, like an apology and a promise all at once.

You’re both still saying nothing. But the way he’s holding you, the way he’s tasting you like he’s got all the time in the world, says everything neither of you is ready to admit out loud. This isn’t casual. It never really was. His breath is hot and uneven against your neck, the words slipping out like they’ve been waiting there all along.

“Need you, pretty girl.” Low. Rough. Almost reverent. You feel the way his whole body tenses when you nod, small, certain, and then gently but firmly push at his chest. He lets you, confusion flickering across his face as he steps back half a pace, brows knitting together.

“What’re you—”

The question dies the second your knees hit the kitchen floor. His eyes go wide, pupils blown dark and stunned. Mouth parts on a silent exhale. He looks down at you like he can’t quite believe what’s happening, like this is something he’s imagined too many times and now it’s real, and he doesn’t know how to process it. 

Your fingers find the drawstring of his sweatpants. One slow tug undoes the knot. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and drag them down together with his boxers, letting them pool around his ankles. His cock springs free, thick, flushed an angry red at the tip, already leaking. Hard and straining like it’s been aching for hours.

Jake hisses through his teeth when your hand wraps around him, skin hot against your palm. You give him a few slow, firm pumps, base to tip, twisting just a little at the head, and his hips jerk forward on instinct.

“Fuck—” The word is strangled, half-laugh, half-groan. One of his hands flies to the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles whitening as he grips it for balance. The other hovers uncertainly near your head, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch.

His chest rises and falls fast. Eyes locked on you, dark and glassy, like he’s already half gone just from the sight of you on your knees in front of him. You lean in, lips brushing the tip in the lightest tease, and he shudders hard enough that the counter creaks under his grip. “Baby…” It’s barely a whisper, wrecked and pleading. “You don’t have to—”

But the way his cock twitches in your hand says otherwise. You look up at him through your lashes, holding his gaze as you give him another slow stroke, thumb swiping over the bead of precome at the slit. His head tips back, throat working on a swallow. He’s trying so hard to keep some semblance of control. He’s failing beautifully.

You hold his gaze a second longer, letting him see exactly what you want, then lean forward and take him into your mouth. The first slide is slow, hot, wet, deliberate, your lips stretching around the head as your tongue presses flat against the underside. Jake’s breath catches sharp and loud, hips twitching like he’s fighting not to thrust. You sink lower, taking more of him, until the tip nudges the back of your throat. You pull back just enough to breathe, saliva already coating him, glistening, before you push forward again.

This time you don’t stop. You relax your throat and take him deeper, nose brushing his pelvis as you swallow around him. A choked gag escapes you, wet, messy, unavoidable, and the sound seems to snap something in him. His hand finally lands in your hair, fingers threading gently, not pushing, just anchoring himself as his head falls back with a broken groan.

“Fuck—baby—”

You pull off with a slick pop, gasping, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock before you dive back in. Faster now, sloppier, hollowing your cheeks, sucking hard, letting the wet sounds fill the kitchen. Every time you bob down, you take him to the hilt, gagging softly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the stretch. It’s messy on purpose, drool spilling down your chin, coating him, dripping onto the floor. You don’t care. You want him wrecked. And he is.

His thighs tremble under your free hand. His grip tightens in your hair, not guiding, just holding on like he’s about to lose it. Every gag, every wet slide of your mouth pulls another ragged sound from him, curses, your name, breathless pleas. “Look at you,” he rasps, voice shattered. “So fucking perfect, taking me like this—”

You hum around him, the vibration making his hips buck. You feel him swell thicker against your tongue, throbbing hard now. He’s close. You double down, faster, deeper, messier. One hand pumps the base you can’t quite reach, twisting in time with your mouth. The other cups him lower, gentle pressure that makes him curse loud and long.

“Shit—I’m gonna—”

You don’t pull off. You take him as deep as you can, throat fluttering around the head, and he comes with a choked groan, hot, thick pulses spilling straight down your throat. You swallow greedily, milking him through it, gag reflex twitching but holding, until he’s shuddering, spent, fingers loosening in your hair. Only then do you ease off slowly, lips dragging along his length, cleaning him with soft licks as he softens. A final string of spit and come connects you for a second before you break it with a swipe of your tongue.

You sit back on your heels, breathing hard, chin wet, lips swollen. Looking up at him. Jake stares down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. Chest heaving, eyes glassy, completely undone. He reaches down with both hands, cupping your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that escaped and the mess at the corner of your mouth. His touch is so tender it almost hurts.

“Pretty girl,” he whispers again, voice hoarse and reverent. “Come here.”

He pulls you up into his arms before you can even catch your breath, crushing you against his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. He cleans you up gently, warm washcloth from the bathroom, careful strokes across your chin and neck, thumbs brushing away the last traces of mess with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. No words, just quiet glances, soft smiles that linger too long. When he’s done, he presses a kiss to your forehead, quick and instinctive, then pretends it didn’t happen.

You both end up on the couch, some random movie flickering on the TV that neither of you is really watching. He tugs a throw blanket over your legs, pulls you into his side like it’s the most natural thing. You curl into him without thinking, head on his chest, one leg thrown over his, his arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

It’s breaking every unspoken rule you ever pretended to have. No kissing during sex? Broken.   No staying over? About to be shattered. No feelings? Laughable at this point. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, his body warm and solid. The movie drones on, but you’re lulled by the rise and fall of his breathing, the faint scent of his skin, the way his hand keeps drifting up to play with your hair. Your eyes grow heavy.

At some point, you drift off. You don’t feel him carry you, but you stir just enough to register being lifted, cradled against his bare chest as he walks down the hall. He lays you down in his bed, his bed, not the guest room, not the couch, and pulls the covers up over you. The mattress dips as he slides in beside you, shirtless, skin still warm from earlier.

He hesitates for a second, then shifts closer. One arm slips under your neck, the other drapes over your waist, pulling you back against him. You’re half-asleep, but you feel him press a soft kiss to the back of your shoulder, just once, barely there, like he thinks you won’t notice.

You do. He settles in, breath evening out against your hair.  The rules? Completely demolished. And neither of you minds even a little.

You wake up slowly. Not jolting. Not startled. Just drifting upward, consciousness heavy and warm and disoriented. The room smells like him, clean, familiar, faintly comforting, and for one blissful second, you don’t remember why that matters. Then you shift. Your arm brushes warm skin. Bare skin. Your eyes snap open.

Jake is right there. Shirtless. Asleep on his back, one arm thrown over his head, hair a mess, lashes resting against his cheeks like he has no idea he’s about to ruin your entire emotional stability before breakfast. Your heart drops straight into your stomach.

Oh. Oh no. You lie there, frozen, staring at the rise and fall of his chest. The memory of last night creeps in slowly, him pulling the blanket over you, murmuring something soft you were too hazy to respond to, the careful way he tucked you in like you mattered. Like this wasn’t just sex. Your pulse spikes.

Because the rules, they are absolutely, catastrophically gone.

You glance around the room like it might confirm this is a dream. His room is quiet, peaceful. Morning light spills across the bed, catching on his collarbones, the faint marks on his skin you absolutely should not be noticing. But you are. You definitely are. Your chest tightens. This isn’t panic because he’s hot. It’s panic because this feels… intimate. Because he stayed. Because he tucked you in. Because you woke up next to him like this is normal. Like this could be something. As if sensing your stare, Jake shifts. You freeze again.

He blinks awake slowly, eyes unfocused for a second, then they land on you. Recognition dawns. And instead of smugness, instead of cocky teasing, his expression softens.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep. Your heart absolutely betrays you. “Hi,” you reply, too fast. There’s a beat. Then another. Neither of you moves. You’re acutely aware of the silence. Of the space between you that feels too small and too large at the same time.

Jake exhales quietly and rubs a hand down his face. “You okay?” That simple question nearly ends you. You nod. Then immediately shake your head. “I—yeah. I mean. I don’t know.”

He pushes himself up on one elbow, sheet slipping lower without him noticing. “We can talk,” he says gently. “Or not. Whatever you need.”

You stare at him. That’s when it really hits. This isn’t a wingman. This isn’t a hookup. This isn’t rules and distance and pretending. This is Jake Sim, shirtless in the morning light, asking how you feel. And suddenly, the scariest thought of all settles into your chest: You don’t want the rules back.

You just don’t know what replaces them. You don’t talk about it. That’s the unspoken agreement as you both stumble around his apartment, half-awake and aggressively pretending last night didn’t fundamentally alter your brain chemistry. You borrow a hoodie. He pulls on the first jeans he finds. Someone nearly brushes teeth with the wrong toothbrush and pretends it didn’t happen. It’s fine. Totally fine.

You rush out together, hair still messy, fingers still a little too aware of each other’s presence as you speed-walk across campus like you’re late for a crime scene. The thing you don’t notice at first? You don’t look at anyone else. Not the guy by the café who usually makes you double-take. Not the flirty senior from psych. Not even out of habit.

Your attention stays glued forward, toward Jake’s shoulder, his stupid profile, the way he keeps matching his pace to yours without thinking. You only realize it when,“Oh my god.”

You both freeze. Your friends are already there. Sitting. Watching. Waiting. Their eyes flick from your borrowed hoodie… to Jake’s rumpled hair… to the way you walked in together like a matched set.

Then, a very loud, very unnecessary wolf whistle.

“WOOOO,” someone hollers. “LOOK AT YOU TWO.”

Another adds, “Messy hair? Together? In THIS economy?”

Your soul leaves your body. Jake, meanwhile, smirks like he’s been training for this moment his whole life. You glare at them. Hard. “If any of you make one more sound, I will commit violence before my first lecture.” That only makes it worse.

“So,” your friend grins, chin propped on her hand, “you guys are basically together now, right?”

Jake drops into the seat beside you, entirely too relaxed. “Basically?” he repeats, amused.

You elbow him. Hard. He only laughs. “Wow,” someone says. “Didn’t know campus housing allowed sleepovers with benefits.”

You choke. “We did NOT—”

Jake leans back, arms crossed, absolutely enjoying this. “Relax. Let them have their fun.”

You shoot him a look. “You are not helping.”

“I think I’m helping plenty,” he replies, eyes sparkling. “You’re very convincing when you’re angry.”

Your friends are eating this up. One of them fans herself dramatically. “The tension. The denial. The way you walked in like you just finished a third act reconciliation.”

Another wolf whistle. You bury your face in your hands. Jake nudges your knee under the table, voice low, teasing. “Hey. Could be worse.”

You peek at him. “How?”

“They could think we’re married.”

He flashes that grin again. Your heart does something deeply inconvenient. You straighten, glare around the table, and announce, “For the record, we are not together.”

Jake hums. “Didn’t say we were.” Your friends exchange looks. The oh-this-is-going-to-be-fun kind. You sigh, already exhausted. This is going to be a long semester. And judging by Jake’s smug expression, he’s going to enjoy every second of it. 

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted. Not academically. Emotionally. Everywhere you go, someone looks at you. Whispers. Grins. One person actually has the audacity to say, “Morning-after glow looks good on you.”

You consider homicide. Jake, of course, is thriving. He doesn’t deny anything. Doesn’t confirm anything either. Just exists beside you like a smug little storm cloud, shoulders brushing yours in hallways, knee nudging yours under desks, voice dropping every time he talks to you like it’s a private joke.

At one point, during lecture, he leans over and murmurs, “Relax. You’re doing great.” You hiss back, “You are the reason I’m suffering.” He only smiles wider. By afternoon, you’re so tired you barely react when someone whistles again as you pass by.

Jake does, though. He glances at you, then deliberately, deliberately, winks. Slow. Lazy. Criminal. Your stomach flips. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. You know exactly what it means. Another… session.

You drop your head back against the wall and sigh, long and dramatic. “You are ruining my life.”

Jake laughs, low and warm, leaning in just enough for you to feel it. “Funny,” he says. “You didn’t seem that miserable last time.”

You glare at him. “You are unbearable.”

“Mm,” he hums, eyes dragging over your face like he’s memorizing it. “Yet here you are.”

You hate that he’s right. Hate that the idea of later tonight makes your pulse jump. Hate that you already know you won’t say no. Hate that when he walks ahead of you, he glances back just to make sure you’re following. You are. Every time. And the worst part? When he flashes that stupid, knowing grin again, you don’t even bother pretending you don’t like it. Time skips quietly.

Not abruptly. Not cleanly. It slips, soft and strange, like it doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that something has shifted. You’re on your bed now, sheets rumpled beneath you, the room still warm with the aftermath of him, of Jake, even though nothing explicit lingers. There’s no proof he was here except the way the air feels heavier, fuller, like it hasn’t caught up yet. Except for the faint crease in the pillow where his arm had been. Except for the way your body still feels tuned to his, like it forgot how to exist alone.

He had to leave for practice. He’d said it like it was no big deal, like it didn’t fracture something in your chest when he glanced at the clock and groaned under his breath.

“Shit,” he’d muttered, rubbing his face. “I’m late.” You’d tried to play it cool. Tried not to let it show.

“Rain check?” he’d asked, already leaning down to kiss you anyway, already smiling like he knew you wouldn’t say no.

One kiss turned into five. Five turned into him crowding you gently against the door, hands braced on either side of your head, not trapping you, just there. Grounding. His mouth was softer then, slower, lingering like he was trying to commit the shape of you to memory. Like leaving wasn’t just inconvenient, it hurt.

You’d laughed, giddy and stupid, when he pressed one last kiss to your forehead, thumb brushing your temple like it belonged there.

“Get dressed,” he’d murmured. “You’ll catch a cold.” As if he wasn’t the reason your knees still felt weak. As if he hadn’t unraveled you just by staying a little too long. Now he’s gone.

And you’re staring at the ceiling, heart doing that slow, aching thud it’s been doing more and more lately. Not sharp pain. Worse. The kind that settles in and refuses to leave. This, whatever this is, has stopped feeling like pretending. Your phone sits beside you on the bed. Earlier, it buzzed, his name lighting up the screen like it belonged there.

Jake: text me when you get up Jake: eat something Jake: don’t skip class 🙄

You’d smiled at that. Actually smiled. The kind that pulls at your cheeks before you can stop it. The kind that lingers after the screen goes dark. The kind that makes your chest feel warm and unbearably tight all at once. That’s when it hits you. Not like a thunderclap. Not dramatically. Quietly. Honestly. Irrevocably.

You’re in love with him. Not the playboy reputation. Not the teasing smirk everyone talks about. Not even the way he touches you like it’s instinct, like his hands always know where to go. Him. The way he tucks you in without being asked. The way his voice softens when he thinks you’re upset, even when he pretends not to notice. The way he stays, really stays, even when every rule you never officially agreed on says he shouldn’t. And that’s the problem.

Because Jake Sim does not fall in love. Jake Sim leaves. Jake Sim runs. Jake Sim breaks hearts and laughs it off like it never mattered.

You roll onto your side, curling in on yourself, hugging a pillow to your chest like it might anchor you. Like it might replace the weight of his arm, the quiet reassurance of his presence. This is going to end badly. You can feel it in your bones, in the way every kiss feels like it means too much, in the way his absence already aches like a missing limb, in the way your heart has quietly, stupidly decided this is worth the risk.

You stare at the wall, then close your eyes. And despite everything, despite what you know about him, despite what you know about yourself, you still hope you’re wrong. You hope, just a little, that this time will be different. That he won’t run. That when it starts to hurt, he’ll stay.

And that hope? That’s what scares you the most. Oh, he’s absolutely not okay either. Jake sits in his car long after practice ends. Engine off. Lights dark. The parking lot emptying out one car at a time until it’s just him and the hum of cooling metal. His phone is face-down on the passenger seat like it might burn him if he looks at it too long. Like if he sees your name again, something in him will crack all the way open. His chest still hasn’t settled.

He keeps replaying the way you looked at him before he left, soft, a little dazed, hair mussed, eyes warm in a way that scared the hell out of him. The way you smiled like you trusted him. Like he was safe. Like he wasn’t a mistake waiting to happen. That’s the problem.

You feel safe. Not exciting-safe. Not fun-safe. Real safe. Quiet safe. Stay-safe. The kind that doesn’t let him hide. He presses his forehead to the steering wheel and exhales shakily, breath fogging the glass for a second before disappearing. His hands are still buzzing, like they don’t know what to do without you under them, curled into him like it was instinct.

He hates the quiet. He’s never been good at this part, the after. The stillness. The thinking. The realizing. When things stop moving, when the noise fades, when there’s nothing left to distract him from the weight in his chest, that’s when it gets dangerous. He tells himself it’s just sex. Just comfort. Just two people blowing off steam. That’s the script. He knows it by heart. Has lived by it for years.

But scripts don’t include the way you tucked your feet under his thigh like you belonged there. Scripts don’t include the way you laughed into his shoulder like the world wasn’t sharp. Scripts don’t include the way leaving your place felt wrong in his bones, like he was walking away from something fragile and alive. His phone buzzes.

The sound is too loud in the quiet car. He freezes. Then flips it over despite himself.

You: did you make it?

His chest tightens immediately, sharp, sudden, like someone reached inside and squeezed. He stares at the message longer than necessary. He types.  Deletes. Types again.

Jake: yeah Jake: u eat?

God. He groans softly and lets his head fall back against the seat. He sounds like a fucking idiot. Like someone’s boyfriend. Like someone who cares. He stares up at the roof of the car, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He can still feel you under his hands. The way you curled into him without thinking. The way you sighed, quiet, content, like you belonged there. Like being with him didn’t cost you anything.

That’s when it hits him. Not all at once. Not dramatically. In pieces. He doesn’t want anyone else touching you. Doesn’t want anyone else making you laugh like that.Doesn’t want anyone else seeing you soft and unguarded and real.

And worse, he doesn’t want to be the guy who ruins this. Which means he already has. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face, fingers dragging down hard like he can physically pull himself together if he tries hard enough. This was supposed to be simple. Rules. Distance.No feelings.

Something contained. Something temporary. Something he could walk away from without looking back. But every time he leaves your place, it feels wrong. Like he’s abandoning something unfinished. Like he’s choosing the familiar ache of running over the terrifying possibility of staying.

He picks up his phone again, thumb hovering over your name.

He wants to say something. Anything. Wants to tell you to stop looking at him like that because it makes him want things he can’t afford to want. Wants to tell you that you’re dangerous to him in the quietest way possible. Wants to tell you that he doesn’t trust himself not to fall all the way if you keep letting him stay. Instead, he does what he always does. He chooses restraint dressed up as responsibility.

Jake: get some sleep Jake: see you tomorrow

He stares at the sent messages like they’re a lie he’s practicing believing. Then he finally starts the car. The engine roars to life too loud in the empty lot, heart pounding just as hard, like it’s betraying him with every beat. As he pulls out, hands steady on the wheel despite everything inside him unraveling, he knows.

This is going to hurt. Because he’s already falling. And Jake Sim has never been good at landing. He almost turns the car around. It’s stupid, he knows that. Reckless. The kind of impulsive, heart-first decision he’s spent years training himself not to make. The kind that ruins carefully constructed exits. The kind that leads to explanations, expectations, things he doesn’t know how to survive.

But he’s barely halfway down the block when his hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, chest caving in like his lungs forgot their job. The road blurs for a second, headlights streaking, and suddenly all he can see is you. Barefoot on your bed. Hair everywhere. Eyes warm. Open. Trusting. Smiling at him like he wasn’t a bad ending waiting to happen.

“Don’t,” he mutters to himself, voice rough, like if he says it out loud it’ll hold. The car slows. The engine hum drops. His foot eases off the gas without permission. For half a second, half a fucking second, he lets himself imagine it.

Pulling back into your driveway. Killing the engine. Walking up to your door like an idiot with nothing rehearsed. Knocking. You opening it, confused, soft, maybe smiling like you always do when you see him. Him saying something honest for once. Saying he can’t stop thinking about you. Saying he doesn’t know how to do this without fucking it up. Saying he’s scared because you feel like something he could actually lose. Saying he wants more, and that wanting you feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing how to land.

His turn signal clicks. Once. Twice. His heart is pounding so loud it’s almost painful, like it’s begging him to choose differently. Then fear wins. It always does. He exhales sharply, jaw locking, and forces the wheel straight like it’s an act of violence. The car accelerates, the street disappearing behind him, and the relief that follows is hollow and sickening. He drives away like a coward. Heart still racing. Chest burning. Knowing, deep down, that this is the part where he fucks it up.

—

The next day, he’s unbearable. Not loud-unbearable. Worse. Sharp. Edged. Like he’s made of glass and anyone who touches him is going to bleed. Practice is a mess. His body’s there, but his head’s somewhere else, back in your room, back at the door he didn’t knock on, back in the moment he chose running because it was easier than staying.

“Jake, chill,” one of his friends laughs when he misses an easy shot. “You’re off today.”

“Don’t tell me to chill,” Jake snaps, voice harsher than he means it, but not apologetic either.

The laughter dies immediately. Someone mutters, “Damn,” under their breath. Another guy avoids his eyes altogether. Jake doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t even realize how tight his fists are until his nails dig into his palms.

The looks his friends exchange say everything. Oh. He’s gone. This is new. He pushes everyone away like they’re obstacles, like they’re in the way of something he refuses to name. Like if he lets anyone close, they’ll see the cracks forming. Until you show up. You don’t announce yourself. Don’t demand his attention. You just step into his space like you always do, quiet, familiar, grounding. Like you belong there.

“Hey,” you say softly. Something in him gives. Just a fraction. Just enough. His shoulders drop, barely noticeable, but real. His jaw unclenches. His eyes flick over you immediately, searching, automatic, instinctive, like he’s checking for damage he’s responsible for. “What?” he asks, already softer, already undone.

“You okay?” you ask. The concern in your voice hits him harder than any confrontation could.

He scoffs, forcing a shrug. “Yeah. Fine.” You don’t believe him. He knows you don’t. That’s the problem, you never do.

“Jake,” you start, hesitant, careful. “About… us—”

Panic spikes. He cuts you off before you can finish, before you can say something he won’t be able to undo. “There is no us,” he says too fast, too clean, like he practiced it in the mirror. “We agreed on that, remember?”

Your face stills. Not dramatic. Not angry. Just… quiet.

“Oh,” you say after a beat, voice small but steady. “Right. I just thought—”

He looks away immediately, like he can’t stand to see what that did to you. “That’s the problem,” he mutters. “Thinking.” The silence that follows is brutal. It presses in, heavy and suffocating, full of everything he’s too scared to say and everything you’re finally starting to understand. His friends watch from a distance, pretending not to, because it’s obvious now, painfully obvious.

You’re the only one who can calm him. And you’re the one thing he won’t let himself keep. You step back, nodding once, like you’re accepting something you already knew but hoped you were wrong about.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then… see you around.” You turn to leave. Jake watches you go.

Doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t stop you. Just stands there, jaw tight, chest aching like he ripped something vital out of himself and pretended it was necessary. And the worst part? He knows. The moment he didn’t turn that car around, the moment he chose fear over honesty, was the moment he started losing you.

And no amount of running has ever saved him from that. You go for a walk because staying still feels like suffocating.

Your body needs motion, air, distance, something to keep your thoughts from closing in on themselves. The streetlights blur past as you walk without direction, hands shoved into your pockets, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for impact. Your phone is face-down in your pocket, but you swear you can feel its weight. Like Jake’s name might burn straight through the fabric if you let it. You haven’t texted him. Haven’t not texted him either. You’re suspended in that awful in-between where every thought circles back to him whether you want it to or not. The way he dodged you. The way his voice hardened the second you said us.The way it still softened when he looked at you, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo his mouth was trying to send.

It hurts in a quiet, persistent way. Not sharp. Worse. Like longing with nowhere to go. Like something alive inside you pacing against its ribs. You don’t even realize you’ve slowed until a familiar voice says your name. You stop. Turn.

Your ex stands a few feet away, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture tentative, like he’s testing unstable ground. He looks the same. Too familiar. Too easy to place in a past you worked hard to survive.

“Hey,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

For a split second, your heart jumps, pure muscle memory. Then the ache evaporates, replaced by something hot and electric. Rage. It floods you all at once. Every sleepless night.  Every moment you twisted yourself smaller to keep the peace. Every time you were made to feel like wanting more was asking for too much.

“What do you want?” you ask flatly.

He blinks, thrown off. “Wow. Okay. I just—”

“No,” you cut in, voice shaking despite yourself. “You don’t get to just walk up to me like nothing happened.”

“I was just trying to talk,” he says, already defensive. “We didn’t exactly end on great terms.”

“That was your choice,” you snap. “You made it very clear where I stood.”

“That’s not fair—”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “Leave me alone.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re being dramatic.”

That word hits like a match to gasoline. “Dramatic?” you repeat, stepping closer, hands curling into fists. “You disappear. You lie. You make me feel like I’m asking for too much, and now you think you get to show up and rewrite it?”

People pass by. Someone glances over, then looks away. You don’t care. “I don’t owe you closure,” you say, voice firm now, steady in a way that surprises even you. “I don’t owe you anything. So walk away.”

He stares at you, stunned, pride and guilt flickering across his face like competing signals. “Fine,” he mutters at last. “Whatever. You’ve changed.”

“Good,” you say. “That was the point.” He leaves. Your hands are shaking by the time you turn away, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. It takes a second for the anger to drain, long enough for the aftermath to crash in and leave you hollow.

You’re exhausted. And then, you see him. Jake stands across the street. Still. Rigid. Like he’s been carved into the concrete. His eyes are locked on you, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking. He didn’t hear the words. Didn’t need to. He saw enough, the proximity, the intensity, the way your ex stood too close. The way you didn’t walk away immediately. Something dark moves through Jake’s expression. Possessive. Afraid. Angry.

He moves before you can stop him. “Jake—” you start, but he’s already there, voice sharp as broken glass.

“What the hell was that?”

Your stomach drops. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don’t lie to me.”

Lie?

“I wasn’t—” You force a breath. “He came up to me. I told him to leave.”

Jake laughs, bitter and disbelieving. “Yeah? Looked real convincing from where I was standing.”

That hurts more than you expect. More than the accusation itself. “You think I’d do that?” you ask quietly.

His eyes flicker, just for a second. Doubt. Fear. Then he hardens again, like softness is dangerous. “I don’t know what you’d do,” he says. “You don’t exactly talk to me anymore, remember?”

“That’s because every time I try, you shut me out,” you shoot back. “You don’t get to act like you care now.”

“I do care,” he snaps, stepping closer. Too close. His voice drops, rough and dangerous. “That’s the problem.”

Silence crashes between you. Heavy. Public. Exposed. “That’s not fair,” you say, voice shaking. “You don’t know what was said.”

“No,” Jake fires back. “But I know how this ends.”

You stare at him, hurt flashing across your face. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Oh, don’t I?” His jaw clenches. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I was just the rebound.”

The silence is deafening. People walk past. A car honks somewhere. The world keeps moving like this isn’t your chest splitting open on the sidewalk. Jake drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “You want to know what it looked like?” he says. “It looked like you going back to him. Like I was an idiot for thinking—”

“For thinking what?” you demand. He stops. Because whatever he was about to say terrifies him. His mouth opens. Closes. “Forget it,” he mutters. “This was a mistake.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “So that’s it?”

“This—” he gestures between you, helpless and furious all at once. “This is exactly why I didn’t want more.” Something inside you goes cold.

“You assumed,” you say softly. “You didn’t even ask.”

His eyes flash. “Because I already know how this ends.”

“Then you don’t know me at all,” you whisper. That one lands. Jake flinches like you slapped him. For a moment, just a fragile, unbearable moment, it looks like he might say something. Something real. Something honest. Like he might finally choose differently.

“I see how it is,” Jake starts, trying to focus anywhere but on your teary gaze, “All you wanted was sex.” Your eyes are glossy. Angry. Wounded.

“How dare you,” you whisper.

Jake falters. “I—”

“No,” you cut in, voice breaking. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to push me away, dodge every conversation, pretend I don’t matter, and then explode the second someone else talks to me.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. “You don’t want me,” you continue, tears spilling now. “But you don’t want anyone else to have me either.”

“That’s not—” he starts, then stops. Because it is. And he hates himself for it.

“You made rules,” you say softly. “And then you broke them. And now you’re punishing me for it.” Jake swallows hard, eyes burning.

“I was wrong,” he says, voice low, rough. “About everything.”

You shake your head, wiping at your cheeks. “Too late.”

The words land heavier than any insult. You step back, shaking your head, tears spilling freely now. “You don’t get to want me only when it’s convenient. You don’t get to pull me close and then act shocked when I fall.”

“I never asked you to—”

“Yes, you did,” you interrupt, voice rising. “Every time you held my hand. Every time you stayed. Every time you looked at me like I was more.” His shoulders slump, breath shuddering out of him. You turn away, wiping your cheeks furiously. “I’m done.”

Jake’s heart stutters. “Wait—”

You face him one last time. “You said no feelings,” you say quietly. He swallows. “Then stop making me feel things.”

Jake’s heart lurches. “Don’t—”

“Please,” you whisper. “Just… don’t follow me.” You turn and walk away, shoulders trembling. Jake stands there, frozen, watching you disappear into the crowd. And for the first time since this all started, he doesn’t chase you. Because he knows. This isn’t flirting. This isn’t tension. This is the moment he finally broke something he can’t undo.

After the break, Jake does what he’s always done when things get hard. He disappears into noise. He tells himself it’s fine, that this is normal, that this is who he’s always been. He shows up to parties like muscle memory, like instinct. Someone texts him an address, a vague pull up, and he goes without thinking. Music rattles through cheap speakers. Lights strobe. Alcohol burns its way down his throat.

He laughs at the right moments. He throws an arm around someone’s shoulders when they pull him close. He lets people assume things about him because assumptions are easier than explanations. But something is off.

It hits him the first night he realizes he’s sober enough to notice how hollow everything feels. The bass is pounding so loud the floor vibrates, but inside his head, nothing. No rush. No buzz. No spark. Just this flat, empty quiet that makes his chest feel too big for his lungs. He leans against a kitchen counter slick with spilled drinks, watching people dance like they’re weightless. A girl presses into his side, shouting something in his ear. He nods like he heard her.

He didn’t. Another hand slips into his, fingers lacing easily, confidently. Normally, he’d respond without thinking, pull her closer, let the night go where it always goes. Instead, his first thought is you. The way you stand too close when you’re nervous. The way your laugh comes out crooked when something genuinely surprises you. The look on your face when he said, There is no us. His stomach turns.

“Hey,” the girl says, smiling up at him. “You okay?”

Jake pulls his hand back gently. “Yeah. I’m—uh. I’m good.”

She blinks. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He forces a smile. “Just tired.” That word, tired, starts following him everywhere. He leaves early. The next party, same thing. He shows up, stays an hour, maybe two. Drinks less. Watches more. Leaves without saying goodbye. People notice.

“Bro, you ghosting your own reputation now?” someone jokes.

“You used to be fun,” another says, half-laughing, half-confused.

Jake shrugs. “Guess I’m evolving.”

But he isn’t. He’s unraveling. He starts checking his phone compulsively, unlocking it without realizing, thumb hovering over your name before he locks it again. He tells himself he’s not waiting for anything, but the disappointment still hits every time the screen stays empty.

Back at his place, the silence is unbearable. No music. No voices. Just the hum of the fridge, the ticking of time he can’t outrun. He lies on his bed staring at the ceiling, replaying moments he didn’t realize mattered so much while they were happening. The way you used to steal his hoodies. The way you looked at him when he got quiet, not annoyed, not demanding, just concerned. The night on the sidewalk replays on a loop. Your voice. Your eyes. You don’t know me at all.

The words lodge somewhere deep, festering. Because the worst part? He thinks you might be right.

—

You try to do the healthy thing. You don’t sit around waiting for him to come back. You don’t reread old messages. You don’t let yourself spiral every time your phone buzzes.

You say yes when someone asks you out. Heeseung is easy in a way Jake never was. He texts ahead of time. Asks what kind of coffee you like. Actually listens to the answer. When you meet, he smiles like he’s genuinely happy you showed up, like it wasn’t a given. The first time you sit across from him, the conversation flows without effort. He tells stories that wander and circle back on themselves. You laugh. You relax.

It feels… safe. And that scares you a little. The second hangout stretches longer than you expect. You walk side by side, hands occasionally brushing, and he always lets you decide whether it turns into something more. You tell yourself this is good.

This is what moving on looks like. But Jake is everywhere. In the way Heeseung laughs too softly, like he’s careful not to take up too much space. In the way he waits before touching you, like he’s afraid of crossing a line you never drew. In the way he looks at you like he wants approval instead of certainty.

Jake never waited. Jake assumed you’d be there. Jake took space like it belonged to him. Jake scared you and thrilled you and hurt you in ways that felt real. On your third hangout, when Heeseung finally calls it out, you almost feel relieved.

He leans back, studying you with a knowing look. “Okay,” he says. “I have to ask.”

Your stomach tightens. “Ask what?”

“Whoever came before me,” he says lightly. “Because you keep smiling like you’re comparing me to someone I’m not even competing with.” You choke on your drink, coughing, mortified. “I’m not—” He grins. “You absolutely are.” You drop your forehead to the table, groaning. “I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be,” he says easily. “I’m just the-” he pauses, “Replacement goldfish.” You snort, “Why would you call yourself that?” He scans your face, eyes softening once again, “You’re human. And very obviously still in love.” You lift your head, eyes searching his face. “That doesn’t bother you?” He shrugs. “I knew what this was when I asked you out. I just wanted to be sure you knew.” That honesty stings more than anger would’ve. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you say quietly. “Then don’t lie to yourself,” he replies. “That’s how people get collateral damage.”

You nod, throat tight, because he’s right. He grins. “Look, you don’t have to tell me the name. Or actually, please do. I live for the tea.” You laugh despite yourself, head dropping to the table.

Jake sees you together by accident. He’s heading somewhere he doesn’t even want to be, hoodie pulled low, earbuds in with nothing playing. He turns a corner, and there you are. Walking beside someone else. Talking. Laughing. You look… lighter.

Like the weight he dropped didn’t crush you the way he assumed it would. Something breaks open in his chest. He stands there longer than he should, watching the way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your smile comes easier around someone who doesn’t make you second-guess yourself. He turns away before you see him. That night, he stays in.

He scrolls through his phone until his eyes ache, old texts, stupid memes, half-serious promises neither of you realized were fragile. Finally, in the quiet, he lets the truth surface. “I fucked up.” There’s no one to hear it. No one to soften it. He assumed. He panicked. He chose distance because closeness scared him. And now he knows, really knows, what he lost. Whether it’s too late or not doesn’t even matter anymore.  He’s utterly, devastatingly in love with you. To the point where he went ahead and got his whole life turned upside down. For the first time, Jake Sim is painfully, terrifyingly certain.

And certainty, he’s learning, hurts like hell. Jake wakes up knowing. Not the slow, creeping realization that usually follows regret. Not the kind that waits for coffee or daylight to soften it. This is instant. Violent. Absolute. It hits him so hard he has to sit up, feet on the floor, elbows braced on his knees like the weight of it might knock him over if he doesn’t anchor himself. His hands tangle in his hair, grip tight, breath stuttering once, twice, before it steadies.

He’s in love. There’s no room to negotiate with the thought. No loopholes. No maybes. It isn’t dramatic in the way movies sell it. It’s quieter than that. Cleaner. Terrifyingly simple. You are it.

Not the convenient kind of affection he’s always been good at. Not the easy heat of bodies and laughter and temporary distraction. This is the kind that rearranges things. That reaches backward and forward at the same time and suddenly makes everything else feel like rehearsal. Every hookup before you fades into static, faces blur, memories flatten, sensations lose color. It all feels like noise he mistook for music.

And then you happened. And now there’s no un-knowing it. Jake exhales, slow and steady, and for once he doesn’t argue with himself. He doesn’t list reasons this is a bad idea. He doesn’t tell himself he’s late or stupid or doomed to mess it up again. He moves. That’s the difference.

He pulls on the first hoodie he can find, yesterday’s, probably, and grabs his keys, heart already racing like it knows where this is going. The mirror catches him for half a second: hair a mess, eyes bright and terrified and alive in a way he hasn’t seen in himself for weeks. “Okay,” he murmurs to no one. “Okay.” Find you. Tell you. Fix this, if fixing is still allowed.

Campus stretches out in front of him, familiar paths suddenly charged with urgency. He walks fast, then faster, like if he slows down he might lose nerve. Your coffee spot is first. The barista shakes her head apologetically. “Not today.” Library next. He scans tables, corners, stairwells, nothing.

He jogs to your lecture hall, breathless by the time he gets there. Empty seats. A professor packing up notes. You didn’t show. A flicker of fear tries to worm its way in. He doesn’t let it. He keeps going. He asks people who barely know him, people who know you better, people who only recognize his face from around. Someone jokes, Thought you two were inseparable, and for once, it doesn’t sting. It just fuels him. “Have you seen her?”  “Earlier maybe?”  “No? Okay, thanks.”

Hour bleeds into hour. The sky shifts. His legs ache. His phone stays stubbornly silent in his pocket, and every unanswered question presses a little heavier on his chest. What if he missed you? What if this realization came a day too late? By the time the sun starts sinking, spilling gold and pink across the buildings, he slows, not because he’s given up, but because he’s tired in that bone-deep way that comes from caring too much. He stops outside a building without really knowing why.

Breathing hard. Hands on his hips. Staring up at nothing. “Jake.” He looks up. Giselle. She’s watching him like she’s been waiting, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her eyes flick over him, sweat-damp hoodie, flushed face, the unmistakable look of someone mid-reckoning.

“Well,” she says finally. “You look like hell.”

He huffs a weak laugh. “Feel worse.”

That earns him a small smile. Then it fades, replaced by something gentler. More serious. Without ceremony, she steps forward and presses a folded piece of paper into his palm. “No questions,” she says before he can speak. “No spiraling. Just, go.”

He blinks at her. “What—”

“Jake,” she cuts in, softer now. “Don’t mess this up.” And then she’s gone, walking away like she just handed him something precious and trusts him not to drop it. His fingers tremble as he unfolds the note. Small handwriting. Familiar. Uneven. rooftop.

His heart kicks hard, sudden and bright. The rooftop. Of course it is. A laugh breaks out of him, quiet, breathless, disbelieving. Relief washes through him so strong it almost knocks him off balance. He doesn’t hesitate. He takes the stairs two at a time, legs burning, lungs protesting, every step lighter than the last. With each floor, the fear shifts, not disappearing, but sharpening into something clean. Hope.

Not the fragile kind. The determined kind.

Because for the first time since everything fell apart, he isn’t guessing. He isn’t assuming. He isn’t running away. He knows where you are. He knows what he feels. And when he reaches the door at the top, hand hovering over the handle, heart steady despite the chaos, he knows exactly what he’s going to say.

He bursts onto the rooftop like he ran the whole way up. Because he did. The door bangs shut behind him, echoing louder than it should, and for a second he just… folds. Hands on his knees, breath tearing in and out of his chest like he sprinted straight through his own fear. His hoodie clings to him, hair wrecked by wind and sweat and panic, eyes wild in a way that makes it painfully obvious he didn’t rehearse a single word of this.

He straightens too fast when he spots you. You’re by the railing. Arms folded tight. Spine straight. Guard fully, unmistakably up. The wind tugs at your hair, lifting strands across your face like the world itself is urging you to turn away from him. “Hey,” you say carefully. Not softly. Not coldly. Carefully.

That almost destroys him. “Hi—fuck—hi,” he says, immediately rubbing the back of his neck, pacing one step to the side before catching himself. He looks like a caged animal who suddenly realized the door is open and doesn’t know whether to bolt or beg. “Okay. Um. I—yeah. I’m bad at this. Like, criminally bad.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

He winces. “I deserved that. I know. Irony. Laugh later, please.”

He drags a hand down his face, eyes darting everywhere except you, like if he looks too directly he might lose his nerve. That stops you for half a second. He notices. He swallows, shoulders slumping like he’s already stripping away every defense he owns. “I’m not here to be charming,” he says quietly. “I’m not here to talk my way out of anything. I don’t get to do that anymore.”

You don’t respond. So he keeps going. “I messed up,” he says, blunt and unfiltered. “I didn’t just mess up, I hurt you. I assumed. I projected. I saw what I was afraid of instead of what was actually happening, and then I punished you for it.”

Your jaw tightens. Jake sees it and immediately lifts his hands, not surrender, not dramatics. Just honesty. “No, please, don’t shut down,” he says quickly. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t have to say anything. Just… let me say this without running away for once.” The wind hums between you. After a long beat, you give a small nod. It feels like mercy. He exhales, shaky and relieved and terrified all at once.

“I’ve spent my whole life leaving first,” he admits. “Before things get real. Before people can see the parts of me that don’t know what the hell they’re doing. And with you… being with you wasn’t scary because it might end.” His voice cracks. “It was scary because it mattered.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough that he knows you’re listening. “When I saw you with your ex,” he continues, voice rough, “I didn’t even ask. I didn’t trust you. I didn’t trust us. I just… decided the ending for both of us like I always do.” He laughs once, humorless, pained. “I tell myself I’m self-aware, but really I just run with better excuses.”

You finally look at him. Really look. His eyes are glassy. Red-rimmed. Open in a way you’ve never seen before. “I went back to partying because that’s what I know,” he says. “Noise. Distraction. People who don’t ask anything of me. And it felt empty. Every single time. I’d be in a room full of people and all I could think was, she would hate this. Or she’d make fun of me for this. Or she’d be laughing right now.” His voice drops. “I missed you in rooms you weren’t even in.”

Your throat tightens despite yourself. “I don’t get to ask you to trust me,” he says quietly. “I broke that. I don’t get to pretend my fear is an excuse. It’s just… a flaw I need to own.” He steps closer, slow, deliberate, but stops a full foot away, like he’s terrified of crossing a line he hasn’t earned the right to cross. “But I am in love with you,” he says. No jokes. No smile. “And I don’t want to be the guy who almost loved you because he was too scared to stay.”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “Jake, you don’t understand how much that hurt.”

“I do,” he says immediately. “I do now. I replayed your face over and over, the way you looked at me when I didn’t even give you the benefit of a question. And if you tell me you can’t do this again, I’ll accept it. I swear I will.” That’s new.

“But if there’s even a sliver of a chance,” he continues, voice breaking, “I’ll do the work. I’ll say the scary things out loud. I’ll stay when my instinct is to bolt. I’ll earn it, slowly. Properly.”

You turn away, gripping the railing hard, blinking rapidly as the city stretches out below you. You remember every lonely night. Every second-guess. Every time you wondered if you were asking for too much just by wanting him to stay. Jake doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t rush you. He just stands there, heart on the floor between you.

“I don’t want rules,” he adds softly. “I don’t want pretending. I don’t want to keep you at arm’s length so I feel safe. I want the version of you who calls me out. Who scares me a little. Who makes me better even when I don’t want to be.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I am… a lot.”

“I know,” he says instantly. “I want all of it.”

Silence again. But this one feels different. You turn back to him slowly. Your eyes search his face, not for charm, not for confidence, but for cracks. You find only sincerity.

“If you do this again,” you say quietly, voice trembling, “if you shut me out or assume the worst or leave without a conversation—”

“I won’t,” he says. Not rushed. Not desperate. Grounded. “And if I ever feel like I’m about to, I’ll tell you. Even if it makes me look weak. Especially then.”

You search his face for bravado. There is none. Only sincerity. Only Jake, unguarded, terrified, in love. You step closer. “God,” you murmur, “you’re such an idiot.”

Relief floods his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling through tears. “But you’re my idiot.”

His laugh breaks, half sob, half disbelief, as he pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid the world might try to take you away again. You step forward. Just one step. Jake doesn’t move until you’re close enough that he’s sure this is real. And this time, he stays. He doesn’t hesitate this time. No pulling away. No second-guessing. No fear winning at the last second.

Jake steps into your space and kisses you first. It’s not rushed, it’s intentional. Like he’s been holding this back for weeks and finally lets himself have it. His hand cups your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek as his lips slot against yours, slow and deep and sure.

You breathe out a soft sound before you can stop yourself. That’s all it takes. His other hand slides into your hair, fingers tangling there like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. He groans quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating straight through you, pulling you closer without even trying.

Your hands clutch at his hoodie, heart racing, every nerve lighting up. He kisses you like he means it this time. Like this isn’t practice. Like this isn’t pretend. Your breathing turns uneven, soft little exhales slipping between kisses, and Jake has to pull back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes dark, chest rising fast.

“Fuck,” he whispers, smiling like he’s overwhelmed in the best way. “You’re killing me.” You laugh softly, breathless. “You started it.” He leans in again, slower now, softer, pressing one more kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then your forehead like he’s grounding himself. This time, when he holds you, there’s no rule breaking. No guilt. No running. Just the certainty that whatever this is, it’s real.

His mouth finds your neck again almost immediately, warm and unhurried, lips trailing down the same path he’s already claimed tonight. You feel the gentle scrape of his teeth, the promise of another mark, and your breath hitches. “Not here,” you whisper, voice soft but firm, fingers threading through his hair to guide him back up.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t argue. Just pulls away with a low, amused hum, eyes dark and sparkling with mischief. In one smooth motion he scoops you up, arms under your thighs, your legs wrapping around his waist like they belong there. You let out a surprised laugh that turns into a half-hearted squeak when he starts walking toward the door.

“Hey—wait, my—”  

The protest barely leaves your mouth before his hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, playful spank. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make heat bloom across your skin and a startled giggle burst out of you. “Shh,” he murmurs against your ear, grin wicked. “You’re coming with me.”

You bury your face in his neck, laughing into his skin as he strides across the rooftop, surprisingly balanced. The door clicks shut behind you, cool night air hitting your flushed cheeks as he strides toward his car parked haphazardly in the driveway. He sets you down only long enough to yank the passenger door open, but the second you’re in the seat he’s crowding in after you for one more quick, hungry kiss before jogging around to the driver’s side.

The engine roars to life.   He throws it into gear.   And then he floors it. The car surges forward, tires chirping against the pavement, and you both burst out laughing, wild, breathless, uncontrollable, like two high teenagers who just stole the night and don’t plan on giving it back. His right hand immediately finds your thigh, fingers splaying wide, possessive and warm through the thin fabric of whatever you’re still wearing (or not wearing). He squeezes once, then strokes upward in lazy, distracting circles, thumb brushing higher every few seconds just to make you squirm.

You’re both giggling like idiots. He’s speeding, way over the limit, taking corners a little too fast, windows cracked so the wind whips through your hair. Streetlights streak past in golden blurs. Every time you glance over at him, he’s already looking back, eyes bright, smile crooked and reckless and so stupidly in love it makes your chest ache.

“Slow down, you maniac,” you manage between laughs, but your hand covers his on your thigh, pressing it harder against you instead of pushing it away.

“Not a chance,” he shoots back, voice rough with joy. “Gotta get you home before I pull over and finish what I started.” You throw your head back against the seat, laughing louder, the sound mixing with the roar of the engine and the music he cranked up without asking. His thumb keeps tracing slow patterns on your inner thigh. Your fingers lace through his.  

The city lights flash by. Your heart races faster than the car. And for once, neither of you is pretending this is anything less than everything. The second the front door clicks shut behind you, Jake doesn’t set you down. He keeps you wrapped around him, legs locked at his ankles, arms slung around his neck, and spins so your back slams against the cool wood of the door with just enough force to knock the breath out of you in the best way. Your laugh turns into a gasp as he presses himself flush against you, pinning you there with the solid weight of his body.

His mouth crashes into yours before you can even catch your breath, sloppy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and shared exhales. It’s not gentle. It’s starving. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders, tugging at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer like you’re trying to crawl inside his skin. He grinds up against you, slow and deliberate at first, then harder, his bulge thick and straining through his sweatpants, dragging delicious friction right where you need it. You moan into his mouth, hips rolling instinctively to meet every roll of his, the rhythm filthy and perfect. The door rattles faintly with every thrust of his hips.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans against your lips, voice wrecked and low. “Been thinking about this the whole drive.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, rough and sure, slipping under the waistband of whatever you’re still wearing, shorts, panties, doesn’t matter. Fingers find you slick and ready, and he doesn’t tease. He cups you fully, palm pressing against your clit while two fingers slide through your folds, rubbing slow, firm circles that make your thighs shake around his waist.

You whimper, head falling back against the door, and that’s when his mouth moves to your neck. He latches on immediately, hot, open-mouthed kisses turning into hard sucks, teeth scraping just enough to sting before he soothes with his tongue. He’s marking you again, deliberate and possessive, each pull of his lips drawing a fresh bruise to the surface while his fingers keep working you in steady, maddening strokes. Your hips buck into his hand, chasing more, and every time you moan his name it seems to spur him on harder.

“Love these sounds,” he mutters against your throat, voice vibrating through your skin. “Love how wet you get for me.” Another hard suck right below your ear, another bloom of purple blooming under his mouth, and you’re arching, grinding down on his bulge and his fingers at the same time, the door creaking under the force of it all. You’re both a mess already, lips swollen, breathing ragged, clothes half-askew, and you haven’t even made it past the entryway. He doesn’t seem to care. Neither do you.

Not when he’s kissing you like this, touching you like this, claiming you like this. The night’s just getting started. He bridal-carries you the rest of the way down the hall like you weigh nothing, strong arms secure under your thighs and back, your legs dangling over one elbow while your arms loop around his neck. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently, and you can’t resist pressing open-mouthed kisses along the side of his throat, slow, deliberate, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint thrum of his pulse. Every time your lips brush the spot just below his ear, he lets out a low, rumbling groan that vibrates through his chest and into yours.

“Keep doing that,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough, “and we’re not making it to the bed.” You smile against his neck and nip lightly in answer, earning another deep sound and the way his grip tightens like he’s fighting not to drop you right there in the hallway.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot, strides inside, and lowers you onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, easing you down like something precious instead of the frantic heat you both carried through the front door. The sheets are cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the fever of his skin as he hovers over you for a second, breathing hard, eyes roaming your face like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment.

Then he moves. Hands quick but careful, he strips the rest of your clothes away, shirt tugged over your head, bra unhooked and tossed somewhere in the dark, shorts and panties sliding down your legs in one smooth pull. You’re bare beneath him now, completely exposed, and he doesn’t rush to cover you with his body.

He sits back on his heels between your thighs, hands braced on either side of your hips, and just… looks.

His gaze drags over you slowly, hungry, reverent, almost pained. Chest rising and falling fast. Eyes dark and glassy. He closes them for a beat, like the sight of you is too much, jaw clenching as he exhales a shaky curse. “Fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking on the word. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

He says it like a confession, like something he’s been carrying around for too long and can finally let out. His eyes open again, softer now, and he leans down, palms sliding up the outsides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin there. “Been thinking about you like this,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “spread out on my bed, looking at me like that… Jesus.”

One hand moves to your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip while the other stays on your hip, grounding you both. He’s still fully dressed, sweatpants low on his hips, shirt rumpled, and the contrast makes the moment feel even more raw, more intimate. He lowers himself slowly, covering you with his weight, forearms bracketing your head as he kisses you deep and unhurried. When he pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead rests against yours. “I could look at you forever,” he whispers, the words so quiet they almost get lost between your breaths.

And the way he’s holding you, gentle but possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go, says he means every single one.

He doesn’t rush. After stripping the last of your clothes, Jake settles between your thighs again, eyes never leaving yours as he lowers himself. His hands find yours first, fingers sliding between yours, lacing tight, palms pressing together like he needs the anchor. You squeeze back instinctively, and the small, intimate connection makes your chest tighten even before his mouth touches you.

Then he does. His tongue parts you slow and deliberate, a long, flat stroke from entrance to clit that has your back arching off the bed. He groans low against you at the first taste, the vibration shooting straight through your core. He doesn’t tease long, he dives in like he’s been starving for this, lips closing around your clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicks in perfect, relentless rhythm. All the while, his fingers stay locked with yours, grip firm, thumb stroking over your knuckles in soft, steady circles. It’s grounding. Tender. Filthy contrast to the way his mouth is devouring you.

When two of his fingers slide inside, thick, curling just right against that spot that makes your toes curl, he keeps the pace slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every drag. Then he picks up, matching the rhythm of his tongue, pumping deep and steady while he sucks harder on your clit.

Your moans turn broken, hips rolling up to meet him, and he lets you, encourages it, free hand sliding up to press your thigh wider, opening you more for him. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and perfect, and every time you whimper his name, he answers with a muffled groan against your pussy.

You come hard, shattering, thighs clamping around his head, fingers squeezing his so tight it probably hurts. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away, just works you through it with softer licks, slower thrusts of his fingers, drawing out every aftershock until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping for air.

Only then does he lift his head, lips slick and swollen, eyes dark and glassy with want. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, soft, reverent, before rising up on his knees. He shoves his sweatpants down in one rough motion, kicking them off. His cock springs free, thick, flushed dark, the tip angry red and glistening with precome. He wraps a hand around himself, gives a few slow, firm pumps, spreading the slickness down his length while staring down at you like you’re the only thing that exists. “Fuck… look at you,” he breathes again, voice wrecked. “So pretty when you come for me.”

He leans over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other guiding himself. The blunt head nudges your entrance, hot, slippery, teasing just the slightest stretch. He doesn’t push in yet. Just rocks there, letting you feel him, letting the anticipation build until you’re whimpering, hips lifting toward him. Eyes locked on yours, he murmurs, low and rough, “Tell me you want it, baby.” You don’t even hesitate. “I want it. I want you.”

That’s all he needs. He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch, stretching you open, filling you so perfectly your breath catches. When he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours, he stills for a second, forehead dropping to yours, breathing hard. “God,” he rasps, voice trembling just a little. “You feel… so fucking good.”

Then he starts to move. He starts slow, deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that bury him to the hilt every time, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a slick, satisfying drag that makes you both gasp into each other’s mouths. It’s pounding, yes, hard enough that the headboard taps the wall in steady rhythm, hard enough that your thighs tremble around his waist and your nails rake down his back, but it’s so much more than that.

It’s making love. Every thrust feels like he’s trying to fuse himself to you, like he’s pouring everything unspoken into the way he moves inside you. His forehead stays pressed to yours between kisses, breaths mingling, eyes locked when they’re not fluttering shut from the intensity.

He kisses you constantly. Deep, open-mouthed ones that swallow your moans. Soft, lingering ones against the corner of your mouth when you’re both catching air. Quick, desperate pecks when the pleasure spikes too sharp and he needs to ground himself. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, the tip of your nose, then crashes back to your lips like he can’t stay away for more than a second.

“God, baby,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice wrecked and thick with emotion. “You feel… everything.”

One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threaded through your hair, holding you close so he can kiss you deeper while the other slides down to grip your hip, angling you just right so every stroke hits that perfect spot inside you. You arch up to meet him, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him harder, deeper. The pace builds, faster, more insistent, but never frantic. It’s purposeful. Reverent. Like he’s savoring every second of being connected to you this completely.

You kiss him through your rising moans, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, sharing every shaky breath. When your climax starts to coil tight, you whimper his name against his lips, and he answers by kissing you harder, swallowing the sound, hips snapping with more force now, chasing both your releases together. “Come with me,” he breathes into your mouth, voice trembling. “Please, want to feel you.” You do. The wave crashes over you at the same time it hits him, your walls fluttering and clenching around him, pulling a broken groan from his throat as he buries himself deep and comes hard, pulsing inside you, hips stuttering through the aftershocks. He doesn’t pull out right away.

He stays there, softening slowly, still kissing you, lazy, sweet, exhausted presses of lips while your heartbeats slow together. His hand strokes your hair back from your damp forehead. Another soft kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again, like he’s addicted to the taste of you. When he finally eases out and rolls to the side, he pulls you with him, tucking you against his chest, legs tangled, arms wrapped tight like he’s never letting go. No words. Just the quiet sound of your breathing, the gentle brush of his lips against your hair every few seconds, and the unspoken truth settling over both of you like a blanket: This isn’t casual anymore. It never really was. And neither of you wants it to be.

He stays buried inside you for a long, quiet moment after you both come down, breathing together, hearts hammering in tandem. Then he eases out slowly, careful, like he’s afraid of breaking the spell. He doesn’t rush to move away, instead he gathers you close, rolling so you’re tucked against his chest, legs tangled, skin still flushed and damp. Jake presses the softest kiss to your forehead. Then another. And another. Slow, lingering ones that feel like promises. His lips trail down to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your eye, everywhere he can reach without letting you go. “You okay, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked in the best way. His hand strokes down your spine, gentle, soothing, then back up again. “Need anything? Water? A blanket? Me to never let you go?”

You smile against his collarbone, too blissed-out to speak right away, and he takes that as answer enough. He shifts just enough to reach the nightstand, grabs a soft towel he must’ve left there earlier, and starts cleaning you up with careful, reverent touches. No hurry. No awkwardness. Just tender swipes, his thumb brushing your inner thigh like he’s memorizing the feel of you. 

When he’s done, he pulls the covers over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. Then his hands find your shoulders, strong fingers kneading slow, deep circles into the muscles there, working out the tension you didn’t even realize you were holding. He moves to your back next, palms gliding down either side of your spine, thumbs pressing into the small of your back in perfect pressure. Every touch is attentive, caring, like he’s trying to pour every ounce of softness he has into you.

You melt under his hands, eyes fluttering closed. He keeps going, massaging your arms, your hands, even threading his fingers through yours to rub gentle circles into your palms. The whole time he’s murmuring little things against your hair—“You’re so beautiful,” “You did so good for me,” “I’ve got you”—quiet, almost to himself, like he can’t help it. After a while, when your breathing has slowed and the room feels impossibly still, he presses one more kiss to your forehead. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, eyes soft, vulnerable, a little scared in the most honest way. He swallows. Takes a breath. “So…” His voice is quiet, almost shy. His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

The question hangs there, simple and huge. No games. No pretense. Just Jake, shirtless, hair a mess, heart on full display, asking the thing you’ve both been circling for months. His eyes search yours, hopeful and terrified all at once, like he’s bracing for whatever comes next. But the way he’s still holding you, still touching you like you’re the most precious thing in his world, already tells you the answer he’s hoping for.  And the way your heart is pounding, the way every part of you feels safe and wanted and seen in his arms, tells you the answer you want to give.

“Like that’s a question.” You scoff, pulling Jake in for a kiss. You feel his lips curl up against yours as he slides the blanket over both of you. 

The words hang between you, soft and serious in the quiet glow of his bedside lamp. Jake’s still holding you close, one hand lazily tracing circles on your bare back, the other tucked under your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops touching you. You can’t help the slow, teasing grin that spreads across your face. “So…” you murmur, voice playful, dragging the word out. “Big bad Jake, the guy who used to have girls blowing up his phone every weekend… officially a simp now?” He lets out a low, breathy laugh that rumbles through his chest and into yours. Doesn’t even try to deny it. Just pulls you tighter, nose brushing your temple. “Yeah,” he says simply. “Hundred percent. Full simp status. No take-backs.” You laugh softly, poking his side. “Look at you. Deleting dating apps, carrying me around like a princess, asking me to be your girlfriend with those big puppy eyes. Who even are you?”

He catches your teasing finger, brings it to his lips and kisses the tip. “You ruined me,” he says, voice dropping quieter, more serious now. His eyes find yours in the dim light, steady and unguarded. “And I’m glad.” The teasing dies on your tongue. Something warm and overwhelming blooms in your chest instead. He shifts, rolling you both so you’re lying on top of him, his arms caging you gently against his chest. His thumb brushes your bottom lip. “I was never really a playboy, you know,” he whispers, like it’s a secret he’s been keeping even from himself. “Just… waiting. For someone who made everything else feel like noise. For you.”

You swallow hard, blinking against the sudden sting behind your eyes. Before you can say anything, he reaches over to the nightstand, grabs his phone, and unlocks it one-handed. You watch as he opens the folder of dating apps, ones you know he hasn’t touched in months anyway, and starts deleting them. One by one. No hesitation. No dramatic speech. Just quiet, final taps until the screen is empty. When the last one’s gone, he tosses the phone somewhere across the bed and pulls you down for a slow, deep kiss. “Done,” he murmurs against your mouth. “No more waiting.”

Later, after more lazy kisses, after you’ve both caught your breath again, you slip out of bed on wobbly legs, claiming you need water. Instead you spot his favorite black hoodie slung over the chair, still smelling faintly of his cologne and rain from earlier. You steal it without asking. Pull it over your head, sleeves swallowing your hands, hem hitting mid-thigh. When you turn around, he’s leaning against the headboard watching you, eyes soft and stupidly fond. “Looks better on you,” he says. You crawl back into bed, straddling his lap, hoodie bunching up around your hips. He immediately slides his hands underneath, warm palms settling on your bare skin like they belong there. The next morning, when you finally leave his place, hand in hand, fingers laced tight, you don’t even make it ten steps into the usual coffee shop before chaos erupts.

Your mutual friends are already there, sprawled across the corner booth. The second they spot you walking in together, properly holding hands, the table explodes. “No fucking way—” “Are you serious?!” “FINALLY—” Someone (probably Jay) actually screams into his coffee cup. Another (definitely Heeseung) starts fake-crying dramatically into Sunghoon’s shoulder while Sunghoon just smirks like he knew this was coming since day one.

Jake doesn’t even blush. Just pulls you closer to his side, chin resting on top of your head, and flips them all off with his free hand. “Shut up,” he says, but he’s grinning so wide it’s useless. “She’s mine now. Deal with it.” You bury your face in his chest, laughing, hoodie sleeves flapping as you try to hide. Later, when the teasing dies down and everyone’s distracted arguing over what to order, Jake ducks his head, lips brushing your ear. “Still think I’m a simp?” he whispers. You turn just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” you whisper back. “My simp.” He hums, pleased, and tightens his arm around your waist. “Good,” he says simply. And that’s it. No more rules. No more pretending. Just you and Jake, ruined for anyone else, and perfectly okay with it. It was crazy. Stupid. But it was love. Crazy, Stupid, Love

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his best friend, sunghoon, had once told him that the way he talked about you was concerning. even more, it got to a point that riki once threatened to throw jake's phone into the han river if he saw another picture of you as his lockscreen.

which was unfair, because riki simply didn’t understand art when he saw it.

everyone was simply jealous that he had the prettiest girlfriend in the world.

you were currently occupying every single wallpaper on his phone. his notes app was filled with things you liked that you’d casually mentioned six months ago: he was simply a man in love.

a very, very in love man.

but the thing about jake was that he never realized he was being sweet.

remembering how you take your coffee wasn’t sweet, it was common sense. carrying hair ties in his bag because you always lose yours wasn’t sweet either.

that’s just what boyfriends do, don’t they?

at least, that’s what he’d always say whenever you’d point it out.

today wasn’t much different.

practice had ended much later than expected and although jake had told you repeatedly not to wait for him, he should’ve known better than to think you’d actually listen.

you’d sent him a text three hours ago saying:

i’ll wait for my handsome boyfriend!!

i stole your hoodie btw.

ok i miss you :(

his favorite notifications were always the ones from you. unlocking the door to his apartment quietly, jake smiled softly at the sight before him.

there you were, curled up comfortably on the couch wearing his hoodie that looked far too big on you. your laptop remained abandoned beside you alongside a half-finished assignment and two empty snack wrappers.

you’d fallen asleep waiting for him. his expression softened almost immediately.

god.

you were so pretty.

he wondered if people would judge him if he cried at the sheer sight of his adorable girlfriend sleeping on his couch.

probably. he didn't care at all though.

placing his bag down quietly beside the door, he crouched down beside the couch to move a strand of hair away from your face. you’d waited all this time just to see him.

that thought alone made his heart feel impossibly warm. sometimes, jake wonders what he ever did to deserve loving someone as wonderful as you.

and perhaps more importantly, what he’d done to deserve being loved by you too.

you shifted slightly in your sleep, reaching instinctively for his hand the moment your fingers brushed against his.

“…jake?” you whispered sleepily, eyes barely opening.

“go back to sleep, pretty girl.”

“you’re home.”

he laughed quietly at the smile immediately appearing on your face despite being half asleep.

“i am.”

“I missed you.” you let out quietly.

three simple words.

three words that somehow still managed to make his heart skip a beat after all this time.

“i missed you more, pretty.”

“that’s impossible.”

“is it?” he smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “i’ve been missing you since breakfast.” jake chuckled, his hand meeting your face as he cupped your cheek. you giggled sleepily at his response.

you laughed quietly as he sat down beside you, immediately wrapping his arms around your waist while you buried your head against his shoulder.

it was moments like these that made him realize he’d choose this life over and over again if he could.

he took a second to just look at your face, how could anyone be this beautiful? he thought to himself, "my beautiful girl..." he muttered under his breath, his thumb gently stroking your face.

coming home to you. holding you after long days. watching you fall asleep in his arms while rambling about your day.

“did you eat?” you suddenly asked, looking up at him worriedly despite being half asleep yourself.

“i did.”

“really?”

“you know... 'cuz half a sandwich counts, right?”

you sat up immediately.

“SIM JAKE.”

“MY BABY I’M SORRY.”

he smiled helplessly as you began lecturing him about proper eating habits for what was probably the hundredth time this month. he wasn’t listening particularly well, admittedly.

mostly because he was busy thinking about how pretty you looked when you cared about him.

perhaps he was concerning. because if loving you this much was concerning, then he had absolutely no intentions of getting better.

after all, you were his favorite person in the world. and jake thinks he’ll spend the rest of his life making sure you know that.

every single day.