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pairing: jake x reader (f)
synopsis: You were just a kid when the war took him from you. Your best friend, your first love, the boy who promised heâd never leave. He wrote you letters from boot camp, from the trenches, from a world falling apart. But then, the letters stopped. You didnât know if he was lost, or if you were. And when the war finally ended, you stood at the docks, heart racing, searching every face⊠hoping he still remembered how to find you.
genre: angst, smut, fluff
warnings: mentions of death, trauma, fighting in war, reader and jake don't see each other for a long time, mentions of masturbation, explicit smut, mdni!! (lmk if there's more)
author's note: just note that jake's and reader's pov changes pretty frequently later on in the story so don't get confused, kinda proofread, also i dont know anything abt military/army stuff i just tried to wing it, and the ending is kinda rushed but i hope it's not too bad, hope you enjoy!
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People say the world changed the moment the war began, but for you, the world only changed the day he got drafted.
The year was 1942, and the air smelled like warm bread, motor oil, and the bloom of spring. The world felt large, but not too large, not when you lived in a small town tucked between golden fields and slow rivers, where everything you needed fit into the corner diner, the library, and a boy named Jake.
Jake was the kind of boy who would hold your books even if you didnât ask, whoâd get flustered when your hands brushed, and who always insisted on walking you home even when you lived two blocks away. Youâd grown up together, sandlot summers and homecoming dances, and somewhere between old treehouses and secret glances during homeroom, heâd become yours.
No one could separate you two.
Until the draft letter came.
He found out on a rainy Tuesday, a cruelly normal day. Youâd just kissed goodbye after school, your cheeks flushed from the wind and love, when he saw the letter in the mailbox, his name on the front in unforgiving type. Jake didnât speak for a long time, just held it like it was made of fire.
âThey canât take me away from you,â he finally whispered, clutching your hand like it was the last real thing heâd ever feel.
You could feel the edge of something. Maybe it was in the way the air tasted too still, or the way he looked at you like he was memorizing your face. You wanted to believe you had more time.
âI leave in two weeks,â he said, barely audible.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours.
Youâd spent your whole life together, school dances, ice cream after exams, sneaking into drive in movies. Heâd never been away for more than a weekend. You used to joke he was clingier than your little sisterâs cat, and heâd grin and say, âCan you blame me?â
But now he was being ripped away.
You grabbed his hands, soaked and trembling, and pulled him to your chest. He buried his face into your shoulder like he was scared heâd fall apart if he let go. You didnât cry, not yet. Not until that night, when you read the letter over and over until the words blurred.
He was yours. But now, the war wanted him too.
It was the kind of morning that would haunt you for the rest of your life, the kind that would burn itself into your memory so deep, it felt like you were still living it, even years later. The air was cold, but you didnât even feel it. Your whole body was numb, frozen in the moment.
You stood at the edge of the dock, the sound of the waves crashing beneath you, but all you could hear was the pounding of your heart in your ears. The ship loomed before you, getting bigger with every second. The ticking of time felt like a countdown, and with every minute that passed, you could feel the distance growing between you.
Jakeâs hand trembled in yours, and when he looked at you, his eyes were red, his face wet with the tears heâd been trying to hide. But you could see them now. You both could. You had no more strength to keep the tears inside, and neither did he.
âIâll write,â he whispered, his voice cracking, but his words didnât bring you any comfort. You could barely catch your breath as the tears welled up in your eyes. You wanted to believe him. You needed to.
âI know,â you choked out, but it was like the words came from someone else, someone who didnât know what it was like to love him, someone who couldnât imagine how empty your life would be without him.
He pulled you closer, his arms tight around you, and you buried your face in his chest, desperate to breathe him in, to feel him close, just one more time. âIâll come back,â he said, but his voice cracked, and you could feel the doubt in the words. He wasnât sure. Neither of you was sure.
Your hands gripped him harder, as though you could make him stay, as though you could stop this moment from slipping away. You looked up at him, your eyes swollen, your heart breaking in ways you couldnât put into words.
But he pulled away slowly, his hand lingering in yours for a second longer, as though you both knew this was the last time youâd ever feel him so close. The first bell rang, sharp and final.
âNo...â you gasped, shaking your head, not ready to let go. You couldnât.
Jake swallowed hard, tears rolling down his cheeks. âI have to go,â he whispered. His voice was so broken, it felt like it was shattering with the words. âI donât want to, but I have to.â
You tried to speak, but your voice caught in your throat, and before you knew it, you were crying harder than you ever had in your life. You clung to him, as though you could keep him here, just for a little longer. He kissed your forehead, soft and final, his lips trembling against your skin, and it felt like the last time youâd ever be able to hold him.
âI love you,â he said, his voice barely audible through his sobs.
âI love you too,â you whispered, your words swallowed by the weight of your grief.
But it didnât matter. The shipâs horn blared, and Jake pulled away, his hands shaking as he wiped at his face. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but his shoulders shook with every step he took toward the ship. You watched him go, wanting to scream, wanting to run after him and pull him back, but your legs felt like stone, and all you could do was watch him disappear into the crowd.
The distance between you grew with every step he took, until there was nothing left but the sound of the waves crashing against the dock, and the quiet, aching emptiness in your chest.
And you realized, then, that nothing would ever be the same.
Jake stood on the deck of the ship, gripping the cold steel railing with white knuckles, as the distance between him and you grew. He hadnât been able to look back, not once. His feet felt like they were cemented in place, and the weight of the promise heâd made to you, the promise to return, was almost too much to bear. But he had no choice. He had to go. The draft letter had come. His name had been called, and like the others, he had no say in the matter. The war needed him, and there was nothing left to do but obey.
But as the ship pulled away, Jakeâs chest tightened with a suffocating pressure. His mind was still caught in that moment on the dock, the look in your eyes, the way you held him, as if letting go would be the end of everything. He could still feel your trembling hands in his, the heat of your tears on his skin, the way you clung to him like he was your lifeline. And, damn it, he had to leave you. He had no choice.
He turned away from the edge of the ship, trying to focus on the men around him, trying to hear their jokes and talk. They were trying to distract themselves from what lay ahead. But all Jake could think of was your face, the way you had whispered your love as if it was a promise you werenât sure you could keep. You hadnât believed him when he said he would come back. And he couldnât blame you.
Jake rubbed his face with both hands, trying to steady the tremor in his fingers. The first few hours on the ship were a blur of cold air, loud voices, and the constant rocking of the boat. But as night fell, the noise dimmed, and Jake found himself alone with his thoughts.
His mind kept returning to you, the way youâd kissed him goodbye, the way youâd held onto him like he was your whole world. You had always been his world, too. You guys spent your lives together, grew up side by side, and somewhere along the way, youâd fallen in love.
As he lay on his cot that night, staring up at the low, creaking ceiling, the weight of the empty space beside him felt unbearable. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was your face, eyes swollen from crying, lips trembling as you whispered your last âI love you.â And it tore him apart. He hadnât wanted to leave you. Not like this. But what choice did he have?
He turned onto his side and buried his face in his pillow, as if that would drown out the noise in his head, the ache in his chest. His hands, which had been steady for so long, now shook uncontrollably as he thought of you. He wanted so badly to write you a letter, to tell you that he was going to try to come back, that heâd fight with everything he had to return to you. But how could he say that when part of him was unsure? How could he promise you something he wasnât sure he could deliver?
The ship groaned as it met the dock, its hull grinding against the worn wooden beams like it, too, was exhausted from the journey. A sharp whistle cut through the early morning mist, jolting Jake upright. His boots hit the metal floor before his brain caught up.
âAll right, boys! Off the boat!â someone barked from above deck.
Jake grabbed his duffel, heart pounding. The tension in the air was thick, almost tangible. Around him, men scrambled up the stairs, heavy footsteps echoing off steel walls. Some joked nervously, others were stone faced, eyes blank as if bracing for whatever came next. Jake pushed forward, chest tight, until sunlight hit his face, and then came everything else.
The dock swarmed with activity. Soldiers in pressed uniforms shouted orders over the roar of trucks and chattering voices. The scent of diesel, salt, and sweat mingled into something acrid and sharp. Jake scanned the crowd instinctively, as if heâd spot someone familiar, someone from home, but there were only strangers here. Uniforms and faces blurred together in a blur of khaki and fear.
A tall guy beside him exhaled deeply. âWell, this ainât a vacation resort,â he muttered. He stuck out a hand. âWill. From Chicago.â
âJake,â he replied, gripping his hand tightly.
Their small moment was interrupted by a voice blaring from a mounted speaker. âAll new arrivals, fall in line to the left! Orientation in ten minutes!â
Jake followed the tide of soldiers through the bustle, past crates and barking sergeants, past others being loaded onto transport trucks. Dust coated his boots, his lips, his lungs. There was a crackling anxiety in the air, something too heavy to name.
The orientation tent was hotter than outside, crammed with sweaty bodies and nervous energy. A man with deep lines in his face and a chest full of medals stood in front of them, arms crossed. When he spoke, his voice cut through the air like a blade.
âLet me make one thing clear,â the officer said. âThis is not camp. This is not school. This is war. Some of you think youâre invincible. That youâll make it out untouched. Iâm here to tell youââ
He paused, eyes hard. âYou wonât.â
The room was dead silent.
âYou will see things you wonât forget. You will lose people you care about. And the only way youâll make it through is if you remember why youâre here. So dig deep. Find that reason. And hold onto it.â
Jakeâs fists clenched at his sides. The weight of it all, where he was, what heâd signed up for, settled like a stone in his stomach.
The officer dismissed them with a gruff, "Youâve got ten minutes to find your cot and report back for uniform and weapons issue. Move."
Jake stepped out of the tent, blinking under the harsh sun. He felt sweat start to collect beneath the collar of his shirt. Around him, other men muttered to themselves or stared blankly ahead. He caught up with Will, the tall guy from Chicago.
"You ever shoot anything before?" Will asked, slinging his bag over one shoulder.
Jake shook his head. "A deer once. With my uncle. Didnât feel good."
Will nodded slowly. "Yeah. Thatâs how you know youâre still human."
They found the row of cots assigned to their group, simple, metal framed things with rough sheets and a canvas bag of standard-issue gear at the foot. Jake sat on his thin mattress creaking beneath him, and glanced around the tent. The men beside him were all doing the same thing, taking in the space, the weight of what was ahead, and the deafening quiet of realizing there was no turning back.
That night, Jake lay flat on his back, staring up at the canvas roof of the tent. The stars outside were blotted out by clouds, but he knew they were there. Somewhere. Just like you.
Jake had expected the camp to be loud, but not like this. The clamor of boots pounding the dirt, men shouting orders, and the smell of sweat and metal assaulted his senses as soon as they disembarked. His stomach churned with nerves and dread, and he wondered if heâd ever feel like himself again.
This was it. The place where theyâd strip away everything he was, everything he had ever known, and build something new. He wasnât sure if he was ready for it, but it didnât matter. The army had made it clear: he didnât have a choice.
The first thing that hit him was the heat. It wasnât just the dry, suffocating air that stuck to his skin; it was the intense weight of the place, the way it pressed down on him, making him feel smaller, weaker, like he was part of a machine rather than a person.
They were thrown into it immediately. No time for niceties or introductions. Just barked orders and forced routines. Push ups. Running. The air tasted like dust, and the sound of heavy feet slamming the ground echoed everywhere.
Jake didnât have a problem with the physical stuff. Heâd been athletic all his life, used to running through the heat, throwing footballs, climbing trees with you during his childhood, or running through fields with his friends. This wasnât the same, though. This wasnât fun. This wasnât for the simple joy of it. This was punishment, and there was no one to help him through it.
He didnât know anyone at first. There were the usual faces, boys from other towns, some tough, some quiet, some who didnât care about being there. They all wore the same uniform, but Jake could already see the differences. Some had an edge to them, like theyâd been through things he couldnât even imagine, while others were scared, out of their depth, with no idea how to adjust.
Jake had never felt like an outsider, but here, at camp, everything was different. There was a group of boys from a big city who had a way of talking, laughing, and carrying themselves that made Jake feel like a country kid with no clue. Theyâd been to bars. Theyâd been in fights. Theyâd done things Jake could never even imagine. But there were other boys too, quiet, like him, who were just trying to get through it.
At first, they didnât say much to each other. No one had the energy for conversation. The brutal drills, the relentless push of the officers, and the constant exhaustion left no room for anything else. But slowly, Jake began to make connections. He wasnât sure if it was just because they were all in the same miserable situation or if something deeper was happening, but he found himself gravitating toward a couple of the quieter boys. One of them was Will, the same boy from the boat ride in. Over time, he became one of Jakeâs closest friends, the kind of person who didnât speak often but always noticed when Jake needed grounding. He didnât ask questions. He just understood the look in his eyes. They didnât need to talk about home, about the life they had to leave behind, about the people they missed, because they both felt it. The absence. The distance. And it weighed on them all in different ways.
But it wasnât just the quiet ones who stood out. There were a couple of boys who acted like they had nothing to lose. They were loud, reckless, and constantly boasting. They cracked jokes during drills, refused to take things seriously, and seemed to get off on making the other boys uncomfortable. Theyâd find any excuse to pick a fight, to throw a punch, to remind everyone that they were tough. It was like they were trying to prove they were better than everyone else. Jake had never understood that kind of attitude. He wasnât here to make a name for himself. He was here because it was what he had to do. And he was going to get through it, even if it was hard as hell.
Jake missed you more than he cared to admit. The loneliness was unbearable, and it only got worse as the days stretched on. The first few weeks were a haze of physical exhaustion and mental torment. Every day, Jake fought to keep his emotions buried, but they kept coming back. Memories of you, of the life he left behind, of the love that felt so far away. The other boys mightâve been able to pretend they were tough, but Jake wasnât that kind of guy. He wasnât pretending. Every day, he fought just to hold onto the part of him that was still his, even though it was slipping away.
The mornings always hit like a punch to the gut. The bugleâs blare pierced through the air just before dawn.
âUp! Letâs move, boys! You want to sleep, go home!â one of the sergeants bellowed.
Jake groaned, dragging himself upright. His legs were sore. Hell, everything was sore.
âYou alive over there?â Will muttered from the next cot, already pulling on his boots.
âBarely,â Jake grunted. âI think my spine left sometime around yesterdayâs third mile.â
Will let out a low laugh. âGuess that means weâre getting stronger, huh?â
âOr broken,â Jake said under his breath.
Outside, the cold hit his skin like slaps. Lines were already forming, boots crunching over the frozen dirt. Another day, another round of drills meant to kill the softness in them.
âLetâs go, recruits! Obstacle course in ten!â came the shout.
Jake jogged beside Will across the field, his pack bouncing painfully against his back. Mud splashed up his legs as he dropped into the first crawl under barbed wire. Machine gun fire cracked overhead, blanks, but loud enough to remind them what they were training for.
âKeep your head down, pretty boy!â someone yelled behind them.
Jake grit his teeth, pushing forward.
Later, during a break, Jake sat on a rock, sweat cooling on his back.
âYou doing okay?â Will asked quietly, passing him a canteen.
Jake took it, nodding. âJust tired.â
Will looked at him sideways. âThatâs not all.â
They grew quieter as training pressed on. The days became a blur, early wakeups, forced marches, weapons drills, crawling through mud, eating whatever food they were thrown, collapsing into their bunks bone tired.
At night, Jake would lie still, eyes wide open, whispering your name like a prayer.
Camp was always full of noise. Shouting, training, the sounds of heavy boots scraping across the dirt. But today, it was something different. The loud guys, the ones who always seemed to make everything a joke, had gathered near the barracks, their voices cutting through the air like knives.
Jake had his back turned, pretending to be busy with something else, but he couldn't ignore the crude laughter that rang out. He heard one of the guys, Tony, he thought his name was, talking about some girl back home, his voice too loud, too arrogant.
"Man, when I get back home, Iâm gonna take her out, mess around a little," Tonyâs voice rang out. "Sheâll be begging me to come back for more after Iâm done with her."
A few others laughed, chiming in with their own stories. Jakeâs jaw clenched. His fists tightened involuntarily at his sides. He knew what kind of talk they were capable of, but hearing it now, after everything, after leaving you behind... it hit differently.
He kept his head down, trying to ignore them, to pretend it didnât hurt. But the words cut deep. He could still hear your voice in his head, your soft whispers, your love. And this... this was the complete opposite.
His face flushed with anger, but he didnât respond. He couldnât.
Will, whoâd been sitting nearby and keeping half an eye on the exchange, leaned over to Jake. His voice was low and urgent.
âHey, just ignore him, alright? Heâs just running his mouth. Donât give him what he wants.â
Jake didnât answer, but his jaw twitched. Will could see it. The way Jakeâs hands shook slightly, the way he kept clenching and unclenching his fists like he was trying to hold something back.
âJake,â Will said again, more firmly. âCome on, man. Not worth it.â
But then the tension shifted. He could sense someone was looking at him, and when he glanced up, it was one of the other guys, Rick, the one who liked to stir things up. Rick had caught him staring, and his lips curled into a smirk, like a predator whoâd just found its prey.
"Whatâs your problem, pretty boy?" Rick taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "What, you donât like hearing about how your girlâs probably waiting for you back home, huh? You think sheâs gonna stay loyal while youâre off here playing soldier?"
Jake's fingers twitched. His heart pounded harder in his chest. He didnât answer, but Rick kept going, egging him on.
Will straightened, already stepping forward, hand outstretched. âAlright, Rick. Back off. Donât be a dick.â
But Rick ignored him. âWhatâs the matter? What you looking at me like that for?â
Jake's anger burned hotter, but he stayed silent, knowing if he said anything, it would only give him more fuel. But then he did something that crossed the line.
Jake kept a photo of you in his chest pocket, always. Folded once, then twice, tucked between his dog tags and his skin. Rickâs gaze dropped, just long enough to see the corner of it peeking out. Before Jake could react, Rick darted forward and snatched it.
âRick, stop!â Will snapped, already reaching for the photo, but Rick had it in his hands now, holding it up like it was some prize.
"Ohhhh," Rick drawled, as his eyes locked on the photo. "Looks like we got ourselves a sweetheart over here." He waved it in front of Jakeâs face, teasing him like it was some kind of joke.
Jake's heart stopped for a moment. He tried to snatch the photo out of Rick's hand, but Rick was faster, pulling it away and laughing as he waved it around like a trophy.
"Youâre real sentimental, huh? You really think sheâs still thinking about you? I bet sheâs out there with another guy right now, probably giving him the same shit you were getting." Rickâs voice lowered, full of venom. "Sheâs probably fucking him right now while youâre stuck out here, pretending to be a man."
That was it. The words hit Jake like a punch to the gut. The image of you, of your kindness, of everything you meant to him... and now this piece of trash was talking about you like you were just some other girl?
Jake didnât think. His fist shot out before he could stop it.Â
Will shouted, âJake, wait!â But it was too late.
Jake felt the satisfying thud of his knuckles connecting with Rickâs jaw, the sickening crack that followed, and then the satisfying silence that followed as Rick staggered back.
But it didnât last long. Rick stumbled but recovered quickly, wiping his mouth and glaring at Jake like he was a threat.
"You fucking coward," Rick spat, his voice twisted in pain and rage. "You wanna fight, huh? Fine."
Before Jake could even brace himself, Rick lunged, swinging hard and catching Jake across the cheek with a blow that made his head snap sideways.
âStop it!â Will shoved himself between them, trying to keep them apart.Â
But it was like throwing yourself into a fire. The two of them were already in it, fists flying, shoulders slamming, boots scraping violently against the dirt. Jakeâs anger carried him, fists moving on instinct, every punch fueled by the pain of being away from you, of hearing someone disrespect what heâd held onto for dear life.
âJake, donâtâ!â Will was trying to pull him back, even taking a few hits himself in the mess of flailing arms. âYouâll get thrown in for this!â
The rest of the boys egged them on, yelling and laughing, forming a loose, chaotic circle. Some were shouting for Rick, others for Jake, but none of them were actually trying to stop it.
A soldierâs voice, sharp and thunderous, cut through the noise.
Two officers stormed in. One grabbed Jake by the collar and yanked him back with force. Another shoved Rick down against a wall. The fight was over, just like that, left hanging in the air like smoke.
Rick was clutching his face, blood dripping from his busted lip. âThat asshole started it,â he growled, voice full of spite as he pointed at Jake.
Will stepped forward, eyes burning. âBullshit. He crossed the line. Jake didnât start anything.â
But the officers werenât listening. One of them turned on Jake with a cold glare. âI donât care what he did. You threw the first punch. Thatâs on you.â
Jake didnât say a word. He didnât care. Not about the punishment. Not about the bruise already forming on his jaw. All he cared about was you, and protecting the one good thing he had left.
âSend him to the hole,â one of the soldiers snapped. âSolitary confinement. Let him cool off.â
Jake barely registered the walk there. Will tried to say something to him as they dragged him off, but Jake just gave him a faint shake of the head.
Jake was hauled off to a small, empty room, the door slamming shut behind him with a deafening finality. The darkness of the room felt like it pressed down on him, but he wasnât scared. He wasnât going to regret it.
His hand throbbed from the punch, his cheek swollen and bruised. But he didnât care. No one was going to talk about you like that, no one.
And when the pain finally settled, the coldness of solitary confinement became his only companion.Â
The hole was exactly what it sounded like, cold, dark, and hollow. No light came in except for the thin crack under the door, just enough to remind Jake he wasnât blind, only buried. The air smelled like damp earth and metal, and the walls were so close it felt like they might close in and crush him if he breathed too hard.
He sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, one arm cradling his throbbing hand. His knuckles were split and raw, but the sting didnât bother him. Not really. It was the silence that got to him, the kind that let his thoughts grow too loud.
He kept seeing your face.
Not the picture, the real thing. The way your brows would furrow when you were thinking too hard, the way your mouth tilted when you were trying not to smile. He remembered how you looked the last time he held you, forehead pressed to his chest, hands clutching at his uniform like they could stop time. God, he missed you.
Jake clenched his jaw, leaning his head back against the wall. He didnât regret hitting Rick. Heâd do it againâhell, harderâif it meant shutting him up. No one was allowed to talk about you like that. No one got to twist something so sacred into something ugly. You werenât some girl. You were his girl. The only thing that still felt pure in a world that was turning to ash around him.
He pulled the now crumpled photo from his pocket. Heâd managed to grab it off the ground just before they dragged him off. It was smudged, bent at the corners, but your smile was still there. Soft, honest. Like a light.
Jake swallowed hard. He ran his thumb gently over the edge of the paper, like he was afraid of hurting it any more than it already was.
This doesnât break me, he thought to himself.Â
Because you were the reason he was still trying. Through the yelling, the exhaustion, the fear. You were the thread pulling him forward. Not duty. Not pride. You.
He exhaled shakily, closing his eyes.
He could still feel your hands in his, your lips against his cheek, the sound of your voice when you whispered I love you like it was something fragile. And here, in the silence, in the cold, surrounded by shadows and concrete, Jake clung to that memory like it was the last real thing he had.
Training was getting more brutal.
Jake had expected it to be tough. He expected the early mornings and the yelling, the endless drills that left his muscles burning and his stomach aching. But what he hadnât expected was how fast everything would start to feel mechanical. Wake up, march, run, shoot, repeat. No time to think. No room to feel. Just orders and obedience and the constant hum of tension in the air.
He learned quickly, though. Too quickly, maybe. His body adjusted before his mind did. His hands got steadier with a rifle, his shoulders stronger with the weight of a pack. He stopped flinching at the sound of gunfire. And when the sergeant barked commands, Jake moved without hesitation. Focused. Determined. Like every bullet he fired was another step closer to coming home.
Still, there were moments. Brief, quiet ones, where the monotony would break. Like during marksmanship training, when theyâd all lie flat in the dirt, eyes locked on the targets downrange. Jakeâs breathing would slow, his heartbeat syncing with the steady rise and fall of his chest. And for a second, it was just him, the trigger, and a single thought whispering through his mind:
But not everyone took it that seriously.
There were guys who cracked jokes every chance they got, who didnât take anything seriously unless it came with a threat of extra laps. And then there were the ones who watched the officers, especially the female ones, with a hunger in their eyes that made Jake sick.
Jake sat on an overturned crate in the shade, a tin of lukewarm beans in his lap, half listening to the guys around him swap stories back home and bets on whoâd drop out of training first. The midday sun beat down hard, and his uniform clung to him with sweat. He was exhausted, sore, but grateful for the momentary break.Â
He didnât notice her until he felt her hands.
Cool fingers slid over his shoulders, smoothing over the muscle like she was inspecting him. Her touch was slow, deliberate, too deliberate, and Jake stiffened instantly. The voices around him fell into a hush.
âWell, look at you,â came her voice, soft and close, brushing the shell of his ear. âDidnât take you for the quiet type, Jake.â
His name, spoken like silk, made his jaw clench. He didnât turn around, just stayed perfectly still as her hands ghosted down his arms.
âLieutenant Calloway,â one of the guys greeted her with a grin, nudging another with his elbow. âYouâre interrupting our best shot. You know he ranked top three in marksmanship this week?â
Calloway was one of the few women stationed near the front of training, a combat specialist with a reputation for being both ruthless and flirtatious, depending on who you asked. She carried herself like she owned every room she walked into, with a smirk that could cut and boots that clicked with authority. Rumor was, sheâd taken down three grown men in hand to hand combat during a drill once. Still, her eyes often lingered where they shouldnât, and lately, those eyes had been on Jake.
âOh, I know,â she purred, still behind Jake, bending slightly so her breath touched the back of his neck. âIâve been keeping an eye on him.â
The guys laughed. One of them whistled. âDamn, Jakeâs pulling!â someone snorted.
Lieutenant Calloway finally moved into view, circling in front of him, her sharp uniform pressed tight against her frame, her lip gloss catching the sun. She leaned down just enough to be eye level with Jake, her gaze smoldering with something that made his stomach twist, not with desire, but discomfort.
âYouâve been awfully quiet lately,â she said, her voice lower now, more intimate. âAnything... distracting you?â
Jakeâs eyes flicked away, a subtle, defensive move that only made the other guys lean in more.
âHeâs got a girl,â someone said with a laugh, jabbing a thumb at the barely there corner of your photo sticking out of his pocket. âReal pretty one too. Right, Jake?â
The lieutenantâs head tilted, and her expression darkened with curiosity. âOh?â she said, dragging out the word. Her gaze dropped to the pocket. âIs that true?â
Jake didnât answer right away, just reached down and tucked the photo back in gently, protectively.
âYeah,â he muttered, finally. âItâs true.â
For a second, something unreadable passed over her face. Surprise. Annoyance. Maybe even something more. But then she smiled again, lazy and confident, and crouched slightly, her fingers brushing Jakeâs knee.
âWell,â she said smoothly, âsheâs not here, is she?â
The boys hooted and hollered, eating up the scene like it was their evening show.
Jakeâs eyes snapped up to meet hers. Cold. Unmoving. He didnât yell. Didnât curse. Just gave her a quiet look that said more than words could.
She stood up slowly, lips curling with amusement. âYou let me know if you change your mind,â she said, then turned on her heel and walked away, hips swaying as she left.
The second she was gone, the guys erupted.
âBro, what are you doing?â
âYou have to be the dumbest man alive.â
âShe basically threw herself at you!â
Jake didnât say anything. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the tin of beans aside. His shoulders were tense, his chest heavy. But his hand found its way to your photo again, pressing it flat like it grounded him.
They didnât get it. They wouldnât.
And no matter how many people looked at him like he was crazy for saying no, he didnât care.
After mess, he slipped away, brushing off the guys with a half hearted excuse, and wandered alone to the edge of camp. His boots crunched against the dry dirt path, the sun pressing hot against the back of his neck. That woman, Lieutenant Calloway, still lingered in his mind, not because of her touch or the way her breath had tickled his skin, but because it reminded him of how far from home he truly was. Nothing about her, or any of this, compared to you.
Then he saw the mail truck pulling in through the front gates, slower than usual, kicking up a tired cloud of dust behind it. The guys back near the tents hollered and sprinted over, hopeful as always. Jake didnât move at first. Mail call had become more of a letdown than anything. Letters took ages to arrive. They had to pass through military censors, often rerouted or delayed by transport issues, especially if they were coming from overseas. A note sent in good faith could take three, sometimes even four weeks to arrive.
Still, something nudged him forward.
And then someone called his name.
He turned just as a corporal tossed a thin, slightly wrinkled envelope toward him. Jake caught it mid air. One look at the handwriting and his heart stopped.
Your name sat in the top left corner, familiar and soft, the ink slightly smudged but still entirely you. The curl in your letters was the same as always, just a little flourish that made his throat tighten. His hands trembled as he tore it open, careful not to rip the precious paper inside.
The letter was three pages long, folded neatly but creased like youâd smoothed it over a few times before slipping it into the envelope. The paper smelled faintly like lavender, or maybe that was just his memory playing tricks on him.
There was a faint lipstick mark near the bottom of the last page. Your shade, heâd recognize it anywhere. Youâd kissed the letter before sealing it, and Jakeâs breath caught when he noticed it. His thumb brushed over the mark like it was made of gold.Â
The noise of the camp faded as he read.
I donât even know where to begin. Everything feels a little quieter without you. The dinerâs been too still, and I swear even the stars look lonelier these days. I still walk past your house out of habit, half expecting to see you sitting on the porch with that dumb smile, waiting for me like you always did.
I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts in places I didnât know could ache.
Jake swallowed hard, his fingers curling tighter around the page. He could almost hear your voice reading the words aloud, soft and sincere.
Things here are the same and not the same. The seasons are changing. I picked flowers yesterday and thought about how you used to tuck daisies into my hair. I still wear that little bracelet you gave me, you know the one that barely fits. I never take it off. It makes me feel close to you, even when youâre on the other side of the world.
Everyone says I should be strong, and I am. I really am. But I have days where I just want you to walk through the door and say this was all a mistake. I know you canât. I know why you had to go. But that doesnât make it easier.
Write me when you can. Iâll wait for however long it takes. Just knowing youâre out there, thinking of me too, is enough to get me through.
Be safe. Be smart. Come back to me.
Jake stared at the final line for what felt like forever.
He read it over and over, the words blurring until his eyes stung. Something inside him cracked open. Not the loud kind of break, just quiet and slow, like melting ice. His chest ached, but not in the empty, lonely way it had before. This was different.
He pressed the letter to his lips, then folded it back into its envelope like it was something holy.
For the first time since he arrived, Jake felt something close to whole.
Each word wrapped around him like a blanket, a tether pulling him back to who he was before the war, before the draft letter, before the distance. It was you. Your voice, your rhythm, your little comments and worries and stubborn hope. He read it once, then again, slower the second time, and again after that.
And for the first time in days, he let himself exhale.
The days felt longer now.
Not just in the way time drags when youâre waiting for something, but in the way silence settles into the spaces someone used to fill. The town looked the same. Same dusty roads, same buzz of the dinerâs neon sign, same breeze rustling through the wheat fields, but it all felt off. Like the world was continuing on without noticing the hole he left behind.
You still walked the path to school, passed the bench you two always sat on, and caught yourself turning your head at every tall figure in the distance. You knew it wasnât Jake. It never was. But the hope didnât care.
Sometimes, when the wind was just right, you swore you could hear his laugh echo across the street.
You kept in touch with his family. His mom had you over for tea on Sundays. Sheâd set out two cups every time, like muscle memory, then hesitate before putting one back. Neither of you talked about it.
His dad would give you these half smiles, like he wanted to say something comforting but couldnât find the words. So youâd sit in the living room, watching old reruns on a grainy TV, and pretend for a little while that things were normal.
You still wrote to Jake every week.
You filled pages with silly stories from school, updates on your little sister, thoughts you didnât say out loud. You told him you were okay, because you were trying to be, but you also told him the truth. That you missed him. That his absence wasnât just a space, it was a weight.
And every day, you checked the mailbox. Every day, you opened it with shaking hands. And every day, for weeks, there was nothing.
It came on a Thursday. The sky was cloudy, and you were already halfway back to the house when you decided to check one more time. The envelope was smudged, creased from its journey, and your name was written in Jakeâs handwriting, sharp, messy, unmistakably his.
You stood frozen on the porch, staring down at it like it might vanish if you blinked. Then your hands moved, tearing the seal open with more care than you thought you were capable of.
Inside was his letter. His words.
I got your letter. I mustâve read it ten times before I could even breathe. I canât explain what it meant to me, having a piece of home, of you, in my hands. Everything hereâs rough. The days blur. The nights are worse. But reading your words felt like someone lit a fire in a frozen room. It reminded me why Iâm still standing.
Training is brutal. Itâs early mornings and yelling and dirt that never really leaves your skin. My bodyâs sore in places I didnât know could be sore. They drill us until we can barely think straight. Running laps, crawling through mud, learning how to shoot like machines. Iâm getting better though. I ranked third in marksmanship last week. The other guys were joking Iâve got a sniperâs eye. Itâs kinda funny. I kept thinking about how you always teased me for being good at carnival games. Guess that skillâs coming in handy.
Some of the guys here are decent. Some remind me of the boys back home. Quiet, serious, scared under the tough talk. But others, theyâre different. Loud. Crude. Like theyâve buried whatever soft parts they had a long time ago.
Then thereâs Will. Heâs one of the good ones. Weâve become close over the past few weeks. He doesnât talk much about home, but when he does, I can tell heâs carrying something heavy. I guess we all are.
Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that Iâm not alone out here. Thereâs still good in this place, even if it doesnât always feel like it. I hope youâre okay. I hope youâre eating well. I hope the stars still look the same at night, and that sometimes you think of me when you see them.
I think of you constantly. I miss you more than words can stretch.
You pressed your hand to your mouth, breath catching in your throat. Tears welled in your eyes, but you let them fall.
Because this⊠this was everything.
He was alive. He missed you. And he was still yours.
That night, you laid in bed. It was late.
The kind of late where the world outside your window felt hushed, paused somewhere between midnight and morning. The moon hung heavy in the sky, casting pale light across your room in silver streaks. The sheets tangled around your legs like vines as you lay on your side, wide awake, staring at the place on the pillow Jake used to rest his head when he would visit your room.
You reached out, almost instinctively, your fingers brushing the empty space.
It was more than just the way he looked or sounded, it was the way he made you feel. Safe. Warm. Like the chaos of the world quieted when he wrapped his arms around you and whispered nonsense into your hair. The scent of him still lingered faintly on the old sweatshirt you wore, though it had faded weeks ago.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to recall the exact feeling of his fingertips tracing your spine. The warmth of his breath on your neck. The way his voice dipped low when he said your name like it was something sacred.
Your body responded before you could stop it, heat blooming slowly beneath your skin, low in your belly, in that place where only he knew how to touch you right. You exhaled shakily, the ache of distance crawling into your chest.
It wasnât just physical. It wasnât just want, it was need. A hunger for closeness. For his voice in your ear, murmuring soft promises. For his hands on your waist, grounding you. For the press of his lips against yours, slow and reverent like he had nowhere else to be.
Your thighs shifted under the covers, the ache growing deeper now. A dull, desperate kind of longing that pulsed through you like a secret.
It was moments like this, alone, in the dark, with only memories and echoes, that made the distance feel like a thousand miles too far.
You clutched the pillow tighter, whispering his name like a prayer, like maybe the stars would carry it to him somehow. Maybe he was lying in his cot halfway across the world, thinking of you too. Maybe his hands ached to hold you just as badly.
You squeezed your thighs close together.
âI miss you,â you whispered, voice catching in your throat.
And in the silence, your heart thudded softly beneath your ribs, slow, steady, full of him.
The sky was thick with smoke.
Jake ducked low behind a crumbled stone wall, his helmet knocked sideways, his chest heaving like it couldnât figure out whether to breathe or break. Dirt and blood streaked down his arms. His rifle trembled in his grip, his knuckles pale around the metal.
Gunfire cracked like thunder, sharp, relentless, too close.
âMove up! MOVE!â someone screamed, but the voice was distant, like it came through a tunnel.
His boots were stuck in mud and fear, his ears ringing from the explosion that had just gone off less than a few yards away. When he turned his head, he saw the body of Mark lying still, his eyes open, but vacant. Just a second ago, he was laughing at a dumb joke someone made. Now⊠now he wasnât laughing.
He wasnât supposed to freeze. He wasnât supposed to feel this paralyzed. He was trained for this. Theyâd drilled it into him for months, how to fire, how to move, how to think like a soldier. But nothing, nothing, prepared him for the way it felt to watch someone die with your name still on their lips.
He scrambled forward, heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted out. Dust and ash flew into his mouth as he threw himself behind a truck riddled with bullet holes. Across the clearing, he caught sight of Will, his face covered in blood, one arm hanging useless, but alive. Barely.
âJAKE!â Will bellowed. âGO! GO!â
Bullets zipped past him like angry bees, ripping through bark and canvas and bone. He slipped once, fell into a ditch, his hands digging into gravel and soaked earth as he scrambled back to his feet. His lungs burned. His vision blurred.
Focus. Keep moving. Donât think. Donât feel.
But he did. He felt everything.
Every scream, every blast, every inch of fear that slithered down his spine like cold water. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as he caught glimpses of fallen bodies, people he knew. People he didnât. Blood pooled like rainwater.
He wanted to scream. To cry. To run. But he didnât.
He fired when he had to. He dragged a boy to cover, barely fifteen, sobbing and clutching his leg. He shouted for help. He crawled through dust and heat and deafening noise, because there was no other choice.
Jake slammed his back against a wall, breathing ragged. He didnât know how much longer this fight would last. Minutes? Hours? Days?
But if he made it outâwhen he made it out, it would be for you.
The roar of battle had dulled into something distant, muted like an old radio, static and fading. Jakeâs ears still rang. His fingers twitched occasionally, even though the fighting had stopped.
He sat on a cot in the field medic station, shirt torn at the shoulder and caked with dried blood, his own, mostly. A long graze cut across his ribs, stitched quickly and sloppily by a medic whose hands had seen too much today. His knee was bandaged too, sprained from diving into cover. Nothing fatal. Nothing serious. Not like the others.
The cot across from him was empty now.
Will had been taken away an hour ago, still breathing, thank God, but barely conscious. Some of the others hadnât been so lucky. Names Jake had memorized in the span of weeks were now reduced to still forms wrapped in canvas and zipped up.
He pressed a hand over your new letter that came in this morning, soft and worn from rereading. He didnât need to open it again. Every word was already burned into his memory:
The leaves are starting to fall. Not in bursts, just a few here and there, orange and gold drifting past the window like they forgot where they were going. I think you'd like it today. The air's got that crisp edge you used to say made everything feel cleaner.
I went by the lake yesterday. Sat on the old dock with my feet dangling above the water like we used to. It was quiet. Still. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine your hand in mine. I remembered the way you used to rub circles into my palm with your thumb, like you were tracing something only you could see.
I talk to your mom sometimes. She makes me tea and tells me stories about you when you were little, like how you used to sleep with your shoes on in case someone called you to play. I laughed until I cried. Mostly cried, if Iâm being honest.
The nights are the hardest. The world gets too quiet and my thoughts get too loud. I fall asleep with your letters next to my pillow. Sometimes I dream about you, sometimes I donât. The nights I donât feel the loneliest.
I miss the way you used to look at me like I was the whole sky. When there was no war, no distance, just you and me and everything we hadn't done yet.
I hope youâre okay. I hope youâre safe. I hope youâre warm. I hope youâre still you.Â
You promised me youâd come back. Donât make me wait too long.
Jake closed his eyes and swallowed hard. That lump had returned to his throat again, stubborn and heavy. He reached for the pencil beside his cot, pulling a new sheet of paper from the medicâs table nearby. The tent buzzed with low voices, moans of pain, the shuffle of boots. But all Jake heard was you.
I made it through another one. Barely. We lost a lot of good men today. Faces I used to eat beside, laugh with, sleep next to. But Iâm still breathing, and I think that counts for something. A bullet skimmed my ribs and twisted my knee up, but Iâll heal. Iâm one of the lucky ones.
Theyâre transferring me tomorrow. Another station. New faces, new dirt, new nightmares. But Iâll go. Because I have to.
Youâd laugh if you saw the food they tried to give us here. Itâs worse than anything I ever made you try back home. I miss your cooking. Iâd kill for your burnt toast. I miss you, Y/n. More than I know how to say without sounding broken.
You keep me whole. Every word you write, every memory Iâve tucked into the folds of my mind, it keeps me fighting. Donât stop writing. Please. And donât stop waiting.Â
He folded the letter, pressed it gently against his lips before sealing it.
Then, leaning back on the cot, with the noise of the wounded swirling around him and the weight of war pressing down on his chest, Jake let himself close his eyes.
For a moment, he let himself dream of home. Of you
The rain came down hard that night, pounding on the tin rooftops of the barracks like it had a bone to pick. Jake sat on his cot, half wrapped in his blanket, boots still on, staring at the wall. Seven weeks. Seven full weeks and no letter.
He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. Maybe the post just hadnât come. Maybe the storm held things up. Maybe you were just busy, but he didnât want to believe that. He couldnât. He had written you three times since the last reply. Poured his heart into every word. Told you about the move, the injury that barely missed his ribs, the kid he helped drag out of a crater. And still⊠nothing back.
He didnât know that somewhere, hundreds of miles away, your letter had arrived. That it had sat, neatly sealed, your name scrawled in the corner in a worn canvas mailbag.
He didnât know that Corporal Henry, the quiet post officer with a crooked smile and a lisp, had volunteered to take the night route through the woods when the roads were blocked. He always made sure the mail got through, rain or shine, even if it meant sleeping in the jeep or sneaking past checkpoints. He took pride in it. Called himself "Cupid in combat boots."
Jake didnât know that the truck never made it. That the convoy got hit on a narrow bend three miles from the base. That Henry was gone. Just gone. And with him, every envelope meant to tether a soldier back to the world that still held warmth and softness.
And Jake didnât know that your letter, your four pages, your lipstick kiss, your hopeful heart, was buried in mud and soot somewhere in a shattered mail sack, never to reach him.
He sat there, jaw clenched, turning a pencil between his fingers.
"Still nothing?" John asked from the bunk across, a new recruit like Jake, still adjusting to the rhythm of camp life.
âHavenât heard back in weeks,â Jake said softly. âFeels like Iâm writing to a ghost.â
John was quiet for a moment. Then: âI know the feeling.â
âLost touch with my sister,â he added. âMailâs been messed up since we got here. Whole platoonâs grumbling.â
Jakeâs fingers tightened around the paper. âSheâs all I think about. I donât even recognize myself anymore without her.â
âYouâre not alone, Jake,â he said, voice low. âNone of us are.â
But he still couldnât help but wonder if youâd given up on him.
The knot in his chest hadnât untied in weeks. He kept a stack of letters by his bed, corners curled from being opened and reread until the words blurred. Not one of them were new.
Another month of checking the mail line every morning, his breath catching when the officer called names that werenât his. Another month of carrying a letter opener in his pocket like a good luck charm, like maybe itâd finally be needed.
Jake had written to you endlessly. At first, he told you everything, what the food was like, the training drills, the way the other boys bickered over card games and who had the best aim. He wrote about John, how theyâd become fast friends, how theyâd both miss home. He even told you about the way the sunsets looked on the horizon here, hazy and red, bleeding into the sky like fire and smoke.
Now the letters were different. Shorter. Uneven. Scratched out and rewritten, sometimes crumpled and rewritten again.
They stopped talking about the world around him and started focusing on only one thing.
"Why havenât I heard from you?"
"Please, Y/n, please write back."
"Did something happen? Did I say something wrong?"
"Iâm losing my mind without you."
"I canât do this if I donât know youâre still there."
He stared at his latest letter, fingers trembling slightly as he folded it with aching care, the way you used to fold your notes back in school. He kissed the edge of the envelope, just in case. Just in case it reached you. Just in case you still remembered him.
The panic gnawed at his insides now, eating away what little calm heâd scraped together in the past few months. His bunk didnât feel like a place to sleep anymore. It felt like a cage. Nights bled into mornings without rest. The air felt thinner.
He checked every face that came through camp, just in case they carried news. He began to feel like a ghost among the living, drifting, waiting, hoping. Hoping for ink. Hoping for your handwriting. Hoping for anything that meant you hadnât vanished from his world without a word.
Jake still kept your photo in his pocket. Still kissed the lipstick print youâd left on your last letter. But the memory of your voice had started to fade. He hated himself for that.
And still, he wrote. And begged. And waited.
Itâs been three months, maybe four, and not a single letter. You still check the mailbox every day, hoping to see his handwriting, that familiar scrawl that would make your heart race. But every time, itâs the same: bills, junk mail, nothing from Jake.
And with every empty envelope, the silence grows heavier.
You can still hear his voice in the back of your mind, though itâs fading. The sound of his laugh, the way heâd say your name like it was something special. The way his eyes lit up when he smiled at you. All those little things are slipping away, no matter how hard you try to hold onto them.
You tried calling his parents, hoping theyâd know something. But there was no answer. You left a message, but no one called back. Itâs as if heâs just vanished, leaving you with nothing but uncertainty.
Everything feels off now. The world looks the same, but itâs different. The colors are duller, and the quiet seems louder. The diner still smells the same, coffee and greasy fryers, but it doesnât taste right anymore. You canât even remember the last time you laughed, the last time it felt real. Itâs like the joy you used to find in the small things has been drained, and youâre left grasping at something thatâs no longer there.
You still wear his jacket sometimes. Itâs too big for you now, the sleeves long enough to cover your hands, the collar too high, but it still smells like him. When you pull it on, itâs the closest thing you can get to a hug from him. A reminder of what was. A piece of him you can still hold onto, even if itâs just fabric.
Every day, you keep writing. Hoping that somehow, someway, your letters are getting to him. You write about your days, about the small things you miss. You write about how everything feels so empty without him. But as the days go on, your letters change. They go from hopeful, to desperate.
"Please, Jake. Where are you?"
"I miss you. I miss your laugh, your voice, the way you always knew what to say."
"Just write me back. Please. Tell me youâre okay. I need to know youâre okay."
"I canât do this without you. Donât leave me hanging."
You donât know where he is, donât know whatâs happening to him. And with every unanswered letter, that fear in your chest grows. You just couldnât shake the fear that maybe⊠maybe something had happened. Maybe the war had taken him, too.
You look at the last letter you sent. You set it down carefully, as if it might somehow feel your pain if you handle it too roughly. Your fingers shake, and you canât stop them. You press your palm against the paper, as if holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, heâll read it and write back.
But itâs been weeks. Itâs been months. And you wonder: will you ever hear from him again?
You stand by the window, staring out at the stars. Theyâre the same as theyâve always been, yet tonight, they feel farther away, as if they, too, are lost in the emptiness that fills your life without him.
It had been an entire year since you last heard from Jake. One year of silence. One year of waiting, hoping, begging the world to give him back. And now, everyone in town had started to look at you with that same tired sympathy, soft eyes, tilted heads, gentle voices like you were some fragile thing they were all waiting to see crack.
They didnât say it outright. Not all of them. But it was in their voices, in their words, in the way they talked about him like he was a ghost.
âHe was a good boy,â theyâd say, past tense like a dagger.
âHe loved you so much.â
âYou were lucky to have him.â
And the worst one:
âYouâre so strong.â
Strong. As if pretending you werenât still breaking every single day was strength. As if smiling when someone brought up his name wasnât a full body effort. As if going through the motions, pretending to exist without him, counted as bravery.
They didnât get it. None of them did.
Because Jake wasnât dead.                                                      He wasnât.
He couldnât be.
You would know. Youâd feel it. Thereâd be a shift in the universe, a hollow space inside you that would open up and never close again. But it wasnât like that. Not yet. There was still something inside you that swore he was out there, somewhere, still breathing. Maybe writing you a letter right now. Maybe just lost. But not gone. Not really.
School was harder now. You sat in math class, staring blankly at the board, your pencil still. Jake used to help you with this stuff. He was great at it. You remembered your messy notebooks and him making stupid jokes about x being too dramatic for always needing to be found.
And then there were the art projects. He hated them. âI canât draw a straight line, Y/n,â heâd groan, handing you his supplies with those puppy eyes. âPlease, youâre the artistic genius here. Help me, and Iâll owe you my soul.â
You missed those days.
The simplicity.
The noise of his laugh in the hallway.
The way he used to tap his pencil when he was thinking.
The way heâd scribble your name in the margins of his notebook when he thought you werenât looking.
You walked home slower now. You talked less. You smiled like it was a chore.
But every night, you still wrote letters. You didnât care how foolish it made you seem. You wrote as if heâd answer. You folded them and tucked them into the little wooden box by your window. If he came back, theyâd be waiting.
He promised heâd come back.
You were still waiting.
Jake hadnât gotten a letter in nearly a year.
At first, he made excuses. Maybe the mail was slow. Maybe the war effort was rerouting things. Maybe⊠maybe you were just busy. Life didnât stop back home. He knew that. But as the weeks turned to months, the silence grew louder than the gunfire.
He stopped checking the post with that same flicker of hope. Now he barely looked. John still asked sometimesââMaybe today?ââbut Jake only shook his head, teeth clenched like that would keep the ache down. He didnât have it in him to keep pretending anymore.
You were probably gone. Moved on. Found someone else. Someone safe. Someone who didnât write from battlefields soaked in blood and slept on dirt floors next to dying boys.
He didnât blame you. He couldnât. You deserved warmth. You deserved flowers and steady hands, not shaking ones that still smelled like gunpowder.
But even now, despite the silence, the ache, the anger, Jake still thought about you. Constantly. Heâd stare at the sky during night shifts, eyes tracking stars like they might carry your name. Heâd trace the folded crease of your photo until the paper started to wear thin. And when he was crouched low in a trench, bullets screaming overhead and friends crying out beside him, the only thing that ever kept his heart from crumbling was you.
You were his only calm. The only part of him not swallowed by this nightmare.
And at night, when the cold was too deep and his body trembled from something more than weather, his mind slipped. Heâd dream of you, soft skin, warm breath, the way youâd press your nose against his cheek when you hugged him tight.
Heâd bite his lip, trying to contain his whimpers as he stroked himself sloppily, wondering if thatâs how you would probably do it. Heâd whine quietly as he would speed up, dreaming of your body, and what laid in between your legs, wanting so badly to get just one look at it.
Sometimes heâd wake up breathless, heart racing, his body burning with want. It wasnât just lust. It was desperation. The need to feel human again. To feel close to you, even if it was only in his head.
But when it happened, when he would finally finish and come back to himself, skin damp, breath shaky, heâd bury his face in his hands and curse. Not out loud. Just quiet, ashamed. Because he felt guilty for wanting that kind of closeness with someone who might not even be his anymore.
Still, the memory of your touch haunted him. And in the middle of war, that haunting was the only thing keeping him alive.
Even if you never wrote back, even if he never saw your face again...
You were his world.
Jake had never really considered the fact that, after he got drafted, the war might actually end. Back then, it felt like being pulled into a storm you didnât come back from. He didnât think that far ahead, none of them did. There was no point in imagining a future when every day could be your last. You lived in minutes, in footsteps, in the space between orders.
But now, after more than two years of blood, dirt, and death⊠it was finally coming to an end.
The winds, though still sharp with the bite of lingering winter, carried with them a sense of possibility. Hope. The faint scent of spring began to trickle through the icy silence, whispering that the end was within reach. But with that hope came an overwhelming sense of dread. Because the cost of victory, the price of it, was something none of them were ready to face.
Jake stood at the edge of the makeshift trench, his eyes scanning the foggy horizon. His heart hammered in his chest, and the familiar weight of his rifle felt like both a lifeline and a burden. He was scared, more scared than he'd ever been, but not of dying. No. What scared him was the thought of not getting to say goodbye. Of not getting to feel your touch again, to hear your voice, to know that he'd fought this battle and come home for you.
"You okay, man?" Johnâs voice pulled him from his thoughts. Heâd become a brother to Jake over the past months, and his calm presence always seemed to ground him.
Jake didnât answer right away. Instead, he just nodded, offering him a tight smile. "Yeah. Just thinking."
John didnât push him. Instead, he leaned against the sandbag, rifle in hand, eyes narrowing as he peered out into the distance. "This is it, huh?" he said softly. "The last push."
Jakeâs throat tightened, but he didnât trust his voice to say anything. So, he simply nodded again. The battle, the war, it all came down to this moment. If they won, if they made it through today, they could finally go home. But there were no guarantees. No promises. Only the brutal, unforgiving reality of war.
The sounds of the camp had shifted. Men were preparing, tightening gear, checking weapons, exchanging quiet words of encouragement. The silence that hung between the chaos was thick with anticipation. Every soldier knew this could be the end. But there were also the soldiers who knew, deep down, that this might not be the last battle they fought.
"We go out there, we give it everything," John said, clapping Jake on the shoulder. "We make sure we win. For everyone back home."
Jake swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep within him. For everyone back home. For you. He wasnât going to die here. He couldnât.
The sound of a whistle broke the tense silence. It was time.
The soldiers rushed into position, the rhythmic thud of boots on the frozen earth shaking the ground beneath them. The officers shouted commands, their voices lost in the chaos of the battlefield. Jakeâs heart pounded in his ears as he joined the line, rifle raised and ready.
And then it was upon them. The deafening roar of gunfire, the cries of soldiers, the flash of explosions lighting up the sky. Jake felt the ground tremble as the battle unfolded before him, but he didnât flinch. His eyes were fixed on the mission. On the goal. The only thing that mattered now was victory.
He pushed through the smoke and chaos, John by his side. They didnât need to speak. They didnât need to look at each other. Their movements were instinctive, trained to perfection. Enemy soldiers fell, and each shot, each pull of the trigger, brought them one step closer to home. To you.
But the battle wasnât over yet. It raged on, wave after wave of relentless fire. The world around him was a blur of gunfire and screams. He kept his head down, focused, but every so often his mind would flash back to you, the way your laugh echoed in his ears, the warmth of your touch. Those thoughts, those memories, were the fuel he needed. The reason he kept going.
"Jake!" Johnâs voice cut through the noise, and Jake turned just in time to see his friend take a bullet to the shoulder, falling back with a grunt of pain. "John!" Jake shouted, diving to his side to help him up.
"I'm good," he grunted, waving him off, though his face was pale. "Keep going! Weâre almost there!"
But Jake hesitated. He wanted to stay with him, to make sure he was okay. But the moment was fleeting, and he knew John wouldnât want him to stop.
"Stay alive!" Jake shouted over the noise, his voice thick with urgency.
John just flashed him a tight, pained smile before pushing Jake away, urging him forward.
And Jake did just that. He pushed forward through the haze of gunfire, through the cries of the fallen. His rifle was steady in his hands, each shot bringing them closer to victory.
The final push came in a surge of adrenaline. The enemy forces were faltering, their resistance crumbling under the weight of the assault. And then, with one last explosion that seemed to shake the very earth beneath their feet, the battle was over.
Silence fell over the battlefield. Not the peaceful silence of peace, but the heavy silence of finality. The victory. The end. It was done.
Jake collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, his hands slick with sweat and dirt. His whole body trembled, not from fear, not anymore, but from the release of everything heâd held inside for so long. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind only exhaustion and disbelief.
Was it real? Was it really over?
He looked around the field, what was left of it, and for a long, suspended moment, it didnât feel possible. He half expected another wave, another bomb, another gunshot to crack through the air. But it didnât come.
The war, the blood, the terror, the nights spent writing to you under dim flashlight with shaking hands, it was all finally behind him. He could barely comprehend it. The idea that he might never have to kill again. That he might actually get on a boat, or a plane, or just something that didnât smell like death and sweat, and head back across the ocean⊠back to you.
The word hit him harder than any bullet ever could.
Not tomorrow, maybe not next weekâbut someday soon. That promise, once just a desperate fantasy scribbled on the back of your letters, was now something real. Tangible.
All he could think about was seeing you again. Holding you. Hearing your voice. Burying his face in the crook of your neck and letting it all go.
But thenâ
The realization hit.
Would you even want to see him?
It had been years. Years since he last touched your hand, years since he looked into your eyes without a uniform between you. The letters stopped coming a long time ago, and even though he kept writing, every chance he got, every spare moment he never knew if you read them. Â
What if you had someone else now?
Someone who made you laugh, who wasnât broken and angry and hardened by war?    Someone who wasnât him?
Jake swallowed hard, the raw edge of doubt carving into the hope heâd just let himself feel.
Maybe you changed.
Or worse, maybe you hadnât. Maybe you were still the same beautiful, kind, soft hearted girl who loved him once, and he was the one who had changed beyond recognition.
What if you didnât like the way he changed?
What if you looked at him and saw only a stranger with too much weight in his eyes and too many ghosts in his chest?
What if everything heâd held onto through the war⊠had already let go of him?
For a long time, Jake just stood there, staring at the blood-soaked ground, his fists clenched, not from anger, but from fear.
Because after surviving hell, he wasnât sure he could survive your silence.
Johnâs voice pulled him out of the storm in his head, and Jake turned, barely registering the pain in his legs as he forced himself upright. John was limping toward him, bloodied but alive.
Jake could only nod. His throat was too tight to speak, his chest too full of everything. Of relief. Of ache. Of hope.
John stepped closer, his voice softer now. âWe won.â He swallowed hard, glancing up at the hazy sky like he couldnât believe it either. âWeâre going home.â
Jake let the words sink in. Let them echo through the emptiness inside him that war had carved out.
And for the first time in what felt like years, Jake let himself believe it.
The air felt different now.
It wasnât just the weather, though spring had finally started to bleed its way into the cold, frostbitten mornings. It was something deeper. Something no one wanted to say too loud in case it jinxed it.
Not tomorrow. Not next week. But soon.
There were whispers everywhere, officers in tents with folded maps, mess hall rumors passed between bites of canned beans, and wide eyed new recruits who looked like they might not have to die here after all. Even the veterans who'd long since given up on hope were starting to carry themselves a little lighter. Like they could finally feel the end crawling over the horizon.
And for the first time in a long while, he let himself imagine the other side of this, what it would be like to come home. What it would be like to walk streets that didnât smell like gunpowder and ash. What it would be like to sleep in a bed that didnât creak every time you flinched awake from a dream.
Jake sat against a sandbag wall, helmet in his lap, dirt caked beneath his fingernails and across the scar that still ran along his ribs. His uniform hung loose on him now, too many pounds lost in the months of fighting, but he was still here. Breathing. Standing. Somehow.
The sky was pale, washed out in the way early mornings always were. And for once, it wasnât filled with smoke.Â
John sat beside him, resting his chin on his knee. He looked tired, bone deep tired, but he was smiling for the first time in a long time.
âThey say weâll be heading out by the end of next month,â he said, nudging Jake lightly with his boot. âHome. Can you believe it?â
Jake tried to picture it. His street. His porch. The schoolyard. You.
The thought almost knocked the air out of him.
âYeah,â Jake muttered, voice low, guarded. âFeels... unreal.â
âHell, I donât even know what Iâm gonna do first,â John said. âSleep in a real bed. See my mom. Eat bread that doesnât taste like cardboard.â He glanced at Jake, eyes flickering with something more knowing. âYou?â
Jake swallowed hard. His eyes drifted to the folded photo tucked deep into his breast pocket. âI donât know,â Jake lied. âI guess Iâll figure it out when I get there.â
But he knew. He always knew.
Even if you didnât want to see him. Even if someone else had taken his place. Even if you'd moved on.
He still had to find you. Just to know. Just to see you one last time.
He didnât know if youâd still be there when he returned. He didnât know if youâd moved on, if youâd given up on him, if he even had a place in your world anymore. But that didnât stop the dream.
Every time he saw a boat in the harbor, he pictured you on the other side of the ocean.
Every time he stared up at the stars, he wondered if you were under them too, thinking of him.
Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined what it would feel like to see your face again.
The guys joked around him, laughing louder now, talking about the suits theyâd wear, the trains theyâd ride.Â
But Jake sat quiet, staring at the horizon. Because the war mightâve been ending, but something inside him still wasnât sure what was waiting on the other side.
And yet, even through the doubt, there was a flicker of something fragile in his chest.
The whole town buzzed like a shaken soda bottle, tight with anticipation, about to fizz over.
âDid you hear? Theyâre bringing the boys back this Friday, down by the docks.â
âThey say the warâs really over now. Can you believe it? After all this time?â
Two years. Two entire years since Jake was drafted. Since you kissed him goodbye under a sky too blue for what it was carrying. Since he tucked your photo into his chest pocket and promisedâpromisedâheâd come back to you.
The bunting had started going up, red, white, and blue strung across shop windows and porch railings like hope could be hung and measured. Women were dusting off their nicest dresses, young girls rehearsing their smiles, pretending they werenât afraid of what they might see, or not see, on that dock.
People were planning barbecues, gathering in groups to make banners. The post office put up a sign that said Welcome Home, Heroes! in sloppy, heartfelt paint. The bakery was giving away free pies to returning soldiers.
And through it all, people kept asking you.
âAre you going to the boats, sweetheart?â
âBet youâre counting the hours.â
âHow are you holding up, honey?â
The questions scraped against your ribs. Because what were you supposed to say? That you hadnât heard from him in years? That letters stopped coming with no explanation, like he just vanished into the fog of war? That even his family had no answers, and the military said nothing except vague words like âtransferâ and âradio silenceâ?
No. You didnât say any of that.
And now the war was ending. The boys were coming home. But no one could tell you if Jake would be among them.
So you stood on your porch the night before the boats arrived, wind pressing against your dress, and wonderedâŠ
Will you be on that dock, Jake? Will I see your face in the crowd, or just another empty space where you shouldâve been?
God, you needed to believe.
Because the thought of seeing him again, of running into his arms, of hearing his voice, of brushing your fingers over his jaw to make sure he was real, was the only thing keeping your heart beating steady.
And if he wasnât there?
You didnât have an answer for that.
You didnât sleep the night before the boats came.
You laid in bed with the moonlight spilling through your curtains, the covers bunched at your feet and Jakeâs letters spread around you like pages of a sacred book. You read them one by one, some so worn the ink had begun to fade, others smudged from tears both old and new. His handwriting, the loops of his yâs, the smudge of a fingerprint near one of the margins, felt like pieces of him you could still touch.
Every word felt like a heartbeat.
Every âI miss youâ like an ache in your ribs.
When the first rays of dawn lit the sky, you were already dressed, hair pinned back, Jakeâs jacket pulled over your shoulders like armor. His mom met you at the door, eyes rimmed red, hands shaking. She didnât have to say anything. Neither of you did.Â
Your parents were waiting just outside, your father pacing, your mother clutching a thermos of coffee she hadnât taken a single sip of. The moment they saw you, your mother reached out and squeezed your hand, her eyes mirroring your own blend of hope and fear. You all walked together, a quiet, aching unit.
The walk to the docks was the longest one of your life.
When you got there, it was chaos, but the good kind. Families pressed together behind the roped off edges of the harbor, voices trembling with anticipation. Mothers clutching photographs to their chests. Little kids sitting on their fathersâ shoulders with tiny flags in their hands. The scent of saltwater and smoke and something sweet from the nearby bakery wrapped around the crowd.
The ship appeared, slow and massive, metal groaning against the dock as it settled. The ramp lowered.
And the soldiers began to disembark.
All around you, people were screaming names, sobbing with joy. Girls in bright dresses threw themselves into the arms of boys in uniform. Families collapsed together, laughter and tears indistinguishable. You watched a woman faint when her husband kissed her on the forehead, another boy swept his mother off her feet like a kid again.
Your fingers gripped Jakeâs momâs arm so tightly she winced, but she didnât tell you to stop. Her eyes were darting too. Desperate. Silent.
You searched for a sign, for the shape of his shoulders, the swing of his walk. He had to be here. He had to be.
Minutes passed like lifetimes.
Across the dock, just past the others. Shoulders hunched, dirt still in the seams of his collar. A duffle bag hung loosely from his hand. His hair was longer, his jaw darker, his frame even leaner. But it was him. You knew him like you knew your own breath.
And everything else disappeared.
The bag slipped from his fingers with a soft thud. His eyes widened, mouth parting like he wasnât sure if you were real, if this moment was real. And then he said your name. Barely above a whisper. Like it hurt to say it out loud.
But he didnât get the rest out.
Because your feet were already moving.
You ran. So fast you barely registered the wind catching your dress, the people you pushed past, the gasps of strangers as you flew through the crowd. You ran like you had something to prove to time itself.
By the time you reached him, tears were streaming down your face. You didnât slow down. You didnât say anything.
Hard. Desperately. Like he was air after drowning, like he was a fire in the middle of winter. His hands found your waist, your back, your hair, like he couldnât touch enough of you fast enough. He kissed you back with everything he had left, lips trembling, breath catching, heart beating so wildly you could feel it against your chest.
You clung to him like youâd never let go, fingers twisting in the collar of his uniform, knuckles white. The world around you couldâve collapsed, and you wouldnât have noticed. All that existed was the warmth of his mouth, the way he whispered your name between kisses like a prayer, like a vow. His nose brushed yours, cheeks damp with tears, and he pulled you even closer, burying his face into the crook of your neck for just a second, just to breathe you in.
âGod,â he rasped, voice breaking. âYouâre real. Youâre actually here.â
You nodded, kissing the edge of his jaw, his temple, anywhere you could reach. âI thought I lost you,â you whispered, forehead pressed to his. âI thought you wereââ
âIâm here,â he breathed. âIâm here. Iâm here.â
And just like that, the world tilted back into place.
His parents came rushing in not long after, tears spilling freely as they engulfed him in hugs and kisses. His mother clutched his face, kissed his cheeks a dozen times, smoothed down his hair like she was trying to memorize him all over again. His father gripped his shoulder, strong and silent at first, until he wasnât. Until the hug broke and the tears came.
You stood just behind them, still breathless, still stunned, your heart thudding in your chest like it hadnât quite accepted reality yet. He was here. He was real.
But as you looked at him, really looked, you noticed the differences. He was still Jake, of course, but there was something in his eyes now that hadn't been there before. He was older, naturally. More built, solid from training and hardship. His posture was straighter, more controlled. His skin looked rougher, kissed by sun and wind and soot. There was stubble on his jaw, and a sharpness in his gaze. He didnât wear that wide, innocent Jake smile you remembered so clearly. The boy you knew had grown into a man.
A man who had been through hell, and survived.
And something about that made your stomach twist. In awe. In sorrow. In love. You didnât even realize you were staring until his mom leaned in close and whispered, âYou deserve tonight with him. For never losing hope.â His father gave a soft nod to your parents, the unspoken blessing passing between them.
That night, you laid curled up in his bed, the same bed you used to sneak into just to talk or kiss under the covers when no one was looking. The sheets smelled like home. The soft ticking of the clock on his dresser, the faded poster on his wall, the books still stacked in the corner, everything was the same, and yet it wasnât. You werenât teenagers anymore. This wasnât just another sleepover after a dance.
Your thoughts tumbled, unruly and loud. You thought about the way heâd kissed you like his life depended on it. The way his hands trembled. The silence in his eyes. You thought about the years youâd spent not knowing, the ache of unanswered letters, the fear. And now, he was just down the hall, finally safe.
You heard the bathroom door creak open.
He walked into the room, towel slung over his shoulders, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He wore only sweatpants, no shirt, and your breath caught.
âSo nice to have some hot water,â he said casually, like this was any normal night.
Jake slipped under the covers beside you, his body warm from the shower, his scent clean but still familiar, still him. You shifted closer without thinking, your hands instinctively finding his chest, your head resting against his shoulder.
Jake shifted under you, his hands trembling as he ran them over your back, his fingertips digging into the soft fabric of your clothes, pulling you closer, closer, as if he couldnât get enough of your presence. His lips didnât leave yours for even a second, and every kiss was another piece of the world falling back into place. His mouth tasted like salt and the remnants of the battle, but it was still home.Â
You pulled back slightly, breathless, your hands now running over the planes of his chest. Your fingers ghosted over the hard muscles beneath his skin, and you noticed the scars. They were there, small, faded marks from the battles heâd faced, the battles heâd fought for this moment. For you.
âYouâre here,â you whispered, voice shaky, as if it was a dream you were scared of waking from. Your eyes trailed down his body, noticing how much had changed. His body was different, broader, stronger, his abs more defined, his skin rougher. The carefree, innocent boy you once knew was no more. He was a man now, hardened by experiences neither of you could have predicted. And even though that realization left a bittersweet taste on your tongue, you couldnât deny the way it made your heart race.
âJakeâŠâ You murmured his name like a prayer, as you pressed your lips to the small scar near his ribs. Your hands roamed back up his body, to the firm muscles of his shoulders, to the spots you knew by heart.
His hands gripped you tighter, his breath unsteady. âWhat are you doing?â he asked, voice low and thick with emotion.
âJust remembering you,â you said softly, your lips trailing over his skin, kissing the hard edges of the man he had become. âJust remembering what Iâve been waiting for.â
You heard his breath hitch, and the next thing you knew, Jake had flipped you gently onto your back, his weight pressing down on you but not suffocating. He kissed you again, this time slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to make up for the months lost to silence. His hands slid under your shirt, dragging it over your head, his touch sending electric sparks across your skin.
But then, in the midst of the heat between you, he paused. His lips hovered over yours, his forehead pressing against yours, the rawness of his vulnerability hanging between you.
In the stillness, he asked, âSo⊠why didnât you ever write me back?â The weight of his question lingered in the air, a quiet plea that somehow felt more fragile than any explosion or battle wound.
You blinked. Slowly sat up. âWhat?â
Jake swallowed hard, his grip on your shoulders tightening. His voice cracked when he spoke next, raw and thick with emotion. âI wrote. I wrote so many letters. Every week. Every damn week. I sent them all to you, and nothing came back.â His eyes filled with tears, but this time, he didnât try to hide them. âI thought you gave up on me. That you had moved on.â
Your heart shattered all over again, the pieces splintering, but this time, you had him in your arms. You had him back. And that was all that mattered. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. âJake... no. You were the one I never gave up on. I wrote you. I never stopped. I thought I was the one who was forgotten.â
The confusion hit both of you at the same time, like a silent shockwave.
Jakeâs expression slowly shifted, realization dawning behind his eyes. âNo,â he whispered. âNo, it wasnât you.â He sat up, breath picking up. âI remember, some of the guys were saying the same thing. How their letters stopped coming. How they thought their families gave up. But they didnât. Something mustâve happened. Something went wrong.â
Jakeâs chest heaved as he struggled to breathe, and then, finally, he let the tears fall. He let himself break down, his body shaking as he held onto you, as if you were his anchor in the storm that had raged inside him for so long. âIâm sorry,â he whispered. âI thought you... I thought you hated me.â
You shook your head, pressing your forehead to his. âNo. I could never hate you. I wouldâve waited for you. A thousand years if I had to.â You paused, the weight of your words sinking in. âI love you, Jake. I never stopped.â
He kissed you then, a desperate kiss that spoke of everything that had been lost, everything that had been fought for. His lips were gentle at first, exploring, tasting, but then, it deepened. His body pressed into yours, his hands wandering over you like he couldnât remember the last time he touched you, as if you were the lifeline heâd been grasping for in the dark. His tongue traced the edge of your lips, coaxing you into a deeper kiss.
You couldnât help but moan softly, your hands tangling in his damp hair. The feel of him was overwhelming, grounding you, reminding you that the battle had been worth it, that he was worth it.
But then he pulled back just enough to catch his breath. His voice was hoarse, laden with emotion as he asked, âSo, what now?â
You smiled softly, hands running over his broad shoulders, across his chest, feeling the weight of all that he had endured. âI may have an idea.âÂ
His breath caught as your hands slowly descended from his broad shoulders, grazing down the taut lines of his body until they hovered just above the waistband of his pants. Jake's gaze followed your every movement, his chest rising with a quick, sharp inhale.Â
You let your hands hover just above his crotch area, your fingers barely brushing against his pants before you gripped him firmly, a low groan escaping Jake's lips. You flipped him over, straddling him, positioning yourself firmly on top. He watched you in awe as you slowly descended, moving lower and lower down his body. His teeth gripped his bottom lip as you slowly tugged at the hem of his pants.Â
Jake's voice was hesitant, his brows furrowed. "Y/n, you don't have to," he said softly.
But you shook your head, kissing his v line. "No, I want to," you whispered, your eyes full of reassurance. "Let me do this for you."
You eased his pants down just enough for the slit in his underwear to be exposed. Fuck, he was hard now. You could see it and your mouth watered at the sight in front of you. You glanced up for a moment to meet Jakeâs eyes. His chest rose and fell with each breath, his lips slightly parted, and his gaze was intense, full of desire.
You felt a shiver run down your spine as you took in the sight of him, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his desire palpable and intoxicating. You leaned in, your breath hot on his skin, and you could hear his breath hitch in response. You ran your tongue along the length of him, tasting the saltiness of his skin, feeling him twitch at the contact. You looked up at him again, your eyes meeting his, and you saw the raw, primal need reflected back at you. It sent a jolt of electricity through you, making your own desire burn hotter. You took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, feeling him fill you, tasting the sweetness of his pre cum.Â
You could feel him, hard and throbbing, as you began to move, taking him deeper, feeling him hit the back of your throat. You could hear his ragged breaths, feel his hands fisting in your hair, and it spurred you on, making you want to take more of him, to give him more pleasure. You could feel your own desire building, your body aching for him, but you wanted to make this last, to draw out this moment of pure, intense pleasure for as long as possible.
The room filled with the sound of wet, sucking noises as you worked Jake's cock with your mouth, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head. You could feel him throbbing, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands fisting in your hair, guiding you, urging you on. You could feel the tension building in him, his body taut, his breath coming in short gasps.Â
You knew he was close, and it made you want to push him over the edge, to feel him come undone in your mouth. But you also wanted to tease him, to draw out this moment of pure, intense pleasure. You slowed your pace, pulling back, running your tongue along the length of him, feeling him twitch and shudder at the contact. You could hear him groan, a sound of frustration and desire, and it made you smile, made you want to continue this dance of give and take, of pushing and pulling, until he couldnât take it anymore.
You took him deep again, feeling him hit the back of your throat, and you hummed, a sound of pleasure that vibrated through him, making him groan louder. You could feel him getting harder, his breath coming in short gasps. You pulled back again, running your tongue along the sensitive underside of him, feeling him shudder.
Jake's grip on your hair tightened, his body tensing as he tried to hold back. You looked up at him, your eyes locked onto his, and you saw the struggle in his gaze. 'Y/n,' he groaned, a warning in his voice, but you just smiled, a wicked glint in your eye. You wanted to taste him, to feel him let go completely. You took him deep again, your fingers digging into his thighs for support. You could feel him pulsing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was close, so close. You hummed around him, the vibrations pushing him over the edge. 'Fuck!' he cried out, his body convulsing as he came in your mouth. You swallowed every drop, savoring the taste of him, a sense of satisfaction washing over you as you watched him come undone. You licked your lips, a smirk playing on your mouth as you looked up at him.
You stood up, your eyes never leaving Jake's, and slowly began to undress. Jake watched, his eyes darkening with desire, his breath hitching as you unzipped your skirt, letting it pool at your feet, stepping out of it, leaving you in nothing but your lacy underwear. Jake's eyes raked over your body, a low growl escaping his lips. He reached out, his fingers tracing the lace, making you shiver. He hooked his fingers into the sides of your underwear, slowly pulling them down, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending jolts of electricity through you. You stepped out of them, completely bare before him.Â
He reached down, positioning himself at your entrance, looking down at you with a mix of love and lust. âI've missed you so much,â he whispered, his voice barely audible. He pushed into you, slowly, gently, filling you completely. You bit your lip to stop yourself from crying out, his parents' room just down the hall a stark reminder of your need for silence.Â
Jake moved slowly, his thrusts measured, controlled, his body tensing with the effort to stay quiet. You could feel every inch of him, your body stretching to accommodate him, the pleasure building with each slow thrust. You looked up at him, your eyes locked onto his, and you saw the same struggle reflected back at you. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with your shared desire, the soft sounds of your bodies coming together, the only noise in the room.Â
Jake's pace quickened, his hips snapping forward as he struggled to keep quiet, his breath coming out in short, ragged whines. He was losing control, his grip on his restraint slipping, and it was the most exhilarating thing you'd ever seen.Â
He leaned down, his mouth finding your breast, his teeth grazing your nipple, his tongue flicking out to soothe the sting. He was muffling his sounds, his moans vibrating against your skin, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His thrusts became more urgent, more insistent, his body slamming into yours, the bed creaking softly under the force. You could feel the tension building in him, the way his body was coiling, ready to snap.Â
You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him in deeper, encouraging him, wanting to feel him lose control completely. He growled, a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and you knew he was close once again. He moved faster, his hips a blur, his body slapping against yours, the sound of your wetness filling the room. âOh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,â he whimpered.
He was fucking you so hard, his body consumed by the need to come, and it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. You could feel your own orgasm building, the pleasure coiling in your belly, ready to explode. You bit your lip, trying to stay quiet, but a soft moan escaped you as he hit that spot inside you, sending you spiraling over the edge. âJake!â you cried out, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back as you came undone.Â
He followed soon after, his body tensing, his mouth finding yours, swallowing your cries as he came inside you, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
He collapsed on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, a testament to the intensity of your shared passion. The room was filled with the sound of ragged breathing, the air thick with the scent of lovemaking, a silent testament to your reunion.
Jake, still trembling from the intensity of his orgasm, slowly pulled out of you, a soft groan escaping his lips. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before rolling off of you, leaving you feeling empty and cold without his warmth. He stood up, his body still glistening with sweat, and you watched as he padded silently to the bathroom, his muscles flexing with each step. The sound of running water filled the room, and you could picture him wetting a few towels, his hands moving efficiently, his mind already planning his next move.Â
He returned a few moments later, his eyes soft as he looked down at you, a small smile playing on his lips. He sat down on the bed, his body turned towards you, and he began to clean you gently, his touch soft and reverent.Â
He ran the towel over your skin, his fingers following the path of the cloth, tracing the lines of your body, making you shiver. He cleaned himself next, his touch more brusque, more hurried, as if he couldn't wait to be done and back in your arms. Once he was finished, he tossed the towels onto the floor, his eyes never leaving yours. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, a promise of more to come.Â
âGoodnight,â he whispered, his voice barely audible. He stood up, pulling the covers over you, tucking you in like a precious treasure. He turned off the lights, casting the room into darkness, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioner. He climbed into bed next to you, his body spooning yours, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck, his body warm and solid against yours. You closed your eyes, a sense of contentment washing over you, as you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of Jake's arms, ready to face whatever tomorrow might bring.
Life after Jake came back was quieter, but in a way that felt fragile, like the world was holding its breath around him.
You remember the first time you saw him step off that ship, you almost didnât recognize him. His face was leaner, his eyes older. There was something in the way he carried himself, stiff, guarded, like he wasnât sure how to be in a place where no one was trying to kill him. But when his gaze found yours across the platform, there was a flicker of the boy you used to know. Just a flicker. Enough.
Some nights were harder than others. He never talked much about what happened, not at first. But when you stayed over, curled up beside him in his bed, he didnât always sleep. Sometimes heâd jolt awake, his chest heaving, sweat beading along his hairline. You didnât ask what he saw in those dreams. You didnât need to.
It was in those moments you realized that no matter how much time passed, Jake would never be the same boy you grew up with. The war had taken pieces of him. From the fight. From the blood. From the friends he lost. There were ghosts in his eyes now, things you could never chase away. But you didnât try to.
Because slowly, piece by piece, he started to come back.
It was in the way heâd crack a crooked grin when you teased him about the way he still hated tomatoes. In the way his laugh started to sound less forced, more like the one you remembered echoing down the old dirt roads when you were kids. He began to tease you again, poking fun at your terrible card skills, stealing the last piece of pie when you werenât looking.
And when he smiledâreally smiledâyou saw it.
The old Jake. The one who once chased you through fields in the summer heat. The one who carried your books home from school. The one who left part of his heart in the letters you kept folded in a box under your bed.
You didnât love him in spite of what the war had done.
You loved him because of it. Because he was still standing. Because beneath the scars and shadows, he was still Jake. Yours.
And it wasnât perfect, it wasnât easy, but it was enough.
Because sometimes, surviving was the bravest thing of all.
