#js1 fic

You never gave much thought to your love life. Not because you didn’t want to, but because it was easier that way—dating had never been your thing. You had plenty of stories, none of them good. So, like any rational adult, you stopped trying. Since sophomore year of college, you hadn’t even hugged a guy, much less been on a date. It wasn’t until your roommate brought up her utterly ridiculous idea that it even crossed your mind again.

"A double date," she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

You laughed, thinking it was a joke. "No thanks."

But now, here you are, walking into a crowded, sticky bar in Boston, tugged along by her insistent hand. The sound of chatter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of bad pop music assaulted your senses, and you already felt out of place. This definitely wasn’t part of your plan for the night.

You trail behind your roommate like a sheep being led to the world’s least exciting slaughter. Why are you here again? Your arms cross protectively over your chest, already bracing for awkward small talk and forced laughter. As you near the booth, you dare a glance at your date, but immediately decide against it. Nope, not ready for that yet. Instead, your eyes zero in on your roommate’s boyfriend, already seated with a smug grin, obviously pleased with himself for somehow orchestrating this.

"Hey, Trent, how are you?" you mumble, keeping your focus on the sticky, laminated menu lying flat on the table. You slide into the booth next to the other guy, your legs awkwardly brushing against the cold, ripped pleather of the seat.

Across from you, Trent greets you back, then launches into some conversation—beer, Boston sports, or his new protein shake obsession. Who even knows at this point? Your roommate is nodding along, her face lighting up like she hasn’t heard the exact same spiel a hundred times before.

You flick your gaze over to the guy next to you—your date, you remind yourself. Forcing your eyes up to get a better look at him, you note that he hasn’t spoken yet. Probably for the best. He doesn’t look terrible. Definitely not winning any awards tonight, but not bad. Brown hair, kind of messy—not in the cute “I woke up like this” way, more like the “I actually just rolled out of bed” kind.

You clear your throat, filling the silence between you with what feels like an elephant sitting on your chest. "So," you begin, glancing at the menu again before diving into the obligatory introductions, "I guess I should know your name?"

The guy turns to you, his expression a mix of mild surprise and amusement. "Jeremy," he says, extending his hand like you’re in a job interview.

You blink at him, suppressing a snort. Jeremy? Really? Who even names their kid Jeremy these days? You shake his hand, which is surprisingly warm despite the bar’s overly aggressive air conditioning. "Jeremy, huh?" you muse, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips before you can stop yourself. "Do I call you Jere for short? Or… Remy?"

His eyebrow quirks. "Most people stick with Jeremy."

You shrug, feeling a bit proud for breaking the ice, even if it’s by lightly mocking him. "Remy it is then." You go back to pretending to seriously consider the overpriced cocktails.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice him watching you, probably trying to figure out if you’re joking or just weird. Spoiler alert: it’s both. But you’re used to that. He doesn’t seem too put off, which you count as a win.

A few minutes pass, filled with Trent’s loud commentary and your roommate giggling like she’s never heard a more fascinating story. You, on the other hand, are trying to avoid more eye contact with Remy. Small talk’s not your thing, and the awkward tension creeping up your spine isn’t helping.

"You wanna go grab drinks?" Jeremy—Remy—asks suddenly, cutting through the haze of bar noise.

Your eyes snap up from the menu. "Oh, um, sure." Standing up definitely sounds better than listening to more fantasy football updates from Trent.

As you slide out of the booth, your leg awkwardly bumps Jeremy’s knee. Perfect start. He follows you, and when he stands, your brain short-circuits for a second. He keeps standing. And standing. Holy—this guy is tall. Like, unexpectedly tall.

You look up at him, blinking a few times. "Whoa," you mutter under your breath before you can stop yourself. Of course, he notices.

Jeremy glances down at you, and for a second, you swear his cheeks flush—not quite red, but somewhere between embarrassed and amused. "Yeah, uh… I get that a lot."

You blink up at him again, still processing how tall he is. Honestly, why isn’t he playing for the Celtics? His height has to be illegal. “I bet you do, Remy,” you say, trying to play it off with a grin that feels only half-convincing.

He smiles—or kind of. It’s more like a twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he’s not sure whether to find you funny or confusing. That makes two of you.

As you walk toward the bar, you become hyper-aware of how your shoulder barely reaches his elbow. Every step makes you feel like you’ve wandered into the land of giants. You wonder if he has to duck through doorways like some kind of mythological creature—except, instead of intimidating, he’s just… Jeremy.

The bar area is as packed as the rest of the place, bodies pressed together, the smell of beer and cheap cologne thick in the air. You find an empty spot by the counter, but Jeremy hovers awkwardly a few feet away, unsure where to fit his limbs.

“Well,” you quip, glancing over at him with a smirk, “at least you’ll never lose me in a crowd.”

He laughs, a low, genuine sound that surprises you. Maybe he’s not so bad after all.

You stick close to him, feeling the space between you. He looms over you in a way that’s not intimidating, just confusing. He stands there, fidgeting slightly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. You suddenly wonder if he gets neck cramps from talking to women.

The bartender finally notices you, after what feels like forever of watching him flip cocktail shakers like he’s auditioning for Coyote Ugly. You tap your fingers on the bar, impatient. “So, what’s the plan, Remy? You ordering a protein shake, or are we going with something stronger?” You smirk, already anticipating his reaction.

He chuckles, leaning slightly closer, his breath ghosting over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Shots,” he says simply.

You blink, not sure you heard him right. “Shots? Like… tequila shots?”

His lips twitch into that almost-smile again. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

You weigh your options. You could go for something mild and responsible. Or, you could take the plunge. Anything’s better than sitting through another lecture on proper bench press form.

“Alright,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “Shots it is. But if I regret this later, I’m blaming you.”

Jeremy’s smile widens ever so slightly, and he waves down the bartender with ease. He orders two tequila shots, and the bartender doesn’t even question it.

You glance at your roommate, still wrapped up in Trent’s nonsense. She hasn’t even noticed you’ve escaped.

“To surviving the night,” Jeremy says, lifting his glass.

You stare at the shot for a second too long, then clink your glass against his before downing it. The burn hits immediately, spreading warmth down your throat. “Okay, wow,” you mutter, blinking. “That’s… strong.”

Jeremy laughs, not phased at all. Of course, he isn’t. This guy’s probably immune to tequila.

“Want another?” he asks casually, like it’s no big deal.

You blink at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious. “Are you trying to kill me?”

He shrugs, leaning on the bar. “Figured it’d help break the ice.”

You snort, shaking your head. “The first one shattered it.” But you’re already feeling more relaxed. Maybe he’s right.

You gesture to the bartender again, feeling a little bolder now. “Alright, Remy. Let’s do another.”

He smiles—like, actually smiles this time—and the expression transforms his whole face. You realize just now how serious he had looked before, like he was equally unsure about this entire situation. But now, with that smile, he looks... not bad. Maybe even kinda cute, in a tall, awkward way.

The bartender slides another two shots your way, and you brace yourself once more. “Okay,” you say, grabbing your glass and giving Jeremy a sidelong glance. “But after this, we’re switching to something less lethal.”

Jeremy chuckles softly, raising his shot glass in agreement. “Deal.”

The second shot goes down easier than the first, probably because your body has already accepted its fate. You set the glass down, blinking as the familiar warmth spreads through you. For a moment, the noise of the bar fades into the background, and you find yourself more relaxed than you’ve been all night.

You glance up at Jeremy, feeling the corners of your mouth tug upward. “Okay, Jeremy,” you begin, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. “So what’s your deal? You play hockey, right?”

You lean in closer, trying to gauge Jeremy’s reaction. The tequila buzz has kicked in just enough to make you feel more daring, loosening the tension that had knotted in your chest since you first walked into the bar. His smile is still there—small, but it reaches his eyes this time, a slight glimmer of something warmer than you’d expected from the guy who looked like he might rather be anywhere else.

Jeremy tilts his head slightly, meeting your gaze. “Yeah, I do. You into hockey?”

The question catches you off guard. Hockey? You hadn’t expected that. Your mind spins for a second, trying to recall any bit of knowledge about the sport—something, anything—to avoid sounding completely clueless. You know hockey players tend to have messy hair and muscles that could probably bench press a small car. That’s a fact, right?

You tilt your head in mock seriousness, the corners of your lips quirking up as you reply, “Does it count if I’ve seen Mighty Ducks?”

That earns a genuine laugh from Jeremy, his shoulders shaking slightly as he leans a little closer to you, still keeping his voice low over the noise. “We’ll call it a start,” he says, his breath warm against your ear. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, but not the uncomfortable kind—the kind that leaves you acutely aware of how close he is now.

You clear your throat, trying to refocus. The alcohol is definitely doing its job, making it easier to talk, easier to joke, but also making it harder to ignore the way Jeremy is looking at you now—like he’s actually interested. It’s a shift you hadn’t quite expected, but there it is.

“What about you?” Jeremy asks, shifting in his spot and propping his elbow on the bar like you two are just casually catching up at some coffee shop, not drowning in tequila at a sticky Boston bar. “You don’t seem too thrilled to be on this date.”

You can’t help but smirk at Jeremy's question. “Me? Excited?” You glance toward your roommate, now fully engrossed in what can only be described as an Olympic-level makeout session with Trent. You turn back to Jeremy, arching a brow. “I mean, can you blame me for feeling... left out of the fun?”

He follows your gaze, his lips quirking in amusement as he sees what you mean. “Guess they’re having a good night,” he remarks dryly, leaning on the bar a bit more comfortably now, like he’s settled into the chaos of the evening.

“They don’t ever take a break, I swear,” you mutter, the words dripping with sarcasm. You lift your empty shot glass, twisting it between your fingers, using it as a distraction. The alcohol has already loosened the knot of anxiety in your stomach, but that doesn’t stop the self-conscious feeling creeping back in.

You set the shot glass down, your fingers lingering on the rim, feeling the cool condensation as you give Jeremy a sidelong glance. His eyes are still on you, curious but relaxed, like he’s trying to figure you out, piece by piece. The hum of the crowd, the clinking of glasses, even the relentless thump of bad pop music—it all melts away, leaving just the two of you in this small, oddly intimate corner of the bar.

“So,” he says, leaning in just enough to close the space between you without being overbearing, “What exactly do you mean by ‘they don’t take a break?’” His voice is low, with just a hint of teasing curiosity. The smirk playing at his lips lets you know he’s more than a little interested in the answer.

You hesitate for a second, letting your fingers trace idle circles on the bar as you debate how much to reveal. The flickering light from behind the bar catches the glint of your glass, and you glance up at him, meeting his gaze head-on. He’s waiting, intrigued, and honestly, the tequila is doing enough heavy lifting that you don’t feel the need to hold back.

“Well,” you begin, leaning in closer as if sharing a secret, though the din of the bar makes sure no one else is listening. “Let’s just say living with her has been… educational.” You shoot him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow for emphasis. “They’re not exactly quiet, if you know what I mean.”

Jeremy blinks, his eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise before a slow grin spreads across his face. “Seriously?” he asks, his tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Like… how often are we talking?”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you roll your eyes. “Oh, please. You have no idea. Every other night—if I’m lucky. Sometimes I’m sitting in the living room, minding my own business, and then—bam—Trent’s there, and, well… things escalate quickly.”

The mental image of your roommate and Trent’s frequent… activities is enough to make you cringe, and yet, you find yourself laughing about it now. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, or maybe it’s the fact that Jeremy seems to find the whole situation as ridiculous as you do. Either way, you don’t mind sharing the awkward truth.

“So, what, you’re just, sex-negative?” he suddenly asks, his voice dropping slightly as he leans closer, clearly enjoying this conversation more than you expected.

You blink at Jeremy’s question, caught slightly off guard by the shift in the conversation. Sex-negative? Definitely not. But how do you explain the dry spell without it sounding like you’ve been living under a rock? The last thing you want is for him to think you’re inexperienced, but also, it’s not exactly something you’re eager to dive into—especially in a bar.

A small smile tugs at your lips as you lean back slightly, running your fingers along the cool surface of your glass. “Negative? No, not at all,” you respond, your tone light and playful, dodging the question without outright avoiding it. “I just think there’s such a thing as… moderation, you know? Not everyone’s out there trying to set world records.”

Jeremy laughs, a low, easy sound that rumbles in his chest, and you feel the warmth of his amusement lingering in the air between you. His eyes flicker down to your lips briefly before meeting your gaze again, something a little more intent simmering beneath his casual expression.

"Moderation, huh?" he teases, resting his elbow on the bar and leaning in just a bit closer. His voice lowers, like it’s a secret he’s only willing to share with you. “So… you're not exactly a frequent flyer these days?”

Your heart stutters for a second, and you immediately realize this conversation is skating on thin ice—fun, sure, but also dangerous territory. The tequila in your system makes it easier to respond with a coy, teasing smile instead of outright flustered honesty.

“I wouldn’t say that,” you reply, biting your lip as you meet his gaze. His proximity is undeniable now, his cologne subtly mixing with the scent of the bar, making the space between you feel smaller, more intimate. The warmth of his body radiates toward you, and you can’t help but feel a growing tension with every lingering glance. “Let’s just say I’m… picky.”

The smirk on Jeremy’s lips grows wider as he watches you carefully. There’s a challenge in his eyes, a knowing look that makes your stomach flip with both excitement and apprehension. His gaze travels lazily over your features, taking in the way your lips curve, the soft flutter of your lashes, before settling on your eyes once more.

"Picky, huh?" he echoes, his tone teasing but layered with a hint of intrigue. He lets the word hang in the air for a moment, his fingers drumming softly on the bar, almost like he's gauging your reaction. "I guess that means… you’re hard to impress."

You feel a flush creep up your neck, but you’re quick to counter. “It’s not about being hard to impress. Just… discerning.”

The word lingers between you, wrapped in unspoken meaning, and Jeremy’s expression shifts—less playful now, more curious, like he’s peeling back layers. His eyes flicker down to your lips again, and this time, they linger there, just for a heartbeat too long.

“And what exactly does it take to impress you?” he asks, his voice dropping lower, softer, so that the question feels like it’s meant only for your ears. His elbow on the bar brings him even closer, and you can feel the faintest brush of his knee against yours under the table. It’s enough to send a pulse of awareness through you, and you suddenly find it harder to keep your breathing steady.

You swallow, your thoughts racing as you try to formulate a reply without giving too much away. You’re enjoying this dance of flirtation, but it’s getting harder to stay detached when his eyes are practically smoldering in the dim light of the bar.

“It’s not something you can just list off,” you say, your voice a little more breathless than intended. “It’s… more of a feeling.”

Jeremy’s gaze darkens, his smirk softening into something more serious, more intent. “A feeling, huh?” His voice is a hushed murmur now, intimate in a way that makes your pulse quicken. His fingers brush ever so lightly against your hand, sending a spark of electricity up your arm. "And are you feeling anything right now?"

Your breath catches, your mind racing for a moment, but then you lean in, closing the space between you, your lips almost brushing his ear as you whisper, “Maybe.”

It’s the way his body shifts subtly, the way his breath hitches at your words, that tells you this game is on a knife's edge now. The air between you is thick, charged, every glance and movement loaded with the weight of unspoken possibilities.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, and the intensity there makes your heart race. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the noise of the bar fading even further into the background. The tension between you is palpable, humming in the space where your bodies are just barely not touching.

“You’re making this very difficult,” you mutter, barely loud enough to be heard over the distant hum of the bar. You give him a playful smirk, trying to deflect the growing tension, but the look in his eyes tells you he’s not letting you off that easily.

“Oh, I am?” His voice is a low murmur, teasing but edged with something else, something darker. He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your neck. His lips hover just near your ear, and he’s so close that the scent of his cologne mixes with the faint musk of the bar, making you dizzy in the best way. “I don’t know… seems like you’re handling it just fine.”

Your heart skips a beat at the way he says it, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with meaning. His fingers slip away from yours, trailing a path up your arm, slow and deliberate, and you can’t help the way your body reacts—goosebumps rising on your skin, a shiver running down your spine.

He’s testing you. And you know it.

You take a slow breath, biting your lip as you meet his gaze. The teasing, playful banter from earlier feels miles away now, replaced by something far more electric. “Oh, I’m handling it?” you echo, your voice steady, though your pulse is anything but. “You sure about that?”

Jeremy grins, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something much more primal. He leans in even closer, his lips almost brushing your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re not exactly hiding it well,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, the words sending a jolt of heat through your body.

You swallow hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you try to stay composed. His proximity, his voice, the way his hand is now resting on your knee, fingers just barely grazing the inside of your bare leg—it’s all too much, and yet not enough. There’s a part of you that wants to play it cool, to keep this dance going, but the other part—the part that’s been aching for this, for him—is ready to break.

You lean in, your lips dangerously close to his ear now, letting your breath brush his skin as you speak. “You think I’m hiding something?” you whisper, your voice soft but filled with challenge.

His hand tightens slightly on your knee, the pressure sending a wave of heat through you, and he lets out a low, throaty chuckle that vibrates against your chest. “Oh, I know you are,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your ear as he speaks. “You’ve been dodging my questions all night.”

You laugh softly, the sound more breathless than you intended. You can feel the tension building between you, the way every small touch, every whispered word, is pulling you both closer to the edge. “Maybe I just like keeping you guessing,” you reply, your voice low, playful, but laced with the same tension that’s thrumming between you.

Jeremy pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze again. His eyes are dark, full of intent, and the look he gives you is enough to make your stomach flip. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice soft but intense. “Is that it? Or…” His hand moves a little higher on your thigh, his fingers brushing the soft skin just beneath the hem of your dress, and your breath hitches. “...maybe you just don’t want to admit that it’s been a while.”

Your heart skips a beat, and for a split second, you forget how to breathe. He’s hit too close to the mark, and the sudden rush of heat to your cheeks betrays you before you can think of a response.

Jeremy’s grin widens, and he leans in again, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “I’m right, aren’t I?” he whispers, his voice soft but filled with that same teasing edge. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

You feel your pulse quicken, your mind racing as you try to think of something to say, some witty comeback that doesn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right. But the truth is, you can’t deny the way your body is reacting to him, the way every touch, every whispered word, is making it harder and harder to keep your composure.

“Maybe,” you manage, your voice soft, but the word feels more like a confession than you intended.

Jeremy lets out a low, throaty chuckle, and the sound sends a wave of heat coursing through your body. His hand moves higher, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin of your thigh, and you can’t help the way your breath catches in your throat.

“Thought so,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear again. “I can tell.”

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the way his touch is making your entire body hum with anticipation. “You’re awfully sure of yourself,” you mutter, though your voice lacks the bite you were aiming for.

Jeremy pulls back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes, his gaze intense and unwavering. “I’m just paying attention,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. His hand moves higher still, and you feel your heart race, every nerve in your body on edge. “And right now… you’re giving me all the right signals.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep your composure, but the way his hand is resting on your thigh, the heat of his touch burning through the fabric of your dress, is making it impossible to think straight.

“Signals?” You manage to echo, your voice far softer than you’d intended. You try to inject a bit of bite into it, but it’s lost in the haze that’s settled over your brain. The way his fingers toy with the hem of your dress is enough to scramble your thoughts completely, making you hyperaware of every point where your skin is just barely—achingly—touching his.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing your earlobe, and you swear you feel your entire body tighten in anticipation. “Mmhmm,” he hums, his voice low and rough, full of wicked intent. “You know what kind of signals.”

You swallow, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, but the way his hand slides higher on your thigh—so casually possessive—has you fighting a gasp. His lips barely graze the sensitive skin just below your ear, his breath sending goosebumps racing across your skin, and it takes everything in you to not visibly shudder at the sensation.

“I can feel how tense you are,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and confident, the words practically dripping with suggestiveness. “Bet I could help with that. Get you to relax a little…” His fingers press just slightly into your skin, as though testing the waters, and you bite your lip to stifle the noise building in your throat. “You’d like it if I got my hands on you, wouldn’t you?”

You let out a shaky laugh, trying to play it off, but his hand is still slowly, deliberately inching higher under the table, and it has your mind short-circuiting. “Relax? With you around? Not likely,” you manage, though your voice wobbles a bit at the end, betraying the nerves he’s stoking.

Jeremy smiles, his eyes dark and full of intent as they flicker from your lips to your eyes, studying every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. “Oh, I think you’d be surprised,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that sends another wave of goosebumps racing up your arms. He leans in again, his breath hot against your ear, and the proximity, the way his lips brush against your skin as he speaks, makes your entire body tense up.

His fingers trail lightly along your inner thigh, and you bite your lip, fighting the overwhelming urge to lean into him, to just let go of the tension that’s been coiling tighter and tighter inside you. “You’re so damn worked up,” he whispers, the words rolling off his tongue like a secret he’s been waiting to tell you. “I can feel it. Bet you’ve been thinking about this all night. Wondering what it’d be like to let me take care of you.”

Your pulse spikes, and you feel a hot flush crawl up your neck, his words hitting too close to the truth for comfort. You can’t stop the way your body reacts, though, the ache in your chest, the way your breath hitches when his fingers press a little harder against your thigh.

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” you shoot back, your voice steadier than you feel, but there’s a hitch in it that gives you away.

“Oh?” His lips are so close to your ear now, his breath warm and teasing. “Then why haven’t you pulled away?” His fingers skim higher, brushing the hem of your dress, and you shudder, the heat pooling low in your belly almost too much to handle.

You don’t have an answer for that. Not a good one, at least. Not one that’ll wipe that smug look off his face.

Instead, you let out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. The way he’s looking at you—it’s like he already knows exactly what’s going on in your head. It’s unnerving, but at the same time, it’s thrilling in a way that makes your pulse race even faster.

Jeremy seems to notice your reaction, his grin widening as he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes gleaming with that same wicked intent. “You ready to get out of here?” he asks, his voice soft but filled with heat.

The question sends a jolt of excitement through you, your heart racing as you meet his gaze. It’s a simple question, but the way he says it, the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin—it feels like so much more.

You nod, your breath catching in your throat as you bite your lip. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s go.”

The next few moments pass in a blur of movement and quick glances as the two of you leave the bar, the energy between you crackling with anticipation. Time seems to warp as you slip into a cab, the heat of Jeremy’s body next to yours making every second feel drawn out and charged with potential.

Then, before you know it, you’re at his place—his hand on the small of your back as he guides you through the door. It feels like the air between you is buzzing, thick with all the unspoken tension that’s been building all night.

You barely register the sound of the door clicking shut behind you as Jeremy’s lips crash against yours, slow and deliberate but with an undeniable intensity that sends your heart racing. His hands are immediately on you, slipping under your dress, fingers grazing the bare skin of your back as he pulls you closer, pressing his body against yours. The kiss is like a spark, igniting everything inside you, and you feel yourself melting into him, losing yourself in the heat of the moment.

The room around you feels hazy, almost dreamlike, the low hum of the city outside muffled by the thick tension hanging between you. It’s just the two of you now, and the weight of all the playful banter, the teasing touches, the knowing glances throughout the night—it all comes crashing down in a flood of adrenaline and need.

You break the kiss for a moment, gasping for air as Jeremy’s lips trail down the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, and you know they’ll bloom into bruises come morning, but you don’t care. Your hands, not to be outdone, find their way under his shirt, fingers splayed against the warm skin of his chest as you tug it upward, desperate to feel more of him. He helps, shrugging out of it in one fluid motion, and before you even have time to fully appreciate the sight of him, he’s back on you, his mouth capturing yours once again with a renewed sense of urgency.

The sensation of his hands slipping lower, teasing the hem of your dress, for real this time, has you biting back a gasp, your breath hitching as his fingers ghost along your thighs. It’s impossible to think, your mind fogged over with the sheer intensity of it all—the way his lips move against yours, the way his hands seem to know exactly where to touch, how to make your entire body light up with anticipation.

Somehow, between the tangled limbs and feverish kisses, you find yourself backed up against the kitchen counter. It’s cold against your legs, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from Jeremy’s body, and the next thing you know, he’s lifting you effortlessly onto it. You let out a surprised laugh, the sound breathless and airy, but there’s no time to dwell on it as he steps between your legs, his hands running up your thighs, pushing your dress higher.

“So eager,” you manage to tease, though your voice is shaky, breathless, and your words falter as his hands slide further up, brushing over the bare skin of your hips. His grin in response is smug, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, like he knows how close you are to completely unraveling under his touch.

“I could say the same about you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough as he leans in, his lips grazing your ear. His fingers make quick work of the zipper on your dress, the fabric slipping off your shoulders as he pushes it down, exposing more of your skin to the cool air of the apartment.

You try to respond, but the words die in your throat the second his lips find your collarbone, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your neck. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and before you know it, his fingers are wrapping around the waistband of your underwear. He pulls back just enough to take you in, his eyes dark and full of hunger as they rake over you, making your skin flush under his gaze.

But you’re not one to be outdone. With a mischievous grin, you tug him closer by the waistband of his jeans, your fingers slipping under the fabric as you pull him in for another heated kiss. His hands are everywhere, exploring, teasing, and it’s almost too much—the way his touch sets your skin alight, the way his lips move against yours, the sheer electricity pulsing between you.

Just as your fingers fumble with the button of his jeans, your heart pounding in your ears, there’s a sound—faint, but unmistakable. The door creaks open. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat, and for a split second, you think you’ve imagined it. But then there’s a voice.

“Yo, Jere, I—oh, shit.”

The voice, familiar and horrified, cuts through the tension like a bucket of cold water. You freeze, your hand literally in Jeremy’s pants, and your eyes snap to the doorway.

Trent.

Jeremy groans, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder as if the universe has just played the cruelest joke on him as you quickly jerk your hand back. “Are you serious right now?” he mutters under his breath, clearly fighting the urge to yell.

Trent stands there, eyes wide, clearly not expecting to walk in on this scene. “I, uh... I didn’t know... You didn’t say—”

Jeremy lifts his head, his expression somewhere between murderous and resigned. “Because I didn’t think I’d have to, Trent.”

You try to stifle a laugh, the situation so utterly absurd that you can’t help it. The whole thing is so comically tragic—like something out of a bad sitcom. You’re half undressed on a kitchen counter, Jeremy’s shirtless, and Trent is standing in the doorway looking like he just walked into a horror movie.

Trent, bless him, looks mortified. “I—I just—” He gestures wildly toward the door. “I got locked out of my place, and I was hoping…”

Jeremy seems ready to combust. He pulls away from you slightly, his hands still on your thighs but his face twisted in exasperation as he turns to Trent. “You’re kidding me, right?” Jeremy’s voice is tight, like he's holding onto the last thread of his patience. "You didn’t think—maybe—a text?"

Trent shrugs, his hands now nervously fiddling with his keys, and you can’t help but notice how absolutely, wonderfully oblivious he seems to the monumental cock-block he’s just performed. It’s like watching a train wreck, but instead of crashing, it’s just awkwardly derailing in slow motion. He looks like a lost puppy who’s wandered into a room he wasn’t supposed to be in but can’t figure out how to get back out.

Jeremy groans, the sound a mix of pure frustration and disbelief, and you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips. You stifle a laugh, but it bubbles up anyway, a soft, breathless giggle that you try to cover with your hand.

"Trent," you manage to say, trying to sound casual despite the fact that you're half-dressed and sitting on a counter like you’re in the middle of a steamy romance novel. "Maybe... maybe you could go...?" You trail off, attempting to subtly guide him toward the exit with a hopeful smile.

But Trent, bless his soul, doesn’t pick up on any of it. He scratches the back of his neck, his gaze darting to the floor. “Yeah, I mean... I didn’t think I’d be interrupting... uh, this...” He waves a hand vaguely in your direction, and Jeremy’s jaw clenches. “But since I’m here, I thought maybe... you know, I could crash? Until I can get back into my place? Like, just for a bit?”

There’s a beat of silence, so thick and awkward it feels like you could slice through it with a butter knife. You can practically feel Jeremy’s eye twitching beside you. You open your mouth to try again, this time a little more direct.

“Trent,” Jeremy starts this time, beating you, and his voice is steady, though there’s a distinct edge to it now, “this really isn’t a good time.”

There it is. Another hint. The gentle, polite way of saying, Please, for the love of God, get out. You hold your breath, waiting for Trent to get the message, to back away slowly and give you back the moment that’s still buzzing in the air between you and Jeremy. But Trent, bless him, doesn’t seem to pick up on the signals. Not even a little.

“Oh, right, right,” Trent says, nodding vigorously as though he’s just realized the gravity of the situation. And for a second, you think he’s about to leave. But no. He glances around the room awkwardly, eyes landing on the couch behind you. “I’ll just, uh... crash here for a bit, yeah? While I figure out the whole locked-out situation?”

Your eyes widen in disbelief. Is he serious?

You glance at Jeremy, whose entire body stiffens in response. His hands slip away from your hips, and he slowly turns to face Trent, like he’s gearing up to deliver a death blow. But instead, all that comes out is a strained, “Trent...”

Trent, still oblivious to the mounting tension, plops himself onto the couch like this is a totally normal occurrence. “Man, it’s freezing out there tonight. You got Netflix, right, Jere? I could really use something to take my mind off... well, everything.”

Jeremy lets out a long, frustrated sigh, dropping his forehead against your shoulder again. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin.

You can’t help it—you start laughing, soft at first but then uncontrollably, the sheer absurdity of the situation too much to contain. “This is... I mean... of course this is happening.” You’re still breathless from Jeremy’s kisses, your skin tingling, but the laughter bubbling up inside you is impossible to hold back.

Jeremy pulls back, shaking his head with a look of complete and utter disbelief. “He’s... he’s actually staying.” His tone is incredulous, as if he can’t quite fathom how Trent is that completely clueless.

You shrug, trying to keep a straight face but failing miserably. “Well, he did get locked out of his place.”

Jeremy groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, and for a second you think he might actually lose it. But then, the corner of his mouth twitches, and you realize he’s fighting off a grin. “We were this close.” He holds his fingers an inch apart, glaring toward the living room like Trent has personally offended him on the deepest level.

You shrug, biting your lip to keep from laughing outright. “He really doesn’t get it, does he?”

Jeremy’s eyes narrow, and you can see him wrestling with the idea of throwing Trent out versus just giving in to the ridiculousness of it all. “Apparently not.”

Trent, blissfully unaware of the war raging behind Jeremy’s eyes, is already flipping through Netflix, humming some random tune under his breath. “You guys cool with an action movie? Or maybe a rom-com?” he calls over his shoulder.

You and Jeremy share a look, both of you incredulous, both of you trying to come to terms with the fact that you’ve gone from about to hook up to... movie night. On the couch. With Trent.

“Well,” you say, hopping down from the counter, smoothing your dress with a sigh, “Looks like we’re watching Netflix.”

Jeremy just stares at you for a long moment, then shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about murder. He grabs his shirt from the floor, pulling it back on with a huff of defeat. “I’m never gonna let him live this down,” he grumbles, his voice low enough that only you can hear it.

You can’t help but smirk, despite the situation. “Could’ve been worse,” you say lightly, stepping closer and brushing your fingers teasingly against his side. “Oh yeah?” He replies, his voice taking on the same teasing tone, “How?”

“Well,” you say, lowering your voice so only he can hear, your lips brushing against his ear, “at least we weren’t naked yet.”

Jeremy’s eyes darken for a split second, and he leans in, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, “You’re really not making this any easier, you know that?”

You grin, your heart skipping a beat at the low timbre of his voice, but before you can respond, Trent finally picks a movie. “Ah! Found one!” He leans back on the couch, stretching his arms out like he’s settling in for the night. “You guys coming or what?”

Jeremy straightens up with a sigh, casting one last glance at you before muttering, “This is the worst night of my life.” But you can see the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, like even he can’t help but laugh at how utterly ridiculous this all is.

And so, with a shared look of resignation, you follow Jeremy to the couch. Because what else can you do?

“Popcorn?” Trent asks cheerfully, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened.