#soft first time

The night before the Horsemen’s first big show felt like the whole world was inhaling and holding it.

The backstage of the Las Vegas theater they’d be performing at buzzed with a nervous, excited electricity that settled into the walls like static. Curtains whispered when the air shifted. Footsteps echoed unevenly across the scuffed concrete floors. Somewhere in the maze of dressing rooms, Henley practiced timing. Merritt argued with someone over a missing pair of sunglasses. Atlas paced the hallway like a king waiting to be crowned.

Everything was loud, intense, tilted toward greatness.

And then there was Jack.

You found him in the one quiet corner of the building, tucked behind a stack of crates filled with props. A single warm bulb hummed overhead, casting a soft golden circle around him. He sat on the floor with his legs stretched out, back pressed to a wooden crate, a deck of cards flipping between his fingers in a restless blur.

Only, he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t bragging. He wasn’t showing off.

He looked human. Tired. Young. Nervous.

You watched him for a few seconds before stepping into the light. “Hiding?”

Jack’s head snapped up so fast a card flicked out of his hand and skidded across the floor. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He exhaled dramatically. “You scared me.”

“You scare pretty easily for a magician.”

“That’s because you sneak up on me like some kind of ninja,” he said, but his voice was soft, almost shy. He gestured to the empty space near him. “Come sit. Please.”

You lowered yourself beside him, knees brushing. Jack stiffened, then relaxed with a small, shaky smile.

The backstage noises faded as the quiet between you settled into something warm, something familiar.

“You nervous about the show?” you asked gently.

Jack let his head fall back against the crate. “I’m terrified.”

You blinked. “You? Terrified?”

He laughed weakly. “Don’t tell Atlas. He’d have me mopping the stage for saying it out loud.”

The cards stilled in his hands, and he stared down at them.

“I just… I really want this to be good,” he said, voice breaking a little. “The show, the team, the dream. Everything. It feels like this is my shot and if I mess it up, I’ll never get another one.”

You shifted closer, shoulder touching his. “Jack. You’re the heart of this team. You’re the spark.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t used to hearing that from anyone. Like it meant more than you realized.

The bulb overhead buzzed. Jack’s breath trembled. He whispered, “You make me less scared.”

You touched his hand. “Because I believe in you.”

His fingers curled around yours, tentative at first, then firmer when you didn’t pull away. His breath caught like he couldn’t handle how good that felt.

“Can I tell you something?” Jack asked quietly.

“Anything.”

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on your joined hands. “I like you. Not in a little crush way. Not in a hey, you’re cute way. More like… when I think about this show being perfect, you’re part of that picture. Part of what makes me brave enough to get through it.”

Your heart skipped.

He finally looked up at you, eyes bright and nervous. “Please say that’s not weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you breathed. “It’s really sweet.”

Jack’s breath eased, his shoulders loosening. “You’re not gonna run away?”

“I’m right here,” you said.

He let out a soft laugh that sounded almost relieved. “Good. Because I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks and if I don’t do it now I might combust.”

You leaned in first. “Then kiss me, Jack.”

His lips met yours gently at first, warm and careful, like he was afraid of getting it wrong. You cupped his cheek, guiding him, and that was all it took for him to melt into the kiss. He sighed against your mouth, fingers sliding up your arm, trembling with how badly he wanted to touch you.

The kiss deepened slowly, sweetly, the kind that builds heat gradually, naturally, without rushing.

Jack pulled back just enough to whisper, “I want you. I want all of this. But only if you really want it too.”

You brushed your lips against his. “I do.”

His breath hitched, the kind of sound someone makes when a wish comes true.

You pulled him closer, settling into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. Jack flushed but didn’t hesitate. His hands settled on your waist, gentle and reverent.

“I’ve never done this with someone I care about,” he admitted quietly. “So just… guide me if I’m awkward.”

You kissed him again, slow, reassuring. “I’ll take care of you.”

His eyes softened, his body relaxing under your touch, and the two of you moved together into something warm, intimate, exploratory. Every kiss deeper than the last, every touch tender and patient. Jack’s nervous laughter between soft moans, your hands learning him, his breath catching when you whispered his name.

Jack made you feel cherished, and you made him feel chosen.

And before the night ended, before the lights and the cheering crowds and the storm of fame that would change everything, Jack held you close and whispered:

The rain in London didn’t fall so much as it clung—misty, cold, seeping through coat sleeves and exhaustion equally. The Horsemen had just slipped out of one disaster and were quietly preparing for the next, tucked into the backroom of a warehouse that barely had electricity but somehow had perfect acoustics for bickering.

Jack was hunched over a scattered spread of cards, coins, and some tech he definitely wasn’t supposed to have, and you were on the opposite end of the table playing with the deck he’d handed you. Neither of you spoke at first. Neither of you had spoken much at all since Macau.

Since the plane.

Since Lula joined. 

 Since he’d avoided your eyes like you were fire and he didn’t trust himself not to walk straight into you.

You should’ve been angry. Or maybe hurt. Or maybe indifferent.

But you were just… tired of pretending you didn’t know what this was.

“Can you at least shuffle like you’re trying?” Jack muttered without looking up.

You flicked a card at him. It hit his shoulder. “What’s wrong with my shuffle?”

“It’s emotional,” he said. “It’s like the cards are screaming.”

“Oh, so you can read cards’ emotions now? Amazing. Truly a magician.”

His jaw ticked. A familiar tic. You had him.

Jack dropped his tools on the table and leaned back in the chair with a sigh that sounded like he’d been holding it for days.

“Are we gonna talk about it or not?”

Your pulse kicked. But your voice stayed cool. “Talk about what?”

“That.” He gestured vaguely—between you, between him, between the tension knotting the entire room together like an invisible rope.

“Macau?” you asked. “Or the plane with Lula?” “Or the part where you almost kissed her when the lights flickered—”

Jack stood so fast his chair screeched. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp, cutting, so full of things he was absolutely not supposed to feel—not with everything going on, not when the entire world seemed to be collapsing around you both.

“You noticed,” he said softly.

“Hard not to,” you answered, even softer.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, like he was deciding whether to lie or run or confess. He chose none.

Instead, he stopped directly in front of you.

“I’m not good at this,” he said. “Any of this. You know that.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

“And I don’t… I don’t want to mess you up. You’re already in this insane world because of us—”

“I chose this world.”

“Right, I know, but—” He dropped his eyes. “If anything happened to you because of me, I’d never—”

“Jack.” You touched his hand.

He froze like you’d just hit pause on his entire nervous system.

You stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of panic and longing in equal measure. Close enough that your breath warmed the space between you.

“You don’t have to protect me from you,” you said.

He laughed once—soft, hopeless. “You have no idea how wrong you are.”

And then, gently, like he was terrified to startle you, he lifted a hand and cupped your jaw with trembling fingers.

Not kissing you. Not pulling away.

Just holding your face like you were a secret he’d been trying not to say out loud.

“Spending those  show nights with you… the roofs, the lights… it was the first time in months I could breathe,” he murmured. “And that scares me more than anything The Eye could ever throw at us.”

Your heart tripped.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want this to ruin us. And it will. It always does.”

You swallowed. Regret throbbed behind your ribs, because you knew he was right—this life, this mission, this dangerous dance around each other—it would break something eventually.

But you still whispered, “Maybe it doesn’t have to.”

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Until— He leaned in. Not a kiss. Not quite. His forehead touched yours, soft and trembling, like a promise or a warning.

“I think about you way more than I should,” he whispered. “And if I kiss you now, I won’t stop.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He stepped back like it hurt him. “Not yet,” he said. “Not like this. Not when everything’s on fire.”

You tried to smile. “You’re allowed to want something good, you know.”

He met your eyes—finally, fully. And God, there it was. Everything he’d been hiding.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “And I want you. That’s the problem.”

And before you could answer— Dylan called from the hallway.

The moment shattered. Jack pulled away. Mask back on. Walls up.

But his fingers brushed yours as he passed you, just once, like he couldn’t help himself.

A silent apology. A silent promise. A silent I’m not done with you yet.

And you followed him out into the storm.