#tgms

You wake with a start, heart thudding, breath caught mid-gasp. A shiver runs down your spine– not from cold, but from something else. The air is different, charged, heavy with a presence. You shift to sit up– then freeze.

Jake is standing at the foot of your bed.

His eyes are fixed on you, unreadable in the dim light. You blink, struggling to shake off the fog of sleep.

“Jake?” your voice is hoarse, hesitant. “What are you–”

“What’d you dream about?” His voice is low. Almost gentle. But there’s something behind it, taut and dark, like a wire pulled tight.

You swallow, the fragments of your dream flickering behind your eyes before you can stop them. Jake– his mouth on your throat, his hands gripping your waist. The way he held you like you might shatter… right before he ruined you. His body pressed to yours, relentless. His voice in your ear, filthy, commanding, tender in the cruelest ways.

Your pulse stutters.

“I… I don’t remember,” you murmur, pushing yourself back until your spine meets the headboard.

He tilts his head, “Don’t lie to me.”

It’s not a threat. It’s quieter than that. Something broken. Something hungry. That voice… steady and soft, but laced with filth, laced with memory.

“I’m not,” you whisper, the lie already unraveling.

Jake steps closer.

“You are.”

The air in the room tightens, as if it's being pulled from your lungs. You don’t move. Can’t.

He’s at the side of the bed now, then kneeling, crawling up– slow, deliberate. His palms press into the mattress on either side of your hips, his body heat bleeding into yours, crowding you, cornering you.

His face is inches from yours. His breath brushes your cheek. And then, softly, almost reverently, he leans in, the tip of his nose trailing along your jaw until it rests against your cheek.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “what I did to you in that dream.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Heat blooms in your chest, crawls up your throat. You turn your face slightly, avoiding his eyes, his mouth, his presence, but he’s too close. There’s nowhere to go.

“I don’t know,” you murmur.

Jake pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes narrowing slightly. His mouth twitches, humorless. “You whimpered my name,” he says.

The words hang in the air like smoke. You freeze. He doesn’t miss it.

A slow, charged silence stretches between you.

Then, he lifts one hand again. Barely touches your skin as he brings his fingers to your temple. A single tap.

“Let me in,” he says softly. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Your breath catches.

The bond thrums just beneath the surface, like a current waiting to be touched. He’s right there. Just outside the wall you’ve built around your thoughts. All you have to do is lower it.

And against every instinct screaming at you to keep it locked– You let go.

The effect is immediate.

The connection snaps into place, a sudden rush of feeling and memory that slams into both of you. His eyes darken as the dream unfolds for him– in you. Your body arching under his. His mouth dragging across your skin. The heat. The weight. The way you needed him, desperate and undone.

You feel his reaction like it’s your own. The tension in his chest. The way his jaw clenches. A low hum of arousal and disbelief tangled together in the space between your minds.

Jake’s breath is shallow, ragged, as the last flicker of the dream fades from the space between you.

He saw everything.

You feel it– how hard he's gripping the mattress, the weight of him just barely held in check. His forehead presses to yours, his body heat wrapping around you like a second skin. Your thoughts are still tangled, your mind open and exposed, the bond pulsing between you like it’s alive.

Then he moves.

A slow shift. Not impatient, but intentional. Like a hunter. His lips brush your jaw, then lower– kissing softly along the line of your throat. You gasp, and try to turn your head.

He doesn’t let you.

“Don’t,” he breathes against your skin. “Don’t run from it now.”

You’re trembling. Not from fear.

His mouth finds the spot just beneath your ear, and he lingers there, his lips barely moving as he speaks. “You dreamed about me telling you I loved you.”

You freeze. Everything inside you clenches.

You don’t answer.

But the bond does. You feel the shift in him– he knows what that moment in the dream did to you. What it still does.

He kisses lower. The slope of your neck. The edge of your collarbone. His breath is uneven, like the restraint is costing him something.

“I said it while I was inside you,” he murmurs. “While you were falling apart for me.”

You bite your bottom lip hard. Eyes shut tight. You wish you could block him out again, shove the wall back up, but it’s too late. He’s inside, deep, wrapped around every thought.

“And you said my name,” Jake continues, voice dark and quiet, words pressing against your skin like fingertips. “Whimpered it. Like I was the only thing in the world.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“Don’t,” you whisper, but it comes out thin, barely a sound. “It was just a dream.”

His mouth stills against your throat.

Then, with painful slowness, he lifts his head. His nose brushes up the side of your neck, your cheek, until his lips hover just over your ear.

“No,” he says, barely audible. “It wasn’t.”

You feel his lips turn up at the corners, and you brace yourself for the smug comment you know he'll deliver.

“That's what did it for you,” he murmurs, “That's all it took for you to come undone.”

“Jake–”

You barely get his name out before his mouth catches yours. It’s not gentle. Not rough either. It’s a claiming kind of kiss, slow and deep, like he’s tasting the sound of your voice. His hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers curling into your hair, holding you still but not forcing– just there, anchoring.

He pulls back only enough for his breath to drag across your lips. His forehead presses to yours, eyes dark, watching you like he’s reading every flicker of your thoughts.

“I do, Y/n,” he says, low and steady.

His thumb strokes along your jaw. His mouth ghosts yours again, barely a touch, a threat of another kiss.

“I love you.”

It’s not a confession. Not a plea. Just a fact, dropped between you like a match on dry grass.

Jake doesn’t wait for you to respond. His lips crush against yours, no teasing this time, just pure, raw need. His hands slide under your shirt, pulling it off, dragging you with him as if he’s lost all patience, and something inside him snaps.

You gasp into his mouth as his skin presses against yours, warmth flooding you in a way that feels like too much, but not enough at the same time. His body pins you down in the best way– solid, commanding, a reminder of how little room there is between the two of you now.

He tastes you again, deeper this time, and you feel his restraint splintering. His breath comes in jagged pulls, and you know it’s not just about physical desire anymore. It’s the pull of something that’s been building between you, something fragile, something dangerous.

When his lips leave yours, it’s only to trail down your throat again, sucking in the pulse of your skin. You shiver.

“You feel it, don’t you?” His voice is rough against your collarbone, rough in a way that feels like he’s losing control of something he’s held tight to for far too long. “The way your body’s already answering me? The way you need me?”

You try to hold on, to stay grounded, but his hands are moving over you, fingertips tracing paths that burn where they touch. Your breath hitches, and you know he’s listening for it, feeling every inch of you unraveling beneath his touch.

“I’ve had to pretend… pretend this isn’t everything I’ve ever wanted,” he continues, his lips pressing against your chest as if he’s worshipping you, as if you’re the only thing that matters in the universe right now. His hand slides lower, just enough to make you tremble, and you gasp, eyes slamming shut. “I’ve wanted this. Wanted you. So badly I can't fucking stand it.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching as his mouth finds your skin again– hot, hungry, desperate. He groans against your throat like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted right.

“Jake…” It slips out, breathless, not a warning, more like surrender. Your hips arch before you even realize you’ve moved, chasing the friction, the heat, the ache he’s stoking with every touch.

He lifts his head, just barely, his lips flushed, eyes dark. “Say it again,” he breathes, voice low, wrecked. “Fuck, say my name like that.”

You don’t. Not yet. You just look at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling like you’re caught mid-thought. Because you are. Caught in this perfect, dangerous in-between where logic’s already fading, and want is the only thing still making sense.

Jake leans in again, his mouth hovering just over yours, not kissing you– taunting you.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing along your bottom lip, slow and possessive. “I’ve thought about this. About you. Every damn night. The way you'd sound… the way you'd fall apart under me.”

You gasp when he shifts, hips pressing down with intent now– solid, hard, undeniable.

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding just enough to make your legs tremble. “That’s what you do to me. Just by looking at me. Just by breathing.”

Your head falls back, lips parting on a soft moan. His hands slide lower, gripping your hips, dragging you against him in a rhythm that’s maddening. Every roll of his body sends fire skimming through your veins. You breathe a curse, earning a hum of approval from him. You rock your hips against his own, your eyes nearly rolling back.

You arch your back, your bare chest presing against his shirt. He's still fully dressed– his usual black dress pants hugging his thighs, a soft button up, half way opened and revealing most of his broad chest– making the contrast feel even more intimate, more urgent, as if he's claimed this space in your bed without shedding a single layer.

His hand cups your jaw gently but firmly, thumb tracing your lower lip as he tilts your head back, exposing the line of your throat. “That's my girl,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety, laced with that quiet command that makes your pulse race.

He leans in, lips brushing yours in a kiss that's tender at first this time, almost reverent, before it deepens– his tongue sliding in to taste you, slow and thorough, like he's mapping every secret you've kept.

You melt into it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He explores your skin with deliberate touches– palms gliding over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.

His gaze lingers at your chest once again, heated and owning, before he lowers his head, taking one nipple into his mouth. He sucks gently at first, tongue swirling around the hardened bud, then firmer, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Your hips twitch upward, seeking friction against him, but he shifts his weight, pinning your thigh with his knee to keep you still.

“Easy, baby,” he breathes, lifting his eyes to meet yours, dark and intent. “I'm going to take my time with you. Make you feel every second of this.” His hand continues downward, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts, easing them down along with your panties in one smooth motion. He doesn't rush, savoring the reveal of your bare skin, the way your thighs part instinctively under his stare.

His jaw is tight, his eyes dark as he takes in the sight of you. You know the look– hunger, but mixed with something else. Reverence. An ache between the two of you that you'd both been fighting for too long.

He starts with his hand.

Well, a finger really. Ghosting just barely over your dripping heat, before both of his palms are smoothing over your inner thighs, opening you up further.

Your breath is already uneven, short staccato puffs of air as he settles with his face inches away from you.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and rough as his lips brush against the skin of your thigh.

“I am,” you argue, the words coming out weak.

He presses his cheek against your thigh, and smiles up at you, primal and alluring. He presses a kiss at the cleft of your thigh, centimeters away from where you were aching for him. He doesn't break eye contact– you know he won't.

So you do.

You let your head fall back against the pillow with a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut. You want him to get on with it, you lick into you until you're a crying, overstimulated mess, but if there's one thing you know about your beloved Jake, it's that he does what he wants, when he wants.

He nips at your skin, “Look at me.”

You shake your head, “I can't.”

“Y/n.”

“Jake, I can't–”

He's up before you can finish your sentence, his hand tangled into your hair and his nose brushing against yours, “Listen to me,” he says, his voice dropping– low and controlled, “I'm gonna lick into this sweet little cunt until you come– and then some,” he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, a sweet contraction to his words, “And you're going to watch every fucking second of it. Do you understand me?”

You hesitate, just a second– you don't know if you'll be able to watch that– before you nod, “Yes, Jake,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly against his.

He smiles, just barely, nudging his nose against yours, “That's a good girl,” he whispers, “Always so well behaved.”

You know the last sentence is a dig at you, but you let it slide, because he's settling back between your thighs and you're aching too much to really push him too far. You let your thighs fall open, just a little further, inviting him in.

You get the sense he'd be content just looking at you, taking in every detail, memorizing. You wouldn't be content with that– not with the ache nearly burning you from the inside out.

“Jake, please,” your voice is weak, shaky.

He leans in, sucking the skin of your inner thigh into his mouth, nipping lightly at you. You're trembling already, shaking from the anticipation, near tears already.

“Sounds so pretty when you beg,” he murmurs, his hands spreading you open even further. You huff, though it comes out weaker than you intended. The glint in his eyes is almost evil, but before you can say anything else, his mouth is finally– finally– on you.

His tongue is flat, licking a single stripe up your slick heat.

It's a simple move, but you'd been anticipating it so long, it feels as if the universe finally exhaled. As if the single action was all he needed, he lets out a quiet curse against your skin, before tugging you closer to him and slipping his tongue along your core again.

Your breath catches in your lungs when he presses the tip of his tongue against your clit, teasing almost.

His mouth feels better than you imagined– warm, wet, attentive. You roll your hips lightly, grinding just barely against his mouth. His eyes light up, and his hands wrapped around your hips push at you, encouraging you to rock against him.

You have your hands tightened in your bedsheets, but when he wraps his lips around your clit, your hand immediately goes to his hair. When you realize what you've done, you go to move your hand, to apologize, unsure if he was into that, but he hums a low hm-mm against you.

He raises a hand to your wrist, encouraging you to pull or grab as you pleased. As if he wanted to know you were feeling so good you just couldn't help it. You let out a noise, your fingers flexing lightly, unsure how you were still managing to hold eye contact with him. He flicks his tongue over your clit, just once, and you feel your lower half clench around nothing.

He lets go of your hip, and before you can pout about it, his fingers are teasing at your soaked entrance.

His fingers ease into you gently, slowly. You know he's being kind, but it feels cruel. He pulls his mouth away from you with an almost inaudible fuck, his eyes locking in on where his fingers were.

“Look at that,” he breathes, most in awe. The corner of his slick-shined mouth tilts up, smug and enraptured by the sight in front of him.

Your chest is heaving now, your face hot, “Jake–” He leans back in, sucking your clit back into his mouth, and your words escape you in a breathy moan.

He eases his fingers in and out, as if he's trying his damnedest to be gentle with you. It makes your heart melt and your walls tighten, but you don't want gentle. You want him to ruin you. To make you wholly and completely his. To destroy everything you thought you knew until it was just him. His tongue is flicking at your clit, his lips suckling just enough to drive you wild.

He curls his fingers, once, twice, before it's as if he can't stand to be patient anymore.

With a low, impatient growl, he snaps, fucking his fingers into you with a quick force that makes your toes curl. His mouth is working at you in earnest, and your back arches away from the bed.

I was trying to be sweet, you hear his voice in your head, and you give him a heatless glare.

You'd forgotten you'd opened the door, let him in… He could see everything.

And how convenient– for him to be able to speak to you in your head, since his mouth was otherwise occupied.

You want it mean, don't you? Dirty girl.

You nod, your head falling back once more. You know he told you to look at him, to watch every second of it, but you couldn't. You were close, your body trembling, your hips rocking into him.

He lets it slide, and you think he's just as desperate for your orgasm as you are, as if he needs it as badly as you do. And maybe he does.

You breathe his name, a warning, as your body tightens.

He doubles his efforts, his fingers fucking into you, curling and twisting hard and fast, his mouth eating at you in earnest.

What ultimately sends you over the edge is his voice in your head, desperate and demanding, Fucking give it to me.

It hits you like a ton of bricks. You come with a gasp that quickly turns into a broken moan. White flashing behind your eyes before you see stars. Your entire body jerks, your thighs fighting to shut around him.

You can feel him smile against your skin as he tightens his hold on you, keeping you snug against him as he works you through it.

It verges too much, too intense, but it's just right. You come down slowly, your hand at his forehead weakly trying to push him back.

He slows down, showing mercy, although you can tell he doesn't want to. He moves his head, resting his cheek against your thigh, giving you just enough to recover as he withdraws his fingers from you. Or so you thought. He presses a kiss to your clit, humming when your thighs twitch and you whimper his name. His tongue slips out, licking over your sensitive bundle of nerves painfully slow.

“Fuck, that was so pretty,” he murmurs, leaving a wet kiss to your skin, “You look like a fucking dream when you come, baby.”

You let out a weak, strangled noise, almost embarrassed, as your eyes fall shut. From shame or exhaustion, you can't tell.

He lazily licks over you, his tongue pressing into your entrance teasingly, before he slowly runs it up to your clit, circling around it.

“Jake,” you whine, bucking your hips just barely.

“What?” He asks, patronizing, pretending to pity you, “Is it too much, sweet girl?”

You nod, despondent, and he angles his head, flattening his tongue against you, working it slowly.

“Liar,” he mutters against you, before he's drawing your clit back into his mouth.

Your moan is broken, tears beading along your lash line. It's too much, it's not enough. You know he's about to make you finish on his tongue again, and you don't know if you can take it.

You can, he says, smooth and low in your brain, You can take it.

Your second orgasm hits quicker than the first, your entire body is still sensitive, still worked up from him. He seems to be more merciful this time, easing up on you as you come down, working you through it gently.

He kisses at your inner thighs, your hips, your lower stomach, and then your breasts as he slowly makes his way back up to you.

You take deep breaths, your chest heaving as he climbs back over you. Your eyes open just as he settles over you, his face inches away, “Hi sweetheart,” he says gently, leaning in to peck a kiss onto your lips.

“Hi,” you breathe, reaching up with a shaky hand to push his hair back from his face. He looks fucking sinful.

His eyes are dark in the dim lighting, his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink hue, and his hair is messy from your hands. He looks like sin in the flesh, but even then– in his hungry gaze, he's still looking at you softly. So reverent, as if you're the most precious thing in the world.

Your hand, still resting in the bedsheets it had just been tangled in, moves slightly. You let your eyes trail down, past his flushed cheeks, past his necklaces brushing against your bare chest, to the button of his jeans. You look back up at his eyes, a question on the tip of your tongue.

You can't ask that.

He knows what you want.

He looks partially amused now, the hint of a smirk gracing his lips as he reaches for your hand. Your other hand tightens in his hair as he places the one right at the waistband of his pants, and he leans in until his lips are brushing against your heated skin.

You untangle your hand from his hair, both hands sliding to the button of his dress pants. You tug at them once, and turn your head until your lips are ghosting against his, “Take these off.”

His smile grows, fond almost, as he kisses you. You dont notice his hand over yours until he's using your fingers to pop the button.

You pull back, pressing your head into the pillow as you tilt it, eager to watch him be revealed to you.

You tug unceremoniously at his pants, and he lifts his hips just enough to help you yank them down. He grabs your hands in one hand, lifting them above your head and pressing them into the pillow.

You frown up at him, but he uses his other hand to pull his underwear down with his pants. Your mouth falls open when his cock, thick and long and pretty, is freed, bobbing up to rest hard and proud against his stomach.

“Fuck, Jake,” you breathe in awe, your entire body thrumming with excitement.

He huffs an almost shy laugh, his cheeks flushing red once again.

You glance up at his face, shock still clear on yours, before you look back down at his dick, “I want it.”

He hums, his jaw tightening, “I know, honey,” he leaves a sweet kiss to your cheek, “You'll have it.”

You almost wiggle impatiently, suddenly overcome with pure want. A desire to be filled and fucked until you couldn't move, until you were an exhausted, breathless mess underneath him.

You grab his face, yanking him to you in a heated kiss, whining into his mouth when his hands grab your hips and situate you to his liking.

You feel the blunt head of him pressing against you, hot and heavy, and you rock your hips.

He pulls away from the kiss to rest his forehead against your temple, and with a slow roll of his hips, he's pushing into you.

Your mouth falls open as he eases inside of you, slow and controlled. His hand falls to the pillow beside your head, gripping it so tightly, you're afraid it might tear open. Your walls pulse around him, fighting to accommodate the intrusion as he pushes in inch by inch.

“Oh my God,” you breathe out when he finally bottoms out.

“Don't,” he almost growls the word, pressing his nose into your hair just above your ear, “Don't ever say anybody else's name but mine while I'm inside you.”

You hadn't meant it like that, but– he sounds so possessive right now, his hand is grabbing the pillow so tightly his knuckles are white, and his other hand is holding onto your hip just as tight.

He inhales through his nose, slowly, slightly shaking, and you know he isn't shaking from nerves. He's trying not to lose control.

You breathe his name, placing a hand on his arm.

He hums a sound, running his nose along the tip of your ear.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly.

He groans quietly, nodding slowly. His tongue runs along the skin beneath your ear, before he kisses you there.

“Never been better,” he murmurs, as if distracted.

You turn your head to look at him, and the moment your eyes meet, it nearly undoes you. He’s staring like he’s starving– like every detail of your face is something he’s been aching for. His gaze drinks you in, slow and reverent, as if he can’t quite believe you’re real. There’s a wild, unhidden need in his eyes, the kind that makes your skin burn under the weight of it. He looks utterly possessed by you.

You glance down at his lips, needing a break from the intensity, but even that feels dangerous– like everything about him is too much, too close.

The corners of his mouth twitch into something close to a smile when you say, “Quit looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he says, his voice low, strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “Like I need you so bad it's driving me insane?”

You sigh, and slide your hand up to cup his cheek, “You have me.”

Your words seem to break something inside of him, and before you can even process his lips crashing against yours, he's pulling his hips back just enough to begin fucking into you.

You gasp at the first thrust, his mouth swallowing down the sound. He feels good everywhere he's touching you, warm and almost overwhelming.

He lets go of the pillow, his hands grabbing your hips to move you just enough, and his arms slide around your waist. The hold feels protective, like he's worried you'll disappear any moment. His nails dig into the skin of your back just barely before his fingers flex.

He pushes into you completely, pausing for a moment, as if just to feel you squeezing around him. He pulls his face away from yours, tilting his head slightly as he watches himself fill you up.

“Fuck,” he breathes, before he draws back, achingly slow, only to push back in just as unhurried.

Every slow push and pull sends the head of his cock dragging against your walls, nudging that place inside of you that makes your toes curl. Your hand tightens in his hair when he angles just right, the tip pressing into it firmly.

You huff a breath, tightening around him, “Jake,” your voice is broken already, “Fuck me.”

He hums a low sound, pushing his hips flush to yours once again, “I am, baby,” he says softly.

You go to argue, to ask him to go faster, something, when his hip bone presses just right against your clit. A whimper stutters out of you, and you can't help but say his name again.

His eyes darken, a devious glint to them as he leans in closer to you again. “You want it mean, sweetheart?”

You nod, and he leans back, his arms slipping from around your waist. One hand grabs your thigh, pushing them further apart. He hooks the

back of your knee in the crook of his elbow, before he leans back in and wraps both hands around your throat.

He doesn't squeeze yet, but the position has you completely at his mercy. You're spread open, given no choice but to take it as he begins slamming into you.

Your eyes roll back when he hooks a thumb into your mouth, pressing it against your tongue. You wrap your lips around it, sucking as best as you can in the moment.

“That's it, baby,” he says, his voice tight with fraying control, “Fuckin’ take it.”

You hum a broken mm-hmm around his thumb, barely able to keep your eyes open to look at him.

You would've been moving up the bed with every thrust of his hips had he not been holding you in place, pushing you into the mattress.

He grits his teeth when you squeeze around him, his forehead falling to yours.

Your body is tightening again, building up to an orgasm you're almost afraid of having. He feels it, you know he does– physically and mentally.

He suddenly pulls out of you, letting go of your throat to push himself up, “Flip over,” he demands, giving you no time to attempt to before he grabs you and flips you around to his liking.

You're on your knees, one on either side of his, your back pressed to his chest. He wraps an arm around you, lifting you up just enough for him to slip back inside of you. He pushes you down on his cock, his other hand grabbing your waist.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe, your head falling back against his shoulder. He presses his lips to your exposed throat, nearly growling as he bites down on the tender skin. He begins fucking into you with reckless abandon, hard and fast and wild. You can barely focus on the slamming of your headboard against the wall, your brain overtaken with Jake.

Your nails dig into his thighs, the muscles tensing beneath the material of his pants as he fucks you.

Your walls squeeze around him, and you can feel your slick dripping against your thighs, against his. You're almost embarrassed, knowing you're making a mess on his dress pants.

“No, no,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, “Make a mess, honey, all over me.”

You let out a sound at that, and before you can object to it, his hand at your waist slips down, and he's rubbing tight circles over your clit.

“Oh, my– Jake–” You try to fall forward, but his arm around your upper half holds you in place.

“Come on,” he urges, “Give it to me, baby,” he sounds demanding, desperate and wild, “Make a mess all over me– right on my cock, angel.”

You're almost there, your orgasm just a few more thrusts, a few more swirls of his fingers away, when he decides to play dirty.

“What do you need?” He asks teasingly, brushing his lips against your ear, “Need me to tell you I love you?”

Your eyes snap open, “Jake–”

“I love you,” he grits out, his voice full of conviction, “I love you, I love you.”

You hate how fast your orgasm takes over at that. You finish with a loud, spent sob of his name, your body going almost limp as he holds you up, working you through it with deft fingers and expert thrusts of his hips.

Your vision goes blurry, your entire body coursing with waves of pleasure that verge on overstimulated.

Your hand, shaking and weak, finds his wrist, and you try to grab it. He eases his fingers up, slowing to a standstill as he gives you a moment to breathe.

“Yeah,” he says on a fucked out breath, “That's what you needed, isn't it?”

“Fuck you,” you say without any heat.

He hums a laugh, moving his hand away to smooth his palm over your skin, calming your trembling body.

“Where do you want it?” He asks softly, rocking his hips just enough to keep you from fully recovering.

“Inside,” you breathe, wiggling your ass against him, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He asks, fucking up just a little harder, “You want me to come inside?” You nod, your eyes rolling shut as you feel yourself tightening around him again, “You want me to make that pretty little pussy all mine? Claim it as my own?”

“It's yours,” you say weakly, “It's yours, Jake, just– Please.”

He hums then, “I think you're about to come again,” he says almost teasingly.

You nod, “I am– Fuck–” his fingers dance over you clit again, just barely, before you're coming again, and you gasp out your next words as it hits you, “Fuck, I love you.” He lets out a broken sound at that, and with a single thrust of his hips, you can feel his release filling you. Painting your walls with his warmth, as you quietly repeat your confession like a broken chant.

He comes to a standstill, his hips unmoving inside of you, and his fingers frozen over your clit. His chest is heaving against your back, and he stays quiet for a moment as his forehead rests against your shoulder.

He finally lifts his head, and his hand ghosts along your cheek, “Baby,” he says, breathless.

You hum, feeling like you're about to collapse. He wraps his arms around you, lifting you up just enough for him to slip out of you. You whine petulantly, before he eases you onto the mattress. You feel boneless as he lays you down, situating you into a much more comfortable position to recover in.

You let your eyes fall shut as you lay there, your chest rising and falling with deep breaths. You can feel him watching you, as if he's ensuring you're okay.

You open your eyes, turning your head just enough to look up at him, and a smile works its way onto your lips.

His own lips turn up at the corners, soft and beguiled. “Hi sweetheart,” he says again.

“Hi Jake,” you say softly.

“Was it too much?” He asks sweetly, moving to lay down beside you. He says on his side, propping his head up on his hand as he watches you.

“No,” you assure him, turning to him to pull him closer to you, “It was– Fuck, that was perfect, Jake.”

He allows you to move him closer to you, and he presses a single kiss to your lips, “Tell me you love me again,” he says, his voice a whisper.

You grin, your heart wanting to explode out of your chest, “I love you Jake.”

Jake’s eyes soften instantly, going wide with something tender and almost reverent, like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. His gaze, slow and unblinking, filled with quiet awe and that deep, aching kind of love. Devotion, raw and full, like you’d said the one thing he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.

You tilt your head, “Let me in.”

He nods, his face unmoving from that damned lovestruck expression that made your heart ache, “Okay honey.”

You expect a door, and you find one, but it's wide open. You study his face, ensuring that it's okay with him.

“You can look, baby,” he says softly. “I want you to.”

You knew you shouldn’t go back.

He told you not to.

The last time you touched Jake’s mind, he felt it. And he warned you.

“I can shut you in a lot easier than you can read me.”

You almost listened.

But here you are again, standing in the storm-swallowed space that is Jake’s mind. It’s quieter this time. Not calm– never calm– but less violent, less volatile. Almost… still.

You move through it carefully, like your steps might wake something ancient and hungry. The shadows press close but don’t touch you. You don’t know if that means you’re welcome or simply tolerated.

You don’t plan to stay long.

Just… curious.

You keep telling yourself that.

But then you feel it.

A pulse.

Familiar. Warm, strangely. You follow it without meaning to, and before you realize what you're doing, you're in it– his thoughts, his emotions, thick and raw and close.

And you feel your name echo through them.

Not spoken. Felt.

A flash of your face, your voice, the way your lips part when you’re about to argue with him. A memory of you standing too close. A scene– real or imagined, you don’t know– of his fingers curled in your shirt, dragging you against him.

The hunger is sharp, yes.

But it’s not just that.

There’s softness under it. Something protective. Something warm. Something Jake would never admit.

Your breath catches.

And that’s when it happens.

Everything goes still.

Like the whole mind holds its breath.

And then his voice, I told you what I’d do.

Your heart stops.

You spin, but he’s not there– not physically. Just pressure. Rage. Embarrassment, too. Not just because you saw, but because you felt something back.

You try to pull away, to retreat–

Too late.

The walls close in.

Jake’s mind seizes around yours, slamming you into place like a trap snapping shut. Panic floods you instantly.

“Jake– no– wait, please!”

You’re caged in his thoughts, and this time he doesn’t let go.

Not for seconds.

Not for minutes.

Time stretches painfully long.

“Jake,” you whisper, “Please.”

When you’re finally released, it's like being kicked out of a dream mid-scream.

You crash back into your body with a gasp, heart pounding like you’ve run a mile uphill through fire. You don’t know how long you lie there, breathing, shaking.

But then–

“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

You flinch at the fury in his voice but meet his eyes anyway. “I didn’t mean to see that, I–”

“Oh, that,” he snaps. “Right. That little part where you found out I’ve been thinking about pinning you against every surface we’ve ever argued near? That?”

You flush hot, rage blooming under the embarrassment. “It wasn’t like I went digging for it! I didn’t even know I’d landed in that thought!”

“But you did,” he growls. “And then you lingered.”

Your hands curl into fists. “You think I wanted to feel that? Do you know what it’s like, hearing your mind whisper things about me like– like that?! Like I’m some kind of–”

He steps closer, fast.

“Like what? Like someone I want?”

You stop breathing.

He’s close now, too close, eyes narrowed. The heat of him rolls off his body, fury and shame and something else underneath. That same dark want you felt in his thoughts.

“You don’t get to judge me for wanting you,” he says low. “Not when you keep climbing into my head to feel it.”

“I wasn’t–” Your voice falters. “I wasn’t trying to–”

“But you stayed,” he says. “You stayed until I caught you.”

Silence. Heavy. Scalding.

You stare at each other, neither moving, like you’re both one wrong word away from starting a fire you can’t put out.

Then, finally, you breathe, “I didn’t think you’d ever think of me like that.”

His jaw flexes. His voice is quiet now. Rough, “You shouldn’t want me to.”

You nod.

The silence between you thickens, like it’s alive. He’s still standing there, watching you, his gaze unwavering, that smoldering, unreadable look in his eyes making your heart pound harder.

But you don’t say anything else. You can’t. There’s nothing left to say. So you turn on your heel and walk away.

You move toward your room, each step heavier than the last. The air feels thick with the weight of him– the taste of his thoughts still lingering in your mind, sharp and soft at the same time. You can’t escape it. You’re trying to shut it out, but it clings.

The door to your room shuts behind you with a quiet thud, and suddenly, you’re alone.

Alone, but not really.

You lean against the door, eyes squeezed shut, breathing in deep. His words echo in your head: You shouldn’t want me to. You want to laugh. You want to scream. You want to slap the confusion out of your mind.

But you know the truth.

You’ve felt it too.

You couldn’t help it when you saw what was in his mind, what he wanted from you. That sharp hunger, wrapped in that softness that doesn’t quite match the demon inside him. It doesn’t make sense, but you feel it– deep in your chest, running through your veins. A part of you doesn’t want to admit it. But you can’t stop it.

You slide down the door, sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest, staring into the emptiness of the room.

And you think about him.

You think about the way his body fills a space. How his eyes, glowing faintly, track you when you’re near. The strength in his hands. The way his fingers curled at your shirt, how he’d dragged you toward him without a single word, his breath hot on your skin as if he knew what he was going to do next.

The memory of him, standing so close, but still unreachable, makes your skin flush.

God, why does this feel so… right?

You can feel the heat of his thoughts again, rising like a tide, not angry now, but something darker. The way he looked at you, the way his mouth curved, almost like he wanted you to see that part of him, the soft part tangled with everything raw and fierce.

You’re not stupid. You know what it is. You know what he’s thinking. You can’t pretend you don’t. And now, you can’t stop thinking about him either.

What does it mean?

You tell yourself you don’t care, that it’s just lust– just complicated, that’s all. That’s all it is.

But your heart beats faster in your chest, and your thoughts twist again, remembering the heat in his touch, how it lingered when he grabbed your wrist that one time, the low sound of his voice close to your ear, the way he just barely touched you and yet made you feel like he could break you with a whisper.

A shudder runs through you.

You bite your lip, hands suddenly restless.

This isn’t just about him being a demon. It’s more than that. You’re in deeper now, and you can’t pretend anymore.

The thought of him fills your mind, undeniable. The way his eyes could devour you. The way his body pressed against yours in that moment, the dark, dangerous side of him, the part he hides so carefully.

And you want it. You want him.

And it scares you.

—

You wake up with a headache and the bitter taste of last night still clinging to your tongue.

For a moment, you think maybe you dreamt it. Him, the mind trap, the way your heart wouldn’t stop racing after you saw what he really thought about you. But then you hear it.

Footsteps.

Someone in the kitchen.

You sit up slowly, every part of you on edge. Your body’s still humming from yesterday, like your skin hasn’t forgotten the feel of him even if you’re trying to.

You pad quietly down the hall, heart already annoyed and anxious and something you’re not ready to name. You turn the corner, and there he is.

Jake.

In your kitchen.

Still here.

Still impossibly him.

He’s leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, black shirt creased from sleep– or not sleeping at all. He doesn’t look at you when you walk in. Just sips from the mug in his hand and says, flatly, “Coffee’s terrible.”

You glare at him. “Don’t drink it then.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t. Just said it’s terrible.”

“Then shut up and drink your terrible coffee.”

His eyes flick toward you, finally. That same lazy, irritated spark dancing just behind them. “Morning to you, too.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the fridge. “Why are you still here?”

“I stayed.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“That’s not an answer.”

Jake doesn’t move. Just lifts the mug again, sips. “Didn’t feel like leaving.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because my house is so welcoming.”

He glances at you then. His voice drops, just slightly. “You didn’t ask me to go.”

You hate that he’s right. But you’re not going to say it. Not out loud.

So instead, you mutter, “Didn’t think I needed to.”

He gives you a tight smile. “Guess I missed the sign on the door that says ‘no demons after midnight.’ ”

You shoot back, “Guess I missed the part where I invited you to set up camp in my kitchen like you own the place.”

Jake puts the mug down with a clink. “Wouldn’t have to if you stayed out of my head like I told you.”

There it is.

You both freeze.

The memory hangs between you like smoke– thick, suffocating, full of heat.

You glance away first. “I didn’t go back on purpose.”

He scoffs. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true,” you snap. “I didn’t plan to go poking around in your brain, Jake.” Liar.

He doesn’t answer for a second. Then, voice low, “You lingered.”

You go still.

The silence stretches again.

Finally, you say, “You locked me in.”

“I warned you.”

You look at him– tired, angry, confused. “I didn’t know you thought about me like that.”

He looks back at you– tired, angry, something else. “Yeah, well. Now you do.”

Neither of you says anything after that.

The coffee cools on the counter. The air between you stays tight and strange. Too many thoughts. Too much silence. Neither of you willing to take the first step, but neither of you walking away either.

Eventually, you say, too quietly, “You’re not going to stay here forever.”

He doesn’t answer you right away. You turn to walk away, thinking that’s the end of it. But then his voice cuts through the silence behind you– low, tight, and bitter, “Relax. I don’t want to be stuck with you any more than you want to be stuck with me.”

You stop.

The words hit like cold water, even if you were thinking the same thing. Even if you’ve said the same thing before. Still, something about hearing it from him, now, after last night…

You don’t turn around. You just say, “Good,” and walk out.

—

Back in your room, the walls feel smaller than they did yesterday. The ache in your chest twists tighter, stubborn and stupid. You hate this– this weird emotional hangover, this heat under your skin every time you look at him now.

You drag the old book onto your lap and start flipping through pages again. Half of it’s written in symbols you can barely translate, but you’ve been digging at this bond for weeks– looking for loopholes, rituals, anything that might get you out of it.

You’re not sure why you ever stopped.

Maybe part of you got too used to him being around. Maybe part of you stopped wanting to get out. But now?

You tear through the pages, and something catches your eye. Scribbled in the margins, nearly hidden: a reference to a severance ritual. Not just a suppression or block– an actual unbinding.

Your heart jumps. You scan it twice. Three times.

It’s not complete, and it’s messy, but it’s something. Real. Possible. A way out.

You burst into the hallway, book in hand, practically glowing with adrenaline. “Jake.”

He’s still in the kitchen, hunched over the counter, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the universe.

You hold the book up. “I found something. A ritual. A real one. I think it could undo the bond.”

He glances at you, unimpressed. “I've heard that before.”

“No,” you insist, crossing the room, flipping the book around so he can see. “Not like this. This is different– it’s not suppression or containment, it’s a full severance. It’s ancient, but it’s legit. We might actually be able to end this.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the page. Just watches you.

You expect him to be relieved. Or at least interested. But instead, his expression darkens.

“You might be able to,” he says flatly. “It’s not guaranteed.”

You blink. “I know it’s not guaranteed, but it’s worth trying. Isn’t it?”

He straightens slowly, eyes unreadable. “Sure. Try it. Burn a circle, light some candles, chant the words, whatever you think’ll work.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not even curious?”

He shrugs. “We don’t know what it’ll do. You sever a bond like this wrong, it could kill both of us. Or worse.”

You falter. “I thought you’d want this.”

“Yeah, well.” His jaw tightens. “Maybe I don’t like the idea of dying just to get you out of my head.”

Your stomach drops. The excitement drains like water through your hands.

“You don’t have to be such an asshole about it,” you mutter.

Jake’s eyes flick to yours. Something sharp flickers there, too fast to name, “You came in here acting like you’d found a golden ticket,” he says. “But you don’t know what this will do. You just saw a chance to run and got excited.”

You snap the book shut. “So what, you'd rather just stay bonded forever?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is quiet now. “Maybe I don’t want to rip something out of me that’s been there long enough to start feeling like part of the whole.”

You freeze.

That silence returns– not empty, but heavy. Like the two of you are teetering on the edge of something again, and neither of you wants to fall first.

When you speak, your voice is smaller. “Jake…”

He looks away.

“Just... think about it,” you say. “Please.”

Then you leave the room again, book still pressed to your chest.

Neither of you says anything else.

But neither of you stops thinking about it, either.

—

You find the note buried deep in the margins, nearly lost under layers of old ink and dust.

“The severance ritual is detailed fully in the grimoire used to summon the entity. A bond born can be unmade. The origin holds the key.”

Your pulse skips.

The book.

Still hidden in the ruins of that decaying house where you first read from its pages, where Jake was dragged into your world.

You should’ve burned it then. You didn’t.

And now it might be your way out.

You don’t tell Jake.

Not after this morning. Not after what he said. Not after the way his voice cracked like he regretted saying any of it.

You wait until the house is quiet, the lights off, the night thick and breathless. You slip out through the back, flashlight clutched in one hand, the other curled tightly around the book that led you here.

The abandoned house greets you like a mouth full of teeth– dark, half-collapsed, walls sagging under the weight of time and rot.

You step inside anyway.

The air stinks of mold and something fouler underneath. The boards creak with every step, and dust shivers loose from the ceiling.

You make your way to the back room– the study. With the dusty, rotting desk and cobwebbed corners.

It hasn’t changed.

You kneel near the old desk, heart pounding as you reach behind it where you stuffed the grimoire after the summoning. But your hand finds nothing.Your chest tightens.

Slowly, you stand, turning.

He’s there.

Half-hidden in the shadows, leaning against the doorway, only the edge of his face lit by moonlight filtering through broken glass. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them– cold, sharp, and burning just underneath.

Jake.

Holding the book.

“Looking for this?” he says, voice quiet. Too quiet.

You don’t answer right away.

His fingers tighten around the spine of the grimoire like he already knows what you were planning to do with it.

“How long have you been following me?” you ask, not even trying to hide the tremor in your voice.

“I didn’t follow you,” he says, stepping further into the room. The floor groans beneath his boots. “I knew you’d come here. I just got here first.”

“You were watching me?”

“I was waiting,” he snaps, then reins it back in– shoulders tense, jaw locked. “Waiting to see how far you’d go.”

“I’m trying to end this, Jake. Isn’t that what you want?”

“You think this is about what I want?” His laugh is hollow. Harsh. “You think I give a shit what I want anymore?”

He moves toward you slowly, deliberately, each step like a fuse inching toward flame.

You’re trembling now, but you don’t back away. “That book might be the only thing that can break the bond–”

“Exactly,” he cuts in. “Which is why it needs to be destroyed.”

Your breath catches. “Don’t.”

“I warned you,” Jake says, voice like gravel. “When you first pulled me into this world– I told you there were rules. You didn’t listen then, and you’re still not listening now.”

“Jake, please–”

He doesn't even look at you.

Just snaps his fingers.

The flame bursts upward instantly– unnatural, hungry. The grimoire screams as it burns in his hand, pages blackening, curling in on themselves, old ink bleeding out in smoky tendrils. You lunge forward, but the heat hits like a wall, forcing you back.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you shout.

He finally looks at you– not angry anymore, but furious. Controlled. Contained. That kind of rage that simmers so deep it’s almost calm.

“I’m making sure you don’t do something you'll regret.”

You freeze. Something in your chest pulls taut– raw, painful. “You think this is easy for me?” you say, voice shaking. “You think I want this?”

“No,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours. “I think you’re scared. And I think you’d rather risk anything than admit what this has become.”

The fire crackles behind him, throwing long shadows across his face, making him look less man, more monster. Or maybe both.

You take a step back.

He doesn’t follow. Just watches. And says, quieter now, “There’s no undoing it. Not anymore.”

Then he turns his back and walks into the dark hallway.

You stay standing in the ruins of the circle, the ashes of the book still glowing faintly, like something inside you is dying right along with it.

And maybe it is.

—

You spin toward the still-glowing ashes of the grimoire, jaw clenched so tight it aches. The heat from the fire’s gone, but the fury in your chest only builds– sharp, hot, helpless.

You throw the flashlight across the room.

It shatters against the wall with a satisfying crack, but it doesn’t help. Not enough.

“You– son of a bitch!” you shout into the empty space. “You think you can just decide for me? Burn the one thing that gave me a choice?! What the hell gives you the right?!”

No answer.

Of course not.

You storm into the hallway, vision blurring with angry tears. “You think I wanted any of this? You think I asked to be tied to you? To feel your rage in my veins– your thoughts crawling under my skin?”

Jake stands at the far end of the corridor, arms folded, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.

Calm.

Still.

Watching you unravel like it’s the weather– inevitable. Predictable.

That just makes it worse.

“Say something, damn it!” you snap.

But he doesn’t. He just looks at you. His silence is unbearable.

You stalk toward him, furious, chest heaving. “You ruined my only shot at ending this. And now you just stand there like it doesn’t mean anything to you?!”

Still nothing.

That calm, maddening stillness in his eyes. Controlled. Measured. Like he’s already heard every version of this before and none of it surprises him.

You shove him hard.

He doesn’t flinch.

You hit his chest again, fists curling into his shirt. “Do something! Scream back, curse me out, anything!”

Jake just stares down at you. His voice is low, steady.

“I’m not going to fight you.”

“Why not?!” you demand.

“Because you’re not angry at me,” he says. “You’re angry that it’s not over. And that you don’t really want it to be.”

You freeze. The air goes still. You hate him for saying it. You hate him more because he’s right.

The ache in your chest twists. You try to step back, but his hand lifts– not grabbing, just hovering near your waist, like he’s offering without forcing.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s him.

But the space between you closes all at once– fast and hot and reckless. Your mouths crash together like the argument never ended, like every word you didn’t say is burning its way out through the kiss.

His hands are in your hair, at your waist, pulling you closer like he’s been holding himself back for weeks. And you let him. You grab the front of his shirt, anchor yourself there like if you let go, you’ll fall through the floor.

You hate him. You want him. You can’t breathe with how much you want him.

When you finally break apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, neither of you says anything.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just the sound of your breathing.

The hum of the bond still alive between you.

And the quiet, terrible knowing that after this…

There’s no undoing it.

Your lips are still touching when the reality of it hits you.

What just happened. What it means. What you’re already starting to feel.

You shove him– hard.

Jake stumbles back half a step, breath still uneven, eyes burning with everything you don’t want to name– want, guilt, something deeper.

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

It doesn’t come out loud. It comes out shaken, choked. Your voice cracks in the middle of it, like your whole chest is splintering.

Jake doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. He just stands there, still catching his breath, lips parted, hands slack at his sides.

You don’t wait.

You turn on your heel and storm down the hallway, your boots slamming against the warped floorboards like you’re trying to shake the feeling of him out of your bones.

Your heart’s pounding too hard. Your mouth still tastes like him. You don’t know if you want to scream or throw up or run until your lungs collapse.

But you know one thing.

You had a choice– and he took it.

He let you kiss him. He kissed you back like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he was sure. And you can’t be sure of anything.

So you leave.

—

You don’t remember the walk home.

Not really.

Your body moves on autopilot, but your mind... your mind is a war zone. Loud. Smoking. Nothing left standing.

It’s not the kiss you can’t stop thinking about.

It’s what came after. What didn’t come after.

He didn’t chase you. He didn’t call out. He just let you leave.

And somehow, that hurts more than anything.

But then, maybe that’s good. Maybe that’s important. Because for the first time in a long time, you see it.

You’re not helpless.

You could’ve gone all in. Could’ve let him crack you open, hollow you out, shape you into some twisted version of the girl he thinks you are.

You could’ve let him drag you down into whatever shadows he’s drowning in.

But you didn’t.

You said no– even if it came out in a whisper, even if it came out broken.

And you left.

You left.

When you get home, the place is dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that hums in your teeth, too loud to be silence.

You don’t bother with lights. You drop your bag by the door, kick off your boots like they’re too heavy to carry another second, and fall onto your bed fully clothed.

Staring up at the ceiling, you finally let the thoughts come.

What if you don’t let him ruin you? What if it’s not about resisting him– or surrendering to him– but about changing the entire story? What if you could turn him good?

Not like some tragic savior fantasy, not like fixing a broken thing just to prove you’re worthy–

But what if the power he has over you is real, and the power you have over him is just as strong? He thinks you’re like him. But what if you’re not? What if he’s like you– and he’s just never had someone who believed it? You close your eyes. It doesn’t feel like a plan, not yet. But it feels like a beginning.

Your apartment is dimly lit, warm, and cluttered with half-open books, scorched candles, and notes scribbled in desperation. The air still smells faintly of incense and something darker– Jake’s presence lingers like a storm cloud pressed up against the walls.

You’re curled up on the couch with a mug of tea you’ve already forgotten about, staring blankly at the Mirror of the Soul passage you'd copied by hand. You should be resting. You should be thinking. But your head is a blender of Jake's words, his voice in your mind, and–

A sudden knock at the door.

You jump, heart stuttering. It’s too late for guests. Way too late for humans, at least.

You blink, confused. Jake goes perfectly still.

Then the doorknob turns– like the person on the other side already assumes they’re welcome.

Before you can react, the door swings open.

And she walks in.

Tall. Elegant. Absolutely otherworldly. Her heels click against your floor like a threat disguised as flirtation. Her blood-red lips curl into a smile as her sharp eyes land on Jake– and then flick dismissively over you, like you’re a decorative lamp she’s planning to replace.

“Jake,” she purrs, her voice like velvet and ash. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

You freeze.

“Mira,” he says, voice colder than the air outside. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Mira tilts her head. “Just checking in. You’ve been so hard to find lately. And now I see why.” Her gaze slides to you again, and this time there’s something ugly in it. “The human. How quaint. Prettier than I expected, though.”

You bristle. “The human is right here, you know.”

She doesn’t even blink.

“You’re not welcome here,” Jake says, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall.

“Oh, come on,” Mira croons, pouting like a child denied candy. “You used to have such better taste. I thought maybe you’d finally snapped out of this little obsession.”

Your blood boils.

Jake’s hand twitches at his side like he’s this close to setting her on fire.

And then she steps closer to him, reaching out to run a single, painted nail along the lapel of his jacket.

That’s it.

You snap.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” you say loudly.

Mira raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Jake immediately moves to your side, putting a firm hand on your waist. Mira’s lips curl into a mock pout, but she drops her hand, steps back.

“I didn’t realize she meant that much to you,” she says slowly, like the idea is somehow distasteful.

Jake doesn’t hesitate. Not even a beat.

“She does.”

She gives him a pout that quickly turns into a grin, “I can help you, y'know.” You glare harder at her, but she continues speaking. “You think I don't know, Jakey?”

You glance at Jake, frowning at the wary expression on his face.

“You wanna redeem your soul,” she tilts her head, giving him a faux-sympathetic frown.

Jake doesn't speak, he just stares at her.

“I know how,” she whispers, her hand by her mouth like it's a secret.

“Mira–”

“I'm not pulling your leg, Jake,” she gives you a smarmy grin, “Not anymore, anyway.”

Jake tenses at that, and you scoff a laugh. “Are you fucking serious?” You ask him, earning nothing more than a regretful glance from him.

"It's not easy,” she says, crossing her arms. You can't help but notice it pushes her chest up, showing her cleavage perfectly. Bitch.

“I don't have time for your games, Mira.” Jake says, “I don't wanna redeem my soul, you're wasting your time here.”

“Am I?” She asks, looking at you now, “You know how many souls he has?” You don't bother with a response, knowing she's going to tell you anyway. “I think we've all lost count, haven't we Jakey?”

His jaw is tight, “Mira.”

“I just knew– Well, when I heard you still haven't claimed this one, I just knew there had to be something special.” She sighs, looking at you, “It can't just be the looks, though she is absolutely… delicious. It's her soul. Pure, untouched. So…” she sighs, “Incandescent.”

“That's enough,” Jake says lowly.

“So tempting,” she says, still looking at you– as if she's looking through you. “Jake, you have one chance to do what you want to. There's not a lot of ways to redeem your soul, but I can help.”

He scoffs, “What's in it for you? You don't help just to help, Mira.”

She sighs, “Call it returning the favor. I owe you one.”

He squints, “I don't buy it.”

“You saved my life a couple hundred years ago,” she says, nonchalant, “I do owe you.”

He stares at her for a moment, the two communicating without words, before he nods slowly, reluctantly. “Spill it.”

“There's a ritual. It's worked a few times in the past when it was tried. You, her, some sexy knife play– You know the deal, Jake,” she waves a hand.

You feel yourself go pale at that– “Knife play?”

“Blood magic,” Jake answers quietly.

“Oh,” you say weakly.

“Some Latin and some blood,” Mira finishes, a perfect eyebrow arched, “Have you two…” She gives you a suggestive wink.

“That's none of your business,” Jake says, his voice low.

“It only works if you haven't fucked her.” She snaps.

“Then it will work,” you say, almost embarrassed.

She snorts, “You're losing your touch, Jake.”

He grits his teeth, “Mira–”

“Anyway, lucky for you two, tomorrow night is a full moon,” places her hands on her hips, “Jake, I'm gonna get you the full list, the steps, all of it. It has to be done exactly as it's written.”

He nods once, his eyes on the wall. “Got it.”

She looks at you, tilting her head, “For your sake, pretty human, I hope this works. Just be good to him, he's alright for a demon.”

And like that, she's gone.

You stand there for a moment longer, before you sink down into your couch. Jake doesn't move for a moment, and he's still staring at the wall.

“Jake,” you say softly, trying to snap him out of his head.

He looks at you, “I'm sorry about her–”

“You fucked her, didn't you?” You wrinkle your nose, crossing your arms.

He gives you a look, “It was a long time ago, sweetheart.”

“Of course it was.”

He sits beside you slowly, “Never seen you jealous before.”

“I wasn't jealous–”

“You were.”

“I was,” you admit softly. “I didn't like her touching you– Like you're hers to touch.”

He watches you with a coy smile, leaning back into the cushion, and closing his eyes. “I should hook her up with Alex.”

—

She was true to her word, showing up again. This time, you were half-naked, in the process of getting dressed when she appears in your room.

You blink at her, your shirt in your hands as she runs her eyes over you. A grin lights up her face, “Oh, Jake is in for a treat, isn't he?”

You feel your face burning hot, “I–”

“Where is he? I gotta give this to him,” she holds up a rolled up piece of old, yellowed paper.

“In the kitchen,” you say, trying not to feel self conscious about your bare skin she's seeing.

“Thanks, doll. Nice tits, by the way.”

And then she's gone again.

Your face burns hotter as you pull your shirt on, and make your way to the kitchen. You hear their voices before you see them, urgent and hushed.

“If it goes wrong, it's reversed.”

“Reversed?”

There's a long pause.

“Her soul will be claimed instead of yours.”

“I'm not doing this,” he says quietly, “I'm not chancing anything happening to her–”

“You can't back out now,” she urges, “This moon won't appear for another hundred years.”

He's quiet, “I'm not chancing it.”

You step around the corner at that time, finding her lounging on your kitchen table, and Jake leaning against your counter. His face softens when he sees you, and she sighs, “Y/n, tell him he's being stupid.”

“I'm not going to chance something happening to her, Mira, that's not stupid.”

“Jake,” you say softly, “It's worth a shot.”

His face falls. Betrayal, then protest, then panic, “Y/n–”

“Listen,” you say, making your way to him, “I know you don't want anything to happen to me, Jake, I get it. But… We can do this and we can do this right.”

“I don't want them to have you,” he whispers, shaking his head.

“They won't. But right now they have you, and we need to get this done.”

He sighs, frustration clear on his face. He finally nods, “Alright.”

“Damn,” Mira speaks up, “I've never seen him fold so quickly.”

He glares at her, “Shut up.”

She stands, “I've got places to be, so I'm gonna run along. You two, best of luck. I'm sure I'll hear all about this in Hell once it's done.”

Jake gives her a hint of a smile, “Thank you, Mira.”

She gives him an almost sad smile. “Don't mention it, Jake.” She looks at you, “I hope things work out for you both.”

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it.

“Jake, your girl's got some great tits, by the way.”

Your mouth falls open as she disappears on that note. Jake hums, and you turn to look at him, slightly horrified, “I'm a little jealous she got to see ‘em before I did.”

You shove at him, a laugh escaping you, “Shut up.”

He grins, before it falters as his eyes land on the aged scroll sitting on your table. “If this goes wrong–”

“If it goes wrong… We can figure it out,” you say softly.

He sighs, nodding reluctantly. “Alright. Then let's do it.”

—

Latin. Fucking Latin.

You stare at the words, unfamiliar to you, scrawled across the paper.

Jake has been looking at it for the past fifteen minutes, his face blank as his eyes roam over the words.

“It's tricky,” he says finally, “But it's not impossible.”

“What do we need to do?”

He sighs, “Well, for one, we have to find a field. An empty field– under the moonlight,” he tilts his head, “We have to cut each other's hands, let our blood mix.”

You pale at that, “I have to cut you?”

He nods, still looking down at the paper, “It won't hurt,” he says quietly, “I've had worse.”

You frown at that, your heart aching at the thought.

“We need a fire, hellfire– I've got that covered.”

“Hot,” you say quietly, intending to make a joke about the fire, but well, Jake takes it as a compliment judging from the smirk on his lips.

“We have to burn the blood in the fire, and say some shit in Latin.”

“That's it?” You say.

He looks up at you, almost offended. “What do you mean– that's it?”

“I dunno,” you say quietly, “I assumed we'd have to sacrifice someone's firstborn or something like that.”

He snorts, “You're ridiculous.”

You can't help but grin, your heart racing at the thought of this being so near, so possible.

“We got about an hour until it's time,” he says, looking up at the clock, “Let's, uh, get a move on, right?”

You nod, turning to face him completely, “Y/n, if this doesn't work out, I want you to know something–”

You interrupt him with a quick kiss on his lips, “It's gonna work out.”

He blinks, his face softening, and he nods, “Okay.”

—

Finding the field had been easy. Too easy.

The air was heavy with silence, the kind that settles before something ancient wakes up.

Jake made hellfire bloom in the grass like it belonged there– writhing black-orange flames licking the cold night air, flickering without heat. That was easy for him.

Cutting open his hand? Not so much.

His brows knit low, jaw clenched tight. “We have to open the door.”

You glance around at the wide, empty field. “Jake, there’s not a door out here.”

He turns toward you slowly, disappointment prevalent in his expression. “In our heads, Y/n.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Right. Sorry.”

He shakes his head, grin flickering back into place like a bad habit. “Alright. We open the doors. We keep them open– through the whole thing.”

You hesitate. “Now?”

Jake nods once. “Mine’s already open,” he says softly.

You shut your eyes. You picture it: the door. Old, sturdy wood. You shove it open. Cold air rushes into you. “Mine is too.”

He doesn’t smile this time.

“You have to say the chant,” Jake says, voice quieter, flatter.

You blink. “Wait– me? I thought you– Jake, I’m awful at Latin.”

You can do this.

You’d forgotten that you’d opened the door. That he could hear you. And that you could hear him.

I’ll speak it into your mind. Just say it out loud.

You give a single nod.

He lifts the knife, silver and ancient, the blade etched with thin, unreadable script. It seemed to vibrate in his hand. Not visibly, but something about it buzzes in your teeth.

Jake looks at you, gaze softening. “It’s going to sting.”

You swallow, holding out your arm.

He moves fast, the blade slicing across your palm before you could change your mind. It hurt. Not the sharp, clean kind of pain. It throbs instantly, a heat blooming under the skin like something foreign was crawling in.

Blood wells up.

You wince, but before you could react, he takes your wrist and lifts your bleeding hand toward his own.

“Your turn,” he whispers.

You stare at him, wide-eyed.

Do it.

Your hand trembles. You raised the blade, but hesitate again. He doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

You press it to his palm, dragging it through the skin with a trembling wrist.

His eyebrows drop down– but he doesn’t make a sound.

The cut blooms red instantly.

He grabs your wounded hand with his, pressing the cuts together, palm to palm.

The pain flares– immediate, searing, wrong. Like something was being poured into the wound instead of out.

Jake pulls your joined hands over the fire.

Blood drips into the flames. But instead of being consumed, it turned thick and black, pooling like oil. It didn’t sizzle. It hissed– like it was alive.

Repeat after me.

In nomine noctis, et flammae, et carnis sanctae.

Your voice shakes. “In nomine noctis, et flammae, et carnis sanctae…”

Aperi te mihi, daemon

“Aperi te mihi, daemon…”

Non timeas lucem meam — gustas eam, calidam, dulcem, profanam.

You stumble through it, panic bubbling beneath your ribs. The world felt heavier. The ground hums under your knees.

Cor tuum, arde sub manibus meis. Peccatum tuum lingua mea purgat.

You look into the fire as you spoke, unable to meet his gaze. The black blood pulsed now– bubbling like it was boiling from the inside out.

Geme sub tactu veritatis. Cade… in me. Surge… per me. Ama, et redime tecum.

You whisper the last words, your voice barely audible over the sound of the flames.

Then silence.

The blood stopped dripping. The fire vanished.

And the pool of black blood– still, for one breath– bubbled violently the next.

You look up at Jake, your throat tight.

He stares back, eyes wild and dark. His grip on your hand suddenly tightens.

“Jake–”

His body jerks like he’d been struck by lightning. His jaw clenches hard enough to crack, breath hitching in his throat. His free hand fists in the grass.

“Jake!”

He doesn’t answer– just groans, low and guttural, through gritted teeth. It wasn’t human. You felt it in your bones.

You reach for him with your uninjured hand, touching his face– and flinch.

He’s burning.

“Jake– Talk to me–”

He gasps, eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment, you see something move behind them.

You push harder, trying to read his thoughts. You try to reach into his mind– but the door is gone. Slammed shut. Locked.

He shut you out.

He grabs the hand on his cheek, clinging to it like an anchor, and for a split second… you feel it.

What he was feeling. The pain. The shredding inside of him. Like fire under skin. Like every nerve was alight and flayed open.

Then, suddenly, it stops.

Jake drops back into the grass, panting like he’d just been dragged through hell.

You open your mouth to speak–

The flames explode back to life.

You yelp, shielding your face as the fire rose higher than before– angry, wild, redder than blood. The pooled mixture beneath it ignited violently, but didn’t consume.

It screamed as it burned.

And then, like nothing had ever happened, it all vanished.

No fire. No blood. No smoke.

Just grass. Untouched. Unbothered. Like the earth had swallowed the ritual whole.

You turn to Jake, crawling to him. “Jake?!” your voice cracks.

His eyes are shut, chest rising and falling fast.

“That fucking hurt,” he mutters, voice hoarse and broken.

You let out a strangled sound, half sob, half laugh, as he pushes himself up. “Are you alright?” He asks, his voice rough.

You shove him, hard. “Am I alright?!” your voice rises, panic uncoiling from your chest. “I thought you were dying!”

He grins weakly. “Don’t be like that…”

But you’re already crying. “I thought you were dying, Jake!”

He pulls you into him, arms wrapping around you tight. “I’m alright, baby.”

You collapse into his hold, your arms locking around him like he might disappear again. “I couldn’t get in,” you whisper. “I couldn’t see– I didn’t know…”

“I know,” he breathes against your hair. “I had to shut the door. I couldn’t let you see it.”

You both stay there, tangled and trembling, as the air cools and the stars wheeled silently above.

Eventually, your crying slowed. His breathing evens out.

You shift to lay against him, cheek pressed to his chest, legs straddling his lap. You feel every beat of his heart.

Finally, the dust settles.

And you were both exhausted.

“How do we know if it worked?” you ask, voice barely audible.

Jake was silent for a moment. “I don’t know.”

You lift your head. “You don’t?”

He looks past you, dazed. “I thought it’d be… different.”

“It isn’t?”

He shakes his head slowly, fingers tracing lazy, shaky patterns against your back.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered.

—

The door clicks shut behind you. Jake doesn’t speak. He walks in like he’s dragging the night in with him. You follow a few steps behind, heart still thudding unevenly, like it hasn’t decided whether you’re safe yet.

The apartment is quiet, dim. The kind of stillness that makes you feel like you’re not alone in it– even though it’s just you two.

You and Jake. Whatever he is now.

He doesn’t take off his boots. Doesn’t toss his jacket over the chair like he always does.

He just stands in the middle of the room, his back to you, fists clenched at his sides.

You speak first. You have to. “Jake…”

He doesn’t turn around.

You take a step toward him, then another, until you're close enough to feel it again– the heat pouring off him like radiation. Too hot.

He finally turns to face you. And the look in his eyes almost knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Not because he looks evil. Not because he looks monstrous.

Because he looks… still. Controlled– too controlled.

The kind of control that feels like a cage someone built inside themselves to keep the teeth in.

“Say something,” you whisper.

Jake’s jaw tightens. He looks down at his hands like they’re unfamiliar to him– bloody, streaked with soot, skin pulled too tight over his knuckles. His voice is low, and wrong in its quietness. “It worked.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

A long silence.

“Jake,” you say again, carefully, “what did it do to you?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Nothing I didn’t already have in me.”

The words settle like ash in your lungs. He looks at you like he’s daring you to ask more.

You step closer. He doesn’t move. You reach for his hand– your fingers graze his, expecting him to pull away.

He doesn’t.

But his hand doesn’t close around yours, either.

“You’re not the same,” you murmur.

His voice drops lower. “No. I’m not.”

You let the silence fill the space between you again. Your heart races, and he knows it– he feels it, somehow. You know he does.

His eyes narrow, and he says it flat, unapologetic, “I can feel it.”

You blink. “Feel what?”

Jake steps forward– slow, careful, deliberate. The air changes around him, like it’s bending inward. His fingers trail up your wrist, over the bandage on your palm. His touch is gentle. But it burns.

“Everything.” His voice is rough, restrained. “Your pulse. The blood moving under your skin. The way your fear curls in your stomach, even when you try to hide it.”

He’s close now, too close. You tilt your chin up, and he watches the motion like a predator tracking something fragile.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whisper.

Jake smirks– just barely. “You should be.” It’s not a threat. It’s a confession. “I won’t hurt you,” he adds, softer now, eyes flickering over your face. “But I don’t trust what I’ve become.”

Your breath hitches. “I do.”

His hand slides to the back of your neck– fingertips curling, not hard, but possessive. Holding. Claiming.

“I’m not–” he says, low against your cheek. “–not even pretending. That part of me... burned off out there.”

You press closer, not backing down. “Then let me see what’s left.”

That pulls something raw out of him. A sound, almost a laugh– something bitter and disbelieving. “You don’t want that.”

“I do.”

Jake’s mouth finds the edge of your jaw– slow, rough, open-mouthed. Not soft. He kisses like someone starved, like he’s trying to remember how. His teeth drag lightly against your skin.

You shudder.

“I still want you,” he murmurs. “But I don’t know if I want to have you or keep you.”

You freeze. “Why not both?”

His body goes still against yours. You feel the shudder in him, an almost imperceptible break in his control.

His lips press to your neck, slow, deliberate, like a warning. You feel him smell you– like he’s memorizing the scent of your skin. Your blood. The part of you that’s still fragile.

“I could ruin you,” he whispers.

You breathe, “Then do it.”

He exhales hard, shaky, like he’s trying to shake something off. And then his hands are on your waist, pulling you in until you’re flush against him.

And suddenly, there’s nothing between you and the heat of him. Nothing but your heartbeat and the way his gaze drops to your mouth like he’s considering sin.

“I’m not safe anymore,” he warns.

And you lean in, eyes locked to his. “You never were.”

—

You sit on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of your laptop screen casting long shadows across the room. The silence feels oppressive tonight, thicker than usual. You can still feel Jake’s presence in the apartment– like he’s just behind you, watching, but not saying a word.

The ritual worked. You know that much. But what did it do to him? The Jake you knew before is still here, and yet… he's not.

You can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you last night, like there was something else lurking behind his eyes– something darker, deeper, not quite him. His touch, still electric, but now there’s a coolness to it, a pull you can’t explain. The way he said he didn’t trust what he’d become. You’d never heard him sound so uncertain, so foreign.

You need answers. You need to understand.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, and you type in a search: “rituals for soul redemption,” then “demonic soul cleansing results,” and “what happens to a demon after redemption.” Nothing useful. A thousand articles on possession, purification, exorcism rituals– but nothing about the kind of ritual you’d done, nothing about the change Jake’s going through.

You feel a knot tighten in your stomach. There’s a sick curiosity that’s been clawing at you ever since the ritual ended, but tonight it’s stronger, heavier. Jake said it worked. But you can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it. Something hidden behind his silence.

You close your eyes for a second, trying to remember the ritual– the words, the blood, the fire. The way it felt when you stood beside him, hands bleeding, hearts beating in sync as the world around you seemed to collapse into black flames. Was it really just for his redemption? Or was there something more you weren’t seeing?

A sound at the door snaps you from your thoughts. Jake. You don’t even have to look up to know it’s him. The air shifts in a way that only he can make it.

You glance over, but he’s standing there, watching you, his eyes unreadable. There’s something in the way he’s looking at you tonight– something that makes your pulse quicken, a tension so thick it’s like you can almost touch it.

"Still awake?" he asks, voice rougher than usual.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I was just... reading."

Jake takes a step closer, then another, until he’s standing right in front of you, towering over you. His gaze flicks to the screen, then back to you. There’s no smile tonight, no teasing grin. Just a quiet intensity.

"Found anything useful?" he asks, his voice colder now.

You shake your head slowly, closing the laptop. "No. I– I don't know what’s happening with you, Jake. I don’t understand what that ritual did to you."

Jake doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he just stands there, looking at you with that unreadable expression. Then, his gaze flicks to your bandaged hand, and you feel him tense. "It didn’t change me," he mutters, almost to himself. "I’m still the same."

But you can feel the difference. Something in him is off. He’s pulling away from you, but in a way that feels deliberate, calculated– like he’s keeping himself distant, even though his eyes stay fixed on you.

You stand slowly, feeling the weight of the silence in the room. “Jake... I know you're still you, but... but you're different. I can feel it. You won’t even talk about what happened out there.”

He looks at you sharply, but his voice remains low, controlled. "You think I’m different?" he asks. It’s not a question– it’s a challenge.

"I don’t think. I know," you reply, your voice trembling despite yourself. “You’re still you, Jake, but there’s something... more. Something else inside you now.”

Your eyes ache.

Your head is pounding, and every time you blink, faint scrawls of letters linger behind your eyelids.

You've been researching again– hours upon hours of chasing down any hint, any whisper of a way to twist the narrative of this cursed contract. One lead left you cold: a passage about sacrificing yourself for the demon. You slammed that book shut fast. You want Jake to be good, but preferably with you still alive to witness it.

You're about to give up, flipping through one last page, when something catches your eye. The Mirror of the Soul.

You pause, frowning. The words are marked through, crossed out, as if someone tried to bury them. Your gaze skims the page. There's a ritual, messy scribbles in the margins, notes claiming it doesn’t work.

And at the very bottom, the same scrawled handwriting, repeating just three words:

Don’t give in.

You snap the book shut and glare at the bookshelf in front of you.

Deep breath in. Hold. Slow exhale.

Don’t give in.

To what?

Your thoughts drift to Jake. Is he torturing souls in Hell right now? Or just lurking, waiting for you to slip?

“Y/n.”

You jolt slightly, looking up to find Alex standing in front of you. Panic flickers through you, but you manage a smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, grinning. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sure,” you reply, injecting fake cheer into your voice.

Please don’t let Jake show up.

Alex pulls out the chair across from you, settling in with a warm smile. “How are you?” he asks, leaning forward, elbows on the table.

“Good,” you nod. “How’ve you been?”

“Good.” He pauses, then smirks. “You never texted.”

Right. That.

“Oh– lost the paper,” you lie. “Meant to, but I’ve been a little all over the place lately.” That part, at least, is true.

“Yeah, you seem…” He trails off, eyes scanning your face. “Different. Everything okay?”

No.

“Yeah,” you wave a hand, brushing it off. “Life just keeps throwing crap at me.”

He laughs, bright and easy, his smile too white to be real. Then his gaze drops to the book in front of you. His eyebrows shoot up. “You into demons now?”

You force a laugh. “No, just… hyperfixated.”

He chuckles again, voice softer. “You always were something else.”

You glance away, cheeks warming.

“How cute.”

You freeze. That voice.

You turn your head slowly, careful not to look crazy in front of Alex.

Jake is leaning against a nearby bookshelf, arms crossed, a dangerous smile stretched across his face. You face forward again, like a kid caught sneaking candy. You say nothing.

“Let me in,” Jake says, voice low.

You know exactly what he means.

You pretend to listen to Alex, who’s now talking about work or something equally mundane, but your heart is pounding like a drumbeat in your ears.

“Y/n, if you don’t let me in that pretty little head of yours, I’m going to cause a scene.”

You hesitate.

Then, in your mind, you picture the door– heavy, locked, safe. And you open it.

You don’t feel him slip inside, but you know he’s there, sifting through your thoughts like files in a cabinet.

“So, would you wanna go out sometime?”

You snap back to the moment, eyes wide. No.

“Um,” you fidget, “I–”

“I’ll kill him.” You know Jake means that.

You draw in a sharp breath.

“I’m not really… looking for anything right now,” you say softly, offering an apologetic smile.

Alex takes it well. “Totally fine. We can just hang out, catch up.” He grins, easygoing.

Jake chooses that exact moment to step up to the table, still arms crossed, glaring at Alex with unhidden contempt.

“Yeah,” you nod, nerves flaring as you monitor Jake from the corner of your eye. “Sorry, I just don’t–”

“You don’t owe me an apology,” Alex interrupts, waving it off. “Seriously.”

Jake turns to you with a mocking smile. “Oh, he’s so sweet, isn’t he?”

You ignore him, offering Alex a small smile instead. “I appreciate that.”

Jake scoffs and steps back. You slam the mental door in his face– hard. He pauses mid-step, eyes narrowing.

Alex stands. “I’ve gotta head to work, but it was really good seeing you, Y/n.”

“You too,” you say, a smile still plastered in place.

Jake lingers. Unmoving. That’s never a good sign.

Once Alex is gone and you're sure it’s just you and Jake, you round on him with a glare. “What the fuck was that?”

“You tell me,” he snaps, dragging out the chair Alex vacated and dropping into it like he owns the place. He leans back, infuriatingly casual. “You always were something else,” he mimics Alex’s voice, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Fucking sick.”

“You’re jealous,” you say, smug.

“You’re damn right I am,” he fires back, eyes darkening.

“You shouldn’t be. I don’t feel that way about him, Jake.”

“I know,” he says, coolly. “I saw what you thought about him.”

Your shoulders stiffen. Of course. That’s why he wanted in.

“You bastard.”

“I wanted to know.”

“You could’ve just asked me.”

“Oh sure,” he says, sarcasm thick. “Because we’re so good at being honest with each other.”

“I– I am honest!”

“Are you?” He tilts his head. “Then what’ve you been researching?”

You hesitate, unsure how he'll react. “How to help you.”

The smugness fades from his face. His eyes flick down to the closed book. “You won’t find any help in that,” he says quietly.

“Then where?”

Silence. Then a shrug. “I don’t know if it’s even possible.”

And just like that– he’s gone.

—

The rain has been tapping the window all evening, soft and relentless. You're sitting cross-legged on your bed, wrapped in the quiet hum of your room, the air thick with old candle smoke and the faint scent of old pages. The books scattered across your bedspread are half-open, useless. Every lead has gone nowhere. Every ritual feels more like a warning than a cure. And still no sign of him.

Until now.

The lights dim without flickering. The shadows in the corner of your room twist. You don’t even look up.

“You lasted longer than I expected,” you say quietly.

Jake’s voice, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous, curls through the air. “Fifty-six hours, twenty-two minutes, and… forty-six seconds.” He’s leaning against your bedroom wall, arms crossed like he’s always belonged here.

You finally glance at him. "You counted?"

His grin is slow and wicked. “Of course I did. Every second you didn’t want me.” He pushes off the wall, his voice dropping, flirtatious now. “Proud of me?”

You scoff. “You make it sound like basic decency is some kind of achievement.”

“It is,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Especially for me.”

Your breath catches slightly– because he’s close now. Too close. The space between you sizzles with something electric and wrong and terrifyingly tempting.

“You're still mad,” you say flatly.

Jake’s smile sharpens. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re jealous.”

He leans down, hands braced on either side of you on the bed, boxing you in. “Jealous doesn't begin to cover it.”

You hold his gaze, but your pulse betrays you.

He continues, voice a near-whisper. “You smiled at him, sweetheart. Like he was the only one in the world.” His tone is dark, possessive– but tinged with something vulnerable beneath. “And you’ve never smiled at me like that.”

You try to breathe steady, but your chest feels too tight. “That’s because I don’t know how to look at you without falling apart.”

That stalls him. Just for a second.

His voice softens, dangerous in a new way. “Then fall apart.”

You exhale shakily. “I’m serious, Jake. It scares the shit out of me.”

His eyes darken, not with anger, but hunger. “Good. It should.”

You blink.

“Because when I want something,” he murmurs, leaning closer until your noses almost touch, “I don’t let go. I won’t let go.” His gaze drops to your lips, then flicks back to your eyes. “Not unless you beg me to.”

Your throat goes dry. “And what if I do?”

He chuckles, low and hot. “Then I’ll make you beg louder.”

You swallow hard, heart threatening to punch through your ribs. “You need to stop.”

“I did.” He straightens, but only a little. “I gave you space. I respected your boundaries. Look at me– being a good little nightmare.”

You glare. “You stalked my thoughts the entire time, didn’t you?”

He smiles like he’s won. “Maybe. But I didn’t say anything. Baby steps.”

You grab the nearest book and toss it at him. He catches it with one hand, effortlessly, and tosses it aside without looking.

“I shut the door–”

“You're not as good at that as you think,” he says.

“What?” Your heart skips a beat. Has he been able to read your thoughts the entire time? “You– When I shut the door, you told me not to do that because you couldn't–”

“I've been doing this demon thing for ages, baby,” he says softly, “You opened the door in that library and I might've– maybe– slipped past it after you shut it. You really should work on that.”

You briefly consider strangling him.

“That could be fun,” he says with a wink.

“Jake–”

“You need to keep working on it,” he says, suddenly serious. “I'm not the only demon that can read your mind. If any of the others find out what you're up to–” He pauses, his jaw tightening, “Work on it.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively, “Where do you go when you're not here?”

He gives you a crooked smile, “Wherever I feel like going.”

You narrow your eyes, “Do you have anybody else?”

He tilts his head at that, “Like a girlfriend?”

You don't answer, feeling suddenly ridiculously childish. Why did you care?

“No,” he says softly, “I don't. It's just you.”

“It isn't just me,” you object, “We're not–” You stop trying to figure out how to word it.

“Not yet,” he says confidently, “But I've been in your head, I know you like me.”

You roll your eyes at that, “I don't like you.”

“You do,” he says, making his way toward your door.

You squint at him as he opens the door, “Grow up. And stay out of my head.”

“Get to fixing that fuckin’ door, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder, wandering off to wreak havoc in your kitchen.

Fuck.

You fall back onto your mattress, staring up at the ceiling. And you get to work, imagining the door in your head.

—

You're alone when he shows up.

The same demon from before, with silver eyes and sleek attire, like he stepped off the runway to come to your little apartment.

You don't move from the couch. You can't. Fear has almost paralyzed your body.

You briefly consider opening the door and screaming out to Jake, but– opening the door will let this demon in, as well.

“Hello again,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face.

You don't speak.

“Where's Jakey?” He asks, making his way closer to you.

“He– He left for a bit,” you say stupidly.

“Left you all alone, did he?” He says, stopping just in front of you. “How foolish.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, “He'll be back any minute.”

“I know,” he agrees, “Which is why I'm going to make this quick.”

You suck in a sharp breath, “What are you–”

“You have no idea,” he says, wrapping a strand of your hair around his fingers, “How much you're worth.” You lean away from him, but he tilts his head, staring at you, “A soul like yours–” He shakes his head, “–is worth more than you can imagine.”

You don't say a word, but you can feel the bond thrumming beneath your skin, warm and safe, and you mentally grab into it, yanking it hard.

“Sell it to me.”

Your breath catches, “What?”

“I can offer anything you want. You want this bond broken? You want riches, fame?” He grins, as if he knows the next words he speaks will seal the deal, “You want to redeem Jake's soul?”

You finally look at him, your eyebrows pinching in, “You can do that?”

He nods, “I can. I will, all I need is your soul. Just as it is– pure, untouched. And you two can live your happy little lives together.”

“What's the catch?” You ask softly, your mind running over a million different possibilities, “I know there's a fucking catch.”

He chuckles, “There's no catch. I get ownership of your soul, I never have to see Jake in hell again, you two live happily ever after– win-win for everybody.”

You squint, studying him. He's almost as unreadable as Jake. Almost.

And speak of the devil. He appears without a ripple in the atmosphere, his eyes are entirely black, “Get away from her.”

The other demon straightens, turning to Jake with a malicious grin, “Jake,” he says cheerily, “You really should know better than to leave her alone for too long. That's when the wolves start closing in.”

His words play through your head over and over. Redeem Jake's soul.

“I told you to stay away from her,” Jake says, his voice low and dangerously calm.

The silver-eyed demon laughs, “She's irresistible, Jake. That soul of hers…” He shakes his head, “Too much for you to know what to do with.”

You don't have to look at Jake to know he's angry.

“Maybe,” Jake says, a smirk overtaking his face as he shoves his hands in his pockets– casual and collected, “But I'm the one that's bonded to her– I'm the one who owns that…” he pauses to take a satisfied breath, “decadent soul of hers.”

You hate the way they're talking about it– Like you're not right there. Frozen on the couch, your knees pulled up to your chest from where you'd curled in on yourself for a false sense of security.

“I'm the one intertwined with her,” he boasts, “In more ways than you could fathom.”

Your jaw nearly drops. The insinuation– it heats you up despite the fear coursing through you.

The silver-eyed demon chuckles, turning back to you, “Consider the offer.”

And then he's gone.

You sit there in silence, refusing to look at Jake.

He's quiet for just a moment, but that's all he gives, “How did you do that?”

You finally look up at him, “Do what?”

His eyebrows are furrowed together, confusion and intrigue on his face as he makes his way to stand in front of you, “You called to me. Without opening the door.”

Your mouth opens as it hits you. When you'd tugged at the bond, “I just… I pulled on the bond. Like… Like it was a rope or something.”

He looks proud as he looks down at you, “I couldn't get in your head.”

“I was scared he would be able to,” you admit quietly, “If I opened the door.”

He nods, “What'd he say to you?”

“Nothing,” you lie, biting at your bottom lip as you go over the conversation in your head. Redeem Jake's soul.

“Y/n–”

“He made an offer for my soul,” you say quietly, “That was it.”

He doesn't move, he just stares at you.

“Why'd you have to talk about me like that?” You ask, glaring at him, “Like I'm some… piece of meat.”

He looks apologetic, “I'm sorry,” he says, his voice soft, “Demons are… We have a thing for ownership.”

“You don't own me, Jake,” you say weakly.

“I know,” he nods, “But when it comes to the bond and all that– That's how they see it.”

You watch him, “How do you see it?”

He gives you a smile, “Intertwined.” You frown, but he continues, “Like I'm supposed to be with you every second of the day or I feel like I'm drowning.”

You look away, pushing down the part of you that wants to melt at that, “Is that you or the bond?”

He huffs a laugh, taking a step back as he turns, “It's me.”

You look up to watch him walk away, biting down at your bottom lip as you ponder it.

You sigh, closing your eyes. With a deep breath, you push yourself up to your feet, following behind him.

“I don't know what that means,” you say when you find him in the kitchen, raiding your cabinets.

He hums, looking in front of him, pretending to still look at the food, “I feel like it's pretty straight forward.”

“I don't know if it's the bond or if it's real,” you say softly. You're not talking about his feelings.

He slowly closes the cabinet door, his hand falling to his side. He turns to you, his face blank. You can only hold his eyes for a moment before you look away, crossing your arms as you press your back against the wall.

You can feel yourself crumbling as he approaches you, slowly, that naturally predatory energy about him.

He puts his hand at your jaw, angling your face up to his, “Doesn't it get tiring thinking so much?”

Your eyes narrow slightly, hating that he was right. It does.

“Stop fighting it,” he whispers, “Whatever you feel, feel it.”

“It's easy for you to say,” your voice comes out shaky.

“No, it's not,” he admits. “I don't– Demons don't feel.”

You frown at that, “You've been feeling pretty… lusty since I've met you.”

He grins, “That's natural. Part of the package. But… feelings? Wanting you so bad it almost fucking hurts?” He shakes his head, “Nope.”

You know he isn't talking about the physical aspect of it. Well, not only the physical aspect. But you deflect, as you usually do, “You got a hand that can help out with that,” you say.

He hums, “So do you.”

And the smile is wiped off your face. The thought of your hand around him almost makes you drop to your knees– “Gross.”

His lips turn up into that familiar smirk, “Yeah,” he says, his nose brushing against yours as he leans in closer, “So gross.”

Your lips part, though whether it's to breathe or kiss him, you don't know.

His smirk widens, a knowing glint in his eyes, before he steps back, “What's for dinner?”

—

You needed a bath.

Bubbles floating around you, the water just hot enough to turn your skin red, a few candles placed around for the scent and the ambience.

Jake was offended when you told him he wasn't allowed to join you. So he was sulking somewhere in the house, probably your bed– he tended to stretch out there when you weren't in it, tempting you.

You can't stop thinking about him.

His lips, the way he looks at you, the way his eyes darken when he's thinking something particularly nasty.

You think of his hands, how they'd feel against your bare skin, calloused and warm and possessive.

You're a bit annoyed, too.

He hasn't given you a single moment for you to… relieve the tension.

You're sure he's gotten his rocks off, but you've been too hesitant– scared he might show up when things get good.

You chew at your bottom lip, considering getting off right here in the bathtub. And he would be none the wiser.

The ache is what ultimately wins out.

You let your thighs fall open, and you're not teasing about it. You don't have time to take time for it as you usually would, teasing yourself, building it up just right.

Your hand just barely ghosts over your clit when an idea pops into your head. You pull your hand away, your thighs shutting once more.

You shut your eyes, picturing that damned door. Solid, heavy… And you open it.

Let me in that bathroom.

You almost giggle– he was immediate, as if he was waiting or hoping you'd open that door.

You're dirty, he teases. I know what you're doing.

What am I doing?

You've kept your hands off of yourself since you opened the door, but he's reading every thought you've had since the last time you let him in your head.

Eager little thing, aren't you? He asks, a teasing tilt to his voice, Touch yourself, Y/n.

You hesitate, your heart pounding hard in your chest.

Now.

You open your legs back up, your fingers slipping between them once again. You nearly let out a loud moan when you rub over your aching clit. You bite your lip, slowly working your fingers over yourself.

Keep going slow.

You huff at that, annoyance immediately taking over.

None of that, he says, his tone warning, just behave and do as I told you.

Fine, you reply, not without attitude. He hums a laugh in your head, though it doesn't sound amused.

You keep going slow, trying to keep your mind away from him, embarrassed knowing that he knows it was him that had you this way.

Nothing to be ashamed of, he says, his voice low. You have no idea how many times I've gotten off to you.

Pervert, you reply, ignoring the heat burning through you at the thought of that.

And you like that thought, don't think I can't see that.

You mentally roll your eyes, Shut up.

Keep it up with the attitude– that bathroom door isn't as strong as you think it is.

You let out a quiet noise, wishing it was his hands on you.

Poor thing.

Jake–

Faster.

You listen to him, your fingers rubbing tight circles over yourself, hating how close you were already. Your thighs are tensing, your entire body is shaking, and you don't bother telling him you're close– he knows.

Come on, baby. Let it happen.

In a move that you're rather proud of, right as I'm your orgasm hits you, you slam the door shut in your head, effectively locking him out once again.

Your entire body jerks as you work yourself through it, the bubbly water sloshing around you. You freely think of him now, the things he would say to you, how he would work you through it to the point of tears–

And he hasn't come back into your head by the time you've finished. If he has, he hasn't said a single word.

Your chest heaves as you come down, expecting Jake to bust through the door at any moment.

You let yourself recover before you get out of the tub, still expecting him as you dry off.

You left your clothes in your room. You hate your luck. You think back to the night you first used the bond, when you had him bring you a towel. You wouldn't have such luck now asking him to bring your clothes– not after the stunt you just pulled.

Your fingers tighten around the doorknob, hoping you still have some luck as you open the door, clutching your towel tightly to you.

You peek out, not seeing him in the room. Did he get mad and leave? You make your way to your dresser to get dressed as quickly as you can.

You don't even get a drawer open when you feel him behind you. You gasp when you feel his hands at your hips, pressing you against the front of the dresser, and his chest is against your back.

He's as solid as the furniture in front of you, unyielding as his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, “That wasn't very nice.”

You try to turn your head to look at him, but he doesn't let you, he's too close and not moving.

“I couldn't get back in,” he murmurs, his hand trailing up along the towel, barely touching you until his fingers are resting around your throat, just holding you there.

“Really?” You say, though it's breathy, “I've been working on that,” you try to sound casual, but you know you're barely holding it together.

“I know you have,” he says, his lips barely pressing into the skin below your ear, “I'm almost proud of you.”

You frown, though you know he can't see it, “Almost?”

“Did it feel good?” He asks, pressing you tighter between him and the dresser.

“Yes,” you answer on a sigh.

“Good,” he gives your throat a light squeeze, “But keep in mind– I can make you feel so much better, sweetheart.”

And with that, he lets you go. You nearly fall to the ground, your legs are weak. You turn to glare at him, but he's gone.

You take a deep breath, before grinning to yourself. You count it as a win in your book, although you don't really know if you won or not.

—

“I've been looking into some things. About… how to redeem my soul or whatever.”

You aren't expecting it. Especially not in the dead of the night when you had wandered into your kitchen to grab a glass of water. You stare at him, bleary eyed and rumpled, a sleepy frown on your face. He's sitting at your table, looking as alert as ever, not a hair out of place.

“Do you sleep?” You ask, scratching at your lower stomach.

“Sometimes,” he responds, “Not as much as I should.”

You nod, turning to your cabinet to grab a glass, “What have you found out?”

He's quiet for a moment, “There's ways to do it.”

You fill your glass with water, thinking over his words, “I couldn't find anything in the books.”

“I told you that you wouldn't,” he says softly.

“Yeah, because you were being a dick,” you grumble, making your way to the table.

He watches you with a half smirk as you sit, too soft for you to think about right now. “I was still right.”

You glare at him, running a hand through your tangled hair, hoping to smooth some of it out, “What ways?”

“Well,” he begins, leaning back in his chair, “Some are… not so ideal. Involves sacrifice and blood. Lots of it.”

You scoff, “Yeah, I found that one too.”

“Some involve that fairytale bullshit– y'know, true love and all that shit.”

You stay quiet at that one.

“There's one– it might work.”

“What is it?”

He pauses, his fingers tapping at the table, “I don't think I'd be okay with doing it.”

You blink, staring hard at him, “What is it, Jake?”

“I'd have to… free all the souls I've collected over the years,” he says quietly, “Release them from the deals. But I'd have to keep one.”

“A random one or–” you cut yourself off when he looks up at you.

Yours.

You're aren't… not okay with it.

You both already have each other's– intertwined, a fight against good and evil warring as you speak.

“Mine.”

He nods, “I won't do that.”

“What happens to it?”

“I don't know,” he says above a whisper. “I don't know if it'd be mine or if it'd be hell's.”

“How many souls have you gotten?” You ask.

He sighs heavily, “I don't know.”

“Don't you already have mine?”

“No,” he says, “We– they're together, just still our own.”

“So,” you huff a laugh, “Countless souls in return for one.”

“It's considered a sacrifice,” he says, “I won't do that to you. We'll just have to keep looking for another way.”

“But Jake, what if this works?”

“I'm not fucking doing it,” he says firmly. “I'd rather rot in hell for the rest of eternity than chance you being stuck there while I'm not– No, we're not doing that.”

You clench your jaw, “But if my soul is pure like they said, then–”

“Then it's something they'd love to get their hands on. You don't understand the depths of the fucking torture you would go through, Y/n. It's a hard no.”

Your shoulders sink, “We have to find a way, Jake.”

He's already seated at the kitchen table when you wake, unmoving, as if he's been there for hours. The way he sits is too deliberate, too rigid– like a painting posed with intention rather than a man simply starting his morning. His back is straight, shoulders squared, hands folded with unnatural stillness in front of him on the table. Everything about him feels too composed to be casual.

You catch the sharpness in his gaze immediately. He's watching you, not in a sleepy, absentminded way, but like a predator tracks movement– calculated, intense. His eyes follow you with laser precision as you step into the room, the hair on the back of your neck prickling with awareness.

Still half-asleep, you move on instinct toward the coffee pot. You draw in a deep breath, trying to ground yourself, though the air in the room is tight with tension you can't quite name.

“Good morning,” you offer, your voice hoarse with sleep and disuse.

“Good morning.” His voice echoes yours in pitch but not in tone. It’s rough, not with grogginess, but something deeper. Something scraped raw.

You busy yourself with the coffee, the clink of the pot and the hiss of steam oddly loud in the silence between you. You hesitate, weighing your words carefully before you say, “I think I need to talk to Mira.”

That gets his attention. You don’t even have to look to know, his energy shifts, and when he speaks again, the warmth is gone from his voice. “Why?” It's a single word, but it lands heavy, edged in frost.

You keep your back to him a second longer, gathering your composure. His eyes, you can feel them, locked on you with uncomfortable intensity. You pour the coffee slowly, watching the liquid rise in the mug, then turn around with it clasped in your hands like a shield.

He's staring, his gaze trailing unapologetically down your legs, unblinking. But when your eyes meet, he looks up quickly, as if ashamed to be caught, or trying to appear that way.

“I need answers,” you say, barely above a whisper, as though speaking louder might shatter the fragile space between you.

In the blink of an eye, he’s standing in front of you now, silent and sudden, like he didn't move so much as manifest. One hand rests flat on the edge of the counter beside you, the other set firmly on his hip. He crosses one ankle loosely over the other, the pose almost lazy, almost nonchalant, but it doesn’t fool you. You can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a fire barely contained.

“Answers to what?” he asks, voice deceptively smooth but tight around the edges.

You study his face, searching for some flicker of the man you know, but all you find is restraint. He looks like himself– but doesn’t feel like himself. Still, you reach out gently, laying your hand against his cheek. His skin is no longer hot, no longer flushed with that unnatural warmth from before. But your touch makes him flinch ever so slightly, muscles in his jaw tightening beneath your palm. His eyes have that same dark, unreadable look.

“Whatever it is that’s happening to you,” you say softly.

His hand rises slowly, almost reluctantly, and he wraps his fingers around your wrist. He doesn’t squeeze or pull. Instead, he eases your hand away from his face like it's causing him pain to be touched– like it’s too much. He holds your wrist carefully, tenderly.

“I’m fine, Y/n,” he says, the words quiet but firm.

“Are you?” you ask, letting your hand remain in his. You expect him to release it, to return it to your side or maybe nudge it toward your mug. But he doesn't. He just holds it there, suspended between you like some invisible thread keeping you tethered to him.

A shadow passes over his expression. His brow knits slightly. “Aren’t I?” he murmurs, as though he genuinely doesn’t know.

You exhale slowly through your nose, your chest tightening. “You’re different,” you say, not unkindly, but not gently, either. Just honest.

He tilts his head a little, considering that. “Is that so bad?”

“It’s not exactly good,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

That breaks whatever fragile connection you’d managed to hold onto. He lets go of your hand, the warmth of his fingers leaving a ghost behind on your skin. He steps back, putting space between you as if to protect you from something, or protect himself.

“I’m still me,” he mutters, but it sounds more like a question than a statement.

You don't respond. You can’t.

Without another word, he turns and walks out of the kitchen, footsteps quiet but heavy with unspoken weight. You’re left standing there, coffee in your hands, staring at the empty space where he stood moments before. The silence he leaves behind is louder than anything he said.

—

It’s been hours since he walked out of the kitchen, but the air hasn’t settled. It still feels disturbed, charged. You keep yourself busy, moving through the motions of your day– cleaning, folding laundry, checking your phone even though you don’t know who you’re expecting to hear from.

He hasn't left the house. You’re sure of it.

You spot him once through the hallway mirror– just a reflection, blurry and half-hidden, standing at the far end of the corridor near the back door. He doesn’t move when you glance his way. Doesn’t look like he’s doing anything at all. Just standing there, arms crossed, shoulder pressed to the wall, watching. His reflection locks eyes with you in the mirror for a moment before you turn away, unsettled.

You try not to read into it.

By evening, you’ve lit a few candles around the house, trying to banish the deepening shadows. You hear his footsteps behind you before you feel his presence. They're slow, measured, deliberate.

You’re in the living room, half-curled on the couch with a book you haven’t really been reading. You don’t look up when you hear him. Not at first.

When you do, he’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed again, his expression unreadable. The lamp closest to him casts part of his face in shadow, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes. Something in him looks... worn. Like he hasn’t slept in days. Or maybe like he doesn’t need to.

“You’ve been quiet,” you say softly, not accusing, just an observation.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Just looks at you. Like he’s trying to decide something.

“You’ve been watching me,” you add when the silence stretches too long.

His lips twitch– something between a smirk and a grimace. “Making sure you’re safe,” he says, his voice lower than before, raspier. He shifts his weight against the frame, eyes scanning you again, slow and thorough.

You set the book down on the arm of the couch.

“Safe from what?” you ask, and your voice is sharper now, something flickering up from the place where your anxiety’s been simmering all day. “Because the way you’re acting– whatever this is– doesn’t feel like safety.”

He straightens a little, face hardening. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No,” you say, rising to your feet, “I don’t. Because you won’t talk to me. You walk around this house like a ghost and watch me like I’m about to break.”

His voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m trying to hold it together.”

“For who? For me? Because if this is you holding it together, then I don’t want to see what falling apart looks like.”

He takes a step forward and you instinctively take one back. That flicker of hurt in his eyes is brief– almost gone before you notice it.

“I didn’t mean that,” you say quickly.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, turning away.

You exhale, too hard. “I’m going to bed.”

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t say a word as you pass him.

The bedroom feels colder than it should when you close the door behind you. You sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, hands clenched in your lap, then press your palms over your eyes.

What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you?

You cross the room, throw the blanket back like it offended you, and sit on the edge of the bed, breath shaky. You feel like you’re going to combust.

You’re halfway through telling yourself to forget it when you hear a knock. Soft.

You freeze.

“Jake,” you say, warning clear in your tone, “if you open that door–”

“I’ll stay out here,” he says. His voice is low. Smooth. Sinful. “Unless you want me in.”

Your heart skips. Silence stretches. Then, stupidly, weakly, “You’ve got two minutes.”

The door opens like a secret.

Jake slips in and shuts it behind him. No smirk. No smugness. Just that look– hungry, focused, like you’re the only thing in the world he hasn’t had yet, and it’s driving him mad.

He doesn’t say anything right away, he just watches you. The tension makes the air thick, heavy.

“Jake,” you warn before he can say anything, “don’t.”

He tilts his head. "You’re right. I should be apologizing. Should be saying something nice. Something soft.”

He takes a step closer.

“But all I can think about,” he murmurs, eyes on your mouth, “is how you’d sound if you let me between your legs instead of pushing me away.”

Your whole body goes rigid.

“Don’t,” you whisper. But your voice is trembling.

He comes closer anyway. Not touching. Just near enough that you can feel the heat off his skin. Your breath catches.

“Tell me you don’t think about it,” he says, his voice all low gravel and wicked charm. “Tell me you don’t wake up needing something you can’t name. Needing me.”

Your thighs clench without permission.

Jake catches it. His smile turns slow. Dangerous.

“I’d be so fucking good to you,” he says, barely audible. “You wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to argue. I’d just get on my knees, make you forget everything. Lick every thought right out of your head until the only thing you remembered was my name.”

Your breath shudders out of you.

“You're disgusting,” you whisper.

“I'm suffering,” he says smoothly. He leans closer, his mouth a breath from yours. “I want to make you beg. Want to hear that perfect mouth say please. I want to taste every lie you’ve told yourself about not wanting me.”

You almost do it.

Almost lean in. Almost let him kiss you. Because your skin is electric. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. And he’s right– you do want him. You want all of it.

But you lean back– just enough.

Jake’s jaw tenses. Just for a second.

You swallow hard. “We’re not doing this. Nothing is happening until we start being honest with each other.”

He tilts his head, studying you.

Your voice is steadier now, even as your fingers dig into the sheets.

“You talk like that to distract me. You touch like that to get what you want. But the second it’s over, you shut down and pretend none of it mattered. And I’m not doing that.”

Jake’s eyes flicker, just briefly, with something real. Raw. Vulnerable.

You press on. “You want me? Then fucking mean it. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when it’s hot.”

He steps back slowly, like the gravity between you is a fight to break.

A long silence follows.

Then Jake breathes out a slow, uneven laugh– not amused, but almost relieved. “Fuck,” he murmurs, dragging a hand through his hair.

You smirk, even as your cheeks are burning.

Jake eyes you, hunger still burning behind restraint. “Alright,” he says softly. “No more games. But fair warning– when I finally get you? You won’t walk for a week.”

Your face flames. “Out.”

He chuckles, backing toward the door, holding both hands up. “Going.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and you're left alone in the dark. Breathless. Trembling. And aching for the bastard. But your heart’s still intact.

For now.

—

The knock comes just after dusk.

Jake appears suddenly. Not annoyance. Something quieter. Possessive.

“She’s here,” he murmurs.

You nod, standing up slowly. His gaze stays on you, trailing after every inch of distance like it costs him something.

When you open the door, Mira steps inside without waiting. Her eyes sweep across the space and land on Jake instantly.

He’s standing in the living room archway, hands loose at his sides, posture still. But there’s something in his stillness that sets you on edge. Like a held breath that never releases.

“Jake,” Mira says, tone clipped.

“Mira.” His voice is soft, even.

“You don’t look great.”

Jake’s gaze shifts toward you. “I’ve been distracted.”

Mira notices. She turns slightly toward you. “Has he been like this all day?”

You hesitate. “…He hasn’t been sleeping.”

Jake moves slowly into the room. “Why would I sleep?” His eyes find you again. “She’s here.”

Mira ignores that, barely. She’s tense now. Focused. “I need to know what happened after the ritual.”

Jake settles near the couch but doesn’t sit. He stands behind it, one hand resting lightly on the back cushion, the other hanging by his side.

“The ritual worked,” he says.

Mira frowns. “Define ‘worked.’ ”

“I’m not what I was before.”

You speak up carefully. “He's different.”

Jake doesn’t look at Mira when he speaks again. His gaze stays locked on you. “It burned everything out of me. Everything corrupt. What’s left is…” He tilts his head slightly. “Clean.”

Mira narrows her eyes. “You don’t feel clean.”

Jake’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “I feel clear.”

Mira steps closer. “You were supposed to be cleansed, Jake. That’s not the same as rewritten. You didn’t break the bond– you did the ritual to stop your soul from dragging hers down with it.”

“She was never in danger,” he says quietly.

You speak without thinking. “That’s not true. That’s why we did it.”

Jake finally looks away from you, just for a second. “I would’ve gone under for you. Willingly.”

Mira watches him carefully. “Did something go wrong?”

“No,” he answers. “Something… settled.”

You glance at Mira, trying to put into words what you’ve felt these past few days. “It’s like he hasn’t changed on the outside. But on the inside, he’s–”

Jake interrupts. “Right.”

Your pulse stutters. He looks at you with something too steady. Too deep.

“I feel everything now,” he says softly. “No filters. No interference. You’re the only thing that doesn’t overwhelm me.”

Mira’s face tightens. “That’s not clarity, Jake. That’s fixation.”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Call it what you want.”

Mira folds her arms. “You’ve been quiet for days. Barely present. Tell me how you’re feeling– really.”

Jake’s voice drops lower. “I feel like I want her.”

You flinch. So does Mira.

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

Mira recovers first. “Jake–”

But you speak over her, voice low. “It’s been like that. Since the ritual.”

He takes a slow step forward. “It’s not just want. Not lust.” Another step. “It’s hunger. Not in the flesh. Deeper. Like my soul is tuned to hers now. Like she’s the axis I move around.”

Mira watches him with something close to alarm. “You weren’t like this before. You cared for her, yes, but this–”

“I still care for her,” he says, sharply. “More than I know how to say.”

“You’re describing a loss of autonomy.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m describing a loss of resistance.”

You take a small step back, not out of fear– but to breathe. Jake notices. Of course he does. His eyes flick to your throat as you swallow.

He softens his voice. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid,” you whisper.

“You should be,” Mira mutters under her breath.

Jake turns his head toward her, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t about power. It’s about proximity. She’s close, and I feel… right. When she moves away, I feel hollow. Like something essential is missing.”

Mira mutters a curse. “You’re not just cleansed. You’re fused.”

“What does that mean?” you ask.

She looks at you, jaw tight. “If his soul was purged and re-formed around yours... then it’s not just a bond anymore. It’s imprinting. He’s built around you now.

Jake speaks again before she can go on. “You keep calling it unnatural. But what if it isn’t?”

“You were never meant to bind that deeply,” Mira says. “It’s not sustainable. Not without cost.”

Mira runs a hand through her hair. “I need time. Books. Sources. This is beyond standard soul work.”

Jake doesn’t look at her again.

He looks at you.

Only at you.

And when he speaks, it’s barely audible.

“I just want to touch you.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The tension that coils in your chest isn’t simple fear. It’s heat. It’s the way your body responds to him despite the wrongness– or maybe because of it.

Mira moves toward the door.

“I’ll find answers,” she says. “Until then… don’t let him stay too close.”

She doesn’t wait for your reply. The door clicks shut behind her.

And then the room goes quiet again.

Jake stands near the window, bathed in half-light. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, but the restraint in him is razor-thin now. He turns toward you slowly.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks.

The silence stretches.

You shake your head, hesitant.

He nods slowly, “I won't hurt you.”

“I know.”

He lets out a shaky, slow breath. But he keeps his distance. “You should sleep.” He says softly.

You stare at him for a beat longer, before you nod. You don't say a word as you leave the room.

—

You don’t sleep.

You try– eyes open, body rigid, trapped beneath too many blankets and not enough calm. The ceiling shifts with the passing headlights outside, shadows stretching long like fingers reaching. The silence isn’t comforting. It’s electric. Aware.

You roll over. Still restless. Still burning.

Every creak in the house sounds like a breath on your neck. Every gust of wind whispers like a voice in your ear. It isn’t fear that keeps you awake. Not exactly. It’s something sharper. Something hotter.

Anticipation.

You sit up. Feet hit the cold floor. You tell yourself you're going to the kitchen. Water. Fresh air. Some excuse.

But you already know what’s pulling you out of bed.

You move through the dark hallway like sleepwalking, like something’s tugging your chest forward. Magnetic. Inevitable.

And he’s there.

Jake. In the kitchen. Barely lit by the fridge light. One hand braced against the counter, tight with tension. You stop in the doorway. Watch the rise and fall of his shoulders– like he’s trying not to come undone.

He knows you're there before you speak.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low, gravel-rough.

“No,” you say.

He straightens, slowly.

And then he looks at you.

The air between you ignites. That look in his eyes– unmasked now, searing through you. Hunger. Heat. Restraint fraying at the edges.

He steps toward you.

Not fast. But steady. Like he's already decided, and the only thing left is the distance.

You step back out of reflex– but he stops instantly. The tension in him coils tighter.

“I’m not trying to push,” he says, voice strained, eyes locked on yours. “But I can’t stop wanting you.”

Your breath stutters. “You’re not pushing,” you whisper. “I just… I don’t know what this is.”

His lips twitch– half-pain, half-need. “Me neither.”

Then he closes the space.

He’s close now. So close. Heat radiating off his skin. His eyes fall to your mouth like he’s memorizing it. You feel his breath brush your lips.

And then his hand rises– slow, deliberate– to your jaw. Fingers trailing along your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You lean into it before you realize you're moving.

“I think about you all the time,” he breathes. “I dream about you. Want you. Even when I’m trying not to.”

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s the kind of kiss that tastes like too many nights without it. Like he’s been holding back, and now there’s no going slow. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and hunger. His hands grip your waist, pulling you against him– chests pressed tight, no space left to breathe.

You gasp into it, but don’t pull away. You want this. Your fingers curl into his shirt, gripping him like a lifeline. His tongue slides against yours, and you moan– quiet, involuntary, lost.

He responds like it undoes him.

His hands slide down– palms skimming the curve of your hips, then lower, gripping under your thighs– and then he lifts you like you weigh nothing. You make a sound in the back of your throat, half-surprise, half-desire. Your arms lock around his neck.

He sits you on the edge of the counter, body pressing between your legs, mouth never leaving yours for more than a second. He’s devouring you now. Slow, deep kisses that feel like they’re sinking under your skin.

His hand slides up your thigh, fingers splaying. His touch is hot, possessive. Like he wants to mark you, claim you.

You break the kiss, gasping, eyes wide. “Jake–”

He’s breathing hard, lips swollen, pupils blown. “What?”

You don’t want to say it. Not when your body is already betraying you. Not when your heart’s racing and your thighs are tightening around him and your skin aches for more.

But you do. Somehow.

“We can’t,” you whisper.

His whole body goes still. He leans his forehead against yours, struggling to breathe.

“Tell me why,” he says, voice low and breaking.

You press your hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding. “Because I don’t know if this is really you– or if I’m just filling the space where something used to be.”

He doesn’t pull away. Not yet. Just breathes.

“I’m still me,” he says. “Changed, yeah. Scarred. But this?” His hand slides up to cradle the side of your face. “This is real. You are real.”

“I need time,” you whisper. “I need to know it’s not just the heat talking.”

His hands slip away from your body, trembling with restraint. He steps back, just far enough that the air between you cools, but the burn lingers.

“I would’ve kept going,” he says, voice like smoke. “If you hadn’t stopped me. I wanted to. Still want to.”

You slide off the counter slowly, your body still humming.

He catches your wrist lightly, thumb brushing your pulse point. “If you ever want me…”

He doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.

You look up at him– his flushed face, his open expression, his body still aching to close the space between you.

“I’ll let you know,” you murmur, breath still shaky.

You turn to leave.

“I meant what I said,” he calls softly behind you. “I won’t touch you again unless you ask. But God, if you do…”

You pause. You don’t look back.

You just walk away– heart pounding, skin fevered, lips swollen– and pray that by morning, the fire will be gone.

But you already know it won’t be.

—

You don’t sleep. Again.

But this time, it’s not the tension that keeps you awake– at least not in the same way. It’s the memory of his mouth on yours, of his hands on your skin, the way he looked at you like you were air and he was drowning. It’s the fact that when you told him no, he stopped. That he stepped back, trembling, hurting, but still listening.

And it’s the way you almost didn’t stop him.

By the time the first threads of morning light creep into the house, you’re still awake– sitting on the edge of the bed, a blanket around your shoulders, heart raw.

You hear the knock before you feel ready for it.

This time it’s soft. Rhythmic. Mira.

Jake doesn’t appear immediately– maybe he’s giving space, maybe he’s trying to cool the fire still smoldering between you. Either way, it’s you who opens the door.

Mira doesn’t greet you with a quip or a sharp look. She just steps inside, carrying a thick leather-bound book, a manila folder, and a look that’s halfway between tired and concerned.

“I found something,” she says, heading straight for the kitchen table.

Jake appears from the hallway a moment later. Hair slightly messy. Shirt rumpled. But there’s no mistaking the calm tension in the way he moves.

He sees you first.

You look away before the air tightens again.

Mira doesn’t seem to notice. Or she pretends not to.

She drops the book and folder on the table and spreads out a few handwritten pages. “This is a translation of an old variant of the ritual you performed,” she says, glancing at Jake. “One that wasn’t recorded in the modern soulbinding texts.”

Jake’s brow furrows. “Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t meant for the living,” Mira says flatly. “It was a purification rite designed to rebuild a broken spirit... by anchoring it to a stable source.”

You blink. “A stable source like...?”

“Like you,” she says, looking at you now. “A soul that was strong enough to carry part of his weight. The bond wasn’t supposed to sever him from you. It fused you together more tightly. And because you haven’t physically completed the bond...” she hesitates. “…Jake’s responding the only way he knows how.”

Jake makes a low sound. Frustration. Embarrassment. Both.

Mira looks between you. “The fixation, the intensity– it’s not a side effect. It’s a stage.”

You blink. “A stage?”

She nods. “Until the bond is fully consummated, he’s going to feel like he’s burning alive every time you’re near. Your presence soothes it– but only temporarily. It builds again every time you separate. That?” She gestures vaguely at Jake. “It’s physiological now. Not just emotional.”

Jake doesn’t move. His jaw is tight. His hands flex slightly at his sides.

You swallow. “So it’s... normal?”

Mira raises a brow. “As normal as magically binding someone’s soul to yours can be. Yes.”

Jake lets out a long, slow breath, like someone just took a weight off his chest. “It’s not obsession,” he says quietly.

Mira snorts. “It is obsession.”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks. “And after the cycle is completed?”

Mira looks at you carefully. “It’ll calm. Settle. The storm passes, and the bond stabilizes. You’ll still be connected– but it won’t feel like this. Like a fire you can’t put out.”

Jake finally meets your eyes. His voice is low, careful. “So I’m not losing control.”

“No,” Mira says. “You’re just... stuck halfway through something that was never meant to be interrupted.”

You nod slowly, trying to let it sink in. “So, what do we do?”

Mira closes the book. “That depends on how long you want to keep dancing around it.”

Silence.

Jake doesn’t move.

You glance at Jake again. He looks like he’s barely breathing. Like the weight of every word Mira just said is sitting in his chest, waiting.

You whisper, “Does it get worse if we wait?”

Mira nods. “Less predictable.”

You take a breath. The air feels thick with everything unsaid, everything you’re still turning over in your chest.

You shift the blanket around your shoulders and glance between them– Jake standing silent, Mira watching with that unflinching kind of knowing.

Then you speak, quiet but clear. “I think I’m going to sleep.”

Jake’s gaze jerks up slightly, but you hold up a hand before either of them can ask or assume.

“I’m not upset,” you say. And it’s the truth. There’s no fear in your voice, no anger. Just a slow-burning awareness beneath your skin, like the beginning of a storm. “I just... need a little time to think. To breathe. To... not combust immediately.”

That earns the faintest twitch of a smile from Mira.

You look at Jake then. Really look at him. The edge in his shoulders softens when your eyes meet. Still tense, still careful, but not that shaking, fraying thread he was last night.

“I’m not saying no,” you add softly. Jake’s throat bobs as he swallows. “I just–” You shrug slightly, a shy flick of movement. “I didn’t expect a soulbond to be the thing that made me feel like a nervous teenager again.”

That gets a low, breathy sound out of him. Almost a laugh.

Mira, mercifully, begins gathering her things. “Alright,” she says, heading for the door. “I’ll give you space. But don’t wait too long– magical instability makes people do stupid things. Just saying.” She pauses, “And get some actual rest, will you?”

You nod.

She’s gone a moment later, her presence like a door swinging closed on the intensity of the last few minutes.

Then it’s just you and Jake.

He doesn’t move right away. You don’t either. There’s a hum in the air again, but softer this time. Not quite urgent. Just present. Jake exhales, slow and steady. And this time, when he speaks, it’s softer. Warmer.

“I’ll wait,” he says. “As long as you need.”

You nod, grateful.

Then, quietly, you cross the room to him. He watches every step like he’s memorizing it.

You stop in front of him, close enough to feel the heat, and gently reach out– fingers brushing his sleeve. “Stay?”

He nods.

And as you climb back into bed, blanket still wrapped around you like armor, Jake sits down in the chair beside you. Silent. Watchful. Steady.

He doesn’t touch you.

But he’s close enough that when sleep finally starts to claim you– real sleep, this time– you can feel the bond between you hum with something almost calm.