If you feel it, chase it 🌪

“No, push the Barclays call to Wednesday. He’ll never make the 10:00 if that acquisition meeting runs long. And tell them not to call his personal line again — he blocked the last intern who did.”

Your voice was calm. Unbothered. Efficient. Unlike the junior staff who all glanced up with wide eyes the second they saw you approaching — not because they were scared of you, but because they knew he was close behind.

Jake Seresin: thirty-something billionaire, CEO of one of the most influential private investment firms in the country, and, as Forbes once lovingly put it, “a nightmare in Tom Ford.”

He was brutal in boardrooms. Sharp-tongued, sharp-jawed, a little too good-looking for everyone's comfort. Most people around here called him Mr. Seresin. You just called him Jake — mostly with a sigh, sometimes with a threat, and often through gritted teeth.

You passed by your own desk — a minimalist sanctuary of Post-its, color-coded files, and exactly three pens you would murder someone over if they were taken. You didn’t stop. You never did. Your stilettos echoed on the floor as you beelined straight for his office.

You didn’t knock.

“Someone’s already behind,” you said brightly, breezing in and placing the coffees on the polished walnut desk like it was your damn job — which it was, but only barely. “This was supposed to be our twenty minutes of silence. Instead, you scheduled yourself a breakfast call with someone who thinks you’re charming. You see the problem here, don’t you?”

Jake looked up from the sleek screen of his tablet, eyes narrowing like you were the most exhausting thing in the world.

He was wearing a black button-down — sleeves rolled to the elbows, top button undone — and a watch that probably cost more than your apartment.

“How generous of you to bring me coffee and insults before 8 a.m.,” he said, voice low, smooth, and laced with sarcasm.

You dropped into the chair across from him. “This one’s decaf. I figured you’d appreciate a gentle decline into madness today.”

Jake didn’t look amused. Which, to be fair, he rarely did — unless he was toying with someone. Like now, with that infuriating tilt of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair.

“You really should be nicer to your boss,” he said, sipping the coffee anyway.

“I would, if my boss wasn’t a corporate gremlin in Prada.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “I wear Tom Ford.”

You sipped your own drink, unimpressed. “Exactly.”

Their routine was practically scripted now — one whole of constant sparring, matching each other beat for beat. Everyone in the building knew better than to interrupt when the two of you got going. There had been rumors for a while. Whispers by the elevators. Speculation about whether it was all professional or if there was something more, something physical, simmering under the surface.

You’d deny it, of course. He was your boss. He was impossible. He was infuriating.

...And okay, yes, sometimes he made you want to throw your phone out the window just to get his attention. But still.

“You have ten minutes before your call,” you said, rising again. “Try not to insult anyone’s intelligence until after your second coffee.”

“I make no promises,” Jake said, watching you go like it was his favorite part of the day.

There was a reason no one lasted long as his assistant. Jake Seresin was demanding, short-tempered, impossible to impress. You, however, had never blinked.

You were always five steps ahead. The first one in, the last one out. The type of person who carried three chargers, memorized schedules like a Rolodex, and had the uncanny ability to keep your cool while your billionaire boss told the Wall Street Journal to go to hell — mid-interview.

And unlike everyone else, you didn’t fear Jake.

You handled him.

Which made him insufferably interested.

You hadn’t seen that look in his eyes lately — not since the night of the company gala, six months ago, when you’d worn that black velvet dress and he’d stared at you for so long, you’d excused yourself just to stop the tension from combusting.

Nothing had happened. You didn’t let it. But sometimes — when you passed each other in the hallway, when you handed him his notes in the middle of a meeting — you’d feel it again.

That spark. That ridiculous, inconvenient something.

But this was New York. This was work. You didn’t have time for a crush on your boss, especially not one who wore power like a cologne and treated meetings like cage matches.

So instead, you kept things exactly where they were.

Snarky. Functional. Professional.

By 6:42 p.m., the office had emptied. Jake was still in his office, sleeves still rolled, jaw tight from a day full of idiots.

You dropped a folder on his desk without looking up.

“Your itinerary for the quarter’s investor presentations,” you said. “You’ll find the files for each city tabbed and color-coded. Also, your mother called again.”

Jake groaned. “What did she want this time?”

“Apparently, to know if you’re ‘still incapable of forming an emotional connection.’ Her words, not mine.”

He shot you a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, immensely.”

There was a beat of silence as he looked down at the folder, thumb resting on the corner of the cover. “Did you include the San Diego conference dates?”

You blinked. “Conference?”

“Next month. I’ll be presenting on private equity trends. They just confirmed I’m the keynote speaker.”

You rolled your eyes. “Because of course you are.”

Jake didn’t argue. Just smirked.

“We’ll need to book travel,” he added. “Hotels. Make sure they don’t stick me in one of those soulless penthouse suites again.”

You jotted it down. “Anything else, Your Highness?”

His smile widened. “Yeah. Don’t forget to book your ticket, too. You’re coming.”

You froze. “What?”

“You’re my assistant,” he said simply. “I need you there.”

You stared at him. “Fine. But I’m picking the hotel. If I’m stuck on a conference trip with you, I at least want decent lighting and room service that doesn’t come with attitude.”

Jake raised his brows, amused. “Sounds like someone’s already looking forward to it.”

You turned to leave. “Sounds like someone’s getting replaced by a tablet app next fiscal quarter.”

-

If there were sirens for a CEO meltdown, they’d be blaring by 9:13 a.m.

Jake Seresin strode into the office like he’d personally been wronged by God, Wall Street, and the concept of Mondays. He was a vision in black-on-black, suit jacket flaring behind him like a villain in a corporate thriller, hair perfectly in place despite the wind, jaw set like he was going into battle.

Everyone else? They ducked.

Phones were slammed onto receivers. Lattes were hidden like contraband. One poor intern accidentally closed her browser and had to restart her entire system.

You didn’t flinch. You barely looked up from your screen when he stormed past your desk with a barked, “Meeting in fifteen—move it.”

You calmly took a sip of your espresso. “Someone didn’t get their avocado toast this morning.”

Jake didn’t respond. He never did when he was in this kind of mood. That was fine. You’d learned to give him space — and then handle him like a bomb technician once the smoke cleared.

The shouting started ten minutes later. You didn’t get involved.

It was Madison this time — sweet, slightly shaky, probably one of the better interns. You heard her voice crack through the frosted glass wall, her attempt to explain a scheduling mishap met with Jake’s low, clipped tone slicing through her like ice. You didn’t go in. You didn’t even glance up.

Because that wasn’t your job — not right now.

You’d learned long ago that Jake didn’t respect people who tried to save him from himself in public. But when the doors closed and the boardroom was empty — that’s when he listened.

His office door clicked shut. You gave it exactly one minute before walking in.

Jake was seated at his desk, elbows on the edge, hands steepled in front of his mouth. His eyes were locked on the city outside, but you knew he wasn’t seeing any of it.

You walked in without knocking and set the correct file on his desk — Petter-sen, not Peterson — and then sat down across from him without a word.

He finally looked over. “She gave me the wrong file.”

“I noticed,” you said flatly.

Jake scowled, but you didn’t blink.

“You know,” you said calmly, “if you yell at every new hire, HR is going to make you do another empathy seminar.”

“They always get it wrong.”

“And maybe that’s a training issue, not a screaming issue.”

He looked at you like you’d just suggested building a treehouse in Times Square.

“Madison will recover,” you added, flipping open your tablet. “But maybe next time just raise an eyebrow. You have a very intimidating face. Use it.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, watching you. The heat in his expression was still there, but it simmered into something cooler — thoughtful, almost amused.

“You never take my side,” he muttered.

“I’m on your side,” you corrected. “Which is why I don’t let you self-destruct.”

Jake didn’t apologize. He never did. But he muttered something about getting Madison reassigned — not fired — and sent her a gift card for that overpriced pastry place on 3rd without saying who it was from.

You saw the email. You said nothing.

That was the arrangement.

He yelled. You didn’t flinch.

He stormed. You let the storm pass — then walked in with calm hands and sharp eyes and fixed it all.

You didn’t make a scene. You didn’t call him out in front of his team. You were his person, and you’d learned to wield that power precisely: never too loud, never too soft, always effective.

The rest of the day went smoother.

Jake signed documents. You handed him coffee and didn’t bring up the intern again. He glanced up only once — when you told him his 4:30 was pushed to 5:00 — and gave you the barest nod, but you caught it.

Thank you, it said.

You nodded back, and went on with your day.

The office was quiet in that eerie, after-hours way — lights dimmed to save energy, the city glowing like an electric dream outside the glass walls. Most of the building had emptied hours ago. The only sounds now were the hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic clack of your keyboard.

Jake sat at his desk across the room, sleeves rolled up, tie long gone, and jaw clenched in concentration as he flipped through reports that had been marked URGENT for no good reason. His blazer was draped over the back of his chair, and he looked — unfairly — like the villain in a very expensive noir film. Rumpled. Rich. Slightly dangerous.

You, on the other hand, were perched on the low credenza by the window, balancing your dinner in one hand, your tablet in the other. A white takeout box sat on the floor beside you — a perfectly timed delivery from the hole-in-the-wall Thai place that knew your order by heart.

Jake glanced up without looking at you directly. “If this curry melts a hole in my stomach, I’m suing.”

You didn't even look up. “It’s medium heat. You’ll live.”

He poked at his noodles suspiciously, fork halfway to his mouth. “You said that last time.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re underpaid.”

That made you smirk. You took a sip of your drink, not bothering to argue. “Eat. You’re less of a tyrant when you’re fed.”

Jake’s lips twitched as he stabbed at his food again. “Do your boyfriends know you talk to your boss like this?”

You blinked.

It wasn’t a loaded question — not the way he said it — but it still managed to feel personal. Jake Seresin never asked about your life outside of work. Ever. You were his assistant. A well-oiled machine. You scheduled meetings, filtered emails, anticipated moods, and made sure he didn’t combust in a boardroom.

Small talk? Not your thing. Not his either.

Still, you didn’t let your surprise show.

You let out a laugh instead. “That’s assuming I have time for a boyfriend.”

Jake’s eyes flicked up at that.

You raised a brow. “Do you see how much of my time you take up?”

“Are you suggesting I’m needy?”

“I’m suggesting you’re high-maintenance.”

He snorted into his drink and leaned back in his chair. “So no boyfriend?”

You shook your head, returning your attention to your tablet. “No time, no patience, no desire to babysit someone who doesn’t know how to send a calendar invite. Next question?”

Jake just hummed like he was satisfied with the answer and went back to his food. You didn’t press it. You didn’t ask why he’d suddenly grown curious about your love life. And he didn’t offer anything back.

As always, you both stayed in your lanes.

By the time you were packing up, the city had fully slipped into night. The windows reflected the office like a ghostly double — you brushing crumbs from your skirt, Jake slipping his laptop into his leather case, rolling his shoulders with a quiet sigh.

You reached for your coat. “I’ll call a car.”

“No need,” Jake said, already grabbing his own.

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ll drive you.”

There was no question in his tone. Just a statement. Like the meeting’s moved to Thursday or I signed off on that memo. Neutral. Decisive.

You stared at him. “Since when do you drive me home?”

He held your gaze like it wasn’t even a little strange. “Since now.”

You gave him a look. “Is this because I insulted your spice tolerance?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t even like Midtown traffic.”

“I like not letting my assistant get murdered by a freelance Uber driver more.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You weren’t in the mood to hail a car anyway.

So you followed him down to the parking garage — your heels clicking against the concrete, the tension just a little different than before.

Not romantic. Not dramatic.

But new.

A shift.

And neither of you said a word about it.

The elevator pinged in the garage, echoing through the cold concrete structure like a cue from a spy movie. You followed Jake past the sea of sleek black SUVs and mid-tier sedans… until he stopped in front of an Aston Martin.

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

He didn’t look at you. Just hit the unlock button. The car chirped back, smug as hell.

“This is the most obnoxious thing I’ve ever seen,” you said, arms crossed. “You drive an Aston Martin to the office like you’re late for a martini and an assassination.”

Jake finally turned, smirk firmly in place. “Would it help if I told you I have a license to kill?”

You scoffed. “Only thing you’re qualified to murder is a quarterly report.”

He said nothing else. Just stepped around and opened your door for you like it was the most normal thing in the world. You stared at him for a beat before sinking into the butter-soft leather, equal parts impressed and annoyed.

The car purred to life like a predator. Quiet. Sleek. Very on-brand for the man who hated being questioned and made grown men sweat in boardrooms.

You gave him directions quietly, your voice the only thing cutting through the low hum of city traffic. He nodded once at each turn, no GPS needed — just a surgeon’s precision behind the wheel, the same control he exercised in every room he walked into.

Jake Seresin was not a man who did small talk. Not at work. Not in his car. And certainly not after 10 PM.

So you didn’t bother. You let the silence stretch out between you like a silk ribbon. Strange, how comfortable it felt. How normal.

No posturing. No awkward filler. Just the city glowing around you, painting soft reflections onto his sharp profile.

He looked good behind the wheel. Of course he did. Hands loose on the leather, watch catching the occasional flicker of streetlight. Calm. Focused. Ridiculously attractive, in that completely infuriating way of his.

You crossed your legs and looked out the window.

Eventually, you pulled up in front of your building.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Bond.”

Jake leaned back slightly, one arm draped casually over the steering wheel. “You’re welcome, Miss Moneypenny.”

That earned him a smirk from you. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

You stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement again as you made your way toward the lobby doors. For a moment, you didn’t look back. You assumed he’d already peeled off into the night like the man on a movie poster he so clearly thought he was.

But something made you glance over your shoulder.

He was still there.

Engine running. Lights low. Waiting.

He didn’t drive off until you pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

You stood behind the glass a second longer than necessary.

And then, with a blink, he was gone.

-

The Aston glided through the city like a knife through silk, each green light bending to his will. The tires barely whispered over the pavement. Inside, the cabin was still, insulated — like him.

He tapped the pad by the garage and drove into the private elevator, where the lift recognized the car and started rising. No buttons. No human contact. Just convenience.

It should have felt like power.

Instead, it felt like procedure.

The elevator doors opened directly into his penthouse. All glass and steel, floor-to-ceiling views of the New York skyline twinkling like a billion-dollar constellation. Marble floors that echoed with every step. Furniture handpicked by a designer he couldn’t remember the name of. The whole place looked like a GQ cover — immaculate, minimalist, and cold.

Too big for one man.

He tossed the keys onto the tray near the entryway, walked past the abstract art on the wall that cost more than some people’s cars, and went straight to the bar. Crystal decanter, aged scotch. He didn’t bother with ice.

The amber liquid caught the light like gold as he poured. He swirled it once, then took a slow sip, letting it burn down his throat.

The silence was deafening.

He stared out the window at the city that never shut up. Sirens, traffic, laughter rising from the streets below — all of it just barely muffled by the triple-pane glass.

He could have stayed at the office. But he'd offered to drive you home. Didn’t even think twice. Just said it like a fact and expected you to get in the car.

And you had.

Jake leaned back against the bar, drink in hand, replaying the last few minutes in his head.

That damn smirk of yours when you called his car “obnoxious.”

The way you slouched in the passenger seat like you didn’t care he was your boss.

The quiet, easy rhythm of your voice as you gave directions.

The laugh when he mentioned a boyfriend.

I don’t have time for boyfriends.

Neither did he. That wasn’t news.

He took another sip and ran a hand through his hair.

You were sharp. Always on. You called him out when no one else dared, but never in public. You were smart enough to survive him and confident enough to annoy him, which somehow earned his respect and drove him insane in equal measure.

Most assistants were scared of him by week two. You weren't.

You were still here.

And now, against all logic, he was thinking about the way you looked in the reflection of the passenger-side window. Your silhouette illuminated by the soft dashboard lights. The way you disappeared into your building with that little half-wave.

Jake exhaled a quiet laugh under his breath.

“You’re losing it, Seresin,” he muttered, setting the glass down with a soft clink.

You were just his assistant.

Brilliant. Efficient. Unbothered by his moods.

And yet —

There you were, in the middle of his penthouse silence, sharper than the scotch on his tongue.

The offices were a study in quiet fear.

On the fortieth floor of a sleek Midtown skyscraper, the air was crisp with money and nerves. Polished concrete floors. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Art that cost as much as the employees' annual salaries. A minimalist color palette that made everyone feel like they had to speak in hushed tones or risk being escorted out.

Jake Seresin’s name wasn’t just on the letterhead — it bled into every corner of the building like gospel. The staff practically snapped to attention when the private elevator chimed. Conversations died. Keyboards stilled. Backs straightened.

You didn’t bother looking up from your computer.

He walked past reception in that deliberate, unhurried way that somehow made everyone more tense — Armani suit sharp enough to cut glass, jaw set, eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses despite the indoor setting. He barely acknowledged the hushed greetings from various VPs, just a flick of his hand here, a grunt there.

But when he passed your desk?

He paused.

You kept typing, only glancing up when you felt him stop beside you.

“You forwarded the call with Simpson to 11:00?”

You nodded, tapping a final key before turning in your chair to face him. “And moved your investment committee to 2:30. I already prepped the file for you.”

Jake pulled his sunglasses off. His eyes — always sharp, always scanning — softened slightly.

“You leave anything for me to do?”

A dry smile tugged at the edge of your mouth. “Just show up and look like you don’t want to kill someone.”

He exhaled a quiet huff — a laugh by his standards — and kept walking.

From across the room, eyes followed the interaction like hawks.

Behind you, one of the junior analysts whispered to another, “Did… he just smile? At someone?”

You pretended not to hear.

Later, in the boardroom, the air was tense enough to shatter. A mid-level manager was stumbling through a quarterly report, stuttering over projections and missing key numbers. Jake leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Everyone could feel it coming — that low, blistering scorn he delivered like a scalpel.

Until—

You cleared your throat. “I think what he meant to say is the forecast accounts for the foreign currency losses, which is why it’s skewed in Q3.”

Jake’s eyes cut to you. You met his gaze, cool as ever, as if daring him to contradict you.

Silence. Then—

“Fine,” Jake muttered. “Keep going.”

The manager looked like he’d just avoided the electric chair. The rest of the room stared at you like you’d just tamed a lion.

Jake, of course, didn’t say thank you — he never did. But the fact that he hadn’t shredded the poor guy into a cautionary tale was proof enough: your voice was the only one he listened to without question.

Later that day, a new hire accidentally spilled a triple-shot espresso over the edge of her desk and into the hallway — mere moments before Jake’s routine midday sweep of the floor.

Chaos erupted.

A blur of paper towels, mumbled apologies, and sheer panic rippled through the space. The poor girl was scrambling on her knees, trying to mop up the mess when Jake turned the corner.

He stopped.

The girl froze like a deer in headlights.

Jake’s brows lifted just slightly. “Are we redecorating?”

She squeaked.

You appeared behind him, holding a dry cleaning bag over one arm.

“She spilled coffee,” you said calmly, like you were talking about the weather. “But don’t worry. It’s not on the rug. And that stain over there was already there — you just never noticed.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but not at you. At the fear in the intern’s face.

Jake turned to the girl. “Clean it up. And get another one.”

Then he walked away.

You followed after him, casually tossing over your shoulder, “Maybe decaf this time.”

He shook his head, biting back a grin he didn’t want anyone else to see.

In private, in the safety of his glass-walled corner office, Jake watched you through the tinted glass. The way you moved through the chaos like it didn’t touch you. The way people instinctively leaned closer when you spoke. The way you never once bowed your head when he barked orders — and how he never barked at you.

He hated inefficiency. Hated incompetence. Hated noise.

But you?

You were calm. You were sharp. And he trusted you in a way that unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

Jake’s jet was waiting for them at Teterboro, gleaming beneath the late morning sun like it had rolled off the pages of Forbes. A sleek Gulfstream G800 — the kind of aircraft that screamed I could buy your entire existence and not blink.

You adjusted your sunglasses and tilted your head as you took in the sheer absurdity of it.

“Let me guess,” you said, rolling your suitcase behind you. “You named her ‘Ego.’”

Jake barely glanced at you as he handed his bag off to the pilot. “No. That’s the yacht.”

You snorted. “Of course it is.”

He gave you a smirk as he walked up the stairs, impossibly confident in his custom-tailored navy suit. You followed — slowly. More slowly than usual.

Jake noticed.

At the top, he turned to glance back, one brow raised. “Need a hand, sweetheart? Didn’t know heels and staircases were such mortal enemies.”

“It’s not the heels,” you muttered, taking another cautious step up. “It’s the whole... flying death machine thing.”

Jake’s mouth twitched. “You’re afraid of flying?”

You scowled. “I prefer being on the ground where the oxygen lives.”

That earned a low, amused laugh. “You work for a man who travels every other week and you’re scared of planes?”

“I suffer in silence. Like every underpaid woman in a capitalist society.”

He ushered you inside with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “You’re not underpaid.”

You paused just long enough to smirk back. “I am a woman in a capitalist society, though.”

Inside, the jet was a study in excess: leather seats like thrones, dark walnut trim, gold fixtures. A glass decanter of scotch sat ready beside a small fridge stocked with Evian and green juices — your green juices, you noted with a raised brow. Jake really did take notes when he wanted to.

You plopped into a seat across from him and immediately buckled in.

Tightly.

Jake settled across from you, stretching his legs out like he owned the sky. Which, technically, he did.

“Should I be worried?” he asked, his tone dry as he loosened his tie. “You’re looking at the safety card like it’s a will.”

You were, in fact, gripping the laminated sheet like a lifeline.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pale.”

“I’m fine,” you said again, but it came out through clenched teeth.

Jake watched you for a beat longer, then leaned forward slightly, voice lower. “You trust me?”

That caught you off guard. Your hands faltered for a second on the armrest. You narrowed your eyes.

“You fly with me,” he added. “You work beside me. You’ve seen me fire five people in a single afternoon. You know what I’m capable of. Do you trust me?”

You stared at him, throat suddenly dry.

“…I do.”

Jake smiled, and it was softer than you were expecting.

“Then relax.”

The engines roared to life.

You flinched.

Jake tried not to laugh — and failed, just a little. “You know we haven’t even left the runway, right?”

You flipped him off.

He laughed again — full and rich this time — then unbuckled long enough to reach into a side drawer and toss you a small pillow.

“For your comfort, princess.”

You looked at the pillow. Then at him.

“I swear to God, Seresin—”

But then the wheels lifted.

And you gripped the armrest like it owed you money.

Jake’s smirk lingered as he watched you close your eyes, tense from head to toe. And yet, when you peeked one eye open, his gaze was already on you.

Not taunting this time.

Just watching.

Like he was trying to figure you out.

At cruising altitude, the tension in your shoulders eased slightly — mostly thanks to the glass of champagne Jake poured for you himself, with an arched brow and the sort of slow smirk that made you feel like the main character in a rom-com you hadn’t auditioned for.

“You know,” you muttered, sipping carefully, “this doesn’t feel like the same man who once threatened to fire an entire marketing team because someone used Comic Sans in a pitch deck.”

Jake, reclined in his leather seat with a glass of neat scotch balanced in one hand, didn’t even flinch. “That font is a war crime and you know it.”

You smirked into your drink, legs crossed, your laptop bag at your side like a shield. You were trying — very hard — to maintain normalcy. Which was hard considering your boss had not only poured you champagne, but now looked… interested in talking.

“So,” he said after a moment, eyes still on you, “do you have siblings?”

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Siblings. Brothers. Sisters. Weird cousins. You strike me as the oldest child.”

“I am the oldest child,” you said slowly. “How did you—?”

“Control freak energy. You read entire emails, and you reply in full sentences. That’s classic firstborn behavior.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, what BuzzFeed quiz did you pull that from?”

Jake just smiled and sipped his scotch.

Your jaw clenched, brain short-circuiting slightly. “Why are you asking about my family?”

He shrugged. “Just trying to distract you.”

“I have champagne. I’m not distracted. I’m alarmed.”

Jake tilted his head, amused. “Do you ever turn it off?”

“Turn what off?”

“The smart-ass act.”

You gave him a faux-sweet smile. “Do you ever stop acting like Patrick Bateman with a Rolex?”

That made him laugh — really laugh — and you had to admit it was… nice. It lit up his face in a way that made you feel like you were seeing something you weren’t supposed to. Something human.

“I’m serious,” you said after a beat, still watching him warily. “What’s gotten into you? You’re being almost…”

“Charming?” he offered.

“I was going to say ‘suspiciously non-sociopathic,’ but sure, let’s go with that.”

Jake leaned his head back against the seat, one arm slung lazily across the armrest. “Maybe I just like messing with you.”

“That I believe.”

He tilted his head slightly to watch you. “You know, I never figured you for someone who was scared of anything.”

You swallowed, gaze drifting to the window for a moment, then back to him. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”

“And yours is… heights?”

“Crashing.” You corrected. “Falling. Not being in control. Take your pick.”

Jake was quiet for a second, eyes scanning your face. You wondered — uncomfortably — what he was thinking. And then—

A slight shudder through the cabin.

You stiffened instantly, grip tightening on the champagne glass.

Jake didn’t miss it.

“It’s normal,” he said calmly. “Just turbulence.”

“Yeah,” you said through gritted teeth. “Normal. Totally fine. Great.”

The jet bounced again, more aggressively this time.

You sucked in a sharp breath and set the champagne down on the tray table. Your hand was shaking, and you hated that he could see it.

Jake shifted.

Without asking, he unbuckled and moved to the seat next to you, settling beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your eyes widened. “What are you—?”

“Helping,” he said simply.

You stared at him as he reached across the seat and took your hand — not forcefully, not dramatically, just… gently. His palm was warm, steady.

You blinked down at your joined hands, then up at his face.

Jake Seresin, who once fired an intern over an incorrect lunch order, was now holding your hand mid-flight like this was something he did.

“What the hell is happening?” you whispered.

“Shhh,” he said, eyes on yours. “Just pretend I’m your emotional support billionaire.”

That startled a laugh out of you, even as the plane gave another gentle sway.

Jake kept his eyes on your face. “Better?”

You exhaled slowly. “A little.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

You looked at him again, hard. “You don’t… seem like the kind of man who does hand-holding.”

Jake smirked faintly. “I’m full of surprises.”

And for once, he didn’t follow it up with a jab or a condescending remark. He just let the silence settle — and somehow, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

The turbulence passed. The cabin smoothed out. The fasten seatbelt sign dimmed.

But Jake didn’t move his hand.

And you… didn’t pull away.

Eventually, you relaxed back into your seat, fingers still laced with his. The leather was soft against your back. The champagne glass stayed untouched. And Jake — infuriating, complicated, impossible Jake — sat beside you quietly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

It should’ve been weird.

But it wasn’t.

Not even a little.

The plane touched down with a gentle thud on the tarmac of San Diego’s private airport, and the moment the wheels kissed the runway, you could finally breathe.

Jake had let go of your hand somewhere over New Mexico — slow, almost reluctant — and gone quiet after that, returning to the cold, closed-off version of himself you were more familiar with. You didn’t mention it, but you felt it like a cold draft beneath a door. The shift. The boundary snapping back into place.

The ride from the airport to the hotel was sleek and silent, chauffeured in a black SUV with tinted windows and complimentary bottled water that probably cost more than your rent. Jake answered emails on his phone. You reviewed the presentation schedule on your iPad. The world settled back into its roles: you, the assistant; him, the untouchable boss.

But something still lingered — like phantom warmth on your palm where his hand had been.

You pushed the thought away as the SUV pulled up to the grand circular driveway of the hotel. It was the kind of place that looked like old money and smelled like eucalyptus and exclusivity. Bellboys in tailored uniforms moved quickly to grab luggage, the doorman nodded with practiced elegance, and the marble lobby gleamed under high chandeliers.

Jake strolled in behind you, casually tucking his sunglasses into his jacket pocket, leaving a trail of silent awe as hotel staff and guests alike registered the CEO of Seresin International in their lobby.

You, already in full assistant mode, approached the front desk with your confirmation emails at the ready.

“Hi,” you said to the impeccably dressed receptionist. “Reservation under Seresin International. It should be for two rooms — a suite and a standard.”

The woman at the desk smiled warmly and began typing. Her perfectly-manicured nails clacked softly on the keys.

“Welcome. Yes, I see it right here—one-bedroom suite, single king bed.”

You blinked.

“No—sorry. It should be two rooms. One suite, one standard.”

She frowned slightly and turned the screen to check again. “No, I have only one reservation. One room.”

Your spine stiffened. “That’s not possible. I booked two rooms. I have the confirmation right here—”

“I understand,” she said patiently. “But I only have one reservation under your company name. It’s the executive suite with a single king bed.”

You stared at her, mouth open slightly. “So not even two beds? Just one? That’s ridiculous. We don’t even need a suite—”

“Ma’am,” she said with a placid smile, “the reservation is nonrefundable.”

You were already pulling up the email confirmation, about to weaponize your most condescending lawyer-voice even though you were not a lawyer. “This is ridiculous. Someone in your booking department obviously screwed this up—”

“Problem?” came a drawling voice from just behind your shoulder.

You didn’t even turn. “Yes. Your hotel is apparently incapable of properly reading a reservation form.”

Jake stepped up beside you, arching a brow at the receptionist who, now clearly recognizing him, looked like she was about to offer him her social security number if he asked nicely.

Jake looked back at you, entirely unbothered. “So they only have one room?”

“One bed, Jake.”

He nodded slowly, then looked at the receptionist with that infuriating, charming smile of his. “Honest mistake. Just give us the key.”

You turned to him so fast your earrings nearly hit your face. “What?”

He didn’t even flinch. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. We’re not—this isn’t—we’re not sharing a bed.”

Jake turned to you, calm and borderline amused. “It’s a king. I don’t snore. We’ll survive.”

“You don’t snore,” you repeated, scandalized. “You’re Mr. ‘I Demand Excellence’ and now you’re just—just letting this slide?”

“Would you rather argue about it for the next thirty minutes while they try to ‘look into it’ and tell us they’re fully booked anyway?” he asked dryly, signing the check-in paperwork. “Or would you rather go upstairs, shower off the recycled air, and have room service deliver a $50 salad?”

You opened your mouth to protest, to fight, to shout about principles and boundaries—

—and then the receptionist handed Jake the keycard, smiling like she’d just handed over her firstborn.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Seresin.”

Jake turned to you and extended the key.

“Shall we?”

You stared at him. “Who are you?”

Jake only smirked. “Just trying not to scare the staff.”

“Since when?”

He didn’t answer. Just gestured toward the elevators with a gentlemanly flourish.

You narrowed your eyes, snatched the key from his hand, and stalked toward the elevator with your carry-on rolling behind you. Jake followed, quiet but smug.

And as the elevator doors closed behind you, sealing you both in a mirrored box with plush carpeting and soft jazz, you found yourself wondering—not for the first time—if maybe Jake Seresin was full of surprises after all.

The elevator dinged softly as it reached the 21st floor, the penthouse level.

Jake stepped out first, rolling his sleek black luggage like he was gliding down a runway, while you followed with a mixture of dread, exhaustion, and righteous fury still bubbling under your skin.

When you reached the door at the very end of the hall — naturally, the nicest and most dramatic door on the floor, with an ornate brass handle and a discreet “Presidential Suite” plaque beside it — Jake gestured gallantly for you to do the honors.

You ignored him and slid the keycard through the reader. The light flashed green with a soft click, and you pushed the door open.

The suite was… gorgeous.

High ceilings, sweeping city views, walls of floor-to-ceiling windows. A modern, chic living room with a gas fireplace, a dining nook with a marble table, and a full bar that looked like it belonged in a Bond villain’s lair. To your left was the sprawling bedroom, where a single, painfully luxurious king-size bed sat dead center, flanked by two nightstands and a soft Persian rug.

You stared at the bed.

It stared back.

Jake rolled his luggage inside like he had not just volunteered the two of you for a week-long game of platonic cohabitation Olympics. He dropped the handle and stretched lazily, spine cracking in at least three places.

You slowly turned toward the couch — low-backed, designer, obviously worth more than your yearly rent — and tilted your head, considering the probability of it being even remotely comfortable for sleeping. Not great.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jake said behind you.

You turned. “Think about what?”

“The couch.”

You crossed your arms. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

“You absolutely were.” He dropped onto the bed, bouncing a little with the sheer cloud-like give of the mattress. “If you’re waiting for me to offer to sleep on the floor, I’m not doing it.”

You blinked. “You’re not serious.”

Jake toed off his shoes, then reclined like he owned the damn suite. (He probably did own the suite. Or the chain. Or the continent, who knew.)

“Your back will seize by midnight on that couch. I’ll be asleep, and then you’ll writhe around dramatically and blame me for it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I would not blame you for my bad back.”

“You would. And you’d whine about it for at least 72 hours.”

“I don’t whine.”

Jake gave you a look. “Sweetheart, you once complained about the espresso machine at the office like it had personally offended your ancestors.”

“That’s because it sucks, and if we’re being honest, it’s not espresso—it’s burnt sadness in liquid form.”

Jake smirked. “Exactly.”

You glared. “This is deflection.”

He shrugged, rolling onto his side. “Just share the bed. I won’t bite.”

He paused, then added with a devil-may-care grin: “Unless you want me to.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Your brain blue-screened for half a second before it caught up with your mouth. “Excuse me?”

Jake didn’t move. Didn’t even look at you. Just reached for the remote on the nightstand and turned the TV on like he hadn’t just casually lobbed a sexual innuendo into the air between you like a grenade.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Did you just—was that—was that a joke?”

“I don’t know,” he replied lazily, flipping through channels. “You tell me.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your thoughts were screaming but none of them were coherent.

He was still not looking at you. Still pretending like this was the most casual, innocent exchange in the world, like he hadn’t just cracked the entire foundation of your professional tension with a single perfectly delivered line.

You turned toward the bathroom before your face could betray the tiny flicker of heat crawling up your neck.

“I’m taking the first shower,” you snapped, marching toward the door.

“Take your time,” Jake called after you, voice smooth. “I’ll just be here. Not biting.”

You slammed the bathroom door behind you with more force than necessary.

And inside the oversized, spa-like space, you stared at your reflection in the mirror — at your wide eyes, your flushed cheeks, the flustered energy vibrating in your chest — and muttered, “What the hell just happened?”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind Jake, and the sound of running water started a moment later.

You were already in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows like a fort, your iPad balanced on your lap. Work was open, glowing quietly in the dark, a spreadsheet in desperate need of organization. But you were very aware that no amount of pivot tables would distract you from the fact that Jake Seresin was about to exit that bathroom… in what? A robe? A towel? Nothing?

You swallowed and focused hard on the screen.

He was taking forever. On purpose, you were sure.

And then, finally, the water stopped.

You refused to look when you heard the door open. Refused.

You could hear him padding softly across the room — barefoot — and that was fine. That was normal. You didn’t even blink when he dropped something onto the dresser with a casual thud. But then he walked into your peripheral vision, and all your self-restraint disintegrated like sugar in hot tea.

He was shirtless.

Of course he was.

Just a pair of black boxer briefs riding low on his hips, skin still damp from the shower, hair a little tousled and curling faintly at the ends. He smelled like his cologne — expensive and devastating — and something clean and citrusy from the hotel shampoo.

You looked once. Just once.

And regretted it immediately.

Because damn.

He was obnoxiously fit. Broad chest, defined abs, and a deep V that disappeared under the waistband of his underwear like an arrow pointing straight to hell. You could see the towel slung casually over one shoulder, the way he ran one hand through his wet hair, like he was starring in a shampoo commercial and knew it.

You focused on your screen. “You couldn’t wear a shirt?”

“I could,” Jake said, walking past the foot of the bed to plug in his phone, “but I just took a shower.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He smirked, not looking at you. “Are you scandalized, sweetheart?”

“Mortified.”

“Don’t worry,” he said lightly, finally climbing into the other side of the bed. “I won’t bite.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“I’m very consistent.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t look up. Not even when the mattress dipped as he settled beside you.

It wasn’t fair. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who should use a three-piece suit as armor for his personality. Out of the office, without the power tie and the thousand-dollar watch, he just looked like a man — a smug, annoyingly gorgeous man — with muscles for days and way too much confidence.

Jake leaned back against the headboard, stretching one arm behind it and casually brushing his fingers through his damp hair again. The whole room suddenly felt warmer.

He glanced over at your iPad. “You’re still working?”

“Yes,” you said, not looking at him. “Because one of us has to make sure the merger doesn’t implode.”

“You’re off the clock.”

“I’m never off the clock.”

Jake tilted his head slightly, watching the way your fingers flew across the screen. “You know, most people in bed this late are watching trash TV or texting their exes.”

“I don’t have an ex. Or time for trash TV.”

He hummed. “Tragic.”

You didn’t reply. Just kept typing, ignoring the fact that his thigh was maybe one inch away from yours under the comforter. Ignoring the slow, almost casual way he let out a low exhale, like he was perfectly at peace while you were dying inside.

The tension was thick. Almost painful.

Your iPad screen dimmed.

Jake was still watching you. Or maybe not watching, but aware. You could feel his presence like static electricity. Like if either of you moved too suddenly, something might snap.

You exhaled slowly and turned off the iPad, setting it on the nightstand.

Then, as if on cue, Jake shifted slightly, laying fully onto his side now, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting across his waist. You could feel his eyes on you again.

“What?” you asked quietly, staring up at the ceiling.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes narrowed. “That’s worse.”

Jake just smiled, low and lazy. “You look good when you’re annoyed. It’s cute.”

“Go to sleep, Seresin.”

“You first, boss.”

You rolled to your side, back facing him, cheeks burning, heart thudding like it was trying to escape.

And behind you, Jake shifted too — just enough that his knee brushed the back of yours.

He didn’t move it.

Neither did you.

The silence stretched. Comfortable and tense all at once.

And somewhere deep in your chest, where irritation usually lived when it came to Jake, something softer settled in its place — like a seed waiting to take root.

This trip was going to ruin you.

The next two days passed in a blur of hotel carpets, endless coffee, and conference rooms so aggressively beige they made your soul shrivel. Jake glided through it all like the cocky CEO he was — perfectly tailored suits, cool confidence, answering every question like he owned the building. Which, to be fair, wasn’t a stretch. He had sponsored half the event.

You were at his side every moment. Clipboard, tablet, schedule, presentations. Managing him like always — flawlessly — and for the most part, nothing changed.

Except it did.

It started small.

The first morning, he handed you your coffee with a smirk. “One sugar, no cream, just like your soul.”

You blinked at him, brows raising. “You remembered my order?”

“Of course.” He sipped his own. “I like my assistants caffeine-dependent and emotionally unavailable.”

You stared.

He walked away like nothing happened.

The second shift came that afternoon, during a panel. You leaned in to whisper something — a reminder about time — and Jake turned his head slightly toward you, close enough that your words brushed the shell of his ear. His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

And then he said, completely straight-faced, “If you whisper in my ear like that again, I can’t be held responsible for my behavior.”

You recoiled, flustered. “What the hell, Seresin?”

“I’m just giving you a heads-up,” he said, shrugging and refocusing on the speaker like he hadn’t just short-circuited your entire nervous system.

That night in the hotel room, he stripped off his shirt like usual, casually tossing it onto a chair. You didn’t flinch anymore. You’d trained your eyes to stay up.

Mostly.

He climbed into bed beside you, gave you one of those lazy, lopsided grins, and said, “Just so you know, you talk in your sleep.”

You froze mid-scroll on your tablet. “…I do not.”

“Last night you mumbled something about… spreadsheets and betrayal. It was dramatic. Very you.”

You shoved the comforter higher and glared at him. “If you ever repeat that, I swear I’ll poison your green juice.”

Jake just chuckled and turned onto his side, back facing you, his shoulders shaking slightly from silent laughter.

You did not stare at his back muscles.

Much.

The second day, it only got worse.

He held open every door, casually pressing his hand to your lower back each time.

He handed you pens like he was placing rings on your fingers.

At one point, when you were mid-conversation with a client, he stepped behind you and adjusted your blazer collar, fingers ghosting over your neck like it was nothing.

But it was not nothing and you nearly dropped your tablet.

Even now, walking beside him through the hotel’s long marble corridor after the evening keynote, you were still off-balance. Still trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Jake commented, his hands in his pockets, voice smooth.

You shot him a sidelong look. “Are you flirting with me?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Would it work if I were?”

You stopped walking. “I’m your assistant.”

Jake paused too, turning toward you, the dim hallway lights casting a soft glow over his face. “So?”

You blinked. “So, what’s gotten into you?”

He smiled slightly. Not smug — not this time. Just… amused. “Nothing. I just like messing with you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Right. Of course. God forbid you go five minutes without being insufferable.”

Jake leaned in, close enough that your breath caught. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, boss.”

And with that, he turned and kept walking, leaving you frozen in place, rethinking your entire existence.

That night in the suite, you didn’t speak much. Jake showered first. Came out shirtless, as usual. Didn’t even acknowledge it. He scrolled on his phone, tossed you a bottle of water without looking.

But the tension was there.

Unspoken. Crackling. Pressed into every inch of the shared air between you.

You crawled under the covers, flicked the lamp off, and stared at the ceiling.

Jake lay next to you, one arm behind his head, gaze fixed on nothing.

After a moment, he said quietly, “We’re a good team, you know.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the outline of his profile in the dark.

“…Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

He glanced over at you, eyes searching yours in the low light. “Try not to dream about me too loudly tonight, boss.”

You groaned into your pillow. “You’re insufferable.”

And yet, your lips curled into a traitorous smile anyway.

The third day dawned with pale gold light bleeding through the suite’s sheer curtains. You were already awake when Jake emerged from the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, steam following him like a cloud. His usual smirk was missing — replaced with a yawn and a scratch to his abs that you definitely didn’t notice.

Much.

You’d both fallen into the rhythm of the conference. Meetings, panels, coffee breaks, networking events. Coordinated in your chaos, like always.

Except now, something was different. Jake had been quieter that morning. Not cold, just… watchful. You caught him glancing at you more than once as you got ready — his gaze trailing from your heels to the neat twist in your hair. But every time you looked up, he was already pretending to check his watch or adjust his cufflinks.

By noon, the two of you were at a rooftop luncheon hosted by some fintech giant. The catered food was suspiciously pretty, the kind of salad that made you crave a burger just by looking at it. You and Jake had split up momentarily — he was across the space, talking to some board member in a navy suit, expression sharp and unreadable. You stood by a tall cocktail table, sipping something vaguely citrusy and waiting for him to finish.

And then he appeared.

You hadn’t even noticed the older man until he was suddenly beside you, all fake charm and far too much cologne.

“Well, hello,” he said, giving your figure a slow, pointed once-over before offering his hand. “Didn’t realize this event came with such… lovely scenery.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m Marcus Klein. Real estate investments. And you are?”

“…Just here for work.”

He grinned, undeterred. “Bet you make a hell of an assistant, huh? Do you come with the suit, or is that just part of the fantasy?”

Your spine went stiff. You took a step back, glancing subtly around for Jake.

“Let me buy you a drink,” the man continued, eyes still traveling places they had no right to be. “Maybe slip away from all this corporate crap, get a little more… comfortable.”

You opened your mouth — ready to tell him off — but before a single syllable could escape, a hand landed firmly on your waist.

“Is there a problem here?”

Jake.

The tone of his voice was low. Dangerous. Like the hum of a storm before it cracked open the sky.

Marcus turned, clearly unimpressed. “We’re just talking, buddy—”

“No,” Jake said, deadly calm, “you were talking. She wasn’t interested.”

Marcus chuckled nervously. “Didn’t realize she was spoken for.”

Jake stepped forward, blocking your body with his, hand still planted at your hip. “She’s not a piece of property. She doesn’t need to be spoken for. But you do need to fuck off before I forget where I am and put your ass through that railing.”

A stunned silence fell over your little corner of the rooftop. A few heads turned. Marcus went a shade paler.

“Alright,” the man muttered, backing up with hands raised. “Message received.”

He disappeared into the crowd.

You exhaled, only then realizing how tightly you’d been gripping your glass.

Jake turned to face you, jaw still clenched.

“You okay?” he asked, voice tight.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thanks. He was just—”

“I saw.”

You glanced up at him. His expression was still stormy, eyes narrowed, chest rising and falling faster than normal.

You touched his wrist gently. “Jake.”

That broke the tension — a little. He looked down at your hand, then back at your face.

“He shouldn’t have talked to you like that,” he muttered. “I should’ve been—”

“It’s not your fault.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you like the wind had been knocked out of him. Then his hand — the one at your waist — shifted, almost without him realizing it. His thumb brushed a light circle against your dress.

“We’re getting out of here,” he said quietly. “Come on.”

You didn’t argue. You just followed him, pulse still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with Marcus Klein.

You didn’t say much on the ride back to the hotel.

Jake was still worked up — you could feel it radiating off him like heat from asphalt. His jaw was tight. One hand on the steering wheel, the other flexing restlessly in his lap. You tried to thank him again for stepping in, but he only gave a clipped, “Forget it,” and turned up the AC.

So you rode in silence.

When you reached the hotel, he didn’t wait for the valet. Just tossed the keys and stormed inside, not looking back to check if you were following. You were.

The elevator ride up was thick with unspoken words. You stood at opposite ends of the cabin, your reflection fractured in the mirrored walls. Jake was breathing hard, like he’d just come off a sprint.

By the time you entered the suite, he still hadn’t cooled down.

Jake yanked off his suit jacket and threw it over a chair. His fingers tugged loose the first two buttons of his shirt, then he stalked to the minibar and poured himself a drink — straight scotch, of course. No ice. No words.

You stood by the window, arms crossed over your chest, watching him.

“What is wrong with you?” you finally asked, sharp but confused.

Jake didn’t answer. Just took a long swallow of scotch, then tossed the glass down a little too hard.

“Jake.”

He looked at you — really looked at you. Like he was seeing you for the first time. Like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say.

And still… he said it anyway.

“You’re mine.”

The words punched the air between you.

You blinked. “What?”

Jake didn’t flinch. Just took a step closer, eyes locked on yours.

“That guy—” He exhaled sharply, like just remembering it pissed him off all over again. “He looked at you like you were something to take. Like you were just decoration. And it made me want to rip his fucking head off.”

Your throat went dry.

“Jake…”

“I know you’re my assistant. I know I’m your boss. I know I’m the last person who should be saying this, but fuck it.” He ran a hand through his hair, the raw edge in his voice shaking something loose in your chest. “You’re mine. I feel it every time you roll your eyes at me. Every time you hand me a coffee and mutter some smart-ass comment under your breath. Every time I walk into a room and the only thing I’m looking for is you.”

You stood frozen.

“I don’t want anyone else touching you,” he said, softer now. “Talking to you like that. Hell, even looking at you like they’ve got a chance. Because they don’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

Jake took a step forward.

“I know it’s not part of the job description,” he said, voice lower now. “I know it’s complicated. But I had to say it.”

Another beat passed. Then two.

And finally, you spoke — voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re serious.”

Jake gave a bitter little smile. “Dead serious.”

You swallowed hard. The tension between you had always been there — unspoken, electric — but this… this was a spark to a powder keg.

Slowly, you stepped toward him. Each step measured, hesitant, until you were standing just a breath away.

“Say it again,” you said quietly. “Say it like you mean it.”

Jake stared at you — then reached out and touched your wrist, fingers light and tentative, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“You’re mine,” he said, low and certain. “And I’m yours.”

His mouth was on yours before you could even fully process what he’d just said. One hand curled possessively around the back of your neck, the other flattening against your lower back, dragging you flush against him with no space left to think, to breathe, to do anything but feel.

Jake kissed like he did everything — with confidence, with precision, like he already knew exactly what you liked. He tilted your head, deepened it, exhaled into your mouth like he was finally getting a taste of something he’d been craving for too long.

You could barely keep up. His touch was firm, practiced, but there was an edge to him now. A hunger beneath all that control.

You stumbled back toward the bed, bumping into the edge as Jake’s hands slid down your hips. He paused just long enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath uneven.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and rasped. “Because once I start—”

You didn’t let him finish. You surged forward and kissed him again, tugging him down with you as your knees hit the mattress. “Shut up, Seresin.”

A deep, throaty laugh vibrated against your lips. “Yes, boss.”

Clothes came off in rushed, frantic layers. Your blouse unbuttoned halfway before Jake got impatient and yanked it over your head. His shirt was already long gone, leaving his golden skin and sculpted chest on full display. You barely had a second to ogle him — all abs and muscle and smugness — before he lowered his head and dragged his mouth along your jaw.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, lips brushing down the column of your throat.

You arched toward him, heat curling in your belly. “Maybe I do.”

His hand slid up your thigh, coaxing it higher as he knelt between your knees, his body caging yours without fully pressing down yet.

“Always so mouthy,” Jake murmured, fingertips ghosting over the waistband of your underwear. “Bet you talk back in bed, too.”

“I give orders,” you shot back, breath catching.

Jake’s eyes flared, his smile devilish. “Then tell me what you want.”

That made you pause — blinking up at him. He wasn’t teasing. Not really. His voice was low, quiet. Like he meant it.

You swallowed. “Take your time.”

Jake raised a brow. “Not what I expected.”

You smirked. “I’ve waited this long. I want to feel everything.”

His pupils dilated. “Say less.”

And then he lowered himself, dragging his mouth over your stomach, down your thighs, spreading you open with careful, reverent hands. His fingers splayed against your skin like he couldn’t bear not to touch. And when his mouth met you — slow, deliberate, hungry — your hands flew to his hair, anchoring yourself to the only thing in the room not spinning.

Jake was good. Too good. Focused. Intent. Like the only thing he cared about in the entire world was the sound of your breathing catching and the way your thighs trembled. He didn’t rush. Not once. Just built you up and held you there, murmuring soft praise against your skin, coaxing every sound out of you until your voice was wrecked and your back arched clean off the bed.

You were still trying to remember how to breathe when he kissed his way back up your body — lips slick, eyes dark.

“That’s once,” he whispered, nipping your bottom lip.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “You’re counting?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “We’re not done yet.”

You gasped as his fingers slid between your legs again, teasing.

“Jake—”

“Say my name like that again,” he groaned. “Swear to God.”

You gripped his shoulders, dizzy. “I thought you were in control here.”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “I am. And you’re gonna let me take care of you — over and over again.”

His words — low, possessive, tender — sent another jolt through you.

And he did. He made good on every promise, every smirk, every arrogant line he’d ever thrown your way. Until you were tangled in the sheets, pulse stuttering, nails dug into his back, your voice raw from saying his name too many times to count.

At some point, you ended up curled into his side, heart still racing. Jake reached for the comforter, pulling it over the both of you before pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Bossy little thing,” he murmured fondly.

You breathed out a laugh, cheek pressed to his chest. “Don’t get used to this.”

He grinned, trailing his fingers down your arm. “Too late.”

They didn’t go back to the conference.

In fact, they barely left the suite.

The only time the bed was made was when they peeled the sheets off just to toss them to the floor again. The minibar had been emptied, room service was left untouched, and the Do Not Disturb sign stayed firmly on the door — like a warning, like a promise.

Jake had a one-track mind and a laser focus, and unfortunately for your legs, it was entirely directed at you.

He’d wake you with slow kisses down your spine, hands gliding under the sheets, brushing between your thighs like he was just checking if you were still as soft and warm and wet as he remembered. (You were.)

And then he’d disappear under the blankets with a sinful little chuckle, like a man on a mission.

“Jake,” you groaned more than once, half-pleading, half-scolding.

“Mhm?” he’d reply lazily, nuzzling closer to your hipbone. “Still not done tasting you.”

Because that was the thing: Jake Seresin loved eating you out like it was the last meal he’d ever have. Like your body was a map he needed to memorize, one moan at a time. He’d pin your thighs open with those strong, broad hands of his, settling between them like he belonged there. And at this point, maybe he did.

He never rushed. Not once.

There was something about the way he watched you — sometimes with eyes half-lidded, sometimes sharp and focused like he was cataloguing every reaction. He’d lock eyes with you when you tried to squirm away, when your hands fisted in the sheets or in his hair, when you whimpered his name and gasped out how good it felt. And then he’d smirk, just a little, and go right back to driving you out of your mind.

“You always this bossy in bed?” he asked, voice low, teasing, right before dragging his tongue over you again.

“Only when you’re being too slow,” you shot back, breathless, trying to glare but failing miserably.

Jake laughed — a warm, gravelly sound against your skin — and doubled down, making it his mission to wring every reaction out of you.

There was one afternoon, the fifth day maybe, where he laid you back on the bed and kissed down your body with something close to reverence. He paused at your navel, then further, parting your thighs like he owned them.

You were already panting, fingers twitching against the comforter.

“I ever tell you how pretty you sound when you fall apart for me?” he asked softly, lips brushing over the inside of your thigh.

You tried to sass him, to throw out something snarky, but then he did something with his tongue and your brain just… fizzled.

And when he didn’t stop — when he kept going long after you thought he would, long after your voice had gone hoarse from calling his name — you felt tears prick the corners of your eyes.

It wasn’t just the overstimulation. It was the way he held you, touched you, the quiet hum of satisfaction in his throat every time your hips stuttered or your body trembled under him. Like he didn’t just want you unraveled — he wanted you adored.

At some point — some long, dizzy stretch of afternoon light — you finally begged him to come up and kiss you, tugging on his shoulders, your limbs boneless and trembling.

He did. Mouth slick, eyes gleaming, grinning like a man who’d just conquered a city.

You pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “You’re gonna kill me.”

Jake just smirked. “Not yet, sugar. I’ve got plans for after dinner.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to shove him off you.

He didn’t budge. He just wrapped his arms around your waist, dragging you on top of him like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his to remind himself you were real.

And as the sun dipped outside, painting the curtains gold, you realized something that scared you more than all his teasing ever could:

You were starting to hope he didn’t stop.

The final night settled like a soft sigh over the city, the glow of the skyline bleeding in through the sheer hotel curtains, casting the room in dusky gold. It should’ve felt like the end of something — the last page of a chapter — but in that quiet space between dinner and packing, it just felt still.

Jake was behind you, his hands at your waist, thumbs stroking the bare skin above the waistband of your sleep shorts. You stood at the window like you’d done every night, pretending to admire the view when really, you were buying yourself a few more moments — moments before the spell broke, before you went back to being his assistant and he went back to being your boss and none of this could happen again.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he murmured, voice low against your neck.

You didn’t answer right away. Because if you turned around now — if you looked at him — you weren’t sure you could keep pretending this was just a fling. Just an accident.

“Just tired,” you lied, soft.

Jake’s hands tightened slightly at your waist. “Liar.”

That one word sent a flicker through your belly.

You turned your head a little. “Excuse me?”

He moved closer, chest flush to your back now, and when he spoke again, his mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re not tired,” he said, voice dark, almost smug. “You’re overthinking.”

You hated that he was right. You hated that he knew he was right.

“Jake—”

“I get it,” he cut in gently, but firmly, arms sliding fully around your waist to pull you against him. “We go back tomorrow. It’s back to boardrooms and meetings and pretending we don’t look at each other like we want to rip each other’s clothes off in the elevator.”

Your breath hitched.

He turned you slowly in his arms, eyes scanning your face with quiet focus, his hands staying at your hips.

“But I’m not pretending anymore,” he said, the honesty in his voice knocking the wind from your lungs. “I don’t want to go back to pretending. Not after this.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted.

“I know you feel it too,” he added, voice rough now. “The way you melt for me. The way I can’t stop touching you because I’m scared I’ll forget what it feels like when we’re back in that damn office and you’re making snide comments about my suits again.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Jake grinned.

And then — like gravity had its own rules around the two of you — you were kissing him again.

This time, it was slower. Less frantic than the other nights. More intentional.

Jake kissed like he had all the time in the world, like you weren’t leaving tomorrow, like he could memorize you piece by piece if he just took his time. His hands mapped your back, your waist, the curve of your hips — warm and sure and patient. When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to your mouth.

“Take your shirt off,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow. “So bossy.”

“Only matching your energy, sweetheart.” He grinned. “Besides, you know I like to watch.”

You did.

You also knew exactly what he meant.

You peeled the fabric over your head slowly, relishing the way his eyes tracked your every movement, how his tongue flicked across his lower lip when your bra followed.

He growled, low in his throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smirked, stepping back toward the bed. “Then come die happy, Mr. CEO.”

He was on you before your back even hit the mattress — mouth on yours, one knee between your thighs, hands pinning your wrists above your head.

“You know, I had every intention of going slow tonight,” he whispered against your neck, dragging his lips along the skin there. “But then you had to go and get all bratty.”

You gasped as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupted, licking the sting away. “But that’s alright. I like you mouthy. Gives me more reason to shut you up.”

“Jake—”

His hand slipped between your thighs, dragging the waistband of your shorts down just enough to slide his fingers over you.

“God,” he groaned. “Still so fucking wet for me.”

You moaned, arching into him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, lips brushing your ear.

“I want you to—”

“Uh-uh,” he cut in, teasing again. “Be specific. You’re the bossy one, remember?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Fine. I want your mouth. Now.”

He laughed — dark and thrilled — and then disappeared between your thighs with a reverence that made your skin shiver.

Jake worshipped you. That was the only word for it. His mouth moved over you with purpose, with precision, tongue teasing and flicking and curling until your thighs trembled and your hands clawed the sheets. He held your hips down, humming like your moans were his favorite song, eyes locked on you when you dared to look down at him.

When you came, he kept going — slow, lazy licks that made you writhe, that dragged the heat in your belly back to life.

“You can give me another,” he said, like a promise, like a challenge.

You whimpered, already overwhelmed.

“Don’t you want me to come back with you?” he teased, mouth still on you. “Then let me ruin you properly. Let me make sure no one else even tries.”

Another climax rolled through you with a cry.

He didn’t stop until you begged.

And then he finally moved back up, bracing himself above you, his lips red and slick, his pupils blown wide.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, kissing you softly now, almost sweetly. “About not wanting this to end.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding painfully.

“I don’t either,” you whispered.

His forehead pressed to yours. “Then let’s not.”

And when he sank into you that final night, slow and deep and grounding, you both understood that whatever had started in a sleek corner office back in New York had evolved into something else entirely.

-

The hum of the jet engines filled the silence like a secret.

You sat across from Jake in the plush leather seat, your legs curled beneath you, the afterglow of the trip hanging in the quiet air between you. Below, the world stretched endlessly — clouds scattered like silk across the sky, cities tucked beneath them, unaware of the shift that had happened in the space between takeoff and landing.

Neither of you had said much since boarding. There hadn’t been a need.

Your body still hummed from the way he’d touched you last night. The way he’d looked at you. Like you weren’t just his assistant anymore. Like you were something else entirely — something sacred.

Jake sat across from you, a tumbler of water in his hand instead of scotch this time, the sleeves of his black button-down rolled up, throat bare where the first few buttons had been undone. His jaw flexed when he glanced at you. You were in one of his shirts — his favorite shirt, in fact — sleeves too long and hem brushing your bare thighs. You hadn't meant for it to feel intimate, but it did.

Everything about today felt intimate.

“You’re quiet,” you finally said, voice soft but steady.

Jake looked at you slowly, eyes darker than usual, thoughtful. “So are you.”

“Just… thinking.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

You tucked your chin into your palm, watching him. “About what?”

Jake let out a breath — not quite a sigh. “About how I’m supposed to go back to pretending you’re just my assistant again.”

That made your heart do something complicated in your chest.

“I don’t want to pretend either,” you said softly, honesty slipping through before you could edit it.

His eyes flicked up at you at that — something tightening in his jaw. “Then don’t.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you rose slowly to your feet.

Jake followed your movements like you were gravity itself. His eyes never left you as you stepped over, climbed into his lap, and settled your knees on either side of his thighs.

It was quiet for a moment.

Just your breathing

Just his hands finding your waist, sliding beneath the hem of the shirt to touch skin he already knew by heart.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You nodded. “I just want to feel you again.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressing gently to yours. “Then ride me, baby.”

The way he said it made your breath catch.

Slowly, you reached between your bodies, unbuttoning his slacks, your fingers careful but aching with need. He helped, lifting his hips just enough so you could free him, and then he sat back in the leather seat, watching you through half-lidded eyes like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

You slid your panties to the side and sank onto him slowly.

Jake’s head fell back, a quiet fuck escaping his lips.

He felt so good — thick and warm and grounding. You paused for a moment, adjusting, breathing. His hands were already on your thighs, thumbs stroking lazy, soothing circles.

“Take your time,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You moved slowly at first, rocking your hips in steady, rolling motions. Jake didn’t try to take control — not yet. He let you lead, but his hands never left your body. One traced up your spine, fingers curling around the nape of your neck. The other gripped your hip, steadying you, guiding you with soft pressure when you faltered.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Your hands were braced on his shoulders, your breath stuttering each time you sank down. His praise made your body clench around him — and he felt it.

“Oh,” he groaned, grip tightening. “Do that again.”

You did.

And again.

And again.

The rhythm grew messier, needier. You leaned forward slightly, your forehead resting against his. Jake brought a hand to your jaw, holding you there.

“You feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “So warm. So perfect.”

His lips brushed yours, just barely. Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

You whimpered, the tension coiling tighter in your belly, your thighs starting to tremble with the effort of holding on.

“Jake—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, sliding his hand between your bodies, finding the place he knew would undo you completely.

You gasped.

“Let go,” he whispered. “I wanna feel you fall apart on top of me.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit like a wave, stealing your breath and your balance. Jake held you through it, one arm around your waist now, cradling you to his chest as you shook. You collapsed against him, burying your face in his neck as he murmured praise into your hair.

“You’re okay,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You were still coming down when he shifted beneath you, lifting you gently as he thrust up once, twice, chasing his own release. His fingers dug into your hips as he groaned into your skin, spilling inside you with a shudder.

The cabin was silent except for your breathing.

You stayed like that — tangled together in the middle of a private jet, a mess of limbs and sighs and promises you hadn’t made out loud yet.

Jake finally leaned back to look at you.

“You know we’re not pretending anymore,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

You nodded.

And smiled.

“Good,” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because I don’t want to sleep another night without you.”

You kissed him softly, sweetly, like an answer.

You didn’t stop what you were doing. Didn’t look up. Just shrugged, like it was nothing.

“I don’t have any plans anyway,” you said lightly. “Might as well stay busy.”

The words were easy. Practiced. You’d said them before.

Penny’s pen hovered above the paper for a fraction of a second too long. She knew the difference between fine and fine. But she also knew when not to press. She nodded once, a quiet agreement, and wrote your name in.

“Alright,” she said gently. “I appreciate it.” You smiled, bright and polite, and reached for another glass.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

Jake hadn’t meant to stop walking.

He’d come in laughing, jacket half off his shoulders, the day’s ease still clinging to him. The Hard Deck was familiar territory — noise, beer, you behind the bar rolling your eyes at him. Comfort in routine.

But your voice cut through it all.

I don’t have any plans anyway.

He slowed, boots scraping softly against the floor, his grin faltering before he could catch it. He stayed near the entrance, just long enough to hear Penny confirm the shift. Just long enough for the meaning to settle heavy in his chest.

Christmas. No plans. Alone.

Jake exhaled through his nose and forced himself to keep moving. Took a seat farther back instead of his usual place at the bar, fingers drumming absently against the tabletop. He told himself it wasn’t his business. That he didn’t care.

That was a lie.

Phoenix slid into the chair across from him, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. She set her beer down and studied him with narrowed eyes, already suspicious.

“You look like you just lost a dogfight,” she said.

He scoffed, gaze still fixed on the bar. “Hardly.”

“Mhm.”

Silence stretched, filled with the clink of glass and low conversation. Then, like he was testing the ground beneath his feet, Jake spoke again.

“She got family around here?”

Phoenix didn’t answer right away. She leaned back instead, arms crossing, watching him like a scientist observing a long-predicted reaction. A slow smile tugged at her mouth.

“Oh,” she said. “So that’s where we are now.”

Jake grimaced. “Don’t.”

“I knew it,” she continued, clearly enjoying herself. “Months of denial, and all it takes is one holiday schedule.”

He finally looked at her, jaw tight. “Nat.”

That got her attention.

Phoenix followed his gaze to where you moved behind the bar, laughter soft and unguarded as you handed someone a drink. When she spoke again, her tone was quieter.

“She doesn’t really have anyone,” she said carefully. “No family close. That’s all you get.”

Something shifted in him — a dull ache blooming beneath his ribs.

Jake nodded once, stiff. He didn’t ask follow-up questions. Didn’t need to. The picture was already forming in his mind, uninvited and vivid.

His mom’s house in Texas, too warm and too loud. The smell of cinnamon and roasting meat. His dad’s voice carrying from the living room, his sisters already complaining about the playlist, his nieces running around. Familiar chaos. Annoying. Comforting.

Unavoidable.

He couldn’t imagine Christmas without it, couldn’t imagine choosing not to have somewhere to be.

Phoenix watched the realization settle into his expression. “You gonna do something about it,” she asked, “or just sit there brooding like a sad country song?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips — gone as quickly as it came. “She’s not gonna be alone.”

Phoenix arched an eyebrow. “That wasn’t the question.”

He stood, decision already made. “It’s the answer.”

Later, when the crowd thinned and the sun dipped lower, Jake approached the bar — not you, but Penny.

She looked up the moment she saw him, recognition flickering across her face. Penny noticed things. Always had.

“She won’t be working Christmas,” Jake said quietly.

Penny studied him for a long moment, then glanced toward you — laughing, unaware, completely unprepared for the way your world was about to shift.

“I wondered when you’d say something,” Penny replied softly. “Alright. I’ll cover it.”

Relief loosened something in his shoulders.

“She deserves better than another shift,” Penny added. “I’m glad someone agrees.”

Jake watched you for a beat longer than necessary.

You didn’t know it yet.

But you weren’t spending Christmas alone.

Not this year.

—

The bar was caught in that quiet in-between hour, when the sunlight poured in low and honeyed through the open doors and the ocean breeze slipped lazily across the floor. The bar smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and salt, the wood warm beneath your palms as you stepped behind it, already reaching for the schedule board without really thinking about it.

Routine was comfort. Knowing where you were supposed to be, when, had a way of grounding you.

Your eyes skimmed the list once, then again, slower this time. Monday. Tuesday. Christmas Eve. The space where your name should have been on Christmas Day stared back at you, blank and wrong, and a small frown tugged at your mouth as you leaned closer, as if proximity alone might make it reappear. You traced the line with your finger, checked above it, below it, then stepped back, confusion settling in your chest.

“That’s… odd,” you muttered.

You were just about to turn and call for Penny, already forming a casual explanation in your head — something light, something easy, like it didn’t matter — when the familiar weight of someone else’s presence registered behind you.

“Studying the wall now?” Jake’s voice drawled, warm with amusement. “Careful, it might flirt back.”

You closed your eyes briefly before turning, already bracing yourself. He stood a few feet away, leaning against the bar like he owned the place, confidence worn as effortlessly as his dog tags. The sight of him sparked the usual mix of annoyance and reluctant fondness, the kind you’d never admit out loud.

“Don’t you have literally anyone else to bother?” you asked, gesturing vaguely around the bar. “I’m busy.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking from your face back to the schedule, then back again. “Looks like you’re not, actually. What’s got you so worked up?”

You sighed and pointed at the board, irritation slipping into your voice despite yourself. “I was supposed to work Christmas. Guess Penny forgot to write me in.”

Jake followed your finger, his expression unreadable for a moment as he took it in. Then his mouth curved into something like satisfaction. “That’s a win,” he said easily.

“Not really,” you shot back. “I had a plan. Now I don’t.”

“Well,” he said, pushing off the bar and closing the distance by a step, hands sliding into his pockets like he was trying very hard to look casual, “since you’re free, what are you doing instead?”

You shrugged, feeling strangely defensive all of a sudden. “Nothing. That was the point.”

Something flickered behind his eyes, but he smoothed it over quickly. “Perfect,” he said, far too confidently. “You’re coming to Texas with me.”

You stared at him, disbelief blooming into a short, incredulous laugh. “You cannot be serious.”

He smiled, broad and unapologetic. “Dead serious.”

“No,” you said immediately. “Absolutely not. I am not crashing your family’s Christmas like some stray you picked up at a bar.”

He waved the comment away like it was nothing. “You wouldn’t be crashing anything.”

“Hangman.”

“You’d be invited.”

“You didn’t even ask me,” you pointed out, crossing your arms. “You just decided.”

“Yeah,” he said lightly. “I do that sometimes.”

You shook your head, already backing away. “Plane tickets alone would be insane this close to Christmas. I’m not letting you spend that kind of money on me.”

“I already checked,” he replied, far too quickly. “I’ve got miles.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”

You pressed on, stubbornness flaring. “I have responsibilities.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“I—” You hesitated, then said, “I have to feed my cat.”

His grin turned knowing. “You don’t have a cat.”

You narrowed your eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve never talked about a cat,” he said, voice softer now, less teasing. “And because I pay attention.”

That gave you pause, something warm and uncomfortable settling beneath your ribs, but you pushed past it. “Even if I didn’t, it’s still a terrible idea.”

Jake’s smile faded just enough to matter. He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets, presence suddenly heavier, more grounded. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, steadier.

“I’m not letting you spend Christmas alone.”

The words hit harder than you expected, your breath catching before you could stop it. You stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes, by the absence of his usual bravado. This wasn’t flirting. This wasn’t teasing.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you said quietly.

“No,” he agreed. “But I get to offer you somewhere to be.”

Silence stretched between you, filled only by the soft clink of glasses and the distant rush of the ocean. You searched his face for the joke, the punchline, and found none.

“I don’t want you alone,” he said again, gentler this time. “Not when you don’t have to be.”

Your defenses wavered, the weight of the season pressing in all at once — the empty apartment, the quiet nights, the way you’d already resigned yourself to pretending it didn’t hurt.

You exhaled slowly. “You’re impossible.”

His mouth curved into a small, victorious smile. “I’ve been told.”

“…Fine,” you said after a moment, voice softening despite yourself. “But if your family hates me, this is on you.”

His grin returned, bright and genuine. “They won’t.”

You weren’t sure you believed him.

But as he stepped back, satisfaction radiating from him, one thing was suddenly, undeniably clear.

You weren’t going to be alone this Christmas.

—

Jake showed up on the twenty-third like the decision had been settled for weeks, not days. You spotted his car from your apartment window first, parked crookedly at the curb like it didn’t quite fit the narrow street, and the sight alone made your stomach flutter with nerves you hadn’t fully acknowledged yet.

By the time you made it downstairs with your bag slung over your shoulder, he was already out of the vehicle, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, posture relaxed in that infuriatingly confident way of his.

“You know,” you said as you locked your door behind you, “I told you I could meet you at the airport.”

Jake didn’t even pretend to consider it. He reached for your bag without asking, fingers closing around the strap before you could protest, and lifted it easily. “Yeah,” he replied, already walking toward the car. “But then I wouldn’t know you actually showed up.”

You huffed, trailing after him. “I said I was going.”

“Mmm,” he murmured, popping the trunk. “You also said this was a terrible idea about fifteen times.”

He slid your bag in beside his — like it belonged there, like it had always been part of the plan — and shut the trunk with a decisive thud before opening the passenger door for you. The gesture caught you off guard enough that you paused, then climbed in without comment. He grinned like he knew he’d won a small victory and went around to the driver’s side, starting the engine and pulling away from the curb with easy confidence.

The drive to the airport passed in a strange, suspended quiet. Jake filled the space with low music and occasional commentary about traffic or the weather, and you answered when necessary, but your thoughts were already miles ahead. Four hours in the air. Four hours trapped with your own nerves. Flying had never been something you enjoyed — too much time to think, too little control — and you hadn’t done it often enough to pretend otherwise.

You kept that part to yourself.

The last thing you needed was Jake Seresin clocking your anxiety and turning it into ammunition.

By the time you reached the airport, the tightness in your chest had settled into something familiar, a low hum of anticipation and unease. Jake grabbed both bags this time, slinging his over one shoulder and tugging yours along beside him as if this, too, was just how things were done. You followed him through the automatic doors, the air inside cooler and smelling faintly of coffee and disinfectant, voices echoing overhead in a constant stream of arrivals and departures.

You lingered near the gate once you’d checked in, fingers twisting together as you stared out at the planes taxiing along the runway. The reality of it all — Texas, his family, the holidays — pressed in on you again, and you turned toward him with a sigh.

“This is still a bad idea,” you said quietly. “We can turn around. It’s not too late.”

Jake glanced up from his phone, unimpressed. “You’ve already said that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he replied, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “You’ll survive.”

You frowned. “Have you even told your family?”

That earned you a shrug, casual and infuriating. “I always bring friends home.”

“Friends,” you repeated, incredulous. “Jake, we barely tolerate each other.”

“That’s your version,” he said lightly. “Mine’s different.”

You opened your mouth to argue — to point out that this wasn’t normal, that families asked questions, that holidays came with expectations — but the overhead announcement cut you off, boarding call echoing through the gate. Jake stood immediately, grabbing both carry-ons without hesitation, then paused when he noticed you still rooted in place.

He turned back to you, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face, eyes warm and steady in a way that made your pulse skip.

“Well,” he said, holding out a hand, “ready for a Texan Christmas, darling?”

You stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, nerves and doubt and something dangerously close to excitement tangling together in your chest.

Then you sighed and took his hand.

“God help me,” you muttered.

His grin widened as he led you toward the gate.

The plane smelled faintly of recycled air and coffee as you stepped into the narrow aisle, Jake moving ahead of you with easy confidence. He glanced down at the boarding passes in his hand, then lifted his chin toward the row on the right.

“Here we are,” he said, already reaching up to shove his bag into the overhead bin. “Looks like we lucked out.”

You followed his gaze to the seats and felt your stomach dip when you realized what he meant. The window seat waited at the far end, the curved wall of the plane already pressing in on the space like a quiet warning. Jake motioned toward it without thinking, stepping aside to let you pass.

You shook your head immediately. “Nope. You take it.”

He paused, frowning slightly. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Suspicion flickered across his face, but he didn’t push it — not yet. He slid into the window seat, long legs stretching out as he settled in, and you took the middle seat beside him, already focused on grounding yourself. The familiar click of the seatbelt felt louder than it should have as you fastened it tight, pulling the strap snug across your lap like it might anchor you.

You inhaled slowly through your nose, then exhaled, intertwining your fingers together in your lap to keep them from fidgeting. The cabin filled around you with quiet movement — bags shifting, seats creaking, voices murmuring — and you fixed your eyes straight ahead, determined not to let the nerves show.

You became aware of his stare before you saw it.

Jake wasn’t subtle when he was curious. His attention had weight to it, and you felt it settle on you like a spotlight. You turned your head, meeting his gaze.

“Can I help you?” you asked dryly.

He blinked, like he’d been caught mid-thought, then a slow grin spread across his face. “You’re afraid of flying.”

You scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I fly all the time.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking briefly to your still-clasped hands, the tight line of your shoulders. “Sure you do.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but it was already too late. Recognition softened his expression in a way that caught you off guard, the teasing dialed down just a notch.

“Hey,” he said quietly, leaning back in his seat. “Planes are basically just buses with wings. Statistically safer than driving.”

“That’s not helping,” you muttered.

He smiled anyway. “I could explain how lift works, if you want.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please don’t.”

“Suit yourself,” he said lightly. “I could always take you flying sometime. Show you how it’s done.”

You shot him a look. “There is no universe where I get into a tiny plane with you in charge.”

He laughed at that, real and unguarded, shaking his head. “Your loss.”

The cabin lights dimmed slightly as the doors closed, and the shift in atmosphere sent another wave of unease through you. As the plane began to taxi, your leg started bouncing on its own, nerves leaking out in restless energy. You rubbed your palms against your thighs, trying to will yourself into calm.

Jake noticed immediately.

Without a word, he reached over and took your hand in his, fingers warm and steady as they curled around yours. The gesture was so unexpected it stole your breath, and before you could react, he squeezed twice — firm, reassuring — then kept his hand there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Tell me something,” he said softly, like this was just another distraction. “What’s the worst drink you’ve ever served at the Hard Deck?”

Despite yourself, a laugh slipped out. “You, ordering anything with umbrellas.”

“Ouch,” he said, mock-offended. “That hurts.”

The engines roared louder, vibration humming through the cabin as the plane picked up speed. When it finally lifted off the ground, your fingers tightened reflexively around his hand, eyes squeezing shut as your stomach lurched.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, leaning closer, his voice low and sure. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The words anchored you more than you wanted to admit.

When the ascent leveled out and the seatbelt sign blinked off, you slowly opened your eyes. Jake loosened his grip and let go, the contact ending as gently as it began. When you looked at him again, the softness was already fading, replaced by that familiar glint of mischief that lived permanently in his eyes.

“Well,” he said, smirking, “for someone who’s definitely not afraid of flying…”

You groaned. “Don’t even, Seresin.”

He grinned wider, clearly pleased.

Once the initial tension of takeoff faded into the steady hum of cruising altitude, your body slowly followed suit. You kept your seatbelt fastened out of habit more than necessity, the strap a quiet reassurance across your lap, but the restless energy that had been buzzing under your skin finally eased. Your leg stilled, your hands resting calmly now instead of gripping at nothing, and the tight knot in your chest loosened just enough for you to breathe normally again.

Jake noticed, of course. He always did.

He leaned back in his seat, stretching slightly, a satisfied look crossing his face as he glanced sideways at you. “You want me to put on a movie for you?” he asked, tone deliberately teasing. “Something animated, maybe?”

You shot him a look. “I am not an iPad kid.”

He laughed, head tipping back against the seat, the sound easy and genuine. “Could’ve fooled me. You were gripping that armrest like it owed you money.”

“Very funny,” you muttered, though the edge was gone now, replaced by something lighter. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that surprised you.

The plane settled into its rhythm, the cabin lights dimmed slightly, and the world outside the window stretched into an endless canvas of clouds. For a while, you sat in companionable quiet, the kind that didn’t demand filling. Then, almost without thinking about it, you turned your head toward him.

“So,” you said softly, hesitant in a way you hadn’t been before. “What’s your family like?”

The effect was immediate.

Jake’s expression shifted, the perpetual smirk softening into something real as a genuine smile spread across his face. Not cocky, not practiced — just warm. He looked forward as he spoke, like he was picturing them as he went.

“My mom’s… a force,” he said fondly. “Loud, opinionated, will feed you until you physically can’t move. My dad’s quieter, but he’s the kind of guy who fixes everything with his hands. Always has some project going.”

You listened intently, surprised by how easily the words flowed from him now.

“I’ve got two sisters,” he continued. “Older. Both of them think it’s their life’s mission to keep me humble. Didn’t work.” He smirked briefly, then softened again. “And three nieces. They run the house now. I’m basically just their personal jungle gym when I visit.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugged at your lips, growing wider the more he talked. You could picture it so clearly — Jake in a loud kitchen, a child clinging to each arm, someone scolding him for tracking mud through the house. It felt… impossible. And yet, it fit in a way you hadn’t expected.

You’d always known him as infuriating, endlessly confident, ego first and feelings somewhere far behind. The man who flirted shamelessly, who never seemed to take anything seriously. You’d never once imagined him in a domestic setting, surrounded by family, soft around the edges.

Yet here he was, eyes warm as he talked about them, voice carrying an affection that felt deeply ingrained.

“They’re… everything,” he finished quietly. “Holidays especially.”

Your smile lingered, unguarded now, and you realized that there was so much more to Jake Seresin than the version he showed the world.

—

Two hours into the flight, the cabin had settled into a steady, subdued rhythm, the low hum of the engines blending with the occasional rustle of movement and muted voices. You pulled the book from your bag and opened it on your lap, fingers resting against the worn edges of the pages as you tried to focus on the words in front of you. The letters blurred together more often than they should have, your eyes skimming lines without absorbing their meaning.

Beside you, Jake had put on a movie — something loud and action-heavy, punctuated by explosions and dramatic music that filtered faintly through his headphones. You glanced at the screen briefly, a corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself.

Of course he’s into that.

You turned back to your book, but your thoughts refused to cooperate. They drifted, unmoored, pulled away from the page and toward everything waiting for you on the other side of the flight.

Your nerves had changed shape.

It wasn’t the plane anymore — the metal shell carrying you thousands of feet above the ground — that made your chest feel tight. It was Texas. Jake’s family. The weight of walking into something you hadn’t belonged to in a long time.

You hadn’t spent Christmas with other people since you were twenty.

After your parents passed, there hadn’t been anyone else to fill the space they left behind. No crowded living rooms or overlapping conversations, no shared meals or traditions carried forward. Holidays and birthdays had slowly become quieter things, marked by routine instead of celebration. You’d learned to make peace with it — or at least something close enough.

Most years, Christmas meant sitting alone in your apartment, the city outside your window moving on as usual. Sometimes you lit a candle, the soft flame flickering in the dim, and let yourself think about them for a while. About how it used to be. About how quickly it had all slipped away.

Family, to you, had become an abstract idea.

Something that existed in memories, and in movies you avoided because they hurt more than they healed. Scenes of people decorating trees together, of kitchens filled with warmth and noise, of gifts wrapped and unwrapped with laughter — all of it felt foreign, like a language you used to speak fluently but had forgotten over time.

You wondered what the next few days would look like. What Jake’s family would say when they met you, how they’d greet you, whether they’d ask questions you didn’t know how to answer. You wondered how they celebrated, what traditions they held onto, what expectations you might accidentally step into without realizing it.

You swallowed, eyes drifting from the book to the clouds passing slowly beyond the window.

More than anything, you hoped it would be kind. That it would be gentle. That it would feel less like an intrusion and more like… something you were allowed to be part of, even just for a little while.

Beside you, Jake shifted slightly in his seat, still absorbed in his movie, unaware of the quiet storm unfolding in your thoughts.

And for the first time since you’d agreed to come, you let yourself hope — cautiously, carefully — that this Christmas might be different.

Two more hours passed in a blur of cloud cover and steady descent, the captain’s voice crackling softly over the speakers as the plane began its approach. The shift in pressure made your ears pop, your stomach dipping slightly as the ground drew closer, and without thinking about it, you tensed again.

Jake noticed.

He didn’t say anything this time. He just reached over and took your hand in his, fingers closing around yours with the same quiet certainty as before, offering it without comment or expectation. You accepted it just as silently, squeezing his hand when the turbulence bumped the cabin, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of his grip.

The wheels touched down with a jolt, followed by the familiar rush of deceleration, and relief washed through you so quickly it left you lightheaded. You laughed softly under your breath as you finally unbuckled your seatbelt, tension draining from your shoulders in one long exhale.

Jake squeezed your hand once more before letting go. “Told you,” he said lightly.

You shot him a look. “Don’t.”

The cabin filled with movement as passengers stood and reached for their belongings. Jake grabbed both of your carry-ons without hesitation, slinging them easily over his shoulder, and waited for you to step into the aisle before falling into place beside you. He guided you down the narrow walkway and off the plane, one hand hovering at your back as if to steady you through the press of people.

The moment you stepped into the terminal, the air felt different — warmer, heavier, carrying a faint hum of familiarity you couldn’t quite place. You slowed your pace, eyes drifting around as you took it all in: the wider corridors, the drawl in overheard conversations, the subtle shift in atmosphere that made it unmistakably Texas.

Jake disappeared briefly to grab the rental car, leaving you to linger near the exit, your arms wrapped loosely around yourself as you watched families reunite and travelers hurry past. When he returned, keys in hand, he led you through the parking structure and to a car waiting beneath the harsh glow of fluorescent lights. He popped the trunk, stowed the bags in the back, then rounded the car and opened the passenger door for you.

You paused, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” you said carefully, “you can drop me off at a hotel. I’ll meet you at your parents’ later.”

He straightened slowly and looked at you like you’d just suggested something wildly unreasonable.

“A hotel?” he repeated.

“I don’t want to impose,” you said quickly. “And what if your parents get the wrong idea? What if they think we’re… a thing?”

Jake chuckled, shaking his head as he closed the door behind you once you finally sat. He leaned against the roof of the car, arms crossed, completely unbothered.

“I’ve told you,” he said easily. “I always bring friends home.”

“That doesn’t make this normal.”

“It makes it fine,” he replied, already moving around to the driver’s side. “Relax.”

You watched him settle behind the wheel, the confidence in his movements both comforting and unsettling. As the engine started and the car pulled out of the lot, you glanced out the window, the unfamiliar roads stretching ahead.

Whatever waited for you at the end of the drive, it was happening now.

And there was no turning back.

The road stretched on longer than you expected, the airport fading far behind as open land took over. The drive to his parents’ ranch was quiet in the best way — the kind of silence that didn’t ask anything of you. The radio played softly, a steady stream of Christmas music filling the car without demanding attention. Jake hummed along under his breath, fingers drumming against the steering wheel in time with the song, relaxed in a way you rarely got to see.

You pulled your phone out briefly, more out of habit than necessity. A single unread message from Phoenix waited on the screen.

Have fun with Hangman 😏 Try not to fall in love or whatever.

You scoffed quietly, rolling your eyes as you typed back something dismissive and vague before turning the screen dark again. You set the phone aside and looked out the window, watching the land open up around you. Wide fields, fences stretching into the distance, ranches spaced comfortably apart like they needed room to breathe. Your chest tightened slightly as you realized you were probably close now.

You inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly, willing your nerves to settle. You didn’t want to be awkward. You didn’t want to stand out for the wrong reasons. These people were opening their home to you for the weekend — for Christmas — and the thought carried a weight you weren’t sure how to hold anymore.

Jake turned off the main road, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and suddenly his family’s ranch came into view. The house sat wide and warm against the land, lights strung along the roofline and wrapped around the porch railings, glowing softly against the early evening sky. A few cars were parked out front, and people moved easily in and out of the house, laughter drifting faintly through the air.

Jake parked the car and glanced over at you, something gentle settling into his expression. “You’re gonna love them,” he said quietly.

You managed a small smile, your stomach fluttering as he stepped out of the car. He walked around to your side and opened the door for you, offering his hand as you climbed out. Before you could even fully straighten up, movement caught your eye.

A woman came hurrying across the yard toward you both, her pace quick and purposeful, arms already lifting. Jake barely had time to laugh before she reached him and wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug. It was almost comical — how small she was next to him — but Jake bent down instinctively, folding himself around her and returning the hug without hesitation.

When she finally let him go, she didn’t miss a beat.

Her attention snapped to you, and before you could brace yourself, she was pulling you into her arms too. “Oh, you must be,” she said your name warmly, squeezing you tight. “You’re even prettier in person. I’m so glad you’re here.”

The suddenness of it caught you completely off guard. You tensed for half a second, breath hitching in your chest — and then something in you gave way. You softened into the hug, resting your chin lightly against her shoulder and closing your eyes for just a moment longer than necessary.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” you said quietly. “Thank you for letting me crash your Christmas.”

Jake watched silently from beside you, noticing the way your shoulders had stiffened before relaxing, the way you seemed to melt into his mother’s embrace like it was something you hadn’t felt in a very long time.

She brushed your words off just as easily as Jake had earlier, pulling back only to keep her hands firmly on your arms. “Oh, honey, nonsense. You’re more than welcome here,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’m just glad Jake finally brought someone home.”

Jake huffed a laugh under his breath, but you barely noticed.

All you could feel was the warmth of the lights behind you, the steady presence beside you, and the unfamiliar — almost overwhelming — realization that for the first time in years, you weren’t arriving somewhere alone.

Jake’s mom barely gave you time to take another breath before ushering you inside, one hand warm and firm at your back. The house greeted you all at once — overlapping voices drifting from the living room, laughter echoing down the hallway, the hum of something baking in the kitchen. It felt lived in, full in a way that made your chest ache just a little.

You had just stepped fully into the entryway when the sound of small, hurried footsteps came thundering down the hall.

“Uncle Jake!”

Three little bodies barreled into him with zero hesitation, crashing into his legs and wrapping around his waist as if they’d been launched. They chanted his name between giggles and excited shrieks, climbing him like little monkeys determined to reach the top. Jake laughed, loud and unguarded, arms coming up automatically as he accepted his fate as a human jungle gym.

You didn’t realize you were staring until a voice behind you pulled you back.

“Alright, girls, give your uncle a break,” a woman laughed, amusement clear in her tone.

You turned to find Jake’s oldest sister watching the scene with a fond smile, clearly used to this chaos. She met your eyes and stepped forward, greeting you warmly, and you returned it — your smile softer, a little shier, but genuine.

Before you could say much more, another woman appeared at your side. Jake’s middle sister wasted no time before wrapping you in a hug, squeezing you like you were already part of the family. You laughed softly, returning it as best you could.

Once the girls were finally coaxed off Jake, they turned their attention to you instead. Three pairs of curious eyes studied you carefully, whispering among themselves before one of them asked, blunt and unapologetic, “Who are you?”

You crouched down slightly to meet them at eye level, introducing yourself with a small smile. Whatever answer you gave must’ve passed their internal test, because within seconds they decided they liked you — and promptly attempted to climb you next.

You laughed, surprised, hands hovering awkwardly as you tried to keep your balance. The tension crept back into your shoulders before Jake stepped in.

“Alright, alright,” he said gently, peeling one of them off with practiced ease. “Let her breathe, monsters.”

He guided you farther into the house, his hand resting briefly at your back as if grounding you. The walls were lined with framed photos — childhood snapshots of Jake and his sisters, crayon drawings proudly signed by the girls, old concert tickets preserved like treasures. It felt like a timeline of love, memories layered on top of each other.

The living room opened up around you, anchored by a tall Christmas tree glowing softly in the corner. Perfectly wrapped gifts sat beneath it, neat and patient, waiting their turn.

The back door opened then, letting in a rush of cooler air along with Jake’s dad, followed by two men you assumed were his brothers-in-law. Another round of greetings followed, easy and warm. Jake’s dad hugged you too — not as tightly as the Seresin women, but steady and sincere all the same.

Before you could get overwhelmed again, Jake’s mom swept you toward the kitchen, eager to show you what she’d been working on. Trays of cookies covered the counters — Christmas trees, gingerbread men, stars, every festive shape imaginable. The smell alone was enough to make your mouth water.

“Want to help decorate?” she asked.

You nodded without hesitation, and she guided you to one of the tall stools at the kitchen island, calling for Jake over her shoulder. When he appeared in the doorway, she immediately pointed upstairs.

“Sweetheart, take the bags out of the car and put them upstairs.”

You stood up instinctively. “I can help—”

She waved you off without even looking at you. “Sit.”

Jake smirked. “Yes, ma’am,” he said easily, sending you a quick wink before disappearing back outside.

You rolled your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself.

Soon his sisters joined you around the island, each grabbing a cookie and a handful of frosting. The conversation stayed light — where you were from, what you did, little things that felt safe. When one of them asked if you had a boyfriend, heat rushed to your cheeks and you shook your head.

“No,” you said softly.

You told them about your master’s program, about working as a bartender at a local Navy bar to support yourself — and how that was how you’d met Jake.

They exchanged knowing looks, smiling to themselves, while you focused very hard on piping frosting onto a cookie, hoping it would distract from the way your heart was suddenly beating just a little too fast.

One of his sisters looked at you thoughtfully as she smoothed frosting over the edge of her cookie, then smiled like she’d just connected a few dots.

“So,” she said lightly, “you must be a pretty special friend for Jake to bring you home for Christmas.”

You paused, piping bag hovering midair. Your brows knitted together as you tilted your head, genuinely confused. “What do you mean?” you asked. “Doesn’t he bring friends home all the time?”

The question hung there, soft but heavy. The sisters exchanged looks — subtle, quick, loaded with meaning — eyebrows lifting, smiles turning knowing in a way that made your stomach flip. One of them finally spoke, her tone gentle but certain.

“Actually,” she said, “you’re the first person. The first woman he’s ever brought home.”

Your mouth parted, words lining up that never quite made it out. The thought hit you all at once, disorienting and strange, and before you could ask anything — before you could even process it — footsteps sounded behind you.

Jake appeared in the kitchen doorway, tall and relaxed, leaning casually against the island as if he hadn’t just walked into the middle of something important. He reached for a cookie, fingers already stretching toward the tray.

“Don’t even think about it,” his mom said, slapping his hand away with practiced precision. “Those are for Santa.”

You laughed softly with the others, the moment dissolving into easy chatter as Jake joined in, stealing a cookie anyway the second his mother turned her back. The conversation shifted, flowing around you, and you nodded and smiled where appropriate, trying to stay present.

But the words lingered at the back of your mind.

The first woman.

Why would he tell you he brought friends home all the time if that wasn’t true? The thought felt strange, almost unsettling, and you didn’t know what to do with it yet. You pushed it aside, focusing instead on the warmth of the kitchen, the laughter, the way you didn’t feel quite so out of place anymore.

Once the last of the cookies were set aside to cool and the kitchen settled into a quieter rhythm, you wiped your hands on a towel and excused yourself, asking where the restroom was. Jake’s mom pointed you down the hall with a warm smile, and as soon as you disappeared around the corner, the atmosphere shifted.

His sisters wasted no time.

“Well,” one of them said, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed, “she’s gorgeous.”

“And completely your type,” the other added, grinning. “Sweet, too. We like her.”

Jake scoffed, reaching for a glass of water like he hadn’t heard them. “You’re reading into it. We’re just friends.”

His sisters laughed in unison, clearly unconvinced. One of them nudged him with her elbow. “Then why have you been glued to her side all afternoon like a lost puppy? You usually disappear outside with Dad and the guys by now.”

He rolled his eyes, irritation creeping into his voice. “Oh my god, will you both fuck off.”

“Jacob Seresin,” his mother snapped immediately, shooting him a look that could stop him in his tracks. “Language.”

He raised his hands in surrender, muttering an apology under his breath while his sisters smirked, entirely pleased with themselves.

By the time you returned, the interrogation had dissolved into casual conversation again. You paused near Jake, suddenly aware of how tired you felt, the long day finally catching up to you.

“Hey,” you said quietly, tugging at the strap of your bag. “Can you show me where you put my things? I just want to change out of my airport clothes.”

Before he could answer, his mom clapped her hands together softly. “Of course. Take her upstairs, honey. Go freshen up.”

Jake nodded and motioned for you to follow him. The stairs creaked faintly underfoot as you climbed, the house growing quieter with every step. He led you down a short hallway and stopped at a door on the right, pushing it open to reveal a neatly made guest room, soft light filtering through the curtains.

“That one’s the bathroom,” he said, pointing across the hall. “Take your time.”

You thanked him, and he hesitated for half a second before closing the door gently behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet space. You stood there for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the house below, your heart still doing that strange, unfamiliar flutter.

Whatever this weekend was turning into, it already felt different.

You changed into something softer, slower, letting yourself linger as you folded your clothes with care and set them neatly over the back of a chair near the door. In the bathroom, you washed your face and lifted your eyes to the mirror, pausing when you noticed the expression looking back at you. You looked… calm. Peaceful in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time, the kind of quiet ease that usually only showed up in fleeting moments before disappearing again. You held that version of yourself for a second longer, then turned off the light and headed downstairs.

Laughter drifted up from the living room, light and bright. When you stepped into the space, you found Jake’s three nieces sprawled on the rug, dolls scattered around them in colorful disarray. Emma, the oldest, looked up first and immediately pointed at an empty spot on the floor beside her.

“Sit,” she said, not so much asking as deciding.

Lily and Nora echoed her demand, patting the carpet enthusiastically. You laughed and obliged, lowering yourself cross-legged onto the floor and picking up one of the dolls. You smoothed its hair between your fingers, easily slipping into their game as if you’d always belonged there.

Emma watched you carefully for a moment, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Are you Uncle Jake’s girlfriend?” she asked, barely holding back a giggle.

You smiled softly and shook your head. “No,” you said. “We’re just friends.”

“Too bad,” Lily muttered, still focused on fixing her doll’s dress.

Nora nodded in agreement. “Yeah. Anyway,” she added casually, glancing up at you, “would you like to be?”

You laughed, startled and entirely unprepared for the interrogation. “You’re very direct,” you told them, earning a chorus of proud grins.

A moment later, a familiar voice sounded from behind you. “Well,” Jake said, stopping just inside the living room, “looks like you made some friends.”

You glanced up at him with a small spark of mischief in your smile. “I like them better than I like you.”

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Wow. That hurts.”

Still smiling, he dropped onto the couch nearby, stretching his arms along the backrest as if settling in for the long haul. Not long after, the rest of his family filtered into the living room, conversation blooming easily around you. One of his sisters handed you a mug of hot chocolate piled high with marshmallows, and you thanked her before taking a careful sip, warmth spreading through you instantly.

The room filled with overlapping voices and laughter, the kind that felt lived-in and real. Jake leaned forward, lowering himself closer to your level on the floor.

“You doing okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, smiling up at him. “Yeah. I’m great,” you said, then gestured toward the dolls. “I’ve been promoted to Barbie hairstylist.”

He chuckled softly and leaned back into the couch, but neither his mom nor his sisters missed the way his gaze lingered on you, steady and unguarded, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to look away.

Dinner passed in a blur of shared dishes and easy conversation, the kind that lingered long after plates were empty. You insisted on helping with the dishes despite being waved off more than once, rolling up your sleeves and working alongside his mom and sisters while laughter echoed through the kitchen. By the time everything was clean and put away, the girls were already rubbing their eyes, yawns slipping through their excitement.

Jake’s sisters gathered their things, promising they’d be back first thing in the morning. The girls hugged Jake tightly, then you, their arms warm and sticky-sweet from dessert, before they were ushered out the door amid soft goodbyes.

And just like that, the house grew quieter.

It was only you, Jake, and his parents now, the hum of the heater and the faint crackle of the fire filling the space between words. Jake glanced at you from across the living room.

“Movie?” he offered. “Or something?”

You shook your head, exhaustion finally settling into your bones. “I think I’m going to head to bed, if that’s okay.”

He nodded immediately, no teasing this time. You stood and said goodnight to his parents, thanking them again for welcoming you into their home. His mom squeezed your hands warmly, telling you how happy she was that you were there, while his dad smiled and wished you goodnight.

Jake led you upstairs, one step behind you, ignoring the pointed look his mom sent his way from the bottom of the stairs. When you reached the guest room door, you turned to face him.

“Hey,” you said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re not as bad as I thought, Seresin.”

His face lit up instantly, pride and something softer flickering across his features. “I’ll take that as a win.”

“I’m glad you came with me,” he added after a beat.

You huffed quietly. “It’s not like you gave me much of a choice,” you teased. “You practically dragged me to Texas.”

Then, more sincerely, “But… I’m glad you did.”

The moment stretched, comfortable and charged all at once. You held each other’s gaze for a second longer than necessary before you finally looked away, reaching for the door handle.

“Goodnight, Jake.”

“Night,” he said, watching as you slipped into the room and closed the door gently behind you, leaving him standing in the quiet hallway, a small, satisfied smile lingering on his face.

—

You woke to the low murmur of voices and the steady rhythm of movement downstairs, the house already alive in a way you weren’t used to this early. For a moment, you stayed still beneath the covers, listening, letting the sound of it all settle around you. Then you sat up, changed out of your pajamas, and pulled on something soft and comfortable, still unsure what the unspoken rules were for Christmas Eve. You paused, wondering if today was meant for dressing up or if that waited until tomorrow, then brushed your teeth and splashed cool water on your face before heading down.

The smell of coffee and something warm filled the air as you reached the dining room. Everyone was already gathered around the table, plates half full, conversation flowing easily. You hovered in the doorway for a second before offering a quiet, slightly shy, “Good morning.”

Jake looked up immediately. “Hey,” he said, smiling as he slid a chair out beside him. “Sit.”

You did, settling into the seat next to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Breakfast passed slowly and comfortably, the kind where no one was in a rush to finish. You listened more than you spoke, absorbing the way his family talked over one another while planning the day ahead — grocery runs, food prep, wrapping the last of the presents, small traditions mentioned so casually you could tell they’d been part of this routine for years.

Jake leaned back in his chair at one point and glanced at you. “Tonight we’ll have a bonfire out back,” he said. “We do it every year.”

You nodded, picturing it already — firelight, bundled layers, voices carried into the cold night. It sounded simple and warm and impossibly far from the way you usually spent Christmas Eve.

The morning slipped easily into afternoon as you helped wrap gifts at the dining table, folding paper carefully and smoothing down edges with more focus than strictly necessary. When the last ribbon was tied, you offered to help in the kitchen, and without much discussion you were handed a peeler and a cutting board, stationed at the counter with a small mountain of vegetables in front of you.

You worked quietly at first, listening to the low hum of conversation around you, chiming in now and then when something caught your attention. It felt comfortable, natural, the kind of shared space where no one expected you to fill every silence. Jake drifted in and out of the kitchen throughout it all, grabbing water, leaning against the counter for a moment, then disappearing again — only to return minutes later.

One of his sisters noticed first.

“You know,” she said, glancing between the two of you, “this is the most time Jake’s ever spent in the kitchen during the holidays.”

The other laughed. “It’s like he can’t leave you alone.”

You shook your head, smiling as you kept working. “He’s just making sure I don’t burn the house down or slice my hand off,” you said lightly.

Right on cue, Jake walked in.

“Oh, no, that part’s actually accurate,” he said, grinning. “You should’ve seen her at the bar. Cut her finger on a lime and nearly passed out at the sight of blood.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks instantly. “Jake, shut up,” you groaned, mortified.

He only winked at you, entirely pleased with himself, as his sisters laughed and you tried very hard to focus on chopping vegetables instead of the way your heart had started racing for no good reason at all.

The rest of the afternoon drifted by in that unhurried way that only holidays seem capable of. As dusk settled in, the men took over the backyard, stacking logs and coaxing the fire to life while laughter and the scrape of boots against gravel filled the air. You claimed one of the chairs closest to the growing bonfire, watching the flames begin to dance as the sky darkened above you.

Jake appeared behind you without a word, draping a blanket over your shoulders before disappearing back into the house as quietly as he’d come. You pulled it closer around yourself, the simple gesture warming you more than the fire ever could.

Before long, Lily, Nora, and Emma joined you, armed with sticks and a determined seriousness about their marshmallow roasting. You helped them hold their sticks just right, laughing as one caught fire and another slid straight into the embers. Around you, stories flowed freely — tales from past Christmases, inside jokes, memories so well-worn they’d clearly been told a hundred times before.

Emma turned to you suddenly, eyes bright in the firelight. “What do you usually do for Christmas?”

You hesitated, the question landing heavier than you expected. There was no way you could tell her the truth — about the quiet, the half-decorated tree, the way the day usually passed in silence. So you smiled instead, offering something vague and gentle, steering the conversation toward something lighter, something easier.

She accepted it without question and went back to her marshmallow, satisfied.

Jake, however, didn’t miss it.

From where he stood across the fire, he watched the way your shoulders dropped, how your gaze lingered on the flames a beat too long. His expression shifted, the teasing ease falling away as he studied you with quiet attention, the firelight catching in his eyes as if he were committing the moment to memory.

You lingered outside long after the others had gone in, the cold night air slowly driving them back toward the warmth of the house. One by one, goodnights were said, promises made to be back early in the morning to open gifts. Eventually, it was just you and the dying fire, embers glowing softly as the flames settled into something quieter.

You stared into it, lost somewhere between the present and memories you hadn’t meant to revisit. You didn’t hear the back door open, didn’t notice Jake until he took a seat beside you, close enough that his presence registered as warmth at your side. He didn’t speak. He didn’t rush you. He just stayed.

You weren’t sure what prompted it, but after a moment you broke the silence, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

“Your family is really nice,” you said softly. “It’s… been a long time since I’ve been around this many people during the holidays.”

Jake stayed quiet, afraid that if he interrupted, you might stop. He turned slightly toward you, listening.

You swallowed and glanced at the fire. “My mom used to do this,” you continued. “Roast marshmallows with me until my dad came outside and told us we were going to freeze.”

You let out a quiet, almost breathless laugh. “He was always the one who put the tree up too. Super particular about it. Colors had to be balanced, ornaments placed just right. None of us were allowed to touch it once he started.”

You shook your head gently. “But it didn’t matter. It always looked perfect.”

Jake’s chest tightened as he listened, the past tense impossible to miss. His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke. “They sound like great people.”

You turned to him, a sad smile on your lips. “They were.”

He scooted closer, slow and careful, and reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours the same way he had on the plane. “I’m really sorry,” he said quietly.

You shook your head. “It was a long time ago,” you replied. “But… this time of year still hurts. It opens the wound.”

He nodded, squeezing your hand gently. “I understand. And I’m glad you’re here — even if it brings stuff up.”

You looked down at your joined hands. “I am too. If you hadn’t insisted, I’d be working my shift at the Hard Deck tonight. Then I’d just go home and be alone, lighting up the same candle and thinking of them.”

He hesitated for half a second before teasing crept back into his voice, softer than usual. “What? I thought you had a cat to feed?”

That did it. You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, Seresin.”

The heaviness eased just a little. Jake didn’t let go of your hand, his gaze lingering on you as you turned back toward the fire, his feelings still sitting there between you — unspoken, waiting.

That night, Jake lay awake in his childhood bedroom, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling he’d memorized years ago. The house was quiet now, the kind of quiet that settled deep into your bones. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked softly as it shifted with the cold, and outside the wind moved through the trees like a hush.

His mind, however, was anything but quiet.

It kept circling back to you.

To the way you’d looked sitting by the fire, the glow catching in your eyes. To the way your voice had softened when you spoke about your parents, like the words themselves were fragile things you hadn’t meant to take out into the open. His chest ached at the thought of you spending so many years alone, of holidays reduced to survival instead of celebration. He’d always known you as strong — fierce, sharp-tongued, unafraid to call anyone out on their bullshit, especially him. Seeing the tenderness beneath that armor hadn’t made him think less of you. If anything, it made the feeling settle deeper.

He’d been drawn to you from the moment he first saw you behind the bar at the Hard Deck. You’d slid a beer across the counter without even looking at him while he leaned there, cocky grin in place, fully expecting you to melt like everyone else did. Instead, you’d rolled your eyes and muttered something about Penny warning you that pilots couldn’t keep it in their pants, then turned away to help the next customer.

He’d been hooked immediately.

At first it was a game — flirting, teasing, trying to get a reaction. But somewhere along the way, months in and completely against his will, it stopped being a joke. He stopped noticing other women at the bar. Stopped taking anyone home. The only person he ever tried to flirt with was you, and even then, it felt different. Less like a performance. More like hope.

You never gave him much back. A sarcastic smile here, an eye roll there. And still, he stayed.

Jake Seresin was a lot of things — arrogant, stubborn, infuriating — but he was also patient. And tonight, lying in the room where he’d grown up, listening to the quiet hum of a house full of people he loved, he made himself a quiet promise.

He would wait.

After tonight, after seeing you here, wrapped in his family’s warmth even while carrying so much of your own hurt, he knew one thing for certain: he’d make sure you were never alone again. No matter how long it took. No matter what it cost.

He turned onto his side, a small, determined smile pulling at his lips as sleep finally claimed him — your face the last thing on his mind.

—

The morning came sooner than you expected, sunlight spilling into the living room as Jake’s entire family gathered around the tree. Wrapping paper crinkled and ribbons flew as Emma, Nora, and Lily tore through the pile of gifts with unfiltered excitement, their laughter filling every corner of the house. Jake’s dad hovered nearby with a camera, capturing everything — the chaos, the smiles, the inevitable mess.

You sat beside Jake on the couch, knees almost touching, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you watched the girls. Every now and then, you felt his gaze on you, quick glances he thought you didn’t notice, his smile soft in a way you’d never seen before.

Nora reached for another present, this one smaller than the rest, wrapped neatly in navy blue paper with a little note taped to the top. She held it up proudly. “Uncle Jake,” she announced, “this one’s for you.”

Jake leaned forward and took the box from her hands, pausing the moment he saw the handwriting on the tag. His eyes flicked up to you instantly. You were already looking at him, your hand lifted to your mouth as you tried — and failed — to hide your smile.

“Sneaky,” he murmured, shaking his head as he started to unwrap it.

Inside the box was a polished brass aircraft compass, small enough to fit in his palm, the glass catching the morning light. The kind pilots used to keep close — a reminder of direction, of home. He turned it over slowly, clearly taking it in before lifting his gaze back to you.

“Thank you,” he said, voice sincere.

You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I just found it online and thought it fit your… never-ending obsession with planes.”

The blush creeping into your cheeks didn’t go unnoticed, especially not by the Seresin women, who exchanged knowing looks from across the room. Jake smiled and shifted closer to you on the couch, his knee brushing yours as he kept the compass in his hand.

He stayed there until the last gift was opened and the excitement faded into contented exhaustion. Soon enough, his mom and sisters headed into the kitchen, leaving you and Jake behind to gather torn wrapping paper and empty boxes.

While you were distracted, Jake disappeared briefly and returned with a small, rectangular box of his own. He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous as he held it out to you.

“For you,” he said.

Your brows lifted in surprise as you took it from him, carefully opening it. Inside lay a delicate gold necklace, simple and elegant, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch.

“Jake, this is too much,” you started, but he waved you off immediately.

“It’s nothing,” he insisted.

Before you could argue further, he took the necklace from the box and stepped closer, fastening it around your neck as you lifted your hair out of the way. His fingers brushed the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the closeness heavy and unmistakable.

He said your name softly, eyes flicking between yours and your lips, leaning in just a little closer.

You opened your mouth to speak—

“Uncle Jake!”

Emma, Nora, and Lily burst into the room, calling out for him to come play. You both pulled back at once, the moment breaking as quickly as it had formed, leaving something warm and unresolved hanging in the air between you.

At some point in the afternoon, once the kitchen had been cleaned again and the house settled into a quieter rhythm, you slipped upstairs to shower and get ready for dinner. The door to your room closed softly behind you, and almost immediately, Jake found himself surrounded.

His mom and sisters wasted no time.

“That compass,” one of them said, crossing her arms. “Don’t pretend it didn’t mean something.”

“And the necklace,” another added, nodding toward the staircase. “You think we didn’t notice that?”

Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s Christmas. People exchange gifts.”

They laughed, entirely unconvinced.

“You two looked adorable on the couch,” his oldest sister said, smiling. “All cozy. Like you belonged there.”

His mom sighed dreamily. “Just imagine how cute your babies would be.”

“Mom,” Jake muttered, horrified. “Please stop.”

She only waved him off, unfazed. “I’m just saying.”

His oldest sister leaned closer. “It’s obvious, Jake. You’ve been glued to her side since you walked in the door. You’ve had heart eyes the entire time.”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re all reading into it. She’s just a friend.”

His middle sister raised an eyebrow. “Sure she is.”

Then she grinned. “Honestly, what better time to confess undying love than Christmas? It’s practically a Hallmark movie.”

Jake groaned again, but his silence said more than his words ever could.

Later on, Jake stepped out of his childhood bedroom, fingers busy with the last button of his dress shirt, his attention fixed on getting it just right. At the same time, you opened the door to your room across the hall, towel-damp hair falling loose around your shoulders, dress soft and carefully chosen. You nearly collided with him.

“Oh—sorry,” you murmured instinctively, already stepping back.

When you looked up, he was staring.

Jake’s hands stilled at his chest. His breath caught so quietly you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been so close. His gaze dragged over you, slow and reverent, taking in the dress, the way it hugged you, the faint glint of the necklace at your throat. Heat crept into your cheeks before you could stop it. He’d flirted with you a hundred times before—lazy smirks, teasing remarks—but this was different. There was nothing playful in his eyes now. Just softness. Fondness. Something that made your chest tighten.

“You look… beautiful,” he said, voice lower than usual.

You smiled, shy despite yourself. “You clean up okay too.”

That earned you a grin, smaller than his usual one but warmer. “Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You slipped your hand around it, your fingers resting against his sleeve, and together you made your way down the stairs. The house was already full of voices and laughter. Jake pulled your chair out for you at the table, waited until you were settled before taking the seat beside you, close enough that your knees brushed.

Dinner passed easily—plates piled high, glasses refilled, stories traded back and forth. You laughed more than you expected to. Jake leaned in now and then, murmuring context when his sisters launched into stories from his childhood, his shoulder warm against yours. Every so often, you caught him looking at you, and when you did, he didn’t look away.

Somewhere between bites and laughter, something shifted. You realized you hadn’t rolled your eyes at him once. Instead, your pulse jumped every time he leaned closer, every time his knee nudged yours beneath the table, every time his voice dropped just for you.

After dinner, you wandered outside, ignoring the way the cold immediately sank into your skin. The air was sharp enough to sting, but you welcomed it. You leaned back against the wall, tilting your head up, letting your gaze drift across the sky. The stars looked impossibly bright out here, scattered like someone had been careless with glitter.

You heard the backdoor open behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.

Jake stepped outside and closed the door quietly, the sound soft and deliberate. You felt him stop beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned back against the wall the same way you were. When you finally looked over, you noticed the candle and lighter in his hands, the small glass catching what little light there was.

He didn’t say a word. He just flicked the lighter, shielding the flame with his hand until the wick caught. Then he turned and held the candle out to you.

Your breath hitched. Your chest tightened, eyes burning before you could stop it. You took the candle carefully, fingers trembling just a little.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick as you fought the tears.

Jake leaned closer, his voice low, meant only for you. “I don’t ever want you to forget them,” he said gently. “But I never want you to be alone again.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you rested your head against his shoulder, your cheek warm against him as you stared at the small, steady flame in your hands. It danced softly, stubborn and bright.

After a moment, you breathed out a quiet, “I have a feeling you’ll have something to do with that.”

He smiled, the kind that you felt more than saw. “I’ve been trying, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You just make it very hard for me.”

Something shifted then. The air felt heavier, charged. You lifted your head, slowly, until you were only millimeters apart. His breath mingled with yours, warm against the cold night. You smiled, understanding blooming between you.

“Someone has to, Hangman,” you teased softly.

He chuckled under his breath and leaned closer, noses brushing. “Do you believe in Christmas miracles?”

“Depends what you’re wishing for,” you whispered back.

He bumped your nose gently, once, twice, like a secret. “Baby,” he said, voice barely there, “there’s only one thing I’ve been wishing for.”

“And what’s that?” you asked, eyes locked on his.

“For you to let me kiss you.”

Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile. His pupils were blown wide, the green in his eyes almost swallowed whole. He looked at you like you were everything — like you’d hung the moon and the stars and somehow convinced the universe to follow suit.

You didn’t overthink it. You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in a soft, careful kiss that carried everything neither of you had said. He kissed you back like he’d been waiting for it, like it was something he’d imagined and never quite believed would happen. His body relaxed into yours, warm and sure.

You lifted a hand instinctively, then laughed softly as you remembered the candle still between you.

Pulling back just enough, you giggled. Jake laughed too, leaning in to blow the flame out gently before smiling down at you. “Don’t want you burning down the house,” he said lightly. “Or worse — my hair.”

You rolled your eyes, setting the candle aside before wrapping your arms around his neck. “Now that,” you said, tugging him down toward you, “would be a tragedy.”

You kissed him again, surer this time.

And somewhere deep in your chest, you realized something warm and steady had finally taken root— you’d never be alone for the holidays again.

You wiped your hands on a towel tucked into your apron, catching Penny’s eye just as she slid a beer down to a waiting customer. Penny leaned in as she wiped down the bar, eyes flicking toward the entrance. “They’re here.” She murmured, barely suppressing a grin. You didn’t need to ask who. The sound of boots scuffing the floor and the unmistakable blend of egos and energy meant only one thing: The Dagger Squad, fresh off another brutal day of training.

Maverick must’ve put them through hell, judging by the way Bradley dragged his hand through his hair like he might tear it out. Natasha looked like she was already plotting revenge, and Mickey was slumped against the pool table like gravity had it out for him personally. “They look like death.” You noted, already lining up glasses. Penny smirked. “Except for a certain blonde who’s looking at you like you’re his reward for surviving it.”

You threw her a dry look, but heat bloomed at the back of your neck. “You’re imagining things.” Penny rolled her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. “Oh, sure, I must be also imagining the way you check your lip gloss every time he walks in.” You snorted and turned away to hide your smirk, reaching for the tequila. “God, you’re even worse than Amelia.” Penny raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The squad fanned out across the pool tables, dropping into their usual spots with groans and exaggerated sighs. Bradley clinked his dog tags against the counter like a bell, while Natasha stretched out her shoulders and grumbled something about Maverick trying to kill them. And then, right on cue, Jake Seresin. He swaggered in a few beats behind the rest, as if the doors themselves had waited for his entrance.

His hair was a little messy, his skin kissed by the sun, dog tags catching the low light as they swung against his collarbone. He moved like he owned the room, like he’d fought gravity and won. But you knew better now. He’d fooled you once. That cocky smile, that drawl, that insufferable nickname, Hangman. You’d pegged him for exactly the kind of man who flirted with anything that moved and forgot the names of anyone who didn’t. So you ignored him.

Every night he came in, you barely spared him a glance. And every night, he tried again. But Jake didn’t win you over with charm. He won you with patience. When your car wouldn’t start after a long shift and you were ready to scream into the night, he appeared, hands in his pockets, smile soft. No teasing, no smug remarks. Just a quiet offer to take a look. Thirty minutes later, he had it running again. He didn’t ask for anything in return.

He started walking you to your car after closing, no pressure, no flirting. Just company. And then he started showing up on your off days. Not in uniform. Not with the squad. Just Jake. He’d sit at the bar, nursing a soda or a single beer, and talk to you while you cut garnishes or cleaned glasses. He asked about your family. Your hometown. Whether you liked working nights or if you ever thought about leaving the beach behind.

He never made it about himself, not at first. And when he finally did, it was different. One night, long after the bar had emptied, you found him leaning against the jukebox, staring at the floor like it had personally offended him. “My dad never thought I’d amount to much,” He murmured when you passed him. “Guess part of me still tries to prove him wrong.” You’d stopped in your tracks. That was the moment something cracked. Not in him, in you.

Because behind all that swagger, Jake Seresin was carrying something heavy. Something private. And he trusted you enough to let you see it. That was when you started falling. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sudden. It was slow. Unavoidable. A creeping warmth that found its way under your skin and settled there. So now, as Jake leaned across the bar, sweat-damp and sun-touched from a long day of dogfights, you didn’t feel annoyance anymore. You felt fear.

Because you’d let him in. Because he wasn’t who you thought he was. Because he looked at you like you were more than just a bartender, and you weren’t sure what to do with that. “Evenin’, darlin’.” His voice dropped low into that familiar Southern drawl, thick like honey and rough at the edges, and it sent goosebumps skittering down your spine before you could stop them. Jake leaned one elbow against the bar, casual as ever, but his presence was anything but forgettable.

Sunlight from the open doors caught in his windswept hair, and sweat still clung to the base of his throat. Those hypnotic green eyes, greener tonight under the warm, flickering lights, swept over your face with the same lazy intensity they always did, as if he were memorizing you every time. You arched a brow, letting your hands stay busy with the shaker. The clink of ice helped mask the fact that your heartbeat had kicked up a notch. “You look like Maverick dragged you through a jet wash.”

Jake’s grin curled slow, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was an edge in them, subtle, but there. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was something else. “He sure as hell tried,” He muttered, rolling his shoulder with a wince that was half hidden. “But it’s nothin’ I can’t handle.” You slid a cold beer across the polished wood without looking up, but your fingers brushed his for half a second longer than they should have.

His hand was warm, calloused and steady, and instead of pulling away, he lingered. Just a breath longer. Just enough to make your skin tingle where he touched you. You hated that it made your pulse skip. Hated it even more that he seemed to know exactly what it did to you. Jake gave you that heartbreaker wink before peeling away to join the others, the beer already raised in a half-salute. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

You watched him walk, shoulders still squared from the cockpit, tags clinking lightly against his chest, and tried not to let your eyes linger too long. Penny had, of course, seen all of it. As she restocked the limes with a knowing look, one perfectly sculpted brow lifted in dry amusement. “You keep looking at him like that,” She murmured, voice low as she tossed a handful of garnishes into a silver tray. “He’s gonna think that you actually like him.”

“He already thinks that.” You rolled your eyes, mostly to distract from the flutter blooming in your chest. “Because you do,” She countered without missing a beat, slicing through a lemon with precision. “Might as well admit it before you combust.” You didn’t answer. Not because she was wrong, but because she wasn’t. And you hated how easily she saw through you. The truth was… you did like him. Too much. In ways you didn’t want to admit out loud.

Jake Seresin had wormed his way past your sarcasm and rolled eyes and cool indifference like it was nothing. And the scariest part? He hadn’t even tried that hard. “I’ll be right back.” You muttered, grabbing five beers from the cooler and sliding them onto a tray with practiced ease. You tucked a cold can of Coca-Cola into the front pocket of your apron, Bob’s usual, always sipped with quiet contentment while the others knocked back drinks like they were on shore leave. Penny caught the gesture and smirked.

“Go get your man.” You didn’t dignify her with a reply. Just rolled your eyes and turned on your heel, weaving between the crowds with practiced grace, the tray balanced effortlessly in your hands. But your stomach flipped all the same, traitorous and fluttering, because the moment your eyes found Jake again, laughing with Bradley. And you weren’t sure how long you could pretend you weren’t. Taking a deep breath, and squaring your shoulders you shook those thoughts from your head.

“You all look like you could use a pick-me-up.” Every head at the table turned toward you, some sluggishly, others like your voice alone had jolted them back to life. “A beer for you,” You chirped, placing the cold glass in front of Mickey, who looked like he’d barely survived the day. His forehead rested on the edge of the table until he forced himself upright. “You’re an angel.” He groaned, already reaching for the glass like it might bring him back from the dead.

“And a Coke for you.” You placed the soda down with a satisfying clink in front of Bob, who was seated slightly off to the side, content with his quiet corner and a half-eaten bowl of peanuts. His cheeks turned pink as he straightened his glasses and smiled shyly. “For my favorite WSOs.” You added with a playful wink. Both men flushed under your gaze and responded with a thank you, in perfect unison.

You kept moving, passing out drinks with ease and affection. Natasha muttered something about you being a godsend as she reached for her beer, lifting it in a silent toast before taking a long, grateful sip. Rooster gave you a wink and a crooked smile that probably worked on half of San Diego, though it never really had an effect on you. Javy nodded with an appreciative grin, and Reuben gave you a friendly fist-bump.

“For my favorite pilots.” You teased, grinning as you finally came to rest beside Natasha. She leaned her head onto your shoulder with a contented sigh, her hair brushing against your cheek. “Marry me.” She mumbled, half-serious, half-drunk on exhaustion. Before you could even talk, a familiar voice, smooth, smug, and laced with that Southern twang, broke the silence. “That’s just cruel,” Jake drawled. “I thought I was your favorite.”

Your head turned before you could stop yourself. And just like that, your heart didn’t just skip a beat, it slammed into your ribs like it was trying to break free. Jake stood at the pool table, cue stick in hand, body bent low as he lined up a shot. His back arched just enough to make your mouth go dry. His biceps flexed as he adjusted his grip, veins prominent, forearms corded with strength. His khakis clung low on his hips, his flight belt hanging lazily from a loop.

He looked ridiculous. Unfair. Like he’d walked straight out of a damn recruiting ad, but dirtier. Infinitely more dangerous. Jake’s head lifted slowly, eyes cutting toward you from beneath those long lashes. The corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk when he caught you looking. Caught staring. “You wound me, sweetheart,” He added, standing to his full height. “All that charm, and I don’t even rank in your top five?”

You masked your thudding heart with a dry laugh. “I said favorite pilots,” You shot back. “Didn’t say anything about most high-maintenance.” The squad erupted in low chuckles, a few of them tossing mock “oofs” in Jake’s direction. Jake only grinned, unbothered, sauntering toward the group with that same easy swagger that made it impossible to tell whether he was teasing or flirting, or both. You forced yourself to look away, turning back toward the tray.

Yet, your stomach was doing somersaults, and the heat creeping up your neck wasn’t from the warm summer air drifting through the doors. You leaned your hip against the edge of the table, tray balanced on one hand, the soft clink of glass against wood fading into the background as you glanced around the table. Everyone looked a little less dead now, drinks in hand, shoulders relaxing bit by bit. “Do I need to talk to Maverick for all of you?” You teased, eyes flicking from one exhausted pilot to the next.

Bradley groaned loud enough to turn heads. “Please do. Tell him we're human. Or at least that some of us are.” Natasha scoffed, lifting her beer toward her mouth with a half-glare, half-laugh. “We were human. Until Mr. Hotshot over there decided he could outfly Mav.” All eyes slid toward Jake. “Okay, whoa. Let’s not point fingers here.” He was already making a face. “You tried to buzz Maverick,” Mickey interjected, half-leaning across the table with animated hands. “In a tight turn. In a no-fly zone.”

“And missed.” Reuben added between mouthfuls of peanuts, a smug grin spreading across his face. Jake raised both hands, feigning innocence with the precision of someone who’d practiced. “I wasn’t trying to buzz him. I was maneuvering. Strategically.” Javy snorted covering it up with a cough as he received a glare from Jake. “And we all got punished for it,” Bob chimed in quietly, lifting his Coke as if to toast to their shared suffering. “One hundred push-ups.” You winced at his words, that sounded brutal.

“In flight suits.” Reuben groaned, rubbing his shoulder like the soreness was still setting in. You clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter, the image forming vividly in your mind, Jake, cocky as ever, probably smirking even as Maverick made them drop. The others glaring daggers at him while dripping sweat onto the tarmac. Jake, of course, leaned into the attention with no shame. “You’re welcome, push-ups build character.” He grinned, sliding into the empty chair beside you with smooth ease.

You barely had time to register the motion before his arm draped over the back of your chair, knuckles grazing your shoulder. “You’re lucky they didn’t bury you under the tarmac.” Natasha muttered, but her lips twitched. Jake leaned a little closer, the heat of his body now radiating into your side. His voice dropped a note, low and velvety. “You know, I think I could use a little personal motivation to recover from today.” Your breath caught before you could control it.

His fingers brushed lightly against the bare skin of your upper arm as they “accidentally” adjusted across the tables edge. You turned toward him, ready to make some smart remark, maybe put him back in his place before he got too cocky again, but your gaze collided with his, and just like that… you froze. His eyes weren’t just green, they were alive with something deeper. Mischief, sure. But behind it, a flicker of something that made your stomach swoop. Like he wasn’t just teasing you tonight. He was waiting.

“Jake—”

“Y/N!” Your name snapped through the air like a whip, pulling you back to earth. You turned sharply toward the bar where Penny stood, waving a bar rag like a battle flag. “Bus just pulled up, I need you.” You groaned under your breath but moved fast, peeling yourself away from the table. Jake’s arm slid off your shoulders with a warmth that lingered longer than it should have, his fingers brushing your back as you stood. The moment broke, but not before you caught the small smirk tugging at his lips.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Try not to cause anymore trouble while I’m gone.” You grabbed the empty tray and backed away from the table, shaking your head. “No promises, sweetheart!” He called after you, voice lazy, teasing. But his eyes, they lingered. Watching you like a man who knew the exact altitude you’d started falling. You spun on your heel and disappeared behind the bar, pulse still hammering, trying to remind yourself that you were here to work.

But even as Penny tossed you a bar towel and pointed toward the flood of sailors crowding toward the taps, all you could think about was the warmth of Jake’s body next to yours, and how dangerously easy it would be to let yourself fall. Thankfully, the flood of newcomers provided the perfect excuse to busy your hands and bury your thoughts. You moved, mixing cocktails with quick flicks of the wrist, pouring beers until foam kissed the rim, sliding credit cards back with a polite nod and a practiced smile.

Every small task became a wall, something to hide behind. Something to keep your mind off of Jake. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. As the crowd dwindled and the bar quieted into a low murmur, the shield began to crack. The last round of locals had migrated toward the dartboard. The jukebox slowed to soft rock. A few scattered voices still rose in laughter near the back where the Dagger Squad remained, sunburnt, beer-drowsy and content.

You peeled off your apron with a sigh and glanced at Penny, who gave you a reassuring nod and a knowing smile, motioning for you to take a breath, take a break. Your feet moved before your heart could object. You stepped out from behind the bar, every movement purposeful, steady, because if you hesitated, you knew the ache lingering just beneath your ribs might crawl up into your throat and give you away. You smoothed a hand down your shirt and walked toward the group, fully prepared to ask if they wanted one more round before last call. But then you heard it.

Jake’s voice.

Clear. Familiar. Cruel. Coated with disgust. “I just cannot stand her.” The words stopped you mid-step, your sneakers suddenly glued to the hardwood floor. The air left your lungs in one cold rush, and your feet carried you just far enough to place yourself behind the wooden beam beside the jukebox, half-hidden in the low light, half-ashamed for eavesdropping, but too frozen to move. “She walks around following me like a puppy, flirting, even her voice is annoying.”

Your pulse thudded in your ears, louder than the low hum of music, louder than the clatter of a dropped glass in the far corner. His voice cut straight through you, each syllable like a shard of glass. “She just doesn’t get the hint. I’m not interested in girls like her.” The blood drained from your face. You knew it. God, deep down, you always knew it. Jake Seresin was never going to want someone like you.

You’d seen the women he flirted with, tall, perfectly made-up, curves in all the right places, confident, playful, bright in the way that lit up a whole room. You? You were just the bartender. The convenience. The friend. The joke. The girl with rough hands from long shifts. The girl who hid behind sarcasm because confidence never came easy. The girl who, despite everything, had let herself believe, hope, that the way Jake looked at you sometimes meant something real. A dull ache bloomed in your chest. You pressed your hand against it like that would stop it from spreading.

At least now you knew. At least now the daydream could die. Now you could stop pretending. You swallowed down the lump clawing its way up your throat, nails digging into your palm as you pivoted, quick, silent and fast, back toward the bar. You didn’t even bother pretending to smile. Didn’t care who saw your glassy eyes or the way your breath came out shaky as you ripped the apron from its hook and slung it over the counter.

Penny turned, concern flickering across her face clearly noticing the entire shift in your demeanor, but you simply waved her off with a weak motion and a whispered goodbye. Not trusting your voice to hold steady. Not trusting her not to ask. If she so much as asked if you were okay, you’d break. You were out the door before Jake could even glance up. Before he could offer that sweet, mocking drawl. Before he could try to walk you to your car like he always did, like it meant something. Your heart couldn't take it. Not now. Not after that.

Back at the bar, Jake still reclined in the chair, nursing the same beer he hadn’t touched in ten minutes, finishing his train of thought with a huff. “I just hope Mav doesn’t put her on our training rotation again,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve told her time and time again I’m not interested,” He continued with a groan. “She just doesn’t get the hint that she’s not my type.” Mickey nearly choked on his drink.

“Yeah, Hangman, we all know what girl is your type.” He grinned, elbowing Bob. Bradley leaned in, all smugness and raised brows. “The pretty bartender you make eyes at every time she’s near? The one you nearly punched me over for breathing near last week?” Jake froze. Bradley tilted his beer toward him, that smirk spreading. “The one you pretend not to care about, then sulk like a teenager when she walks away with anyone else?” Javy whistled. “Dude, just admit it. You’re into her. Bad.”

Jake ran a hand over his face, jaw tightening. “Shut up before she hears you.” But as he turned to glance toward the bar, expecting to find you rolling your eyes behind the counter, maybe catching his gaze just long enough to blush, his brows drew together. You weren’t there. Your station was empty. No apron. No sarcastic smile. No parting wave. Just… gone. His chest tightened without reason. You never left without saying goodnight.

A flicker of unease passed through him, but the others were still laughing, throwing teasing comments like darts, unaware of the sudden shift in his expression. He forced a grin, let the moment pass. But something inside him knew. Something felt wrong. And you, already halfway down the boardwalk with tears blurring your vision, didn’t get to hear the rest. Didn’t get to hear the way his voice softened when he talked about you.

You were cautious, careful, even. Every move you made around him became intentional. Guarded. Since that night, since the moment his words gutted you like a blade between the ribs, you’d started pulling away. Not all at once. No. That would’ve been too obvious. And despite the ache still lodged in your chest like a stone, you refused to let Jake, or anyone else, see you unravel. Instead, it was subtle. Gradual. A slow withdrawal masked as busyness, exhaustion, distraction.

When Jake came to the bar now, you didn’t linger. You took his order without looking him in the eye, handed him his beer with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. No teasing remark. No small talk. Just efficient, impersonal service. The kind you gave to strangers. The kind you gave to men you didn’t want to know. And you definitely didn’t allow his touch to linger, not that he’d had much chance.

Gone were the moments where his fingers brushed yours over a glass, or the way his hand would rest at the small of your back when you passed too close. You kept distance now. Measured it. Maintained it like it was a lifeline. You didn’t let him close. And Jake? He noticed. At first, it was subtle confusion. A longer-than-usual pause when you walked away. A look that lingered too long as you joked with Bob or nudged Natasha’s shoulder with a grin that used to be his.

Then it turned into something else, hesitation, maybe even hurt, though if it was, he didn’t show it outright. Luckily, or maybe tragically, the squad had been kept busy by Maverick all week. Long hours on the tarmac. Briefings that dragged past sunset. Extra sims, surprise drills, and mock dogfights that left them sore, sweating, and barely able to keep their eyes open when they dragged themselves into the Hard Deck each night. It gave you an excuse.

To work the bar, serve the drinks, and disappear behind orders before Jake could try and ask what was wrong. It was easier this way. Safer. You told yourself it would fade, the sting, the weight in your chest, the memory of hearing her voice is annoying and I’m not interested in girls like her whispered in that same drawl that used to melt you. But it didn’t fade. It stayed. Like smoke in your lungs.

You heard it in the silence after your shift when the beach was quiet and the waves were the only sound. You felt it in the ache behind your ribs when someone mentioned his name in passing. You even dreamed about it, twisting memories into warped versions where his words echoed again and again, his face turned away from you, laughter in his throat while you stood invisible behind the jukebox. You hated how much it hurt.

You hated that it still mattered.

The fifth night after it happened, the bar was quieter than usual, just a slow Thursday, a break between storms. You were stacking clean glasses behind the bar when Jake walked in alone. No squad. No backup. Just him. He looked tired. Disheveled in a way that felt different than post-training exhaustion. Like he hadn’t been sleeping much. His hair was messier than usual, shirt a little wrinkled, tags tucked into his collar like they were suddenly too heavy to wear out in the open.

You felt his eyes on you the second he stepped through the door. You didn’t look up. You couldn’t. He approached the bar slower than normal, his boots echoing too loudly in the now-quiet space. You busied yourself with organizing lemons. Limes. Anything not him. He stopped a few feet short of the bar. Didn’t speak. Not right away. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low, cautious, unsure. “You alright?” You kept your gaze focused on the citrus you were already over-slicing. “Fine.”

“You’ve been distant.” He murmured, like he was still trying to piece it together. “Did I do something?” You shrugged. Cool. Detached. “Just tired, Jake.” A lie. But he didn’t push. He just studied you, jaw working slightly like he was chewing on whatever thoughts were flooding in. “Right,” He said eventually, voice quieter. “Of course.” You turned to put the knife down, finally meeting his eyes for a split second. And it nearly undid you.

Because Jake wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t cocky. He looked…confused. A little wounded. The way someone does when they’ve lost their grip on something they didn’t even know they were holding. But you couldn’t tell him the truth. You couldn’t admit that the thing you’d overheard, the words that weren’t meant for your ears, had unraveled you completely. Because what if you were the only one who misunderstood?

What if, worse… you hadn't? So you turned away. Left him standing there with his fingers curled slightly over the edge of the bar, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or walk away. Jake didn’t push. He never did. But that didn’t mean he didn’t notice. And tonight, you knew he’d felt it, that little bit of space you’d suddenly started putting between the two of you. Because if he kept getting closer, you wouldn’t just fall.

You’d crash.

The days blurred. Long shifts, short sleep, aching feet, and a heart you couldn’t seem to quiet. You kept your rhythm sharp, precise, like it was armor. You showed up, moved through the motions, mixed drinks, gave smiles, told stories to sailors who needed a little kindness. And avoided Jake Seresin like he was a fault line waiting to break beneath your feet. You weren’t cold. Just distant. Detached in a way that made you feel like you were watching your life from the outside in.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Late one night, the bar winding down into a lazy hum, Penny passed you a glass of water and leaned her elbows onto the bar. You felt her gaze before she spoke, quiet, steady, knowing. “You alright, Y/N?” You didn’t look at her. Just nodded, wiping down a spill that didn’t need wiping. “I’m fine.” It was clipped. Dismissive. Enough to signal that the door was closed. You had mastered the lies and excuses, yet Penny wasn’t stupid.

She knew you like the back of her hand. She watched you for a few seconds longer, watched the way your eyes didn’t meet hers, the way your fingers trembled slightly when you reached for the towel. She gave a tiny, imperceptible sigh, then pushed away without pressing no matter how much she wanted to know what was wrong with you. Safe to say, you were grateful for it. Because if she had asked again, your walls might’ve just cracked.

Jake wasn’t doing any better. After your "talk", if you could even call it that, he’d been a wreck. Not the kind anyone outside the Dagger Squad would immediately notice. No, Jake Seresin still smiled at the rookies. Still strutted across the tarmac with his usual confidence, boots scuffing against the concrete, sunglasses low on his nose like he didn’t have a care in the world. But those who knew him best could see the cracks forming.

The way he flinched when your name was mentioned. The way he scanned the bar every time he walked into the Hard Deck, hoping, praying, that this would be the night you looked at him like you used to, eyes soft, smirk tucked behind your lip, leaning on the bar like you were daring him to flirt first. But that look never came. And it was driving him insane. Even in the air, his escape, his safe place, he felt off. Slower. Sloppy in a way that set off alarm bells in every seasoned pilot’s gut.

His reaction times were lagging, the sharp, lethal precision that earned him the call sign Hangman dulled under the weight of something heavier than G-forces. Natasha had picked up on it immediately. “You’re flying like you’ve got a piano strapped to your back,” She muttered through comms one afternoon after a sim run went sideways. “The hell’s going on with you?” Jake’s jaw had locked so tight, he didn’t even answer. Back on the ground, it was no better.

Bradley had cornered him near the locker room the next morning. “You’re off, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.” He told him bluntly. Jake ran a hand through his hair, matted from the helmet. “I’m fine.” Even he didn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “You’re not.” Jake simply shrugged. “Let it go, Rooster.” But they didn’t. Not really. They just watched. Waited. Wondered what the hell had happened that turned cocky, unshakable Jake Seresin into a man unraveling from the inside out.

What they didn’t know, what he wouldn’t dare say aloud, was that it was you. The problem was you, or more accurately, the way you’d slipped through his fingers before he even realized how tightly he’d been trying to hold on. He didn’t understand it. How things had gone from warm glances and shared touches and that night where you had almost let something real slip between you… to now. To this cold distance. Where you wouldn’t so much as look at him unless it was absolutely necessary. And the worst part?

He didn’t know what he’d done.

The nights dragged on like this. Jake would come in with the squad, sit down like nothing was wrong, but the light in his eyes was gone. His jokes were duller. His smirk half-hearted. Even his beer sat untouched longer than usual, condensation dripping down the bottle as he watched you move around the bar like a ghost he couldn’t reach. Sometimes, he’d almost say something. His hand would twitch, or he’d lean half out of his seat, like he was on the verge of getting up.

Of walking over. Of fixing it. But you never gave him the chance. You never looked long enough to invite it. A deep, sinking pull in his gut. Like something was breaking open inside him and he didn’t know how to stop it. And so the distance remained, a thick, aching thing that hovered between you both, invisible to everyone else but suffocating just the same. Neither of you said a word. Neither of you walked away. But neither of you dared to move closer, either.

And it was killing you both.

Four days later, the Hard Deck was full, buzzing with heat and voices and that low, salty tension that clung to late summer nights on the coast. Dagger Squad was there, scattered across their usual pool table. Jake wasn’t with them yet. And for once, you were thankful. You could breathe without feeling his eyes track your every move. Or so you thought. You were behind the bar when you saw her walk in. Tall. Glossy.

Designer jeans that clung perfectly to her long legs and a strappy black tank that dipped low in the back. Blonde hair curled, nails perfect, and a walk like she owned every pair of eyes in the room. You recognized her instantly, one of the women you’d seen Jake flirt with a few times before. Only this time… she wasn’t looking at you. She was looking for him. And then, like a movie in slow motion, Jake walked in. He hadn’t seen her yet.

He was laughing with Bradley, dragging a hand through his hair, unaware of the way her eyes locked on him like a target. She moved toward him with purpose, lips already curling into a smile, like she knew he’d be hers the second he looked up. Your chest constricted so sharply it almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You turned away fast, heart hammering like you’d been punched. God. You were such an idiot. What were you expecting? That he’d pine over you?

That he’d choose you over someone like that? You braced your hands on the edge of the bar, the stainless steel biting into your palms. Don’t cry. Don’t cry here. Not in front of him. You grabbed two beers off the counter, trying to ground yourself in the moment. If she was what he wanted… fine. You weren’t going to compete for someone who’d already made their choice. But you could prove that he didn’t affect you anymore. At least, not on the surface.

So when you saw Bradley standing alone near the dartboard, you moved toward him without thinking, hips swaying just a touch more than usual, the corner of your mouth lifting in a practiced smirk. “Hey, Bradshaw,” You breathed as you passed him a beer, your fingers brushing his arm as you leaned close. “You winning?” He blinked, caught off guard by the softness in your tone, then chuckled low in his throat, catching on quickly. “I am now.” You laughed, light and teasing, and let your hand linger just long enough to be seen.

It wasn’t real. Not really. But it didn’t have to be. Not when Jake was watching. Because he was watching. Across the room, Jake's head snapped around the second he heard your voice. He’d been leaning against the bar, cornered by a girl with glossy lips and a laugh that grated on his nerves. She was touching his chest, twirling her straw between her fingers like a goddamn prop, but he hadn’t registered a single word she’d been saying.

Not since he walked in and saw you glowing in that golden Hard Deck light, laughing with everyone but him. But now? Now you were touching Rooster? His jaw clenched. There it was, that look. That flicker of heat buried deep in his eyes, something possessive and raw curling beneath his cool exterior. He was trying to keep it contained. Failing. You’d been giving him nothing but distance all week. Cold shoulders. Professional smiles.

And now you were here, cozying up to Bradley fucking Bradshaw, touching his arm like it meant something. Jake barely acknowledged the girl in front of him. Didn’t even glance her way when she laughed again, too loud, too fake. He stepped away like she wasn’t even there, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he moved. Fast. Direct. Heat rolling off him like the pavement in July. You tried to stay cool. Calm. Unbothered. But the second you felt him behind you, everything inside you began to splinter.

His shadow fell over you before his voice did, low and rough, like he was holding back something sharp. “Can we please talk?” No drawl. No swagger. Just those four words, spoken low enough for only you to hear. You turned slowly, lifting your gaze to meet his. And what you saw there made your throat go dry. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together like he couldn’t trust what might come out next. His breathing was shallow.

His chest rose and fell like he’d just finished a sprint. And his eyes, God, those eyes, were burning. Not with arrogance. Not even with anger. But with desperation. Desperation and hurt. Something cracked in your resolve. You'd spent days convincing yourself you didn’t care. That you were over it. Over him. That whatever you thought was between you had been imagined, one-sided. Stupid. But the way he was looking at you now? There was nothing one-sided about it. You hesitated. Your mouth didn’t move. But your heart answered for you.

You nodded.

And Jake exhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in days. Wordlessly, he led you outside to the back patio where the air was cooler, salt-stung and quieter than the inside. The string lights overhead glowed gold against the dark, and the music became just a dull vibration through the wood beneath your feet. Jake stopped near the railing, raking a hand through his hair like he didn’t know whether to speak or scream. His chest rose, then fell, like the effort to stay composed was costing him something.

“What the hell’s going on with you?” His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even demanding. It was tired, frayed around the edges. You folded your arms across your chest, forcing your spine straight, your eyes sharp. “Nothing.” Jake scoffed. Harsh. Humorless. “Bullshit.” He stepped forward. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. You won't even look at me anymore.” You turned your face away, blinking too fast. The ache in your throat burned. “Maybe I’ve just been busy.” He exhaled through his nose, slower this time. “Did I do something?”

You wanted to scream. To shove the words into his chest and make him feel what you’d been carrying since that night. But fear twisted around your tongue like barbed wire. So you said nothing. Jake took a step closer. Slower now. Careful. Like you were something on the edge of shattering. And you hated it, hated how much you wanted him to reach out. To touch you. To say something that made it all make sense. “I—I heard what you said,” You whispered, voice thin and raw. His brow furrowed.

“That night. After training.” You swallowed hard. “You were talking to the squad. You said you weren’t interested. That I wasn’t your type.” A bitter laugh escaped your throat, hollow and trembling. “God, it’s my fault, really. I was stupid enough to believe that Jake Hangman Seresin, serial flirt, legendary pain in the ass, would ever want someone like me… when he could have Malibu Barbie throwing herself at him.” The words spilled out before you could catch them. Sharp. Bare. Bleeding.

Jake flinched. Confusion flashed first, wide-eyed, disoriented, then understanding slammed into him like a punch to the gut. “No,” He breathed, face paling, panic crashing behind his eyes. “You thought I was talking about you?” Your silence was answer enough. He stumbled back half a step, hands dragging down his face. Like he needed to wipe the guilt from his skin just to breathe. “Jesus Christ, Y/N.” His voice cracked. Rough. Gutted. “I wasn’t talking about you. God, no. I didn’t even know you were there.”

“Doesn’t matter.” You looked away, arms tightening around yourself like armor. “It does matter,” He snapped, voice raw. “You think I could ever, ever, talk about you like that?” His voice faltered, and he ran a shaking hand through his hair again, pacing once before turning back. “You think I’d look at you and say your voice is annoying? That I’m not interested? Are you serious?” You finally met his gaze, and what he saw nearly dropped him to his knees.

You weren’t angry. You were hurt. Really hurt. “I don’t think you meant to,” You whispered. “But you don't see me. You never do.” Jake looked like he’d been hit. The silence stretched, tangled between you, trembling and thick. Then he stepped closer. One step. Then another. His voice came softer now. Hoarse. Frightened. “I see you.” You shook your head. “I see you,” He repeated, louder this time, like if he said it enough it would finally reach you. “More than anyone ever has. And it scares the hell out of me.”

Your lips parted. A sound escaped, half-breath, half-sob, and the first tear slipped free before you could stop it. You turned your face away, but his hand lifted, gently brushing the drop from your cheek like it hurt him to see it. He hesitated, fingers twitching near yours, unsure if he was allowed. Then, with a breathless whisper, “Darlin’… I don’t want Malibu Barbie in there,” You blinked brows drawing in confusion. His hand hovered near yours, trembling.

“I want you. The girl who makes Bob blush. The one who doesn’t back down when I flirt, who gives it right back. Who knows when I’m lying through my teeth even when I don’t.” He reached again, this time slower, curling his hand around yours like it was sacred. Like letting go would ruin him. To his surprise, you let him. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. His fingers threaded through yours like they belonged there, like they’d always belonged there. And God help you… they did.

You were silent for a long time. Then, finally, so quiet it almost wasn’t real, you spoke pushing past the lump in your throat. “I thought I wasn’t enough.” Jake’s heart cracked clean in two. “You’re everything,” He whispered. “Everything, Y/N." Jake’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand like he couldn’t stop touching you now that you’d let him. His gaze was locked on yours, open in a way you’d never seen before, no walls, no smirk, no cocky bravado. Just Jake. Real. Unfiltered. Bleeding.

“I’ve been gone for you since the day you rolled your eyes at me instead of blushing.” You blinked, caught off guard. He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so wrecked. “I flirted. God, I poured it on. You remember? That night I tried to buy you a drink and you told me to grow up and learn how to pour my own?” A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. “You called me a heartbreaker.” You whispered recalling the moment as if it were yesterday. “Because you were,” He whispered, voice cracking just slightly.

“You are.” You swallowed, hard, but he didn’t stop. “I kept telling myself I just liked the chase. That I could move on. That you were just another pretty face behind the bar, except—” He shook his head, jaw tightening. “You’re not.” Your brows knit, but you didn’t look away. “I told you about my dad.” Jake’s voice dropped, softer now. “I didn’t even realize I’d done it until after. I’ve never talked about him. Not to anyone. Not like that.” The memory came back instantly. That night after last call, lights dimmed, your elbows resting on the bar between you.

He’d looked so tired, so open. You’d asked one small question, something about his hometown, and suddenly he was talking about Texas and silence and a man who never really told his son he was proud. Jake stared at you now, breathing hard like he was barely holding himself together. “You didn’t say anything when I told you. You just… listened.” He looked down, eyes catching on your joined hands. “You let me be someone I don’t let anyone see.” He swallowed. “I noticed everything about you, Y/N.” Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I know you hate wearing your hair down when you’re working because it sticks to your lip gloss and drives you crazy. I know you pretend to be annoyed when Bob leaves peanut shells on the bar, but you never actually throw them away until after he leaves, because you don’t want to make him feel bad.” Your eyes stung. His voice was reverent now, like he was listing truths he’d memorized like scripture. “I know you tie your apron the same way every night, double knot on the left, even though you’re right-handed,"

"You hum when you count cash. You clench your jaw when you’re about to cry and you never cry in front of people, and—” He exhaled, blinking fast. “I know how it felt. That night you sat beside me after training, shoulder to shoulder, not talking much.” He was close now. Closer than before. “I replay that night more than I want to admit,” Jake murmured. “The way your knee brushed mine and you didn’t move it. The way you leaned into me without even realizing it. I wanted to grab your hand so bad, but I was scared it’d ruin it. Scared you’d pull away.”

You hadn’t realized your breath had hitched until he reached up, gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m not scared now.” You were blinking back tears. “I was falling for you then,” He breathed, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “And I’ve just kept falling. Every damn day. Even when you stopped talking to me. Even when it felt like you were slipping through my fingers and I didn’t know why.” His voice dropped to something trembling and soft. “You’re it for me, Y/N."

"The real thing. No games. No stupid lines. Just you.” You opened your mouth and closed it. Shaking your head, just slightly. “But I’m not your type.” You whispered, voice thick with emotion. Jake smiled, and it wrecked you. “Darlin’,” He coaxed, stepping even closer, pressing your joined hands gently against his chest. “You are every type I didn’t know I needed. You’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted to stay for.” Your heart was a drumbeat in your throat. Jake leaned in, breath warm and uneven between you.

“I want late nights on this patio with you. I want to sit on your kitchen counter while you complain about your day and steal your snacks. I want you in my bed. In my arms. In my life. All of it. You.” The tears spilled freely now. “I don’t want Malibu Barbie, or any of those girls who laugh at jokes I didn’t even tell. I want the girl who saw straight through me before I even knew who I was.” Your fingers clutched his shirt now, knuckles white. Jake leaned his forehead gently against yours, voice barely a whisper now.

“I love you, Y/N.”

The words hung there, raw, open, real. And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest lifted. Because he meant it. And he’d never looked more terrified… or more certain. Your breath caught. There it was, laid bare between you. His heart, stripped and beating in your hands. Jake Seresin, the man everyone thought was untouchable, cocky, invincible was standing here, terrified. Loving you with everything he had. For the first time in weeks, the fear that had been curling like smoke in your chest started to ease.

But it didn’t vanish. Because you were still scared. Not of him. Of you. Of how badly you wanted this. How deeply you felt it. How vulnerable it made you to need someone this much. You lifted your head slowly, his forehead still resting lightly against yours, your breaths mingling in the salt-tinged air. “I love you too Jake.” You whispered, and it cracked something open inside both of you. His eyes squeezed shut as he let out a slow, unsteady breath, like he’d been drowning, and those words were the air he’d needed for weeks.

“But I’m scared,” You admitted, your voice trembling, fingers still clutching his shirt. “Scared that this is just a moment. That you’ll wake up one day and realize I’m not what you want. That I’ll never be enough.” Jake opened his eyes, and the look on his face made your chest cave in. There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. Just devotion. He cupped your face like you were something fragile but precious, like he was honored just to hold you. “Y/N…” He breathed, stepping even closer, until your body was flush against his.

“I’m gonna spend every damn second we have proving just how wrong that voice in your head is. Every second.” You blinked fast, your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to reach him. “I’ll show you,” He whispered, thumb sweeping along your cheek. “Not just once. Not just tonight. Every day. I’ll show you in the mornings, when you’re grumpy and still half-asleep and stealing the covers. I’ll show you when you’re mad at me, and I’ll deserve it, but I’ll still be there, because I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, just barely.

Like he didn’t want to overwhelm you, only remind you he was there. “I’ll show you when things get hard. When I have a bad day, and you have worse, and we’re tired and angry and still choosing each other anyway. That’s love, darlin’. And I’ve got it bad for you.” Your breath hitched, and your hands came up to grip his forearms. “I’ll prove it in every single look, every word, every time I hold your hand or brush your hair behind your ear or make you laugh after a long shift,” He murmured.

“I’ll remind you that you’re it for me. You’ve always been it.” The tears returned, but this time they came softer. You looked at him through the blur, voice nearly lost. “What if I fall even harder?” Jake smiled, gently resting his forehead against yours again. “Then I’ll be there to catch you. Every damn time.” You didn’t mean to lean in first. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, wild with devotion, soft with fear. Maybe it was the way he said you’re everything like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Maybe it was just that you couldn’t take it anymore, the aching distance, the space you’d both been tiptoeing around for too long. But suddenly your lips were on his. It was slow, searching. Like you were both discovering what it meant to be held this close by someone who knew you, who had seen you, in the mess, in the fear, in the fire, and chose you anyway. Jake let out a broken breath against your mouth.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than he wanted to admit, and kissed you like it might kill him not to. It started slow, trembling. His hands cradled your face with aching reverence, thumbs trembling slightly against your cheekbones. But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted on a gasp, everything between you snapped, weeks of tension combusting all at once. He kissed you harder. Hungrier.

One hand slid into your hair, curling into your ponytail, while the other held your waist like he needed you closer. Like he couldn’t bear another second of space between you. His mouth moved against yours with heat and purpose, lips molding, tongue brushing yours, breath hitching as your bodies pressed together like magnets pulled tight. You whimpered softly against his mouth when he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, the sound swallowed by him as if he’d been starving for it.

He tasted like mint and beer and Jake, home, somehow, even in the chaos of it. Your teeth grazed, breath catching. Then your tongues slid together again and it was messy and warm and real. His hand fisted gently in your hair. You pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, dizzy from how easily your body molded to his, how his chest rose and fell in stuttering exhales, like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. He kissed you like it was a promise.

And you kissed him like it was the first breath after drowning. Jake finally broke the kiss, gasping softly, but only just enough to press his forehead back to yours, breath mingling, both of you shaking. “Believe me now?” Jake grinned, the edges of his mouth still curved from that kiss, the one you were still trying to catch your breath from. He leaned in, nudging your nose with his playfully. Your lips twitched into a smile, still dazed. “It’s hard not to after a kiss like that.”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound warm and rich, before dipping his head to press one last, lingering kiss to your lips, this one slower, softer, like a promise more than punctuation. “Come on,” He murmured against your mouth, hand already sliding into yours. “I want to show off my girl.” Your heart fluttered hard in your chest, giddy and unsteady. His girl. You could definitely get used to that. The two of you walked back toward the patio doors hand-in-hand, the cool ocean breeze still trailing behind you.

Jake was practically glowing, his grin wide, his shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t been in weeks. You could feel his thumb tracing slow circles against your knuckles as you walked, grounding you in the surrealness of the moment. As you stepped into the warm buzz of the Hard Deck, the shift in the room was instant. Bradley let out a long, low whistle, raising his beer. “Well, finally.” You flushed instantly, heat crawling up your neck as Natasha gave you a knowing grin from across the table.

Jake didn’t even hesitate. Still beaming, he strolled right up to the squad’s table, pulled out an empty chair, and dropped into it without letting go of your hand. Before you could react, he tugged you gently down into his lap. You gasped, startled by the sudden PDA, hands bracing against his chest as he held you there, one arm wrapped around your waist like a vice, the other resting lazily on your thigh. His body was warm beneath you, solid and steady, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now that he had you, really had you, Jake Seresin clearly had absolutely no intention of letting go. The squad erupted in cheers and teasing jeers, beers clinking, boots scuffing against the wooden floor. But then something caught your eye. You watched, wide-eyed, as Mickey, Reuben, and Javy each reached into their wallets and started sliding bills across the table, straight into the waiting hands of Natasha and Bradley. “Hold on,” Jake barked, brows shooting up. “You assholes had a bet going?”

“Please. We’ve been placing bets since the second she didn’t slap you the first night.” Natasha leaned back smugly, counting her winnings with all the grace of a champion poker player. “I thought I heard someone say ‘by Valentine’s Day or bust.’” You muttered, staring at Bradley as he fanned out a crisp stack of twenties. Jake turned, brows raised in mock betrayal. “Bob.” You looked toward the quietest member of the group, who was sheepishly sliding a twenty toward Natasha, cheeks flaming.

“Not you too!” You gasped dramatically. “I-It was obvious.” He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were all just waiting for the two of you to stop being blind and realize you were already in love.” Mickey stayed matter-of-factly. Jake groaned, shaking his head with a dramatic flair. “Unbelievable.” But then he turned, eyes softening as he looked at you. “Well you’re right about one thing Fanboy, damn straight I love her.” He declared, suddenly and loudly.

His words were loud enough to carry over the music, his drawl curling around the words like honey. The table lost it, laughter exploding around you, but all you could do was stare at him, your cheeks burning, your heart thundering in your chest as he tugged you tighter into him, pressing his lips to your temple, warm and unashamed. And just over Jake’s shoulder, you caught a glimpse of the blonde from earlier, the one who’d been leaning against him when your heart had first started to break.

Her mouth twisted, her eyes narrowed. She scoffed, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the bar without so much as a backward glance. Only, Jake didn’t even see her leave. Because his focus was entirely on you. Not some bottle blonde who he didn’t know the name of. As you leaned back into his chest, the smell of salt and citrus and something utterly Jake wrapped around you like a memory, you realized you weren’t afraid anymore. Not of falling. Not of love. Not with him holding you like this, like he’d waited a lifetime to.

If looks could kill, you’d be dead right now. Good thing you’re impervious to Jake’s deadly glares. Any other person would’ve cowered, would’ve immediately yielded to his demands. But not you. Never you. It’s the only reason why you’ve survived as long as you have with him; that and being one of his oldest friends who takes no shit from him.

When the melody begins to play, his brows furrow at the sheet music before him. You can practically see him tapping his finger on his thigh, a habit to start counting and matching the beat to get into the rhythm. While this broody energy is not the one you want him to bring into a cheerful holiday song, you give him some grace considering this is him on his best behavior, particularly when you know the ask isn’t easy for him to do.

Jake Seresin is a man with a lot of pride. That pride comes from a rightful place of talent, skill, and dedication over the years to mold his career into the exact shape he wants it to be. He has always been a big believer in a musician’s genuine artistry over the mass-produced, soul-sucking, radio-targeting songs that many songwriters choose to do today. He would never sacrifice his craft for the sake of money.

It’s why he finds himself in this predicament today.

Times are changing. With that comes the change in taste. Those who spend money on music are no longer adults who idolize rock and roll, who blast the legends on repeat on their record players. Now, they are people who love nostalgic pop hits and mainstream upbeat tunes that go viral on social media. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just a sign of the times, but Jake absolutely loathes it.

Mainly because it’s not the kind of music he wants to write, or sing, or publish. Because of this, it means his fanbase is dwindling and so are his album sales, particularly his most recent one which underperformed against the target so much so that the head honcho of the record label had to step in and ask you what the ever loving fuck? Jake had been his cash cow after all. Now, he’s just on his way to becoming a has-been! His words, not yours.

But you’ve been with Jake from the start — when he was making music out of his bedroom, then his parents’ basement, and then into small studios before joining the big leagues. He went from underground gigs where he got booed off stage, to fifty-person shows at local clubs, to selling out stadium tours with nearly a hundred thousand in capacity. You’ve seen how much he has grown, how much he has changed. You respect the hell out of him for that; it’s why you’ve stuck around so long.

Well, that but also the fact that nobody else can put up with this diva. God knows how many times you’ve considered quitting, tried finding your replacement, only to decide that you wouldn’t subject any other poor sucker to the job of putting up with Jake Seresin.

Despite all this, you can complain about him all you want, but you love this man like family. He’s your best friend, in the loosest sense of the word. He has seen you through your highest and lowest, the same way you have done for him. He has supported you through that depressing post-college unemployment period before he offered you the opportunity of a lifetime. He made you a nepo friend before you could even sign on that dotted line. It’s why you’re here today, making a generous salary from a very generous friend who thought you deserved it.

However, this assignment you have placed on his shoulders may be too much to bear. You may finally be asking too much of him.

Out of all the things you’ve asked him to do before, this may be his greatest challenge yet. Because you are asking him to create a holiday hit.

A rendition of a classic Christmas song after negotiating the rights for it. It’ll still be heavily pop, but you trust Mark to twist in Jake’s usual sound into it. When you told him to head into the studio this morning, he never expected you to ask this of him.

“Absolutely not,” he harrumphed. You pointed once to the recording booth and he marched his ass right in there. It’s why he has been sulking all morning. You told him he’s not leaving this room until he sings the perfect Christmas song, good enough to take down good old Mariah Carey and whoever else only comes around this season.

Despite his protests, Jake sounds good. Really good. He always does. It’s what put his name amongst the stars in the first place. His career has been on a steep upward trajectory for a decade now. Hit after hit. It certainly doesn’t hurt that he is a typical blue-green-eyed dirty-blonde man with a slightly rugged touch. He tests well with both men and women. Magazines with exclusive photoshoots sell out as quickly as his albums do.

All you want to do is put him back on the map where he belongs. Jake still makes fantastic music, is still incredibly passionate about his craft. He’s just had… one too many distractions lately. By lately you mean the last few years when his reputation has been riddled with one scandal after another.

If it’s not a supermodel’s heart he’s breaking, then it’s a drug issue. Or excessive partying. Or being a foul-mouthed asshole to assholes who piss him off, assholes who are willing to sell their story to tabloids about how rockstar Jake Seresin cursed him out for serving his friend the wrong salad. Mind you, Jake had been out with a friend who was severely allergic to nuts, asked multiple times to verify that there were no nuts, asked the waiter politely to please swap out the salad when he saw nuts, and the waiter brought him another salad. A salad with peanut dressing. Poor Bob.

Nobody wants to touch that hot mess with a ten-foot pole. It’s a liability. If he doesn’t get his act together, he’ll be stuck doing small-time (but beloved) podcasts forever, ones that even you admittedly haven’t listened to. Not that you usually do, podcasts are the bane of your existence.

To his credit, Jake has been trying. He has been squeaky clean over the last year or so. No drugs. No crazy parties. No naked runs through the city’s biggest park at peak hours. He has been good. Well-behaved. 

Now, you want to bring him back to what matters. His music. That is, once he is completely back on the good graces of the general public. It all starts with a Christmas song.

Mark looks up at you from the soundbooth, doubt written all over his expression. “Is this really a good idea? I mean, I know he hasn’t been doing so hot, but a Christmas song? It’s not very him.”

You’ve had to justify this to your boss (Jake), your boss’ boss (record label CEO), and now his producer is last on the list. “I think we can inject his sound into a Christmas song. It definitely isn’t what he usually does but it’s not exactly a terrible shift for him. He needs this to worm his way back into people’s hearts. Like a little disease crawling back in, you know.”

“Not a promising visual.”

“I trust you and him to bring my vision to life. I think we can do this. I’ve been doing all the pre-release work. Promotions are out, marketing is on full force.”

“How did you get all of that out without him realizing?”

You huff, “You’d be surprised by how much I control what he consumes on a daily basis.”

As much as you want to keep this charade going, you need to face his reality as his manager. If this man wants to maintain his ridiculously exorbitant lifestyle in his ridiculously exorbitant penthouse with a ridiculously exorbitant mortgage, then he has to suck it up. He has to learn that some people have had to make sacrifices for the greater good; in this case, the greater good is his career.

When Jake fumbles over a lyric, his eyes flick up at you for a brief second, but you’re already ahead of it, pressing the button to cut the music.

“Run it again, Seresin.”

“Damn it!”

However, again, without another whine, Jake does as he is told. He doesn’t look happy doing it, but he does it anyway. He does it again and again and again until you decide you have the perfect take. Mark layers in instruments in between, pieces of a puzzle that would make the song more Jake.

“You know what, it’s not half bad,” Mark nods, clearly proud of himself. “I think we may have ourselves a new Christmas hit.”

A smile stretches across your face and you finally look up at Jake who is still looking at you with a very sour expression. “Good job, Seresin. Let’s wrap it up.”

“Finally!”

“Oh, boo hoo, you have to do your job,” you mock him with a roll of your eyes. “There are worse things you can do than sing a Christmas song.”

“In this very moment, I can actually think of none.”

—

When you really think about it, you really are going above and beyond for your boss. It’s the only reason why so many candidates have dropped out of being Jake’s potential manager, or even his second assistant. The man is incredibly high-maintenance.

You function professionally as a manager who organizes and controls his schedule, screens all fanmail for inappropriate paraphernalia, fields interview requests from late night hosts and magazines, and ensures that he gets to every single activity you’ve booked him for in a timely manner and with the appropriate clothes.

However, on top of all of that, you are also acting as a babysitter — making sure he eats enough, making sure he takes his daily vitamins, making sure he gets his IDs and passports renewed, making sure he doesn’t walk into incoming traffic when he’s too busy texting his old college friends. You are also the one who makes sure this man gets up on time, especially when he was out drinking his liver to death the previous night.

Sunlight bathes the room when you swish the curtains open, removing all traces of darkness, including the shadows cast upon Jake’s massive bed. He lets out a loud groan and burrows himself deeper into his pillows, shoving his head underneath one. “I fucking regret giving you your own key,” Jake mumbles against his Egyptian cotton.

“Who would find you when you finally drink yourself to death then? Your body would be cold and rotting by the time anyone thinks to check on you.”

“You’re mean.”

“That’s why you pay me,” you smile, dragging the blankets off him.

It’s a mistake. A huge one. Massive really. Because then you are subjected to the sight of Jake Seresin in nothing but his briefs. His biceps flex, muscles protruding, as he holds onto his pillow tight. When he rolls over, you see his abs in their full glory. All hard lines, chiseled planes, which all seem incredibly unfair given his abysmal consumption habits. Even the alcohol last night does nothing to hide how fucking fit he is. His legs stretch out long, thighs tensing where they curl up into his body.

Worst of all, you can see his morning wood straining against the cotton. Thick. Long. The outline leaves little to the imagination. You can practically see the tip peeking out.

You force yourself to look away, heat crawling up your neck at the state of him. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before; in fact, you probably have seen too much of him as someone who has never been his lover, long term or otherwise. 

“Jake, we have a couple of interviews to hit today. Come on.”

It is then he chooses to jerk up, eyes blown wide. The light catches in his eyes, reflecting more of the green flecks in his irises. His gaze is iridescent. “Wait, didn’t the song go up last night? How’s it been? Is it bad? Is my career officially over?”

“Okay, drama queen, why don’t you get your ass into the shower first? I’ll run you through the numbers and what to expect today.”

Jake presses his lips in defiance, but once again, does as he is told. A manchild as many would say. You’re just used to him being a brat around you. Jake is relatively self-reliant otherwise. You’ve seen him survive the weeks you were gone on vacation or when you went back home to visit your parents. He can manage by himself, he just chooses not to. Not when he has you.

It would be a lie to say it isn’t flattering to a certain extent. You like how much he relies on you, even if it sometimes drives you up the wall. It feels nice to be needed, especially by someone like him. Someone who is incredibly capable.

Well, you say this as you’re working to knot his tie, looping the fabric around.

“You really need to learn how to do your own tie.”

“Why would I when I have you?” Jake grins cheekily, popping a cheerio into his mouth. It’s become a habit for you to carry around a ziploc of cereal. It is how he chooses to start his day and he takes a handful while you help him pick out his outfit in the morning.

“What if I’m not around?” You sigh, tugging the knot up to his neck.

Jake frowns down at you. Genuine hurt flashing across his eyes. “Why wouldn’t you be around?”

You throw him a look, which he ignores. Like manager, like artist.

This routine is similar to when he had been booked and busy. When he wasn’t on tour, Jake was out there doing big press events, interviews from sunrise to sunset, and one-off performances for television segments. Since his last album didn’t do so hot, you didn’t have to filter through too many requests, picking and choosing the biggest opportunities.

But with this new Christmas song — well, let’s just say that you were working overtime last night the moment the song dropped. It’s a miracle that you’ve been able to keep the man off social media as long as you have given the ramp-up around the release.

“Darlin’, how does this look?”

You turn away from his floor-to-ceiling windows with the impeccable view of the city; this really is a ridiculously exorbitant apartment. However, when your eyes land on Jake, your breath is knocked straight out of your lungs. Jake cleans up nice. You’ve always known that, but it’s been a while since you’ve seen him like this.

With rockstars, they have a constant rotation of t-shirts, leather jackets, and silver jewelry that go on repeat. Their entire look is built on caring less about their appearance, more about their music. Jake has never been any different. Even with how princessy he acts — and god knows how much time he spends on his hair every morning, he’s not one to waste time choosing clothes and getting himself dolled up. 

Unlike today.

He is dressed in a suit. A very impeccable, custom-tailored suit. 

“Why am I wearing this again?” He frowns. “I feel like a fuckin’ penguin.”

He fiddles around uncomfortably with the necktie, glaring at it like it’s personally offended him. You swat his hand away and instead focus on adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “Because both of us are on thin ice after your last album. However, the big boss wants to see you after the song release last night.”

“Should I start scoping out whatever job-seeking platform you were on? Remember the one you were crying about like eight years ago.”

It’s your turn to throw him a dirty look. “Cute.” He flashes you that charming grin, your heart beats against your ribcage. You flatten your palms against his chest with a sigh once he looks ready to go. “Let’s hope not, so let’s not give him another reason to cut you loose, alright? I’ll run you through your schedule in the car.”

Jake’s hand reaches up and curls around yours. He lifts it like he’s inspecting it. “Didn’t you get that gold bracelet recently? You’re not wearing it.”

“It was a cheap find, I lost it somewhere. I need to find a better one anyway. Investment piece and whatnot.”

“Trying to get me to get you one?”

You laugh. “If you’re feeling ever so generous.”

His lips tilt into a softer smile. None of that cocky performance he puts up for everyone else. It’s a smile that’s always been reserved for just you. His oldest friend.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he murmurs.

And for a second, you’re freshly graduated from college again, sitting on Jake’s bedroom floor and weeping to him about yet another rejection email. He’s tangled around you, long arms winding around you and his chin propped up on your head as he tells you that everything will be okay. You can still feel the press of his lips against your temple as he whispers, “I’ll make sure everything will be okay.”

But then you’re back to the present and Jake is no longer that same kid you grew up with. No, this Jake is a successful rockstar who strictly dates supermodels and actresses, the kinds you wished you grew up to be — only because those are the ones he cares about. None of the people he has dated so far ever looked like you. Not even remotely. He has a type and he sticks to it.

“No need to thank me,” you clear your throat, shifting away to pick up your bag, “that’s what you pay me for.”

When you look at him again, you swear you see a flicker of hurt cross his eyes, but it’s gone in a blink. Then that charming, plastic smile is back in place. “Let’s get out of here.”

With only a week and a half left before actual Christmas, you have your work cut out for you. Between pre-booked interviews you managed to get him on and additional segments that were added to his schedule last minute, Jake has his work cut out for him. You’re in the back of the car, seated right next to him, rattling off times and names for the day. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear when the car jolts over a pothole, Joel up front apologizing.

“So that’s everything for the day. Any questions?”

Your hand drifts back down to your lap, to the file settled on top of your stocking-clad legs. Jake doesn’t say a word, his gaze glued on the document. Irritation prickles your skin. You have a feeling he didn’t hear a word you said.

“Jake, did you—”

“Is that a new dress?” He looks up at you then, bright eyes finding yours.

The question is unexpected, catching you off guard. “What?”

“Never seen this dress before on you,” he says, sounding almost thoughtful. “Or those heels.”

You look down at your outfit. You bought a new dress over Black Friday. And a new pair of heels from a thrift shop down the block from you. Jake usually does notice these things, so it’s nothing surprising. You’re just not sure why that’s relevant in this very moment.

“Yes,” you say slowly.

“Looks good,” he clears his throat then glances out the window. The tips of his ears are pink and you frown, wondering if he’s warm enough, so you reach over and press the back of your hand against his forehead. Jake jerks back, pressing himself up against the car door. “What’re you doing?”

“Are you sick? Why are you red?”

“I—” he stops himself, biting his tongue. “Nothing. I’m not sick.”

Your lips pinch together doubtfully. “Should we stop by the pharmacy? You know you catch colds like a baby and we have so much planned this next week. Not to mention Christmas is around the corner and you don’t want to be sick for that.”

“My family’s traveling anyway, don’t think Christmas will be an issue,” he mumbles.

The look on his face pricks your heart. Jake has always been close with family but, over the last few years, he’s been relatively estranged. Between his never-ending schedule and his parents’ full-time farm in Texas, it’s difficult to fly to one place or the other. His parents also don’t entirely agree with his lifestyle, which only pushed Jake further away, digging himself deeper into the hole out of spite.

What you don’t tell him is that his parents still check in with you from time to time, asking you how he’s doing. There’s a lot of pride on both sides and all you want is for Jake to speak to them properly again, just like the old days. No more quick texts. No more two-minute calls.

For now, you instead say to him, “Well, I did invite you to my Christmas potluck.”

“Out of pity,” he drawls out.

“Because you’re my friend, dumbass,” you shoot right back.

“Your friends hate me.” You’re about to argue against it but clamp your mouth shut. “Thought so.”

“They don’t hate you,” you say, struggling to find the words. “They just… think I work too hard, but that’s not on you and I’ve made that very clear multiple times.”

“You do work too hard,” Jake notes with a stern look. “Keep tellin’ you to take a sabbatical and you don’t listen.”

“Who’s going to wipe your ass in the morning if I do?”

Jake glowers at you. “I can survive, you know. I’m not just going to drop dead just because you give yourself a break.”

“I know,” you say, softer. “I like working with you. I like building this thing with you, that’s why I’m here.”

His face melts, hard lines smoothing over as he tugs you close, kissing the top of your head. “I know, darlin’. I appreciate you. More than you know.”

That’s when you look up at him. Maybe you shouldn’t have done that because Jake, from this angle, still looks unfairly attractive. The stubble speckling his jaw, his bright pearly whites, and those mesmerizing eyes — the ones that have you falling in love with him over and over.

Before Jake can hear the way your heart threatens to beat straight out of your chest, you extract yourself from him and cough. “Anyways, do you have any questions about your schedule for the day?”

His lips twitch. “I ain’t going to lie, sweetheart. I didn’t hear a word you said. I was busy admiring you in that dress.”

“Jake!”

When Joel pulls up in front of HQ, you shoot him a quick smile. “We hopefully won’t be too long. I’ve sent over all the addresses for the remainder of the day. It’s a pretty tight schedule but I think I’ve allocated enough time for travel, even with city traffic.”

Joel thanks you and bids the two of you good luck. You’re really going to need it.

Your palms started sweating five blocks ago and you hate to wipe it on your perfectly good new dress. Your heels clack on the pavement as you drag Jake sulking behind you. The elevator ride up is quiet, partially because you’re nervous and partially because— well, you don’t know why Jake’s quiet. He’s never quiet.

“Why are you being so quiet?” You finally snap as the elevator beeps to indicate yet another floor.

Jake only responds two beeps later. “What do you mean?”

“You’re never this quiet. It makes me nervous.”

The corner of his lips tug into a smile, his side leaning against the elevator wall as he looks at you. “I make you nervous?”

Your pulse skips. Damn you, Seresin. He knows what he’s doing. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

You sear him with a glare. “You’re being too quiet. You usually can’t keep your mouth shut and yet here you are. Quiet..”

“You’re cute when you say quiet, say it again,” he lilts teasingly. .

That’s when you turn, arms crossed over your chest as you look at him. Beep, beep, beep. It almost feels like your heartrate on a monitor. “Jake, can you please be on your best behavior?”

“Thought the world liked me bad.”

“I don’t like you bad.”

“Then what do you like? What do you want me to be?”

“Jake,” you sigh, exasperated. “We’re not doing whatever the fuck this is you’re doing.”

“What is it I’m doing?”

Your pulse spikes in annoyance again. “I’m not entertaining this. We’re almost there and Bradley wants to see you.”

This time, his brows pinch to meet in the middle. “Bradley? Since when are you on a first-name basis with him?” His name rolls off your tongue with vexation laced into the single syllable. He pushes up off the wall and towards you, frown still firmly in place. “I’m serious. You been meeting him without me?”

His proximity, the whiff of his cologne, is entirely distracting. So is his broad chest in front of your eyes. It doesn’t fucking help when he looks delicious enough to eat in that suit, you’re this close to ripping it off with your teeth.

Self-control, you tell yourself. You need more of it. Maybe it’s time to finally invest in meditation. Or a self-help class on how to not want to screw your boss.

“I’ve met him a few times without you, yes,” you confess. You don’t know why this feels like an interrogation. You’re just meeting your boss’ boss. Sometimes you and Bradley strategize what Jake’s next step should be. He runs the label so it’s unsurprising you would want his input.

“Why didn’t you bring me?”

You give him a deadpan look. “You hate meeting him. You have literally told me that you’d rather be spitroasted as a sacrifice than sit in a room with him again.”

“That’s because he’s boring,” Jake shoots back, “so why are you meeting him?”

“It’s for work. We talk about your next album. We talk about marketing. He was the one who supported my idea for the Christmas song, by the way. So play nice.”

“And it’s usually just you and him?”

You’re about to scold him again for being so immature when the elevator finally halts on the top floor. The room is busy when you arrive, everyone’s hustling and bustling for the last stretch before the holidays. Record labels aren’t a fun place to be during this time when the music gets made. While not many artists choose to release new content during this time, there are always a few big names looking to capitalize on the season.

Including your very own.

“Wait, so it’s just you—”

Your name echoing down the hall has you looking up. Bradley’s strolling towards you, looking as put together as ever. If you see him walking down the street, you would never think he owns one of the biggest labels based out of the East Coast. He’s dressed in a simple crisp shirt and trousers, handsome as always. But he’s young, incredibly young for a CEO running a multi-million dollar business.

“Look at you,” Bradley grins. He’s got a smile that could power a whole city, might even give Jake a run for his money on who could be more charming. “Stunning.”

You can hear Jake’s scowl next to you.

Bradley then turns to Jake. “My man, it’s been a while. How’ve you been? My superstar.”

That has Jake alert. “Uh, what’s going on?”

Then Bradley turns back to face you, eyebrows jumping. “You haven’t told him?” Jake’s expression grows increasingly irritated; he hates being left out of the loop. “You’re a star again! Skyrocketed to the top of the charts. Nobody thought a new rock Christmas hit would do well with all the new pop Christmas albums popping up, but your manager here has good instincts. Eight million streams overnight! You’re on track to take down some records, my friend.”

Jake whips around to face you, surprise glittering in his eyes. “You’re serious? That stupid Christmas song?”

You smirk. “Yes, that stupid Christmas song.”

Bradley’s arm winds around Jake as he guides him down the hall. “Now, let’s talk about promotions.”

The rest of the meeting goes by relatively uneventfully. Bradley spends most of that time gushing about how excited he is for this song, how he plans to revive it every Christmas season to beat out you-know-who. At some point, you do have to interrupt and tell him that Jake has other events lined up for the day.

More than that, Jake looks exhausted. Bradley’s not usually a yapper, but when he’s having a good day, you can’t get him to shut up.

“Of course!” Bradley beams, shaking Jake’s hand eagerly. “If this song does as well as I think it will this season, you can write whatever the hell you want for your next album.” That has him perking up as he mumbles his thanks. Then Bradley turns his attention to you, arms wrapping around you in a tight hug. “And you, you genius, I hope Jake gives you such a fat bonus this year, you can get yourself a whole new wardrobe. This dress is beautiful.” He takes your hand and brings it up to his lips. “Happy holidays, sweet girl. Hope to see you soon.”

Before you can grace him with a response, Jake takes your hand and is already leading you stumbling and tripping down the hall. His stupid long legs and your painful heels. Before Bradley disappears from sight, you see the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“Jake, shit, slow down.”

He stops abruptly, causing you to lose your balance into him. He quickly steadies you, eyebrows still puckered. “Sorry, shit. I didn’t mean to rush.”

“We’ve got time, I just figured you needed to get out of there.”

Jake stares at you for a second. His expression blank but you can see something more in the margins, something softer. “Right. Well, better early, right? Like you said, early is on-time and on-time is late.”

It’s your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “Since when do you care about being on time?”

The remainder of the day seems to fly by. With two interviews lined up, both with performances of the song, Jake is caught in the whirlwind of it. After all, he’s never done these songs live and he has to memorize the lyrics in the car.

Fortunately, he’s good at playing his usual charismatic self, wooing everyone in the audience and his interviewers. The first one is your more casual daytime show, but the fun happens during the late-night segments taped late in the afternoon. Jake is focused on the task at hand, which is trying not to blink when fruits are thrown at the transparent screen in front of him. The object explodes when it gets shot straight at the surface and Jake manages to keep his eyes open, his composure intact.

You even let a giggle or two slip from the sidelines. Jake’s eyes fly to you more than a handful of times, as if seeking your approval, and he smiles in satisfaction when he sees the proud grin on your face.

Jake is in the middle of his short interview segment before his performance when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Looking at the caller ID, you mutter a quick crap before excusing yourself backstage.

“Hi, Mrs. Seresin, how are you doing? How’s Italy?”

“Oh, honey. I keep telling you you can call me Patty at this point.” Her voice crackles on the other side, her southern drawl much more prominent than Jake’s. Jake has been away for a while, keeping just enough of that accent to be endearing to larger audiences.

In the background, you can hear the cawing of seagulls in the background, the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Oh, the dream. Instead, you’re stuck in a windowless studio. Regardless, a smile stretches across your lips. “Alright, Patty,” you say with full intention to revert back the next time, and she knows this too, “how’s Italy?”

“Italy’s wonderful. How’s Jake doin’? Has he been eatin’ enough? Is he gettin’ enough sleep? We heard his song here. It’s been playin’ everywhere.”

The two of you chat for a little bit, mostly you getting them up to speed on everything he’s been doing and everything he will be doing. They sound pleased to hear that he’s been doing well, and you can hear the bit of sadness staining their voices.

“You know,” you start hesitantly, “I think he would appreciate a call from you.”

Silence. You wince. Then Patty starts again, “Oh, I don’t think he would. We would just bother him. He looks real busy.”

“No, no, I promise, I think he would really appreciate the call. We have long car-rides in between and I think—” you’re not sure why but your throat feels like it’s closing in on you, “He misses you. A lot. I’m sorry I have him busy this Christmas, but I think he’d love to do a family vacation with all of you soon.”

“He paid for this trip,” Patty says quietly, “but he didn’t even book a ticket for himself.”

“He just doesn’t want to intrude. You know Jake, you have to invite him three times before he realizes that you mean it enough for him to agree. But he would absolutely love it.”

A sigh carries from the other end. “You’re right, honey. We’ll give him a call. Thank you for lettin’ us know. We’re grateful that he still has you, you know. You take such good care of him.”

“Part of my job.”

She snorts. “Sweetheart, I don’t know who you think you’re talkin’ to but you’re not foolin’ me.” Your heart jumps in your chest. “You’ve been in love with that boy for as long as I can remember.”

“Mrs. Seresin—”

“Think you should call me Patty permanently, honey. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a heck of a lot more of you soon.”

“Why would you think that?”

Someone calls out to her in the background. “Oh, shoot. We have that dinner reservation, don’t we? Well, thank you for answering, honey, even when you’re so busy. Give Jake our love and we’ll be sure to call him very soon. Toodles!”

The line goes cold before you can get an answer to her very vague statement and you end up frowning at the black screen of your phone.

By the time you return towards the studio, filming has been completed and Jake is manhandling you out the exit. You’re still a little dazed from the call and it doesn’t help that Jake’s hand is firmly on your hip, arm around your back.

“Where’d you go?” He questions curiously.

“Oh, uhm, just had to… pick up a call,” you say, cursing yourself for sounding so stilted. Way to make it sound suspicious.

“From who?”

You scowl at him. “Why are you so nosy?”

His face morphs into one of amusement, a laugh slipping past his lips. “My parents again, huh.”

That has you losing your balance again, these heels will be the death of you. Jake once again keeps you upright. “How did you—”

“I’m not an idiot,” he gives you a look, which you reflect right back at him, “not all the time. You only get nervous when I ask you that when it’s my parents. Usually it’s a quick mind your own business, Seresin.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You didn’t think you were that obvious. “They’re just worried about you,” you mumble.

“I’m sure they are.”

“They are, Jake.”

“If they were worried, they’d call.”

When you make it to the exit, the lights are instantly blinding. Fucking paparazzi. It’s nothing new but it still irritates you each time. Luckily, Joel doubles up as a bodyguard and immediately blocks the two of you from the increasingly agitated crowd. Jake pauses to sign a few autographs and snap selfies with fans who have been waiting outside for probably some time.

“Y’all must be cold. Make sure to warm up after this. Can’t have you catching a cold right before Christmas.” He winks and they literally swoon.

Then Jake is back next to you, a protective arm secure around your waist as he helps you into the car.

At least that’s his last thing for the day. You turn to him to respond to his last comment. “They are worried. All of you are just too damn stubborn. None of you want to call because you think the other doesn’t want to hear from you. But you’re all always talking through me and I’m playing telephone between you and your parents. How about you give them a call? I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”

“Doubt it.”

“Jake,” you sigh, “they miss you. I can hear it, you know. Every time they call, all they do is fuss about whether you’re eating or sleeping enough. They keep up with everything you’re on — interviews, performances. They’ve already heard your Christmas song and they loved it.”

A flush spreads pretty across his face, glowing red even in the dim car. “They have to say those things, they’re my parents.”

“Don’t be a pain in the ass, Seresin. It’s the holidays. Give them a call. Deep down, you know that all of you would love that.”

“Maybe,” he mumbles under his breath. A maybe is better than a no. It means he’s caving. Stubborn prick. A lovable stubborn prick.

You sigh then lean back against the door, staring at him. In the hours after a long day, Jake feels a little smaller. His ego is still there, it’s why he’s so damn pigheaded all the time, but he’s more relaxed. Like he has caved into the weight of the day. He has his elbow on the arm rest, chin on his palm as he gazes out the window to the city lights blurring before him.

“You’re going to see Javy tomorrow, that’ll be fun,” you try to lighten the mood.

“His movie premiere?” You hum in confirmation. Despite his demeanor, Jake is thrilled. You’ve learned the telltale signs over the years. His shoulders a little straighter, his lips twitching with the threat of a smile, and — of course — his beautiful eyes bigger and brighter. “Are you going?”

“Oh, I was planning to just drop you off. Figured you would enjoy the time without me nagging.”

“Come with me,” he says, voice surprisingly soft. “It’ll be fun.”

“I really don’t need to. Plus, I have nothing to wear.”

“Take my card. Buy something for yourself. Overnight it if you have to.”

You purse your lips at him. “You have a mortgage to pay, Jake. You shouldn’t really be spending lavishly on your staff.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as his face tightens. “You’re not… just my staff. I want you there. If all you need is an outfit then that’s an easy problem for me to fix.”

“You sure? There will be an after party too so I can dip out after the premiere.”

“No, come. Javy would love to have you there too.”

Fighting Jake takes too much effort when he’s determined to get one and only one answer. “Alright fine.”

He beams, clearly pleased with himself.

You roll your eyes. “For tomorrow, I just have you for a radio show at noon then we’ll get you to hair and makeup for the premiere.”

He smiles weakly at you. “No rest for the wicked, huh?”

“Not if the wicked wants to get paid,” you grin.

The car stops first in front of Jake’s building. The street is emptier this time of night and it’s easier for him to sneak right in. Plus, security is tight so you’re not very concerned. Not to mention, Joel could take down anyone with his pinky alone.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I won’t be here too early to nag you but I expect you to be ready to go at eleven.”

In lieu of responding, he instead reaches over to take your hand. “Come up with me,” he murmurs, eyes unreadable in the darkness of the vehicle.

Your brain short-circuits for a second. Your first instinct is to be skeptically optimistic. A yes would be too easy of an answer. A yes would be your preferred answer. Sometimes, Jake just need a little bit of company at the end of the day, and that’s nothing new.

But your heart knows it’s a terrible idea. Horrible, in fact. You can’t help the way your heart hopes — yearns — for something more. Something that he can’t give you. He has always been good to you. A good boss. A good friend, great even on some days. Unfortunately, your heart has other plans when it aspires for more. 

“Jake…”

“A glass of wine or something. Or I’ve also got that sugar cookie things you like, the one with that little fat man on the cover.”

Your lips quirk up. “Pillsbury ones? What shape?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “You only eat the snowman ones, god knows why. They all taste the same.”

“You don’t eat those. Why do you have them?”

“For you.”

His simple answer — quick and honest — has your heartbeat stuttering. A momentary lapse in the way it functions. You swallow thickly. “I don’t think I should.”

“Why not?” He presses.

“We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“We don’t start until noon—”

“Jake.”

He looks at you and you look at him, and whoever wins this stupidly petulant staring contest will come away unscathed. Or as unscathed as possible. Luckily for you, you grew up with Jake, you’ve done these a handful of times before, and you know exactly how long it takes before he needs to blink.

In three, two, one…

“Dammit,” Jake groans, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hate that you’re so good at that.”

“Only need to last a second longer than the other guy,” you throw him a smug smile. “Now get out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

–

Admittedly, there are perks to working in entertainment. Despite the grueling hours and the never-ending stream of fake pleasantries, you do get plenty of opportunities not many other jobs offer. This includes anything from backstage passes at the biggest concerts (you have met many a legends, ones that make you sign NDAs), front-row VIP tickets without the hours-long waiting game, and even advanced screenings of blockbusters earlier than some critics. You have many chances to get up close and personal with your favorite entertainers.

Of course, the side benefits of Jake’s fame and fortune come at the expense of your poor head, which is now sporting more than a few strands of grey hairs. It also cost you a large chunk of social life; try scheduling brunch plans when you’re living off a rockstar’s schedule.

No matter how many times you defend Jake, your friends aren’t particularly fond of him. It isn’t his fault that you are a self-appointed workaholic. However, part of the reason why they also aren’t happy with him is because they think he has been stringing you along all this time, practically playing the part of a doting girlfriend, but paid. You’re a glorified sugar baby who happens to also moonlight as his manager.

Once again, you have to remind them that it isn’t his fault that you have been in love with him for forever. It’s not his fault that you haven’t built up the courage to tell him how you feel, not when you are risking jeopardizing more than a decade of friendship and a professional relationship. Your career. While you know that Jake wouldn’t hang you out to dry for pining over him for the better part of the decade, you also don’t ever want to put him in that position.

This is what you remind yourself when Jake hands over his black Amex without batting an eye, telling you to knock yourself out. You’re not his girlfriend that he’s spoiling, not even when he shoots you a bemused frown and says, why are you asking me for fashion advice? You look good in literally everything. You’re definitely not his girlfriend when you send him a picture of you in the dress to check if it’s good and he responds with sweetheart, if that’s what you’re wearing, i’m going to have to ask javy to up security at the venue.

Curse you and your frail, starving heart.

As you’re dropping off Jake with his own glam team, he quirks an eyebrow at you. “Why aren’t you coming with?”

You open your mouth with the obvious answer, but then close it. “I’ll do my own makeup and hair at home.”

“Just come with me. I’m sure they have extra sets of hands.”

“Jake, nobody just has extra sets of hands in this business. That costs of money.”

“It’s a work expense, we’ll figure it out.”

Before you can argue further that some things you can’t just figure out, Jake is already dragging you out the car. “Joel, we’ll be a while. Can you drop off the clothes with the stylists inside? Then feel free to chill for a couple of hours. Have lunch on me.”

“You got it, boss.”

Then it’s chaos. The staff swirl around the two of you like tornadoes, bringing you into separate rooms to get ready. Although you have gotten prep done by a professional team, you’re never there for full glam. Quick touchups to make sure you look good as his manager in the background.

Key word: background. Not in the spotlight.

This one feels different; you’re supposed to be an additional head to keep Jake company for the premiere. You’re supposed to blur into the scenes behind him, certainly not standing front and center. However, the way they’re putting extra care into your makeup, the additional glimmer and sparkle, it’s almost as if you’re his—

“Jake said you’re his plus one! You’re already gorgeous but don’t worry, sugar, we’re going to take real good care of you.”

The hours pass quickly with you making conversation with these pros. The makeup artist has done this for people with twice your salary and twice your ego. The hair stylist tells you all about the divas that she has worked with, including more than a few household names.

“Beautiful,” the makeup artist smiles with a fake swipe of her tear. At least you know why she works in entertainment.

While you have always been relatively confident in your looks, you’ve never really seen yourself like this. Hair effortlessly chic. Makeup done to perfection. Soft, sexy, sultry. This transformation has left you in awe, so much so that you’re even gawking at yourself in the mirror.

“This is— wow, I mean, you’re both so— this is incredible.”

“We get that a lot,” the hair stylist smirks. “Alright, Jake is outside getting into his suit so let’s also get you into the dress so we can show off how stunning you look to him.”

You snort quietly, “He really doesn’t care how I look. I’m not going to be the one the paps are chasing down.”

The two look at each other and burst into giggles. “Okay, honey. We’ll see about that.”

Your dress spills over you like second skin. It cinches in in the right places and loosens to drape over the floor. The slit sits high mid-thigh, giving sexy without being too slutty. Your two artists are gushing behind you and all you can do is duck your head in embarrassment. You can certainly dish out a compliment, but you are miserable at taking it.

The doors open up and you’re practically shoved out there into Jake’s awaiting arms as you trip a little bit in your heels. His hands move fast to catch you. “Whoa there, you—” then he stops. You hear his breath hitch in this throat.

You right yourself and ease a loose strand of hair out of your face and behind your ear. “Shit, sorry. New shoes. I have to get used to them.”

For a moment, you don’t get a response so you look up and you find Jake drinking you in from head to toe. His throat moves, an almost impercetible movement that you only notice because he’s standing so close to you. You smell the faint traces of bergamot and vanilla in your favorite cologne of his.

However, as much as Jake is looking at you, you’re also looking at him. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times you see him dressed up, each time you’re left admiring how dashing he looks. His usually unruly dirty blonde hair is tamed down into a style that looks clean without being overly stiff. His beard has been trimmed down into a neat shadow across his jaw, maintaining that rough edge that screams successful, millionaire rockstar over classic Hollywood heartthrob. He looks so good you could eat him right up.

Not to mention, his dark blue suit that makes his cerulean eyes shine.

His dark blue suit that very much matches your navy dress.

You completely forgot that you had requested this specific suit from the stylist — and now it seems as if you intentionally matched with him. God forbid he thinks that, because that would be real humili—

“You’re stunnin’.”

The compliment slips out so easily from his lips that you almost miss it. Your head jerks up immediately, giving you a short sting of whiplash.

“I mean, you always are but… wow. You’re—” he pauses, like he’s struggling to find the right words to say. You swear you hear the glam team tittering behind you, but all of that fades into white noise when all you see is Jake.

“Thanks, you look great too,” you respond, sounding as awkward as you feel.

His face melts into something softer, fonder. A chuckle rises from his throat. “Could never take a compliment, darlin’.” That makes you scowl in defense. “You look… breathtaking. Perfect, really.”

“Okay, I’ll let you take a break after the Christmas promotions are done, you don’t need to keep kissing my ass.”

It’s a poor attempt to deflect, but you don’t know how to react when Jake is looking at you like that. Deep eyes, intense gaze. A look that says I see you. I want you. Because a look like that could be easily misinterpreted. It could even give you hope, which is futile when you’ve seen his track record.

Jake’s lips pinch together. He’s irritated. You bite back a wince. 

Before he can say anything else, the team is ushering the two of you out the door and back into the car. You’re looking through the logistics in the email to make sure you arrive at the right time at the right entrance, prattling off instructions to Joel and Jake. Your head is back on work mode to make sure everything goes off without a hitch.

As expected, Jake is already tuning you out. You see it when you look up at him and he looks vexingly distracted.

“Jake,” you sigh, annoyance staining your tone, “did you catch a word I said?”

His lips are pressed in a thin line, eyes somewhere on the car seat.

“Jake.”

“You really going to wear that out there?”

Frowning, you look down at your dress again. It’s not… bad. Sure, it’s nothing crazy glamorous, but you thought it would work fine. “Yes. Was it the wrong thing? I mean, I could skip—”

“No, I just—” His hand reaches up, like he’s about to run it through his hair, but halts when he remembers the wax streaked through it, and his face curdles. A nervous tic.

“I thought you said I look good.”

“You look—” He stops again, face pinking in a real struggle. “You do know how good you look right? Because if you don’t, it might drive me crazy. I can’t spend all night trying to convince you how incredible you look.”

You open your mouth but the words don’t come out. How are you supposed to respond to that? Your heart flares with a thrill, your confidence expanding to the size of Jupiter. It’s one thing to have Jake give you a compliment, it’s another to see him struggle doing so.

Because Jake is smooth lines when it comes to the ladies. Seeing him tongue-tied around you — someone he has known all his life — tugs at your heart strings.

“Thanks, Jake,” you murmur.

“That dress, fuck, I don’t know if I can handle you out there looking like that. Javy’s going to pull some stupid ass line on you and I’m going to get pissed.”

“Javy will not.”

“Javy most definitely will.” He sounds firm, irked.

“Well, I’ll take a compliment from Javy.”

Jake scowls. “Javy is a womanizer.”

“So are you.” You’re rewarded with another scowl, but he knows you’re right. A proud smirk settles on your face. “Javy will be Javy. Let’s focus on you tonight. This is a good place to get the word out on your song, talk about the process or whatever.”

“Darlin’, I’m going to be distracted all night with you next to me.”

Huffing, you shake your head. “I’ll be behind you as always, don’t worry.”

“You’re my date to this thing, you are gonna stand next to me.”

Date? You choke on the saliva in your mouth as your throat dries completely. Jake shoots you a funny look before his eyes dart behind you.

“Showtime.”

You don’t have another second to think before he’s out the door, rounding the car, and opening yours. With a hand out, you gingerly step onto the pavement. Jake has his dashing smile plastered on, seeming almost genuine as he places his hand on your lower back and eases you into the wolves. The flashes are immediate and blinding.

Winter hasn’t fully arrived yet, which means you can at least keep your coat off for the photos. The number of bodies spread across each side of the barrier of the red carpet also help. Every time you try to sneak away from him, Jake tightens his grip on your hip to keep you next to him.

“Jake, they want pictures of you alone.”

“Don’t really care what they want, darlin’. Now, smile so we can show my parents how well we’re getting on.”

You’re about to argue against him when a reporter calls him over. With one last smile and wave to the larger crowd, he tugs you over to the barricade where he then proceeds to answer multiple questions with ease. He’s trained after all; all these years of being in the spotlight, the hours of media training you put him through.

“And this is your lovely date for the night, very different from your usual type, Jake,” one interviewer — People magazine, you think — teases.

“I’m just his manager,” you clarify with a tight curl of your lips.

“She’s the one who keeps my life together, keeps me alive really. I wouldn’t be here without her,” Jake piles on, fingers once again digging into your side, as his eyes look affectionately at you. If your embarrassment didn’t warm you up, the weight of his gaze surely does. “Anyone would be lucky to have her next to them. I’m just the lucky bastard she chose.”

Then he is excusing himself to go to the next one. And the next one. And the one after that.

The wind is slowly becoming unforgiving, gusts skirting around your ankles and rising up your body until they pebble your skin with goosebumps. You’re hoping that you’ll be going indoors for the screening soon because you’re not sure if you can take much more of this city chill.

A warmth blankets over your shoulders and you find that Jake has shedded his jacket and placed it over your shoulders. He does it with such ease too, so casually that he doesn’t even stutter mid-answer to another journalist. The reporter, of course, flags this and eyes you curiously. Before they can ask another question, probably one that is too intrusive, Jake immediately moves you away.

“Aren’t you cold?” You peer up at him.

“I’m fine, darlin’. You okay? Should we move inside now?”

“No, you should keep going. This is good publicity. Plus, Javy hasn’t even arrived yet.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “I can always come back out for Javy. I want to make sure you don’t get hypothermia.”

“Idiots can’t catch colds, remember?” You smirk.

“We both know you’re the furthest thing from one.”

The remainder of the premiere goes by without a hitch. You look at Jake proudly from the sidelines, still cozy covered in the suit that smells too much like him. When Javy arrives with the rest of the cast, Jake is the one who looks on proudly. They’ve been best friends since Jake had been hired to write an original song for Javy’s movie, since Jake threw a fit over how poorly the director was treating Javy who hadn’t been a main role at the time. They have been inseparable ever since.

“Good god, it’s been a while. You look fucking fantastic.” Javy slides over to you with that Hollywood-trained grin. He wraps you in a hug and notes Jake’s jacket in amusement. “Staking his claim huh?”

You look down at the jacket, heat crawling up your neck. “No, I was just cold.”

“Mhmm, I’m sure that’s why,” Javy says, shooting Jake a look, which is rewarded with a satisfying elbow to his best friend’s gut.

The after party is even better. It’s the first time you let loose in a while. The champagne does not stop flowing, mainly from the waiters into Javy’s hands before he forces them into yours with an encouragement to relax. “You’re off the clock,” he coaxes you, “try to enjoy some of the fun that comes with this job.”

This man is a bad influence.

Sure enough, by the end of the night, you do feel lighter. Much lighter. You’re not stressing whether Jake is doing well or keeping up apperances. You trust him. He knows how to handle himself.

Javy has you on the dance floor, spinning you around as you laugh. When you catch Jake’s eye across the room, you find him already watching you with a twinkle in his eye. The music is intoxicating, playing throwback after throwback that has the crowd piling onto the floor.

At some point, Javy gets dragged away by another friend and a warm hand settles on your hip. Your fight or flight instincts would usually kick in, if it weren’t for the fact that you recognized the touch.

“Finally decided to join the fun crowd?” You tease over your shoulder, eyes blinking up at him.

Jake hums, ducking his head to graze his lips against the shell of your ear as he stands behind you, hands on your hips. “You look like you’re having too much fun.”

“No such thing.”

“No? Letting Javy hold you like that?” His fingers tighten. It’s still a teasing touch, but there’s a possessive undertone to it that makes you shiver.

“Javy was merely being a gentleman and dancing with me. Unlike some broody rockstars who end up in a corner, sulking while nursing his room-temperature beer.”

Jake chuckles and the sound sends delicious ripples up your spine. “My girl,” you swear you hear him whisper. Perhaps you really have drunken too much.

By the end of the night, your body is buzzing off adrenaline and endorphins. The alcohol has mostly weaned off as you slip into the back of the SUV. Joel throws you an amused glance as Jake only shakes his head and slides in behind you. Thankfully, Jake doesn’t live very far, which means the ride back is relatively short.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t entirely disappointed that the day has come to an end. It’s been busy, busy, busy recently, all professional schedules that you haven’t really gotten the chance to spend time with your friend Jake.

“Joel, why don’t you head off for the night? I can take the car from here.”

Jake’s instruction has you whipping around to face him with a questioning look. Unsurprisingly, Joel quickly agrees and bids the two of you goodnight.

“You’re going to drive me home?”

“We are going for a drive.”

The two of you move to the front seat. You’ve still got enough energy thrumming in your veins that you wordlessly agree. Jake takes the highway downtown, city lights across the water smudging into streaks in the dead of night. Even in a city like this, the kind that never sleeps, there are many winding paths that end up deserted at this hour. Jake finds a pier to dock by, far from prying eyes but with a view that still steals the air from your lungs.

“You would always come here before recording your next big album,” you murmur thoughtfully, reminiscent of a time not too far out of reach.

“You introduced me to it,” he supplies, “it brings me a lot of peace. Same way you do.”

A soft snort leaves your lips. “Yeah, well, now you just come bulldozing through my apartment to work off those nerves.”

“Those cookies you make certainly are no help when I’m already running on a high.”

“I always make those to share but you clean them out.”

The two of you bicker for a while, a push and pull that feels all too familiar. It’s a shared language, one that raises questions about how well you really work professionally in the eyes of others, but one that you know is a comfort for the two of you. A normal routine that keeps both of you grounded.

“I am thankful, you know,” Jake says after a moment of silence, “for you.”

“I bet you are.”

His lips twitch as he tosses you an expression of feigned irritation. “I’m serious. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“You give me too much credit. You have all the talent and the passion, I’m just really good at organizing calendars.”

Jake reaches up, a firm hand sliding around the back of your neck and tangling in the air at the base of your head. He watches you closely, watches the way your pupils dilate at the act, the way your throat moves as you swallow the bundle of nerves trapped.

“You—” he pauses, inhales sharply, “just— I don’t know how you do it. You’ve completely bewitched me. I’d do anything you told me to do, you know. Anything at all.”

Anything. That’s a big, bold word. Anything means everything. Anything feels like a challenge. A temptation. The air is thick with tension that compresses your chest, but you can only think of one thing.

“Kiss me.”

Jake is on you before you can finish the order, his mouth warm on yours. His lips are soft where they steal the breath from your lungs, swallows it up and claims it as his own. The groan that vibrates through his heart goes straight into yours, a sound you keep as yours. “Fuck,” he mumbles against your lips, “been waiting to do that all night.”

You don’t get a word in because Jake doesn’t once release you from his grasp. His fingers burrow deeper into the trenches of your hair, his mouth slants across yours hot with a swipe of his tongue along the seam of your lips. You open up readily to him, welcoming him to taste him on your own. The shift lever digs slightly into your stomach but you can’t care less, not when Jake tastes like every dream you’ve ever had. Every dream you’ve latched onto since you were young and foolish meeting for the first time.

“Need—” he chokes, “need more of you. Come to the backseat with me. Need to hold you.”

The two of you move quick, wasting only a second to scramble to the space you have occupied over the years. There has always been chasm between you, this invisible line drawn where the two of you work. Jake on the right and you on the left, always hovering but never touching. That line has been crossed, slashed, and eviscerated when Jake drags you onto his lap, your knees on the leather, and continues to mouth down your neck.

His touch is mind-numbing, the inebriating cocktail of firm and gentle. His hands slide up your back to draw you even closer as he eases the flimsy straps of your dress down your shoulders. His lips drag down your skin, teeth grazing and nipping to leave behind traces of him, ones that will remain after the magic of the night fizzes out.

“Jake, please,” you whimper. You don’t even know what you’re asking for but Jake seems to understand as he laps at your neck, his fingers peeling away your sticky bra to cast them aside. He rolls your pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb, pinching and pulling in a way that has you arching your back into his hands.

“So needy,” he whispers with the kind of hunger that signals his readiness to devour you. “So fucking soft. Always knew you’d be so soft.”

A breathless laugh escapes you. “What are you on about, Seresin?”

He leans back, dark eyes taking you in. They rake over your figure with the kind of intensity that makes you shift away from him. He doesn’t let you run, not when this is what he and you have been waiting for — have been building up to — all this time.

“You’re always so tough, tongue like a knife. But in bed, fuck, I knew you’d be soft. Rounded corners, no edges. You’d be sweet, would make noises that would stick to my brain for weeks. Months.”

Your lips part, a small squeak escaping.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have you so pliant with me, like honey on my skin. Darlin’, I couldn’t stop picturing what you would look like coming apart in my hands.”

The words catch in your throat, twenty six letters out there and none of them could piece together into a single syllable. Your bad habits kick in, a defense mechanism. “Awfully confident of you to think I’d come apart in your hands.”

“Sweetheart, you know you will. You know you want this. As much as you’ll come apart in mine, I’ve been completely undone by yours.”

Before you can think of another retort to ruin the atmosphere, Jake captures your lips again, nipping on your bottom lip hungrily as his tongue delves back into your mouth. Your body seems to have a mind of its own. With your hands on his shoulders, you press down against him, against the bulge growing underneath his slacks.

Jake’s groan is guttural as he brings his lips to your neck again, teeth sinking in deeper this time. “Fuck, baby, I’m not going to last if you keep doing that.”

Come apart indeed. The only layers separating you are your flimsy panties — lace which means it’s practically nonexistent — and his pants. You wonder if he goes commando underneath, he’s mentioned many times that he hates wearing briefs. The thought makes you salivate like a dog, makes you want to unzip his pants with your teeth and take him between your lips.

Jake’s hands drag up the weight of your skirt to your hips, lifting it enough to see the baby blue underwear underneath. An expletive dirties his tongue as he takes you in. “I’m gonna keep these,” he murmurs, more so to himself. He watches as you grind on him, juices leaking through the thin layer and dampening the cotton of his pants.

His head lands back against the headrest with a thud as he lets you take your time, lets you enjoy yourself with the delicious friction. It’s a small flame inside of you, quickly festering into something bigger, warmer. The heat that licks your skin and threatens to burn — and you’ll gladly accept the sacrifice.

“I need to take this off,” Jake grunts, halting your hips just enough to slip the material down your legs. He catches them between his fingers and stares for a moment before he brings it up to his face, breathing in deep. The sight makes you clench between your legs. “Smells so sweet,” he whispers before tucking it into the front of his jacket, the pale string dangling from his pocket.

“I want your cock,” you say, honest and braver than you expected to be.

Jake’s eyes flare with surprise, but he’s ready and willing. He gently eases you up enough for him to tug his own length — no underwear, you pleasantly note — out of his trousers. His cock sits rock hard, bumping lightly against his stomach.

“Lay back on the seats, Seresin,” you urge him, fruitlessly attempting to push him back.

Not a lick of amusement in his eyes. He grips your hair again, tongue darting out to wet his lips. The slight sting has you squeezing around air again. “When you’re wet like this on top of me, when your pussy’s dripping all over me, you call me Jake. You call me by my name, sweetheart.”

Shit. Your legs tighten, clamping together around his thighs, and he notices. Of course, he does.

“Come on, say it,” he coaxes. Once again, gentle and firm.

“Jake.”

“That’s my girl,” he groans and finally settles back into the seats. He pushes a lever to shift the seats further back, allowing him to still get a good perspective on you as you begin to roll your hips on top of him.

No barriers. Skin on skin. He watches in the darkness as your folds swallow his length, sliding wet and slick over his cock. It burrows deeper between your legs, but never sticks all the way in. His tip nudges against your clit every time you do so and you find yourself sinking deeper against him, palms flat against his chest as you rub yourself on him. Jake assists you with his hands on your hips, moving you on top of him like he’s using you for friction. Like a toy simply there for his pleasure.

“Feels so good, darlin’. So wet for me. Look at your pussy drooling all over my cock.”

“Jake, fuck,” you curse. His filthy words do nothing to ease your growing need, that wanton need spreading through every nerve in your body. “S-so good, you’re so hard. So thick.”

The filthy sound of your cunt sliding along his cock is heady, a soundtrack that you can hear on loop inside your mind. A reminder of this night. 

“I know, baby. Feels so good. Shit, you’re fucking unbelievable. Cunt’s so slick.”

“I want you inside. Want you to fill me up.”

Jake licks his teeth, jaw clenching. “Got no condom on me, honey. I wasn’t exactly planning on this.”

You could cry. Your stomach is wrung tight with need. A desire to be filled. Your pussy is pulsing to demand more, more, more. 

“Cum on my cock like this, I’ll get you off. I promise.”

Unfortunately, now that you have planted the seedling of him sliding his thick cock into you, you can’t imagine finishing in any other way. You can’t imagine anything better in that moment. You’ve been consistent with your birth control, and you know Jake’s latest check-up came out clean. 

“We’re good. I’m good to go, we can fuck. I’m on the pill and we’re both clean,” you babble, lifting yourself up to position his cock at your entrance.

Jake’s fingers dig into your hips to stop you, one of his hands wrapping around his cock to squeeze at the base. A vein in his neck strains as he struggles to keep it together. His voice is breathless when he says, “Darlin’, we can just— we can stop here, head back if you want to fuck. I want to be safe with you.”

You know. You know you can. Your head knows that, but your heart and the second heartbeat between your legs refuses it. 

“I want you,” you emphasize. “I want you right now.” 

Jake looks at you, slight worry in the murkiness of his eyes. “Are you sure? I can still get you to cum like this. You know your pussyjob’s still going to get me cumming all over this pretty dress.”

Jesus, where does he get the confident to say those words so easily? The words that light every fibre of your being on fire.

“I’m sure. I want you inside.”

“You’re going to kill me,” Jake moans. It’s almost cute seeing him like this, so obedient. So sweet on you. This big, tough rockstar undone by your hands, by the sweet little hole between your legs.

You raise yourself up and positions his cock at your entrance before slowly inching down on him. Jake’s hands tightening on your hips stop you.

“What?” You snap with annoyance tinging your voice.

“So fuckin’ tight, baby,” he practically whimpers. “Go easy on me. I’ve been hard all week. Been thinking about this for far too long. Not even my imagination could do this justice.”

You nearly cum on the spot from that pitiful sound. You didn’t think it would be your thing to have Jake so cute and needy underneath you, but you could get used to this.

“You’re so wet, Christ. Your greedy little pussy’s taking me in so well, darlin’. Look at her swallowing me right up. You’re so tight but it slides in so, so easy. Splitting you open like this.”

And he’s not wrong. The burn is prominent between your legs, his cock stretching out your folds and your insides, molding you to the shape of his shaft. You have to ease yourself on it even with the natural lubrication, sinking an inch down before rising and then coming back down. Each time, you drive him a little deeper into you. Each time, Jake slams his head harder against the seat.

When he is buried to the hilt, you ready yourself to ride him properly but Jake stops you again. Irritation prickles your skin. “What now?”

“i don’t—” he chokes and coughs, “feels so good, honey. I need you to go slow on me.”

“So demanding, S—” It’s your turn to pause, “Jake. You’re not in charge anymore, you know. Not like this. Not when your cock is so hard, your balls so full, when you’ve been waiting for me.”

Jake spits out another profanity. “I don’t even want to know where you learned to talk like that. To take cock like this. I might kill any man I find who’s been with you. Don’t want to picture you like this with anyone else.”

Your lips curve into a slow smirk. “So damn possessive.”

“Damn straight,” he grunts, “you’re mine.”

That claim is all you need to get you going. You sink yourself over and over again on him, agonizingly slow just like he wants. Regret simmers in those irises when he realizes the painstaking pace you’re making him endure may be worse. It’s a torturous feeling, the heat between your legs growing until it blazes into a heat that curls your toes, has you gasping for oxygen.

Jake continues to narrate, mouthing off filthy phrases to encourage the burn where the two of you are joined, the tight coil of pleasure in your stomach.

“Sweet, greedy cunt taking my entire cock so well.”

“Stretching my girl out around my dick, going to shape you to me.”

“I’m going to cum so deep inside you, sweetheart, you’ll feel it dripping for days.”

The words do as much for him as they do for you. You lean back, hands on his knees as you continue riding him. The new angle has him gasping, hips rutting up to meet yours unconsciously. You take him in deeper, tilts his cock in a way that makes him whine pathethically underneath you. Your tits bounce as you pick up the pace, as you ride him harder and faster. It’s like you have the sun between your legs with the way your entire body burns.

“Fuck, darlin’, I’m going to cum too fast like this. L-let me fuck you instead.”

“No, I like you like this. Big tough rockstar squirming underneath me like a virgin.”

Jake’s head smacks against the back. “The mouth on you.”

“You haven’t even had my mouth on you.”

“I don’t think I’ll survive that,” he offers you a wry smile, which quickly evaporates into a gasp and a groan when you roll your hips just right on top of him. “I don’t think I’ll survive this. Christ, your cunt is fucking perfect.”

Your mouth twitches into a proud grin as Jake begins to match your pace. He’s no longer being passive, His thumb zeroes in on your clit as he leans forward to catch your nipple between his teeth. His hands roam everywhere, mapping every inch of your curves like he’s commiting them to memory. It’s all too much. You can feel him in you, on you. Everywhere.

That cologne you love so much infiltrates your senses along with the unquestionable smell of sex. Combined with the sound of slapping skin, your ass meeting his thighs, his cock slickly slipping inside you, you feel your legs squeezing around him.

“Jake, I’m gonna— please—”

“I know, honey, me too. Me too. Fuck. Cum for me. Want you to cum all over me.”

And you deliver the final blow. “I want you to cum inside me.”

His hips stutter as you feel warmth paint your insides, triggering your own release as your orgasm wracks through your body. For a moment, you swear you see stars on the ceiling of the car, hot-white flashes of satisfying lust pulsing through you as he continues to spill into you. You’re full — cock still buried deep inside you, his cum warm and leaking from where you’re joined.

Jake’s chest rises, his pants completely ruined with a mix of your juices and his cum dripping. “Fuck,” he mutters, “that was—” You only manage a nod. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

You let out a little breathless giggle as he swipes your hair away from your sweat-lined face. “I knew that.”

But then Jake is soft again, the hardness in his gaze chips away into something molten. He cups your jaw, delicate this time, and draws you in to kiss you one more time. Gone is the desperation, only velvet desire left in its wake.

“Let’s go home. I need to take care of you again, need to make sure you know I can make you cum.”

“Once wasn’t enough?”

“Once will never be enough with you.” 

–

You’re slow to stir to consciousness. The sunrise washes the room in shifting glows of oranges and pinks. The pale silk sheets underneath your fingertips absorb every inch of color, gliding along your naked, aching limbs like the sun is carressing you awake. With a cat-like stretch, you let your eyes flutter open to the sight of a familiar room. A familiar room that isn’t yours.

Fuck.

Muffling a groan into the extremely comfortable pillow (one you had purchased for him as a gift after he complained about the crick in his neck), you begin to question what your life has come to. You’ve officially, royally, single-handedly risked your entire livelihood on what could potentially be a one-night stand with your boss.

Your boss who fucks anything walking and breathing. Your boss who fucks everyone, but no one that looks like you.

Your boss who fucked you last night like he didn’t want anyone else. 

Despite it being what you’ve always wanted — and more, you can’t help but stew on the promises he made last night. Promises to satisfy you more than once because once will never be enough with you, and the fact that he over-delivered on it, evidenced by the twinge between your legs.

The sheets next to you are cool to touch which means Jake’s been gone for a bit. Is this his way of subtly kicking you out? You’ve had to remove many women from his previous apartment in the early stages of his career. You know his tactics. This could be one of them.

The slam of the front door has you jolting, scrambling to find something — anything — to wear. Because if Jake Seresin is about to give you the boot, you would rather walk out of here with your head held high, preferably fully dressed. Your fingers catch onto the fabric of a t-shirt, one of his. Better this than nothing.

His footsteps crescendo as they approach his bedroom and you quickly, instinctively drag your fingers through your hair to hopefully tame whatever nest sits on top of it.

Jake walks in looking absolutely… delicious. Fuck. He’s got running shorts on and a dry-fit shirt that clings to his every muscle. Sweat rolls down his face, cheeks flushed from the cold and the run he must’ve been on. A smile stretches across his lips when he sees you still sitting in his rumpled sheets, gaze flicking to the graphic on the shirt you’re wearing. His smile tips up just a tad higher. 

“Morning, darlin’.”

“Morning,” you clear your throat, nervously picking at the duvet. It’s too high quality to have any loose threads for you to focus on.

He hands you a warm cup and a small box. The smell of an English breakfast wafts into the air, soothing your exhausted soul. You flip the lid open on the box, finding your favorite strawberry danish from your favorite bakery, Luca’s, which is twenty blocks away from here. 

“Figured you could use a pick me up. Some sugar to get you going in the morning.”

The gesture leaves you dumbstruck. “Right. Thank you. This is… nice.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t add any sugar into your tea though. I know you like it black and freshly brewed. I tried the new café around the block, reviews say their tea is very good.”

You feel like a parrot when you say, “Right. Thank you.” You glance at the digital clock on his nightstand then at the pastry longingly. “I should get going though. I need to get ready for work.”

“Stay. I have some clothes here for you, all business appropriate, I promise.”

Once again, you are left without words. “What? Why would you have clothes for me here?”

Jake wets his lips, looking almost nervous for the first time in a very long time since you’ve known him. You don’t think you’ve seen this look since the first time he met Paul McCartney; now they’re on a first-name, texting basis. His hand reaches up, running through the wet strands of his hair. “In case you ever slept over. I wanted to have it ready.”

“Oh.”

“Not just for— you know,” he blushes, “just if you ever need it. I asked my stylist to pick out some things she thinks you’d wear so they should be the right size and style. If it’s not then I can always drive you back to your place.”

Sure enough, when you pad over to his closet, you find a rack all dedicated to you. Blouses, shirts, skirts and pants, dresses. A variety of things you would certainly wear for work.

Jake sidles up behind you, his palm circling your waist to press against your stomach. Press you back against him. “Now that that problem’s solved, how about we test out my shower pressure? I heard the new fixture is divine.”

“I ordered you that new fixture,” you swallow.

He leans down, tucks his nose into your neck and smiles. “I know.”

“We don’t have time—”

“I’ll be fast. I promise.”

You’re quickly learning that Jake always keeps his promises.

—

Since you’re already at Jake’s, you do spend a little bit of time getting yourself ready. Jake’s bathroom is stunning and you rarely ever get to use it, despite his insistence for you to move in with him. It’s something he has pushed for for a while. “We practically see each other twenty-four-seven. It saves you rent and time.”

However, given the current predicament of your years-long feelings and your need for some separation to hopefully shrink said feelings, you never said yes — and it hurt you to turn down that gorgeous second bedroom he has.

Jake stays out of your way for the most part, which means you slather yourself in the very expensive, very nice floral soap he has for you. It means you’re primping yourself properly with the makeup he had gotten ready for you too, a complete duplicate set of your own (you have no idea how he knows). You’ve got one of his recent podcast episodes playing in the background, mainly for you to have some calming white noise to ease your jitters, and partially for you to vet the interviewers and Jake’s answers. Jake is always professional, always charming, so you’re less concerned about him. It’s the podcast hosts you’re usually worried about.

As you’re dabbing on your concealer, you listen closely to the words.

“So, Jake, you’re usually never out without a girl on your arm, at least for the better part of your career. It’s been a while since the press have spotted you with one. Anyone special you’re hiding?”

His chuckle crackles through the speakers. “No, nobody like that.”

“Oh, come on, what’s your longest relationship to date? Two days?”

Your lips twist in annoyance as you glare at your phone. What a stupid ass question. You make a mental note to write off this podcast for any future conversations.

“Probably fifteen years.” His answer has your hand stopping, face frowning. Fifteen?

“Fifteen?” The host echoes your unsaid question.

“Well, relationship in the loosest sense of the word. My manager’s been with me from the start. She’s the only one who can really keep me on my toes. Only one I would want around for that long.” Your heart flutters traitorously with his words. It’s platonic, of course it is. This episode was recorded months ago.

The host lets out a low whistle. “Oh, wow, is this what I think it means?”

“No, it’s—”

His words are cut off and you look away from the mirror to find Jake standing there, his finger on your phone to pause the podcast. A red tint sprawls across his neck and face. Did he take another hot shower? Sit in his in-house sauna? 

“Why are you listening to that?”

“Because I haven’t listened to it?”

“You hate podcasts. You never listen to the ones I do,” Jake argues.

Your brows pinch. “Yes, but I need to start fielding which interviewers you should still go to. With your next album, I want to be prepared. What if I feed you to the dogs again? Remember Arnie from that one annoying radio station?”

“Yes, nightmare. Never again.”

“Exactly.

Jake coughs, “This one was fine. It’s not worth listening to.”

You pause, eyeliner in hand as you look at him. His shifty behavior. His eyes looking at anything and everything but you. “Are you high? Are you on drugs again? Because if I need to hold an intervention again—”

“I’m not! Don’t we have interviews to get to? Hurry it up, let’s go.”

Joel doesn’t say a word when he sees you walk out with Jake, but you note the flicker of surprise. You swallow a wince because this is part of why you were so hesitant about staying. Joel usually picks you up first and then Jake. You had sent him a text earlier today to go straight to Jake’s. Lo and behold, you are the one to come strutting out first.

The day should have been easy breezy. It’s a couple of interviews. One minor one with a small influencer, some event in which he is forced to give away a prize (neither of you were informed of this ahead of time) so Jake had to whip out a pen in his pocket and offer it up. It looks bad. You wince, he notices, so he immediately throws in a dinner on him at the most exclusive restaurant in town.

The second one is for yet another late night show, but it’s got a bigger audience so you’re hoping Jake is on his best behavior. Even if the host can be a bit challenging, oftentimes going off script, he has too large of an audience for Jake to be making snarky comments. You’re already biting your nail on the way there and Jake has to drag your hand away, keeping it in his and giving it a squeeze.

“Trust me, will you?”

“I do. It’s him I don’t trust.”

The lines on his face levels out slightly. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

You breathe a little easier. Jake brings your hand to his lips, brushing them against the back. You may have swooned a little, heart dancing against your ribcage. However, when you look up and catch Joel’s eyes in the rearview mirror, you immediately pull your hand away, pretending to pick at a piece of lint on your dress.

Jake frowns at that, a questioning look on his face as he reaches out again, but you shake your head, gaze flicking towards the front again where Joel has now refocused on the road ahead.

All in all, you were doing just fine until you step backstage and see none other than Bradley. Oh god. Why would he be here? This is a small thing. Nothing you haven’t handled before. Did you mess up scheduling? Was he here to deliver bad news?

It is only when Bradley turns to the two of you with a lazy, pleased grin that you let out an exhale. Bradley gives Jake a firm shake and surprisingly wrangles you into a hug. You blink at him when he pulls away. “You’re a fuckin’ genius. I have to give you my flowers. If Jake doesn’t give you that bonus this year, please allow me to.”

“She’ll get her bonus,” Jake snaps, resentment clouding his tone.

Bradley disregards his snap before you can chide Jake to behave. “They want you on set to test the mic and also do any makeup touchups. I’ll keep your lovely manager company in the meantime.”

Jake looks far from pleased with the idea, glance flying to you in a desperate last attempt. Like a plea for you to come with him. You smile tight, shaking your head. Professional. On set. You’re not some puppy dog non-girlfriend following him around. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you and I’ll be watching your taping.”

With his lips thinned into a stubborn line, Jake does stalk off, guided by one of the stage managers. Bradley spends most of the time letting you know that he’s ready to green light whatever project Jake does next.

“Whatever his heart desires,” he says. Christmas came early this year.

Jake’s performance goes off without a hitch, and then he moves into the interview portion. You’re able to sneak into a corner by the stage right next to Bradley; apparently being the CEO of a major label means he can do whatever he wants.

Jake looks good. Too good. Good enough to eat. The studio lights give his hair that golden glow, his skin looks clean, face refreshed. Then your mind flashes to the scenes from last night. Jake above you, hands pinning down your wrists. His front flush against your back, his cock sliding deep inside you as his palm covers your mouth. Then it’s this morning when he’s on his knees, mouth on your cunt, your leg thrown over his shoulder, and your hands tangled in his wet hair.

Embarrassment sneaks up on you and you can feel your face warm. You press your hands against your cheeks, hoping to cool yourself down. Bradley cocks an eyebrow at you, as if to question if you’re okay. You look even more sheepish as you nod.

What are you doing? Get it together. You’re at work.

When you look up again at Jake, his eyes are trained on you. There’s an unhappy twitch to the way his lips sit that makes you tilt your head in question. However, the interview begins before he can respond.

They start with small chatter about his new song, Jake joking about how he’s a huge Christmas nerd, mostly because he gets to splurge on his nieces and nephews. It plays well with the audience that coos at the most recent picture of Jake with his family back home. You wonder if his mom has called yet. Christmas is so close after all.

Then the interviewer pivots into additional questions, which isn’t out of the ordinary, but still makes you stiffen. “So, this Christmas, you’re known for joining and throwing the wildest parties. Anything exciting planned for this year?”

“No, nothing too out of the ordinary. I’ll probably end up drunk at Paul’s again or something. Don’t let his age fool you, he throws the most insane socials.”

“So no one special you’re spending it with then? No one to cozy up with you by the fireplace? No romantic dinners?”

Your heart skips. His eye twitches. “Christmas is a time for people with someone they love in their lives.”

“And that’s not you?”

He pauses, you hold your breath. “That’s not me. Not right now. So, nobody special for now. Same as always.”

“Well, that’s a damn shame. I know there are many ladies across America who would love to keep you company. Isn’t that right?”

The crowd cheers in response but you can’t hear it past the roaring in your ears.

It shouldn’t be surprising. Just because you’re not aware of anyone Jake has slept with recently doesn’t mean that it isn’t happening. You’re not together all the time. You’re not his type. You’re not… special. Last night was meant to stay a memory. This morning was a fluke.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself to tape together the crack in your heart. Slap a bandaid on for now. You were a fool to even hold onto that minute chance that your feelings would be reciprocated.

But you’re a big girl. You can pick up the pieces and move on. You just can’t make the same mistake twice.

After the segment is done, you’re waiting for Jake backstage with Bradley. You ask him about his holiday plans and, in all honesty, you’re barely listening to his answers. Something about the Bahamas and visiting his godfather. Your eyes are searching the hallway for Jake, impatiently wondering what he’s doing that’s taking him so long.

So then you excuse yourself to find him.

It seems your pattern the past couple of days is to find ways to split your heart in two. When you find Jake, he’s talking to one of the PAs in a corner. He’s laughing — and you know that laugh, it’s a genuine one. She’s looking up at him in awe, a simpering smile on her face. She looks just like his type, like all the girls he has been with before.

This is it, isn’t it? You’re being replaced. 

Then again, you were never his to begin with.

Be his manager. That’s who he wants. Who he needs. The one that has been with him for fifteen years. The only one he wants around for a long time.

In the car leaving the studio, Jake seems to be in a much better mood. He’s chipper, almost buzzing with energy as he slides closer to you. His hand settles on your thigh covered by only a flimsy pair of stockings. He leans close, lips grazing your ear. “Come over. Our schedule’s done for the day. We can relax at home.”

Home. His. Not yours.

“Can’t wait to have you again, I’ll bend you over the kitchen counter, maybe press you up against my windows,” he murmurs. His words send heat straight between your legs.

You and your stupid hormones. They go into a frenzy around him. But your heart shatters with the confirmation; all he wants is a body to warm his bed. His apartment. Whatever fucking surface is available. You’re there, you’re convenient.

It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know how you feel. He doesn’t know that his proposition only tears open the gaping wound inside your chest.

Your hand peels his off your thigh and he stares at you, partially astonished. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jake.”

“Oh,” he says, quiet. “We can also just watch a movie. Or if you wanted to go out for dinner, I can get us a reservation at that restaurant you like. The one with the spicy curry. Then we can go home after. I’ll make sure to take care of you again. I’ll make you feel good, darlin’.”

The nickname used to be cute, used to have butterflies floating inside your stomach. Now, you feel uneasy. Like an itch you can’t quite scratch.

It’s a tempting offer, of course, but you need to get a better hold of your self-restraint. “No, I’m pretty tired. I’m going to head home.”

“Right, what—”

“Listen,” you interrupt, breath trembling in your throat, “you’re performing at the ball drop for new year’s this year. I’ve cleared your schedule up until then. Give your parents a call, maybe you can head home to Texas for a bit and see them. They should be back from Italy.”

Jake licks his lips, worried eyes searching your face for something, you’re not sure what. “You could come with me, I think they’d like to see you too.”

“You should go alone. It’s time to be with your loved ones right? Enjoy your time off while you can. I’ll catch you for new year’s, yeah?”

The car pulls up right in front of your apartment building. Your hand grasps the handle but Jake catches you before you can slip out. You turn to face him again. “Hey, what about your Christmas thing with your friends? It’s in a couple of days right?”

Your face feels tight when you smile at him. He notices this, of course he does. “You don’t have to worry about it. I know it’s not your thing, so you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. You’re free to obviously but I figured you’d prefer to go home and see your family while you can.”

Before he can stop you again, you swing the door open and step out. You offer him one last smile.

“Goodnight, Jake. I’ll see you soon.”

—

The preparation for your Christmas dinner with your friends keeps you busy. It keeps your mind off Jake and that look on his face right before you leave him. It helps you stop yourself from constantly thinking about the way Jake felt between your legs, buried deep in your thighs, especially when he does that thing with his tongue—

“Jesus, you’re burning that shit,” Natasha mutters.

You look down and, sure enough, there lies your brussels sprouts. Rest in peace. “Crap. I don’t know if I have more.”

“A couple of people are bringing vegetables, you’ll be fine. You already prepared more than enough.” She’s not wrong. You have prime rib roasting in the oven with your potatoes and greens. There is already a gorgeous charcuterie board sitting on your table with a wide array of cheeses and meets. In the fridge, you’ve got your own concoction of a Christmas jungle juice (heavily spiked given your state of mind when mixing it). Then there is the roast lamb legs, mashed potatotes, and green bean casserole sitting on your table.

People start trickling in shortly and you find yourself caught up playing host, which works well to keep your head and hands busy.

Another knock on the door has you wiping your hands on your apron, now filthy with all sorts of stains from the various sauces you’ve cooked up. When you swing your door open, you’re more than surprised to find Jake standing there.

“Jake! What— I thought you went back to Texas.”

He squirms a little, nose red from the cold, a few massive boxes in his hands, all labeled Luca’s. “I’m leaving in a couple of days, staying for a few days before I fly back for the new year.”

“Oh, well, uhm, come in,” you gesture him inside, opening the door much wider to help him take a couple of the boxes. “You brought a lot.”

“I wasn’t sure what people liked or the allergies, so I got a wide variety.”

A wide variety indeed. He has pies and cakes and tarts and even some gluten free and vegan options. To say your friends are surprised by his thoughtful gesture is an understatement. They openly gawk at the dessert selection. It warms your heart to see your worlds colliding and for people to see Jake in this light you’ve always perceived him in.

While you fuss around with keeping cups filled, plates full, and people entertained, Jake seems to find his own footing in conversations with your friends. They’re impressed by how down-to-earth he is, some going as far as letting you know that you should bring him around more often. A small smile stays on your lips the entire evening. 

Even when you’re not with him, he’s constantly within your line of sight. And you in his. When you look over at him, his eyes immediately shift to you. A question in them, asking if you need something. Anything.

You only shake your head with a smile.

The night goes on for much longer than you expect. Everyone’s tipsy, stumbling around your home with giggles and singing Christmas carols all in different keys. It is only in the wee hours of the morning that the last of them finally spill out into their respective cabs. Despite many of them insisting they could help you clean, you tell them not to worry their pretty little heads and go on home.

Only one doesn’t listen.

“Jake, I’ll be fine. I’m just going to stick everything in the dishwasher.”

“You have so much trash here. Let me at least do that. You hate taking out the trash.”

You do, but you’re also stubborn and you’re a good host and he’s a guest. “It’s fine. I’ll do it. Can you please just—”

But Jake is already drifting around the room, collecting empty and half-filled paper plates and cups to toss into a huge trash bag. He piles up two of them before taking them outside. In the meantime, you cave into his persistence and focus on rinsing off your dishes and stacking them in your dishwasher. The ones you cannot wash, you shove up the sleeves of your sweater and get to work.

The two of you are a well-oiled machine, chipping away at the mess bit by bit until you’re left standing side by side by the sink, rinsing what’s left of your dishes.

“Thanks for staying and helping me clean. You really didn’t have to.”

The end of his lips tug up into a wry smile. “I wanted to. Only way I could get you to talk to me, right?”

You flinch before you can stop it. So maybe you have been avoiding him the last couple of days. It was part intentional (yes, you couldn’t bring yourself to properly talk to him aside from a few emails about work that were urgent for him to screen through) and part accidental (grocery shopping really takes out your energy).

“Sorry,” you mumble, “it’s been hectic with everything going on here.”

“Is that really it? That why you ran away from me that night?”

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, instead focusing on how the suds slide off your hands and down into the sink. It’s now or never. You want to keep working with him. You can’t constantly have this tension looming over your shoulder, chasing you down like a ghost that will never disappear. So you swallow your pride, close off the tap, and turn to him.

“Look, I just wanted to say no hard feelings. We fucked, we can be adults about it. I’m not going to hold you to anything. We can forget about it.”

“Forget about it? What?”

“I know you probably haven’t been with anyone in a while and I was just convenient—”

“Convenient?”

“All I’m trying to say is that I can’t do this. I’m not a one-night stand kind of person.”

“Well, neither am I—” he stops, bites his tongue, “Not anymore. Not for a while now.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. The fight or flight instincts kick in again and all you want to do is escape. It’s a loathesome feeling — love. Fear. You’ve never been one to cower in the face of a challenge but this is a long-winded battle you’re tired of fighting. Perhaps the only solution is to wave that white flag.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Jake.”

“Tell me what I have to do here. I-I don’t know what’s gonna make you look at me properly. I’m trying— I’ve been trying. I cut out all the bad. I wanted to leave all the good — be good — for you. I’ve been clean, I promise. Just tell me what I need to do to get you to fall in love with me.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. Your heart seizes in your chest, almost as if it’s stopped working entirely. Your lungs seem to have malfunctioned, refusing to let you breathe, Let you think. Your brain is going on haywire, each nerve shooting off signals in every direction. Purposeless, frantic.

“What?” You squeak, “Why would you want me to be in love with you?”

An exhausted sigh slides past his lips. “Because you are the fucking love of my life. And to be honest, despite everything, we have had a wonderful life, don’t you think? I want to do better with you. I want you to be proud to have me on your arm. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful and smart and devastatingly perfect. I know I have some ways to go but tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.”

Your brain is still struggling to catch up. The words are there. The meaning is there. It’s clear as day. But that part of your mind that’s listened to you and your greedy desires for so long, all those daydreams about a happily ever after, asks you to doubt. It asks you to question whether you’re really understanding this correctly.

“You’re in love with me?” Your voice is quiet, timid. Like you’re asking a question to the wind that will never answer. Because if it doesn’t answer, you’re still allowed to hope.

Jake shoves his fingers into his hair again, eyes looking at you desperately. Blue melting into green. An emerald lake rippling with a quake. “Darlin’, I was on the phone with my mom earlier today. Talked about you. How good you are to me. She’s known all this time. She told me to get my head out of my goddamn ass and just tell you. That’s fuckin’ terrifying, because I’ve always had you. Even when I had nothing, I had you. And I can’t lose you.”

“But this doesn’t make any sense,” you choke out. “You— you don’t like me?”

“Of course, I fucking like you. I just told you I’m in love with you.”

“No, I mean, you don’t like people who look like me.”

“What are you on about? I don’t think I could’ve been more obvious than last night when I couldn’t even get my dick down when you were scrolling through emails in the middle of the night after we fucked. Was it not obvious?”

“No! You literally do not date nor do you fuck anyone who looks like me. You were even flirting with that girl after your taping!”

“What? What girl?”

“The PA,” you spit out. 

“The PA—” it clicks then and he softens, just a little bit. “Darlin’.” The scowl remains on your face. Stubborn. 

Then he pulls something out of his pocket. A gift-wrapped box. It’s nothing big. The package is light when he hands it to you.

“Merry early Christmas,” he smiles. 

You almost want to snap at him for inappropriate timing. As you begin to delicately unwrap the box, you ready yourself to give him a piece of your mind about time and place. But then you see the name of the designer on the box and your brain stops whirring for a moment. Your trembling fingers flip open the lid. 

“I saw that bracelet on that PA. Thought it would be cute, something you’d like. You mentioned wanting an investment piece and she told me people like this one.” Jake picks it up from the box, the delicate chain dangling from his fingers as he wraps it around your wrist. The clasp clicks into place, the gold shining underneath your kitchen lights. “I was just asking her about it. That’s all.”

“You—” You can’t even have it in you to be upset anymore. “You need to work on your timing,” you say weakly. “Also, it still doesn’t explain why you’ve never been with anyone that looks like me. Everyone you date is a complete opposite.”

“Because I’d rather have you or nothing at all. I haven’t— shit, I haven’t been with anyone in years. All those rumors, those pictures of me leaving with those girls — they’re all fake. I left with them but I never went home with any of them. I did it to stay in the public eye, so I could stay successful. So you’d stay with me; god knows you’d be better off with a fucking teenager making stupid pop hits by now. But I’m selfish, I’m so fuckin’ selfish when it comes to you, sweetheart.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Dead. So tell me, darlin’. Tell me what I have to do because you’ve got my heart at your mercy.”

When the words leave your mouth, they are small — almost private — but they speak volumes. The syllables thunderous given the moment.

“I’ve been in love with you.”

It’s Jake’s turn to freeze. You can practically see the gears turning and shortcircuiting in his mind, crumbling into nothing more than disparate pieces of a failed system. “What? Since when?”

“Forever.”

Jake squeezes his eyes shut. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It didn’t seem like I was your type!”

He grits his teeth, revealing his bright blue eyes again. They’re sharp now. Predatory. Fury, desire, adoration all mixed into one. “You’re my type. You. Not anyone who looks like you or acts like you. Only you. All of you.”

“Shit,” you groan.

Jake doesn’t waste a second before he’s on you, hands capturing your face as his lips take yours. His kiss is ravenous, delightful, but most of all affectionate. You can feel the warmth in his touch now. It’s not just physical attraction. But you are two magnets drawn to each other, never meant to separate. He clings to you like syrup, saccahrine sweet on your tongue.

“We’ve been idiots,” he mumbles against you, tugging you towards your bedroom. “Fuck. I’m not wasting any more time. Move in with me.”

“Jake—”

“Darlin’,” he grunts, “tell me what I gotta do to convince you. You just told me you’ve been in love with me for years. Years. We wasted all that time. I’m not letting you out of my sight for another second.”

“You’re insane.”

He flashes you a devious grin. “Insanely in love with you.” You roll your eyes at his cheesiness. Some rockstar he is. He’s all mush. “Now say it.”

You quirk an eyebrow.

“You know what.”

A soft laugh. “I love you, Jake Seresin.”

—

“No, it’s— She’s important to me. She always has been. Through it all, she has been by my side. She stuck by me through everything, all the highs and the lowest of lows.” Jake pauses, takes a deep breath. “I can’t ask her for any more than that. I think I’ve always asked for too much from her.”

“That’s surprisingly sweet of you,” the female co-host adds with awe.

Jake chuckles. “I love that woman more than anything. When the time comes, when I’m finally brave enough to take the leap, maybe I’ll let her know.”

“You don’t think she’ll be listening?”

“Knowing her, she’ll only listen to this when she has time — and she never has time.”

“Speaking of time, when will that time be? When you let her know.”

“Who knows? The holidays have a bit of magic to them, haven’t they? So maybe it won’t be too far away.”

jake is kissing (taglist): @bckyslover @writergirl28 @hookslove1592 @avengersfan25 @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @blxckwidxxw @khouse712 @sergeantsebastian @natskisses + @lunexiax @toxicrelief @fancypeacepersona @shrekzwifey @kelbrave

Your birthday weekend is supposed to be simple. No expectations. No pressure. Just a simple weekend on the West Coast with friends who know you well enough not to make a big production out of things. Which is exactly how you would want it.

That’s probably why the way they’re acting is setting off alarms. They’re whispering in the other room as you get ready at the AirBnB you’ve rented for the weekend, and exchanging looks when they think you’re not paying attention.

Despite their slightly odd behavior, you continue getting ready for the night out as your friends hype you up relentlessly. Throwing you compliments from every direction, and making sure the day is all about you.

The energy shifts just a little as you start to pile into the rental car. You slid into the passenger seat, smoothing your dress over your thighs, watching your friends as they pull out their phones like this is a military level operation instead of a casual girl’s night.

“So,” you say lightly, glancing over. “Where are we going?”

Too quickly, one of them answers, “Just a bar.”

You hum, unconvinced but not suspicious enough to press it. “What kind of bar?”

“Just one we found on Trip Advisor. It looked fun, so we thought we’d check it out.”

The car rolls out of the neighborhood, city lights blurring past the windows as music fills the space. You watch the streets go by, brow furrowing just slightly as the turns become more deliberate. Less wandering. Less let’s see where the night takes us and more we absolutely know where we’re headed.

“You sure there’s not some kind of secret plan I don’t know about?” You joke. “Because I feel like I’m being left out of something.”

Your friend laughs a little too loudly. “You’re perfect. Don’t overthink it.”

You glance at the navigation screen when you think no one’s looking. The destination name doesn’t register, but the direction does. You’re headed towards the bases.

Something tightens low in your stomach. Why the hell are they wanting to go to a bar near base?

You settle back against the seat, telling yourself to relax. It’s your birthday. Your friends wouldn’t steer you wrong.

Still, as the car continues to get closer to your destination, you get the distinct feeling you’re about to walk into something you weren’t warned about.

The second your feet hit the pavement, you know something’s off. It’s loud in the way only certain bars you’ve been in before. But the noise isn’t even what catches your attention the most. No, it’s the crowd. Service khakis. Familiar haircuts.

“Why are we at a Navy bar?”

You turn slowly, scanning the group like maybe this is a prank you somehow missed the setup for. You’ve been to bars before. You’ve been to crowded bars. But everywhere you look, it’s sailors and aviators, clustered around the entrance, leaning against motorcycles, calling out to one another like this is home turf.

Your friends are suddenly very interested in anything but your face.

One of them adjusts her purse strap. Another checks her phone for no reason. They exchange a look that lasts just a fraction of a second too long to be accidental.

“C’mon,” one finally says, already stepping toward the door. “Just…go inside.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

She shoots you a smile that’s way too bright. “It’s your birthday. Don’t question it.”

You hesitate, glancing back toward the street, then toward the glowing sign overhead. This isn’t your usual scene. In fact the only times you’ve ever stepped foot inside bars like this were when Jake dragged you with him.

You take a breath and follow them inside. The music hits you first. Then the lights. The press of bodies. The unmistakable feeling that you’ve just stepped into the middle of a story you don’t have all the context for yet.

You look around in search of the main bar, already feeling the need for a drink when everything stops. 

Jake’s standing at the bar, dressed in civilian clothes and wearing a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He’s just standing there like he’s been waiting for something or someone.

For a split second, your brain refuses to cooperate. This isn’t real. This can’t be. Jake’s supposed to be on the other side of the world. 

“Jake?”

His mouth curves into a smile that’s soft and real and just a little nervous, the kind you only ever see when his guard is down. When it’s just you.

“Happy birthday.”

You cross the space between you without hesitation.Jake catches you easily as you crash into him, arms wrapping around you like he’s done this a thousand times before. He lifts you clean off the ground, solid and warm, and you laugh into his shoulder.

“Oh my god,” you manage, voice muffled against his shirt. “Oh my god.”

He presses his face briefly into your hair, voice low enough that only you hear it. “Missed you.”

The words hit harder than you expect. He sets you back on your feet but doesn’t let you go. One arm stays draped comfortably around your shoulders, thumb resting warm and sure against your arm like it belongs there. Like you belong there.

You pull back just enough to look at him, really look at him. Same Jake. Same crooked grin. Same eyes that soften when they meet yours.

“You’re supposed to be—” you start, shaking your head.

“I know,” he says, cutting in gently. “Surprise.”

You laugh again, a little hysterical this time. “You’re stateside?”

“For now.”

You glance past him, finally registering your friends hovering nearby with matching smug expressions.

“You all knew,” you accuse.

They grin. One of them raises her glass. “Happy birthday!”

You turn back to Jake, still trying to reconcile the fact that he’s here standing in front of you on your birthday like this was always the plan.

Jake squeezes you just slightly, grounding you. “You okay?”

You nod, smiling up at him, heart still racing. “Yeah. I’m good. I just can’t believe you’re here.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” His gaze lingers another beat, warm and appreciative without ever crossing the line. “You look good.”

You scoff lightly, buying yourself a second. “That’s it? I fly all the way out here and that’s all I get?”

His thumb shifts against your arm, absentminded. “I said good, didn’t I?”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Careful, Seresin. You’re gonna make me think you missed me or something.”

His smile softens. “Maybe I did.”

Before you can respond, he gently steers you toward the bar, arm still snug around your shoulders. You don’t question it. Don’t pull away. You lean into him instead, fitting easily at his side like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

The bartender glances up. “What’ll it be, Hangman?”

Jake answers without missing a beat. “Vodka soda. Lime.”

You blink, looking up at him. “You didn’t even ask me what I wanted.”

He shrugs unapologetically. “You’ve drank the same thing since high school.”

The bartender slides the drink over, and Jake passes it to you, fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. You take a sip, the familiar taste grounding you at last.

You glance around the bar, then back at him, heart settling into a steady, excited rhythm. The bar settles into an easy rhythm around you after that. Music hums just loud enough to be heard over the conversations. Your girls have all but abandoned you in favor of some of the single men at the bar. But you don’t mind because Jake stays close. He checks in periodically. Refills your drink when it gets low, and angles his body just enough that you're shielded from the worst of the crowd.

At some point, you catch him watching you again.

“You’re being weird,” you tell him, tipping your glass back with a grin.

He smirks. “You say that like it’s new.”

You laugh, shaking your head, when something over his shoulder catches his attention. His gaze shifts briefly, and when it comes back, it’s lit with something mischievous.

“C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the back of the bar.

You follow his line of sight and spot it: a pool table tucked just beyond the crowd.

“What, you trying to hustle me now?” You ask.

Jake’s smile turns slow. Dangerous. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Uh-huh.”

He gestures with his chin. “If I wine you buy the next round.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what happens when I win?”

His eyes flick down to the cue rack, then back to you. “Guess we’ll find out.”

You push off the bar, setting your empty glass down. “Rack ‘em up, Seresin.”

Jake watches you head toward the table, amusement clear on his face.

“Birthday girl gets to break.” Jake says after he finishes racking the balls..

You glance from the rack of balls to him, arching a brow. His mouth tilts into a smug little smirk as he hands you the cue. He watches you line up the show, one hip cocked casually against the edge of the table, eyes tracking your movements.

You can practically feel him waiting for you to mess up so he can slide in and cleanly whoop your ass in the game. But you’ve gotten better since you were acne prone teenagers just messing around in his basement.

The cue connects with a solid crack, balls scattering cleanly across the felt. One drops into the corner pocket without hesitation.

Jake pauses, then his eyes move to you.

“Guess I’m stripes,” you smirk.

He clears his throat. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Sure,” you reply. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The next few shots only deepen his confusion. You move with easy confidence, shoulders loose, aim steady. Another ball sinks. Then another.

Jake circles the table now, narrating like a sportscaster who’s trying very hard not to sound impressed.

“That one barely counts.”

You straighten, resting the cue against your shoulder. “It went in.”

“On a technicality.”

You grin. “Is that what we’re calling skill now?”

He huffs out a laugh despite himself, shaking his head as he takes his turn. His shot ricochets off the rail and misses the pocket by an inch.

You wince theatrically. “Oof.”

“Don’t get cocky,” he warns, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When it’s your turn again, you step closer to the table, attention narrowing. You lean forward to line up the shot, bracing one hand against the felt as you angle the cue.

You don’t notice the way Jake goes still. You don’t see how his eyes trace the gentle curve of your back, the way your top shifts as you bend. You’re laser focused on the shot, oblivious to the fact that the entire bar might as well have disappeared for him.

For half a second, his mind goes somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t. Somewhere involving you in that exact angle bent over the pool table that has nothing to do with the game itself.

He imagines what it would be like to slip his hands around your waist, pulling you closer, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers. The way you’d look back at him, playful and inviting, and make his heart race.

His grip tightens on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as if that might physically anchor him back in reality. He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening, willing the image away.

The cue connects. The ball sinks cleanly into the pocket.

You straighten and turn, clearly pleased with yourself. “Your move.”

Jake doesn’t respond.

You blink. “Jake?”

Nothing.

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Seresin.”

He blinks like he’s just been pulled out of deep water, eyes snapping back into focus. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You gonna shoot, or…?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, shaking himself out like he’s trying to reset. “Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Lost my train of thought.”

You smile slowly. “Must’ve been a good one.”

The game settles into something competitive fast. You circle the table with easy confidence, chalking the cue like you know what you’re doing.

Jake watches with his arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between impressed and suspicious.

“Where’d you learn to play like that?” He asks as you line up another shot.

You hesitate for half a second, then shrug. “My ex played. Taught me a thing or two.”

The cue clicks against the ball, smooth and practiced.

Something flashes across Jake’s face, quick enough that you might miss it if you weren’t looking for it. His jaw tightens. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

“Right,” he says lightly. “Forgot he existed for a while there.”

You glance back at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He meets your eyes, unapologetic, something sharp flickering beneath the humor. “Just that I didn’t hear much from you back then.”

You pause, cue resting against the table. “We were busy.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, nodding once. “I noticed.”

The charged silence stretches between you. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, softening the moment before it can cut too deep.

“Guess I should thank him,” he adds. “At least he taught you how to play.”

You snort despite yourself. “You jealous, Seresin?”

He steps a little closer, gaze steady now. “Should I be?”

You don’t respond to him, instead you turn to the table to figure out your next shot. You line up what you think is a good shot, but miss it by a hair. The  ball grazes the edge of the pocket before hitting the edge and rolling away in a different direction.

You straighten with a groan. “Damn it.”

“Here,” Jake says, stepping closer. “Try it like this.”

Before you can respond, he’s behind you. He’s just close enough that you’re suddenly very aware of the space, or lack of it, between you. He adjusts your grip gently, fingers brushing yours as he angles the cute.

“Loosen up,” he murmurs, voice lower now. Just for you. “You’re overthinking it.”

You catch the faint scent of his cologne as he leans forward slightly, gaze following the line of your shot.

You take the shot.

The ball sinks cleanly into the pocket.

You grin, straightening and stepping away before the moment can stretch any further. Jake exhales, shaking his head like he needs to reset himself.

The rest of the game passes in a blur of laughter and good shots, shoulders brushing when one of you passes too close, eyes lingering just a second longer than necessary. At some point, it stops feeling like a game and starts feeling like a conversation neither of you is saying out loud.

When the last ball finally drops, it’s almost a relief. You straighten slowly, grin already tugging at your mouth as you turn to face him. Jake stares at the table for a second like it personally betrayed him, then huffs out a laugh.

He lifts his beer and steps closer, clinking the neck gently against your glass. “Good game.”

“Thank you,” you say sweetly. 

He smirks. “What’s my punishment for losing?”

You pause, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the rim of your glass like you’re genuinely considering it. “Depends,” you say. “What are the boundaries?”

Jake studies you for a second, something cautious and intrigued flickering behind his eyes. “You can have anything you want.”

Your eyebrow arches. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Anything?” you repeat.

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “Careful.”

You glance past him, letting your gaze drift casually across the bar, just long enough to land on a familiar mustache a few feet away, deep in conversation.

“Huh,” you murmur. “I don’t think I’ve met your friend yet.”

Jake follows your line of sight. His expression shifts immediately. Bradley looks up at the exact wrong moment. Jake looks back at you, searching your face like he’s trying to decide whether you’re joking…or dangerous.

“The one with the mustache?” You add innocently.

His laugh comes out short. Disbelieving. “You’re kidding.”

You smile over the rim of your glass. “What? You said anything.”

He steps closer again, lowering his voice. “You’re playing a risky game, birthday girl.”

Your pulse kicks up: thrilled, amused, very aware of the tension crackling between you.

You shrug lightly. “Guess you shouldn’t have lost.”

Jake watches you for a long beat, then shakes his head, a slow grin spreading across his face.

Yeah. This night is officially getting interesting.

“Well?” You ask. “Are you gonna introduce me, or do I just keep standing here imagining how many stories I’m about to hear?”

He exhales through his nose, already resigned. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Jake shakes his head but reaches for your hand anyway, fingers closing around yours with a familiarity that sends a quiet thrill up your arm. He leads you across the bar toward a cluster of pilots gathered around a high top, laughter rolling easily between them.

Conversation stalls. A few heads turn. One of them that’s tall, cocky, and unmistakably pleased with himself, looks from you to Jake and grins.

“Well, damn,” he says. “Didn’t know you were bringing company tonight.”

Another one squints at Jake. “Is this a Tinder girl? Or the girl from last week?”

Jake groans. “I hate all of you.”

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “Wow,” you say. “And here I thought I was special.”

“That depends,” the mustached one says, eyes flicking to you with open curiosity. “How long you sticking around?”

Jake shoots him a warning look. “Bradshaw.”

Bradley just grins wider. “What? I’m being polite.”

You glance up at Jake, feigning innocence. “You didn’t mention your reputation.”

He mutters, “Because it’s exaggerated.”

“Sure it is,” you say, patting his chest like you’re comforting him. 

The night settles into something loud and lived in around you after that. Music pulses heavier now, bass vibrating through the floor, the bar packed shoulder to shoulder with pilots and locals alike. The air smells like beer and salt and heat. Jake doesn’t even ask before ordering your third drink, just flags the bartender, murmurs something you don’t catch, and slides the glass toward you when it arrives.

You blink at it, then laugh. “You know me too well.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter. “Someone has to.”

Jake stays close as the crowd thickens. He shifts without thinking, angling his body so he’s between you and the press of people at the bar. When someone bumps into you from behind, his hand finds your lower back automatically.

A guy drifts over at some point. Friendly. Smiling. Starts with a casual comment about the music. You answer politely, easy enough. Jake doesn’t interrupt. He just appears at your side, shoulder brushing yours, hand resting on the bar near your glass. Close enough that the message is clear without a word being said. The guy clocks it, and then excuses himself.

You glance up at him, something playful and pointed in your eyes. “And what if I wanted to go home with him?”

Jake scoffs, quick and certain, like the idea barely deserves air. “You don’t.”

You blink. “Oh? And you’re so sure?”

He finally looks away, shaking his head with a low huff of a laugh. 

“Yeah. I am.” His gaze cuts back to you, steady, knowing. “You don’t wanna go home with anyone in this bar tonight. You’re not a one night kinda girl and none of these idiots are wanting something serious.”

You open your mouth to argue then close it again. Because he’s wrong. Technically. You do want to go home with someone.

You take a sip of your drink to hide the thought, the way it settles warm and traitorous in your chest. Jake’s eyes follow the movement, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly before he catches himself.

The music swells around you, bass thumping, lights low and golden. Jake shifts closer again, hand finding your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. This time, he doesn’t pull it away.

You don’t move either.

Your friends reappear in a loose cluster, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in that unmistakable late-night decision-making way. You clock it immediately.

One of them hooks an arm through yours. 

“Okay,” she says, trying (and failing) to sound casual. “Hypothetical question.”

You arch a brow. “Dangerous way to start a sentence.”

She grins. “We met three guys. They live together. Like…actually together. House. Porch. The whole thing.”

Another one jumps in, already half laughing. “They’re hot. And nice. And they invited us over.”

You look between them, then back at the bar, the night humming around you. 

“So what you’re saying is,” you deadpan, “my birthday present is you abandoning me.”

They all wince in unison.

“We feel bad,” the first one insists quickly. “It’s your birthday.”

You wave her off, laughing. “Please. I want nothing more than for you to go get laid. Consider it a gift to me.”

They hesitate anyway. One of them studies your face, softer now. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

You nod without hesitation then turn your head, eyes finding Jake immediately.

He’s already watching you.

“Yeah,” you say, a little quieter. “I’ve got a ride.”

Their gazes follow yours. The moment stretches loaded, knowing. One of them smirks. “Of course you do.”

They pull you into quick hugs, promises of brunch and hangover stories tomorrow, then peel away into the crowd, laughter trailing behind them. One of them lingers a half second longer than the rest, arms tight around your shoulders.

She leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Happy birthday,” she murmurs. “Pretty sure Jake’s about to be your best birthday present.”

Heat floods your face before you can stop it, and when she pulls back, she’s grinning like she knows exactly what she’s done. She winks and disappears after the others, leaving you standing there, flustered and smiling despite yourself.

Jake’s eyes narrow slightly. “What was that about?”

You shake your head, still warm all over. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t buy it. You can tell by the way his gaze lingers…curious now, intent. His hand settles at your lower back again, grounding, possessive in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“Didn’t sound like nothing,” he says quietly.

You glance up at him, lips curling. “You always this nosy?”

His mouth twitches. “Only when I think I should be.”

You pause, then tilt your head. “Think you could give me a ride back to the Airbnb?”

His answer is immediate. “I’ve got you.”

Something in his voice makes your chest tighten just a little. His hand settles at your lower back again, guiding without pushing, like he’s already decided where this night is going.

You and Jake head out not too long after. His hand settles on your back as he steers you toward the door. Outside, the cool December night air hits your skin, sharp after the warmth and noise of the bar. You suck in a breath, the salt in the air mixing with exhaust and beer and something distinctly coastal. You’re a little buzzed, pleasantly loose, still glowing from the way Jake’s attention never really left you all night.

He unlocks his truck and opens your door without thinking, one hand steadying you as you climb in. It’s such a small thing, but it tugs at something inside you. Like a reminder that maybe chivalry isn’t dead after all.

Once he’s in the driver’s seat, he looks over. He hesitates just for a second. “I can drop you at the AirBnB. Or you can crash at my place. If you’re okay with it.”

“Your place is fine,” you say.

The truck pulls onto the road. Music hums low through the speakers. City lights blur past the windows, red and white streaks smearing together as the night stretches out. The adrenaline finally fades, exhaustion slipping in around the edges. You settle deeper into the seat, head tipping gently against the window. Your eyes flutter closed without you fully meaning them to.

Jake notices at the first stoplight. He glances over, just for a second. Your face is soft in half sleep, lashes casting faint shadows, mouth relaxed in a way you never quite let it be when you’re awake. The streetlight washes over you, then disappears.

God, he missed you.

His thoughts betray him easily. How close you are. How natural it felt having you at his side again. The way your laughter sounded tonight. The memory of you bent over the pool table flashes, uninvited and vivid, and his jaw tightens.

He shifts in his seat, and adjusts his grip on the wheel. Still, his body doesn’t entirely get the memo. He’s suddenly aware of everything: your knee angled toward him. The faint trace of your perfume lingering in the cab. The warmth of you, even without touching.

He tightens his hands on the steering wheel and focuses on the road, on the hum of the engine, on the steady pull of asphalt beneath the tires.

You stir slightly, shifting in your sleep, and for a split second his breath catches.

Soon, the city gives way to quieter streets. Slower turns. The night settling around them. And Jake drives on, counting red lights, counting breaths, and holding onto control by his fingertips.

The truck hums to a stop outside a low-rise condo, the glow from the lobby spilling onto the sidewalk. You stir before you fully wake, eyelids fluttering as the world shifts back into focus.

Jake’s hand is at your lower back, steadying you as you climb out of the truck. 

“Hey…eyes open,” he murmurs, voice low, careful, almost coaxing.

Your head tips against his shoulder, still heavy with sleep and lingering warmth from the night. “Mmm…?”

“Almost there,” he says with a soft chuckle, guiding you toward the door.

His condo is exactly what you expect from Jake: minimal throw pillows, a polished wood coffee table, and an enormous flat screen as the living room’s altar. Shoes sit by the entrance, a well loved bomber jacket hangs on the hook, and a printed photo strip of Jake and some buddy you don’t recognize grins from the fridge in flight suits, held up with a magnet.

He doesn’t offer a tour. He just leads you down a short hallway to the guest room. You notice the tidy bed, the absence of clutter, the single framed print of a moonlit aircraft carrier. 

“Sorry it’s not much,” he says, suddenly sheepish. “I haven’t had anyone in here in—” He cuts himself off, shrugs, and grins. “You’ll have to forgive the lack of mints on the pillow.”

“I’ll manage,” you say, voice higher than intended. Blame the alcohol. Blame the way you can’t stop noticing his mouth, the way his t-shirt stretches over his broad shoulders.

Jake ducks into his room and returns with a worn-in pair of gray sweatpants and a soft navy t-shirt. He hands them over, careful not to let your fingers brush. “Here. These’ll probably be a little big, but at least you won’t have to sleep in that.”

You mutter “thanks,” and clutch the bundle to your chest. You linger in the hallway a second too long, watching him watch you. He gives a tight little smile, and you retreat to the bathroom.

Shutting the door, you exhale slowly and catch your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is wild from the wind, cheeks pink from alcohol and adrenaline, and your dress is creased from the drive. You look…different. Maybe it’s the night. Maybe it’s the way you laughed so hard at the bar, the way Jake looked at you like you’re the only person in the world for those three seconds after you sank that impossible shot to win the game of pool.

You peel off the dress. The cool bathroom air raises goosebumps on your arms. Jake’s t-shirt is comically oversized, swallowing your frame, the scent of laundry detergent and something warm and masculine embedded in the fabric. You pull the sweats on, roll the waistband twice, and try not to think about whether Jake ever sleeps in them naked.

You brush your teeth with a disposable toothbrush from a travel kit under the sink, then pad back to the guest room. The sheets are cold but soft; you crawl in, cocoon yourself, and stare at the ceiling. Sleep isn’t an option. Your thoughts run full sprint.

You replay every second at The Hard Deck, every time Jake’s fingers brushed yours, every long look you pretended not to notice. You tell yourself it’s nothing, that you’ve always had this banter, that Jake is just being Jake: friendly, protective, occasionally annoyingly chivalrous. That he’d hug anyone the way he hugs you, arms locked around your ribs, breath hot against your neck.

But then there’s the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, when you bent over the pool table and felt his gaze burning into your back. The way he shuts down conversation when another guy at the bar tries to buy you a drink, his hand bracing on your lower back, claiming you in the subtlest way possible.

You roll onto your side, eyes wide in the dark. The faint hum of the fridge, the occasional ping of cooling pipes, the ocean of silence that is Jake’s house at midnight. He’s just down the hall, maybe already asleep, maybe awake and thinking about flight schedules and carburetor repairs and whatever else pilots obsess over.

You press your face into the pillow, trying to suffocate the memory of his expression when you left him in the hallway. Was he disappointed? Relieved? Regretful? You’re not even sure what you want.

You try to focus on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out. You wonder if he’s thinking about you too. And if he is, what he’ll do about it.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. Jake is just being nice. Not flirting. Definitely not flirting. Definitely not flirting with you. You repeat it like a mantra until the clock on the nightstand glows 2:18.

Jake’s bedroom is a disciplined man’s room. No dirty laundry in sight, not a stray sock on the floor, all personal items confined to a single wooden tray on the dresser: a watch, a ring of keys, and his academy ring. He shuts the door behind him and exhales the kind of sigh usually  reserved for the end of a deployment. Even with the barrier of a wall and thirty feet of hallway, he can feel you in the guest room.

He undresses in the dark, pulling his t-shirt off with one arm, then shucks his jeans with practiced precision. His boxer briefs are uncomfortably tight, and he wonders if you’d notice if you saw him now. He falls back onto the mattress, sheets rumpled under him, and stares up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling.

He’s seen you a hundred times: birthday parties, Fourth of July barbecues, lazy mornings with too much coffee and not enough food. But tonight, you are something else. Maybe it’s the dress: cerulean blue, clinging to you in places he tries not to look. Maybe it’s your voice, thick with alcohol and mischief, stuck in his head. Maybe it’s the goddamn loneliness, the long hours in the cockpit, the forced camaraderie of the bar, the way nothing ever quite scratches the itch. Or the fact that it’s been longer than he’d like to admit since he brought anyone home, despite what his reputation might say.

He rolls onto his side, props his head on his arm, and lets the reel of the night replay in his mind. You, standing at the pool table, chalking the cue with a little smirk. You, eyes glinting with that fuck you energy when you tell him he’s going down. The sharp crack of the cue ball, the way your body arches as you line up a shot, how he clamps a hand on his thigh to stop himself from reaching for your hip.

He’s always good at keeping himself in check. Especially when it comes to you. He’s had years of wanting but never having. But tonight, there’s an edge to it. He wants you—really wants you—in a way that makes it hard to swallow. He shifts on the bed, heat radiating from his chest straight down his torso.

He lets his hand drift under the waistband of his briefs, fingers curling around himself. He squeezes, and his eyes flutter shut. He imagines you in the hallway again, that little uncertain smile as he handed you his sweats, what your bare legs would look like below the hem of his shirt. He imagines you in his bed, your hair fanned out on the pillow, the warmth of your body pressed against his. He imagines the gasps you’d make if he ever got the chance to love you properly.

He starts slow, the way he always does, the heel of his hand pressing down in a rhythm that matches the steady, relentless tempo of his heartbeat. He lets the images come: you on your hands and knees on his bed, him behind you, his palm braced on your lower back. The way your dress would ride up, exposing everything, and the way you’d maybe look back at him over your shoulder, daring him to ruin you.

He moves his hand faster, thumb grazing the head, hips rolling into his fist. He lets himself picture your thighs spreading for him, the desperate whine in your voice when you finally beg for it. He pictures the drag of your nails down his back, the press of your lips to his jaw, the raw honest look you’d give him when you came apart.

He is close. So close, the kind of urgent, shivery edge that makes his breath catch in his throat. He squeezes harder, letting the fantasy spiral: you bent over the bathroom sink, him crowding you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair while the other spreads you open for him. The sounds you’d make, the way your body would tense around him, the slick, hot clutch of you as he drove himself deeper.

Meanwhile you’ve made your way out of bed and tip-toe down the hallway to Jake’s room. You hesitate outside his bedroom for what feels like an hour, but is probably three breaths. One hand hovers, curled into a loose fist. You will yourself to go back to bed, to stop torturing yourself, but the silence from the other side is more unbearable than any awkwardness you could conjure in your head.

You knock, just once. You get nothing in response. You press your ear to the wood, and listen. At first, there is only quiet, then a muffled exhale, then a rustle of sheets.

You knock again, a little louder this time. “Jake?”

A sound. Not quite a word, not quite a groan. Maybe a name…maybe your name, but that seems impossible. Wishful thinking at best. You lean in closer, and the next sound is unmistakable. A low, breathless moan, half muffled but full of intent. 

You jerk back, heart stuttering. The door, not quite latched, yields to your weight. It opens with a sigh, and you are suddenly in the threshold of Jake’s room.

He is sprawled on the bed, sheets tangled at his hips, skin golden in the glow from the streetlight leaking through the blinds. He is completely naked, legs parted, cock in his fist and flushed dark with need. His head is tipped back, throat exposed, a line of sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. He doesn’t notice you at first. His eyes are closed, mouth slack in a way you’ve never seen, not even when he was dead drunk at a bonfire party back in the summer after graduation before he left for the Navy.

You stand there frozen. Your brain tries to process what you are seeing. Jake Seresin, golden boy, your oldest friend, the object of a hundred dirty dreams, touching himself and moaning your name.

He opens his eyes mid-stroke. Sees you. Freezes. Then he fumbles for the comforter, yanking it up so fast the lamp on the nightstand nearly toppled.

You should look away. But you don’t

Jake is panting, chest rising and falling. His face is crimson, eyes wide with panic, then horror, then something else.

He fumbles, voice catching. “I thought—shit, I thought you were asleep.”

You’ve never seen anyone so vulnerable, least of all Jake. The silence isn’t dead; it is a living, breathing animal, thrashing between you. You can’t stop replaying it: your name on his lips, the way his hand had moved, the unguarded hunger in his face.

You try to say something, anything, but your mouth doesn't work. Jake scrubs a hand down his face, still holding the blanket like it's a riot shield. He makes a sound, something between a laugh and a choke. 

“Didn’t mean for—hell, I’m sorry—”

You shake your head. “Don’t be.”

“I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“Jake,” you say gently.

He looks anywhere but at you for a few seconds as he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the headboard, running a hand over his face. He finally looks up, eyes dark and wrecked and painfully honest. 

“This is not how I wanted your birthday to go.”

You step into the room, then closer, until the edge of the bed presses against your knees. He watches you like he’s not sure you’re really coming into his room after seeing him rubbing one out to the thought of you.

“What were you thinking about, Jacob?”

His laugh is breathless, strained. “You.”

Jake swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. He doesn’t drop his gaze. You let your eyes drift down, tracing the outline of his body beneath the covers, the way his hands are shaking, the way the muscles in his arms tense and flex with every breath.

He opens his mouth, maybe to apologize again, but you cut him off.

“Don’t stop on my account,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Jake’s lips part, surprise flickering, then giving way to something darker. He doesn’t move, but you can see the calculation in his eyes, the way he weighs the risk.

You walk to the bed. You sit on the edge, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He watches you with his pupils blown wide, face caught between mortification and want.

You kneel on the bed and crawl forward until you are beside him, until the heat of his body is a physical thing warming your skin. Jake’s lips part, his hands still locked around the blanket like a lifeline.

You reach for it, fingers brushing his knuckles. 

“Can I…?” You ask, voice shaking.

Jake nods. You peel back the blanket, inch by inch. Jake lets you, surrendering to your touch, letting the covers fall off his lap. He is so beautiful it hurts. Shoulders carved in muscle, chest dusted with a little bit of chest hair, stomach toned, tensed and trembling. His cock is still hard, bright pink at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry. You’ve seen him half naked a hundred times: at the beach, in the pool, after some stupid drunken dare. But never like this.

You reach out slowly, and run your hand down his chest. He shivers, breath catching, eyes fluttering shut. His skin is hot under your palm. You trace the line of his abs, down to the V at his hip, and watch the muscles tense in anticipation.

He reaches for your hand, and catches it. “You sure?”

You nod. “I’ve never been more sure of anything Jake.”

Jake lets out a shaky laugh then pulls you closer until your knees bump, until your faces are only inches apart. You can smell him, a mix of soap and sweat and something citrus like orange?

Jake’s mouth is softer than you expected. His hand finds your cheek, thumb stroking the edge of your jaw, and the pressure of his lips is gentle, almost reverent. You kiss him back, slow at first, then harder, teeth grazing his bottom lip as if you are daring him to break. He answers the dare, deepening the kiss, pulling you closer until your bodies press flush together.

You straddle his hips, knees bracketing his thighs, the blanket bunched between you. He lets out a groan, low and hungry—that vibrates through your chest. His hands move to your waist, palms splaying over the borrowed t-shirt, finding bare skin underneath. He drags his fingers up your back, then down again, mapping the planes of your body like he is trying to memorize every inch.

You break the kiss, both of you breathless now. Jake looks at you with raw, unguarded hunger, like he can’t believe you are real. You grin just a little, and slide down until you are kneeling between his spread legs.

Jake’s cock is right in front of you hard, flushed, beads of pre-come slicking the tip. He always seems so controlled, so perfectly composed, but right now he is a mess. His hands twist in the sheets, his chest heaves, a faint flush blooming over his collarbones.

You run your hands up his thighs, feel the heat of his skin and the quiver in his muscles. You trace the line of his adductor, and find the spot just above his knee where the muscle twitches when you press your thumb into it. Jake shudders, eyes fluttering shut for a second, then open, desperate to watch what you did next.

You slide your palm up to the soft patch of hair at his groin. You trace circles around the base of his cock, not touching, just teasing, until he gasps your name.

 “Please.” He says voice tight.

You wrap your hand around him. He is hot and heavy against your palm, the pulse of his arousal beating steady and frantic. You stroke him, feather light at first, then a little firmer, watching the way his stomach clenches every time you tighten your grip.

You run your thumb over the head, collecting the slick, and Jake moans. The sound goes straight to your core. You do it again, dragging your finger down the frenulum, watching his hips buck, his hands flying to fist in the comforter.

“God,” he says, a shaky laugh. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You looked up at him, catching his eye. 

“No God,” you say, before doing it once more. “You like that?”

Jake’s mouth drops open but he nods. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah. Feels so good.”

You grin and stroked him in slow, steady pulls, twisting your wrist at the top, letting your fingertips dance over the sensitive underside. Jake’s breathing speeds up. His head falls back against the pillow, but he never stops watching you.

You lean in, and press a kiss to the inside of his thigh. His whole body goes rigid, like he is holding back from grabbing you, flipping you onto your back, and losing all control. The power is intoxicating.

You look up at him again. “Do you have any lube?”

Jake blinks then nods. “Nightstand—top drawer.”

You reach across him, and find the bottle. You squeeze a dollop into your palm, and work it over him, and he groans, louder this time, arching off the bed. The lube is warming, and you can feel his cock swell even more in your grip.

You stroke him with it, watching his eyes go wide as the sensation hits. He looks like a man seeing God for the first time.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, eyes rolling back. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

“Hardly,” you say, twisting your wrist just so. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d make you beg first.”

Jake laughs, but the sound dissolves into a whimper when you focus your attention on the sensitive spot beneath the head, stroking with practiced precision. You add your left hand, cupping his balls, rolling them gently. He digs his heels into the bed, completely at your mercy.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he says, but there’s awe in it.

You slow down, teasing him, easing off whenever you feel his body coil for release. It’s a power trip and a trust fall at the same time—he could flip you over in a second, but he lets you run the show.

He watches you, hungry, desperate, but he doesn’t look away, not even when he’s on the brink.

“Please,” he says, and you almost do it, almost finish him off. But you want this to last. You want him to remember it every time he sees you. Every time he hears your name.

You release him and sit back, licking lube off your palm. Jake looks at you, dazed, as if he can’t believe you’re real.

“You good?” you ask.

Jake grins, breathless, and props himself on his elbows, cock still hard and leaking between his thighs. “Better than good. But if you keep that up, I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

You lean forward and brush your lips over his, then pull away just enough to look him in the eye.

“That’s the point,” you say.

You settle back between his legs, intent on proving it. You wrap your hand around the base of Jake’s cock, steadying him as you drag your tongue up the underside, gathering a taste of the salt and heat and need. You glance up, meeting his eyes, and there’s a flash of something feral in them—hunger, awe, a kind of wild disbelief.

You press your lips to the tip, soft at first, teasing, then swirl your tongue around it in a lazy circle. He moans, deep in his chest, hips twitching despite himself.

You laugh, the vibration making him shudder. “You’re easy,” you say.

Jake tries to play it off, but the tremor in his hands betrays him. “Not usually,” he pants. “Just…fuck.” 

You take him into your mouth, not all the way, just enough to let him feel the heat and pressure. You hollow your cheeks, set a slow rhythm, and his head tips back against the pillow. You slide him in and out, building tension, watching the way his abs clench and his hands flex at his sides.

He tries to keep still, but his hips keep bucking up, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. You take him deeper, your lips stretching, throat relaxing, until he’s almost all the way in. You feel the head of his cock brush the back of your mouth, and you swallow around him.

Jake loses it, fingers snapping up to tangle in your hair. “Fuck, you don’t have to—”

You moan around him, cutting off his words, and he gasps. You start to move faster, letting him fuck your mouth, using your hand to stroke the base in time with your lips. You glance up and catch his eye again, and the look on his face is almost too much: mouth open, eyes blown wide, lost in you.

You relax your jaw, letting him guide your pace. He starts slow, tentative, but when you don’t pull away, he thrusts deeper, fucking into your mouth with desperate, ragged rhythm. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and perfect.

His fingers tug gently at the strands of your hair, tiling your head just a little. “God, you’re such a good fucking girl.”

You dig your nails into the hard muscle of his thigh and take him even deeper, lips brushing the base, tongue pressed flat along every pulsing inch. Jake’s whole body goes taut—he makes a strangled sound, that military steel crumpling into a raw, incoherent plea. His hips buck, desperate, fucking into your mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. You hollow your cheeks and swallow around him, feeling the vibrations of his name on your tongue, and the vibration pushes him right over the edge.

He comes with a violence that startles even you, cock jerking against your throat, saline heat flooding your mouth. You swallow, a little greedy, because you want every last bit of him—want to prove you can take him, that you want it. You pull back just enough to taste the last of him on your lips, licking him clean, leaving him spent and shivering.

You sit up, wipe your mouth, and bite your lower lip, studying him. Jake has gone glassy-eyed, lips parted, face flushed as if he’s just run a triathlon. You watch the aftershocks ripple through him, how he tries and fails to hide the trembling in his hands. You feel a surge of pride, a burst of wicked joy, because you did this, breaking down the walls of the unbreakable Lieutenant Jake Seresin.

He forces himself upright on his elbows, but his arms are jelly, and he nearly collapses again. “Holy shit.” The words are barely a whisper, but the awe in his voice carries. “What the fuck…”

You just smirk, crawl up his body, and straddle his lap. You can feel his heart hammering beneath your palm as you splay your hand on his chest, pinning him there. 

“You okay, Lieutenant?” You purr.

He laughs, a huff of disbelief. 

“I’m dead. You killed me.” But his hands, still shaky, find your hips, grounding himself in your reality. He blinks up at you, as if trying to memorize your face. “That was…fuck, that was…”

“Yeah,” you say, finishing the sentence for him, because words are suddenly not his strong suit.

You tip his face up, kiss him slow and deep, let him taste himself on your tongue. He kisses back like he’s starving for it, clutching at you, still lost in the aftermath. You break away, breathless, and watch him try to collect himself.

Jake collapses back onto the mattress, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He covers his face with his hands and laughs, giddy and a little bit unhinged.

“Goddamn,” he whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You feel a rush of pride, of want, of something you don’t have a name for.

“That’s the plan,” you say, and kiss him again, slow and sweet, like you can’t get enough.

You haven’t even finished the last syllable of your taunt before Jake moves. He rolls you onto your back, the motion so quick and smooth it leaves you dizzy. His hands slide under your borrowed shirt, dragging it up and over your head, baring your chest to the cool air and the heat of his gaze.

He drinks you in, green eyes going molten as he takes in every single inch of you. You try to cover yourself, but Jake catches your wrists and pins them gently to the mattress.

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and steady. “Let me see you, baby.”

You nod, pulse thrumming in your throat. He releases your hands and traces a line from your collarbone down to your sternum, circling your nipple with the pad of his thumb until it peaks. He bends and licks a slow, hot stripe across it, then sucks, pulling a gasp from your lungs.

He trails kisses down your stomach, lingering at your belly button, then pauses to look up at you. The eye contact nearly undoes you. His mouth quirks up into a grin—a flash of the old Jake, the one who used to dare you to jump into freezing lakes and the one who always made you laugh until you snorted.

Then he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his sweats and pulls them down, until you are naked beneath him. He sits back for a second, as if to admire his handiwork, then reaches for a pillow and slides it under your hips.

You shiver in anticipation. Jake kneels between your legs, hands gentle on your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles on your skin. He starts just above your knees, kissing his way up, deliberate and unhurried, his breath hot against your skin.

By the time he reaches your inner thighs, you are shaking. He pauses, eyes locked on yours, as if asking for permission. You nod because you couldn’t say no if your life depended on it.

He kisses the crease where thigh meets pelvis, then inches closer, licking a line up your slit. You moan, hips arching off the pillow, but Jake just grins against your skin.

He works you with his mouth, alternating soft, feather light licks with hard, relentless suction. He watches your face, gauging every reaction, every twitch and shiver. When he finds just the right spot, he hums, the vibration going straight to your core.

You’ve never come from just this. Never, not once, despite multiple partners and a lifetime of wishful thinking. You’ve even chalked it up to you being the problem. Something inside you is broken and you just can’t finish from oral. But Jake is different. He is relentless, merciless, and impossibly good at this. He has you gasping, clawing at the sheets, begging for more as you try to buck your hips up to get more. You’re not sure if you want to sob or laugh or drag him up to kiss you just so you can say thank you.

He slips a finger inside you, then two, curling them just so, finding that sweet spot no other man you've been with seemed to be able to find. He sucks your clit, gentle at first, then harder, and your vision goes white at the edges.

You try to wriggle away, the pleasure too much, but Jake just holds your hips down, pinning you in place while he keeps going, unrelenting, determined to wring every last ounce of pleasure from you.

“Jake—fuck—” you gasp. “I can’t—”

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he works you harder, fingers stroking in perfect time with his tongue, until your whole body seizes and you come, hard, shattering around his mouth and hands and the sound of him moaning against your pussy.

He licks you through it, gentler now, coaxing every last tremor from your body. When you finally come down, he kisses your thigh, then your hip, then up your body until he is hovering over you, his face flushed and slick, his smile wild and triumphant.

You can barely breathe. You stare at him, dazed, and he grins down at you, looking every bit the cocky asshole you’d fallen for years ago.

“No one’s ever—” you try to say, then stop because on second thought you aren’t sure you want to share the details of your less than stellar sex life with Jake.

Jake kisses you, tasting the mix of you and himself on your lips, and whispers, “that’s cause you’ve never been with me.”

Jake hovers over you, the heat of his skin radiating down your body as he tries to catch his breath. You think he’ll collapse onto your chest, but instead, he brushes the hair from your face and kisses you slowly, deep, tongue rolling with a lazy confidence that says you’re not going anywhere.

You feel him hard against your thigh already…apparently aviator stamina is a thing. You giggle, reach down, and stroke him, and he moans into your mouth.

You moan, legs falling open for him without a second thought. Jake presses a kiss to your collarbone, then your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he moves down your stomach, retracing the path he’d worshipped only minutes before. He pauses at your hip, forehead pressed to your skin, his breath hot and shaky.

He lines himself up, tip at your entrance, then hesitates as if remembering something. He swears under his breath, scrambling in the nightstand for a condom. You watch as he rifles through the drawer, the look of concentration on his face almost endearing.

“Shit,” he says, voice tight. “I’m out. Fuck, I don’t have—”

You reach for him, pull him back to you, and kiss the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay. As long as you’re clean, I’m good.”

Jake searches your face, hungry and uncertain all at once. “Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

You cup his jaw, and bring his face inches from yours. “I want to feel you. I want all of you.”

He shudders, some invisible wall crumbling behind his eyes. He looks at you, so raw and open you almost can’t stand it.

“Have you ever—” He breaks off, words catching. “Have you ever done this before? Without anything?”

You shake your head, hair fanning across the pillow. “No. You’re the first.”

He closes his eyes, jaw clenched. When he opens them again, the look he gives you is pure, unfiltered worship.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises, and you believe him.

He reaches for the lube, slicks his fingers again, and makes sure you’re ready, slow and careful, even as his cock leaks all over your thigh. Then he lines himself up, pushes in, and you both groan at the stretch. He’s so much bigger without the barrier, and you’re already pulsing around him, nerves raw and electric.

He slides in, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. The sensation is overwhelming. Hot, thick, and impossibly intimate. You claw at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. He hisses but the way he bites his lip tells you he secretly likes it.

“Fuck, Jake—” you whimper. “You’re so—”

He groans, hips rocking forward, sinking in until he bottoms out. He holds still, arms braced on either side of your head, trembling with restraint.

His pace starts slow, barely moving, as if he’s afraid to hurt you. He keeps his eyes on your face, searching for pain, but all you give him is a plea for more.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, voice almost breaking. “So tight…shit, I don’t know how long I’ll last.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, anchoring him to you. 

“Don’t care,” you pant. “Just move, please—”

He obeys, pulling out slowly, then sliding back in. The friction is electric, your entire body lighting up with every thrust. He keeps it gentle at first, rolling his hips in smooth, measured strokes, peppering your neck and chest with kisses.

Jake sets a rhythm, hips rolling into you, thick and perfect, his cock dragging over every nerve ending like a wire. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, your cheek, like he can’t decide which part of you is his favorite. You wrap your legs around his waist and urge him deeper, harder.

He thrusts, each stroke harder than the last, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. You reach up, thread your fingers through his hair, pull his mouth down to yours. The kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongue and desperation.

He slips a hand under your thigh, bends you open, hits a spot so deep you see stars.

“Fuck Jake,” you sob, and Jake grins, eyes feral.

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being split open for me?”

You nod, gasping. “Harder. Please.”

You claw at his back, urging him faster. “Harder, Jake. Please—need you to fuck me—”

He pauses, catching your gaze, searching for confirmation in your eyes. When you nod, he swallows hard, a low growl escaping him. But instead of the answer you expect, he pulls out, leaving you aching and wanting.

In one swift motion, he rolls you onto your stomach, and you feel the sheets beneath you, cool against your heated skin. He lifts your hips, positioning you just right, head down, ass up—an invitation that sends thrill coursing through you.

“Like this?” He asks.

You nod, breath hitching as he slides back into you, filling you in one smooth thrust. The feeling is overwhelming, his warmth enveloping you completely. He starts thrusting into you from behind, each movement deep and deliberate, the sensation igniting every nerve in your body.

You grip the sheets, letting out a soft gasp as he finds a rhythm, his hips meeting yours with a delicious intensity. Every thrust sends pleasure spiraling through you, and you push back into him, craving more of the connection.

“Shit baby,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips, anchoring you as he drives deeper.

Then he delivers a sharp smack to your ass. The sound echoes in the room, and you cry out, the sting sending a jolt of heat through you. The sudden sensation makes you squeeze around him instinctively, and you hear him groan.

“Shit,” he mutters, his pace faltering for a brief moment, almost tipping over the edge.

“Don’t stop,” you urge breathlessly, wanting more of that delicious thrill. He chuckles darkly, finding his rhythm again, thrusting deeper, harder.

The combination of pleasure and pain lights your body on fire, and you push back against him, lost in the sensation. He smacks your ass again, and you moan, feeling the heat spread through you.

His thrusts become more frantic, and you know he’s close. You meet him with every thrust, eager for release.

“Just like that,” you plead, your voice thick with want. “Don’t stop.”

And with each thrust, each smack, he drives you both toward a shared climax, the world around you fading away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect, heated moment.

You are close. So close. You look over your shoulder and  lock eyes with him, see the desperation, the need to make you his, the way he holds nothing back.

“Gonna come—can’t hold it—” he gasps, voice cracking and pleading.

“Do it,” you whispered. “I want it. I want you.”

He snaps, the last shreds of restraint gone. He pounds into you, every stroke harder than the last, until you shatter around him, body clenching, legs shaking, everything going white.

He buries his face in your neck and lets go, filling you with a heat you’ve never felt before.

You lie there, shaking, every inch of you throbbing with afterglow.

Jake pulls out, but not before you both watch the slow drip of cum leaking from you. He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, your jaw.

“Holy shit,” he says, collapsing beside you. “Are you okay?”

You laugh, dazed. “More than okay.”

He wraps you up in his arms, holds you tight, and for once you don’t feel the need to escape.

You feel…claimed.

You burrow into his chest, listen to his heart, and decide you could get used to this.

You lie together, sweat cooling, the last of the adrenaline bleeding into something softer. Jake’s arm tucks around your waist, pulling you back to his chest, as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go for even a second.

You rest your cheek on his bicep, tracing lazy circles on his forearm, letting the silence fill up with the things you’re both too spent to say.

After a while, Jake speaks, voice gentle.

“Did I hurt you?”

You snort, rolling your eyes, even as the question makes your chest clench. “Not even close. I liked it.”

He shifts, peering down at you with a dopey smile. “I liked it too. A lot.”

You swat at his side, but he just laughs, nuzzling into your hair.

You lie there for a while, the darkness feeling less like a void and more like a blanket. Jake’s breathing slows, his grip loosening as he drifts toward sleep. You listen to the steady thump of his heart, the quiet hum of the house, the distant echo of jets over the water.

You could stay here forever.

But as much as you’d like to stay there forever, the heat of the moment gives way to reality. You slip out from under his arm, the cool air hitting your skin as you stand. 

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur, glancing back at him before padding toward the bathroom.

The tiles are cool beneath your feet, and the sound of water drumming against the porcelain beckons you. You wash your hands and splash some water on your face, feeling the remnants of the night wash away with the dirt.

You stare at your reflection in the fogging bathroom mirror, skin blotched with fingerprints and bruised kisses, water glassing your lashes with every slow blink. The old pipes moan when you crank the faucet toward hot, and you shiver, nipples tightening under Jake’s borrowed t-shirt that you grabbed as your only armor for the trek from bed to bathroom. 

You close your eyes, step out of the shirt, and let it pool on the tiles, heavy with the weight of everything that just happened. You’re not sure you can move, feeling sore in a way no man has ever made you feel. But the promise of a scalding shower coaxes your body forward. 

The world dissolves to sensation: the white noise roar, the steam pricking every scrape and love bite he left on your skin, the clean smell of some two-in-one body wash he has in his shower. 

You arch your neck, let the water soak your scalp, and reach for a handful of Jake’s soap, rubbing it into your chest, your arms, the bruises of his grip on your hip. There’s a fading ache between your legs that blossoms with every shift of your weight. A reminder.

The door rattles, and through the fogged glass you see Jake’s shadow. He opens the door and steps in. 

You move back, pressing your spine to the cold tile. Jake is naked, obviously, but he looks different here. Taller, somehow. Water beads in the hollow of his collarbone and streaks down the ridges of his abs, drawing your gaze along the line of hair that disappears lower, darker, wet. His cock is already half hard again, and you hate the thrill that flickers through your stomach when you realize it.

“Couldn’t wait your turn?” You say, which comes out husky and soft, not even close to the challenge you intended.

Jake’s grin is wicked. “Didn’t want you taking all the hot water.”

His stupidly green eyes are glued to the lather of soap on your breasts and the thin rivulets of water running down your body.

He leans in, noses your wet hair aside, and kisses the corner of your mouth, once, then twice, as if testing the boundaries of post-sex etiquette.

“We should probably, uh—” you start, but he cuts you off by pressing you harder to the tile, hands caging you on either side of your head. The kiss is slow and open-mouthed, tongue gentle but sure, and you sigh into it because the alternative is making a noise that would tell him just how much you want another round with him.

Jake’s hands trace the length of your arms, then anchor at your waist. The water, now properly scalding, pelts your shoulders, and the contrast of his cool touch makes you shudder. He kisses down your jaw, over the purpled bruise on your neck, across your collarbone.

You gasp when his teeth scrape the peak of your nipple, just hard enough to send a spark through the fading ache below. He palms your breast, weighs it in his hand, and then draws back, eyes hooded and starved. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, and the word is a marvel, a benediction.

He sinks to his knees, tiles creaking beneath his weight, and looks up at you through the curtain of water. You bite your lip, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. But Jake is already guiding your leg over his shoulder. His hands are broad and steady on your hips.

The first lick is a shock, and you dig your fingers into his wet hair. He tastes you like he’s been waiting his entire life for this. You feel his tongue on the sorest part of you, the places only he has ever reached, and it’s like some circuit is completed. Every nerve, every muscle, every quiet secret inside you lights up at once.

You make a noise, more animal than human, and Jake groans in reply, mouth sealed around you, tongue drawing slow circles. You try to brace yourself on the glass, but your palm slides, and you’d fall if not for his grip. He doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down, working you with the same precision you watched him use on the pool table, or when he fixed the stuck zipper on your jacket earlier in the night. You want to tell him it’s too much, that you’re oversensitive, but all that comes out is a fractured whimper.

Jake’s hands tighten, pinning you to his face, and you feel the telltale coil in your gut winding, winding, snapping, white hot and instant. You squeeze your eyes shut and ride it out, your hips rocking helplessly into his mouth.

He stands before you have time to catch your breath, dragging his lips up your torso, nipping your breast, then kissing you with a mouth slick from your own taste. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he says into your open mouth, and you shudder because it sounds like a confession.

You want to say something clever, to take back the power, but your body is molten and your head is spinning. Jake shifts, bringing both hands under your ass, and hoists you up with a fluid, practiced motion. Your legs wrap around his waist, muscle memory, as he pins you to the wall with the length of his body. The heat of him is overwhelming, his cock hard and urgent against your thigh.

He holds you suspended, weightless but for his grip on your hips and the icy bite of tile against your back. He noses along your jaw, buries his face in your neck. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he mutters, voice thick and rough, but the way his cock slides against your entrance tells you it’s not really a question.

“Jake—” you gasp, but it’s not a protest.

He pushes in slowly, so slowly, eyes locked on yours, like he needs to see every flicker of pain and pleasure cross your face. The stretch is intense, almost unbearable, but then he’s fully seated and the world narrows to the feeling of him, the weight and heat and fullness. Your nails dig into his shoulders, half anchor, half plea.

He starts to move, hips rolling in a relentless, unhurried rhythm. The shower hammers down on you both, water pooling at your feet, but you barely notice. Jake’s mouth is everywhere—your lips, your cheek, your throat.

You lose yourself in the movement, the heat, the rawness of skin on skin, and you find yourself chanting his name, too, desperate and hoarse. He responds with a groan, thrusts growing rougher. Your back slides higher on the tile, and you cling tighter to his neck, lost in the friction, the weight, the utter rightness of him inside you.

“Goddamn,” Jake pants, “you feel so fucking good.”

You can’t respond, too busy chasing another wave, the ache in your core sharpening, swelling, splitting open. Jake notices, and shifts the angle, grinding his pelvis against your clit with every stroke. It’s obscene how quickly you’re unraveling, how little dignity you have left, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He buries his face in your neck again, and you feel him pulse inside you. 

“Such a good girl,” he rasps, voice gone to gravel. “Taking me so deep. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

The praise hits harder than it should. You clamp down on him, wrung out and shaking, and this orgasm crashes over you, bigger than the first three. You whimper, unable to stop the tears that prick your eyes, and Jake groans, hips stuttering as he loses control. He empties into you with a low, guttural moan that you feel more than hear, every muscle in his body trembling with effort.

The world stops for a second. The water is still hot, but your skin is ice. You slump against him, limp and spent, and Jake holds you there, both of you breathing hard, chests pressed so close you wonder if your hearts will sync up and explode.

He finally sets you down, careful, and you stand on shaky legs while he props you up against his chest, arms wound tight around your shoulders. For a moment you stay there, nothing but the sound of the water and the thunder in your veins. Jake strokes your hair, kisses your temple, and you think you could fall asleep right here, drowning in steam and him.

You finally remember the point of this shower, and reach blindly for the soap again. Jake laughs, low and easy, and lathers up a washcloth for you, hands gentle as he runs it over your skin. He’s annoyingly thorough, wiping away every trace of what you did together, except for the inside of you, which still throbs with the memory of him.

You tilt your head back and let the water rinse you clean, mouth open, eyes closed, and you think maybe you’ve never been this happy to be dirty all over again.

The water peters out in its own time, trailing rivulets down your calves, pooling at your toes. You’re both slow to move, the urge to linger eclipsing the need to towel off and return to reality. Eventually, Jake nudges the shower lever off, and the world is suddenly, shockingly quiet. The air chills instantly, beads of water pebbling your skin, but Jake drags you in, back to his chest, as if his body heat is a currency you can’t afford to waste.

You laugh, which is more of a shaky breath, and tip your head against his jaw. He kisses your hair soft, almost bashful then grabs the nearest towel and wraps it around you both.

You could stand here forever, but the tiles are hell on your feet, so you duck out of his grip and escape into the main room, dripping a trail behind you. You find another towel on the rack, rough and faded, and scrub yourself dry as best you can. Jake emerges a few seconds later, hair plastered flat, towel riding low on his hips, and you both meet eyes in the mirror. For a moment, you just look at each other, neither one saying a word.

He hands you a fresh shirt, this time a gray one with NAVY written across it in blue letters. You take it, slip it on, and feel the warmth of his body trapped in the cotton. It’s too long, hanging mid-thigh.

Jake pulls on a pair of sweats, then collapses backward onto his bed, arms flung wide as if inviting you into orbit. You hesitate only a second before climbing in after him, burrowing under the covers. The sheets are cold, but Jake isn’t, and when he gathers you in, spooned tight to his chest, you melt.

It’s so easy. Easier than it has any right to be. Your back fits against his front, legs slotting together like magnets, his chin resting on the curve of your shoulder. He breathes you in, slow and steady, and you can feel his heartbeat at the small of your back, a low, persistent thrum.

“Comfy?” He murmurs, barely audible over the hum of the heater kicking on.

You twist, half rolling to face him. His eyes are half closed, sated, but there’s an edge of wariness there—a question hanging in the space between his brow and his mouth. You want to answer it, but you’re not sure what it is, so you tuck your head under his chin and let your hand slide along his arm, tracing the veins, the tiny scar near his wrist, the constellation of freckles you never noticed before.

He squeezes you tighter. “I missed this,” he says. “Missed you.”

You hook your ankle around his calf and press your lips to his collarbone, where his pulse thuds steady and strong.

And through all of it, Jake was simply part of the backdrop. He drifted in and out of rooms with polite hellos and shy glances, always carrying something: snacks from their mom, a stack of textbooks, whatever excuse he needed to linger for a moment longer. Jannette’s little brother had a gentleness to him, an earnestness that made adults soften and made kids his age roll their eyes.

Contrary to the legend he would later become, Jake Seresin wasn’t always the confident, sharp-jawed, sun-kissed Navy pilot the world seemed to swoon over now. Back then he was lanky, awkward, chronically flustered, and one bad growth spurt away from falling apart like an unbalanced Jenga tower. Even the football team, his hopeful attempt at being “one of the guys,” mostly kept him on the bench.

Most people overlooked him. You never did, though not for the reasons he might have hoped. To you, he was just sweet, awkward Jake— the kid who turned pink from his collarbone to his ears whenever you asked about his day. You had a long-term boyfriend through high school, and Jake occupied a completely different space in your world, one reserved for siblings of friends and harmless crushes you pretended not to notice.

He adored you, quietly and hopelessly, and everyone knew it. You simply smiled and treated him with kindness, the same way you did with anyone who never seemed entirely comfortable in their own skin.

After graduation, life separated you quickly and cleanly. You left for Boston, stepping into a future your teenage self had been desperate for, and Jake finished his senior year without you around to make him stutter in the kitchen. You came home that first winter break, full of stories and certainty, but time began to move faster after that.

Boston turned into London. London morphed into New York. New York shifted back to Boston. Job opportunities, promotions, and restless ambition kept you bouncing between cities, and the years blended into one another before you realized how long it had been since you’d walked the familiar streets of your hometown.

Jake’s life unfolded just as quickly. He went to college and, somewhere between lectures and late nights, grew into himself. The awkward boy sharpened at the edges, found confidence where there had once been nerves, built a body that seemed to belong to someone older, steadier.

The glasses disappeared, the posture straightened, and his laugh became something louder, brighter, unashamed. He joined the Navy, and the constant rotations of training, deployments, and new bases carried him from one end of the country to the other. Holidays became optional. Home turned into a place you visited, not lived.

And so the two of you spent nearly a decade living parallel lives—connected by memories, separated by miles, bonded only through occasional updates from Jannette that always began with, “You’ll never guess what my brother’s doing now…” The world kept spinning, years kept piling up, and Austin slowly shifted from the center of your life to a place you thought of fondly but distantly, like an old photograph kept in a drawer.

When your company offered you a transfer and a promotion, the timing felt right to finally come home. You were older now, grounded in ways you hadn’t been before, ready for warmth and familiarity instead of airports and temporary apartments.

Returning to Austin felt both strange and comfortingly inevitable—the streets familiar beneath the changes, the air softer than you remembered, your family thrilled to have you close again. You slipped back into the rhythm of the city with a mix of nostalgia and quiet relief, as though part of you had been waiting for this without realizing it.

It was your first true holiday season home in years, the first time you had enough time to settle, breathe, and let the past feel close again. You hadn’t thought much about Jannette’s little brother. There was no reason to. Life had moved on, and so had you. This was simply home—nothing more complicated than that.

—

Austin had a way of greeting you with warmth even in December. The air was cool enough for a jacket but still held that familiar softness you used to complain about, the kind that curled the ends of your hair and made everything smell faintly of cedar and car exhaust.

As you made your way toward the restaurant Jannette had chosen — an old converted bungalow tucked between a record store and a tattoo shop — you felt something loosen quietly inside you, something you hadn’t realized had been pulled tight for years.

The windows glowed gold from the outside, condensation blurring the silhouettes of couples and families seated close together. You paused at the entrance, smoothing your coat, more out of habit than nerves. A year wasn’t that long, yet somehow it felt like it had been ages since you last saw Jannette in person.

That memory lived in another country, under warmer light and older buildings — Spain, of all places. Your company had sent you to Madrid for a contract negotiation, and Jannette had hopped on a flight after realizing you’d be staying for the holidays. She claimed she was “morally obligated” to prevent you from spending Christmas alone, but really she’d always been hopelessly impulsive in the best ways.

That trip had been pure serendipity — tiled streets and late dinners, Jannette marveling at every cathedral and museum, the two of you laughing until your cheeks hurt, drinking wine that cost suspiciously little. It felt like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time.

Now, as you stepped inside, warmth wrapped around you in a rush, carrying the scents of roasted vegetables, warm bread, and something citrusy. Your eyes adjusted slowly, skimming over the dining room, and then there she was—sitting at a corner table, waving so energetically you swore the people beside her flinched.

You didn’t bother hiding your smile. She stood as you walked over, and the moment you reached her, the two of you collided in a hug that felt like home.

“Look at you,” she said, pulling back just enough to take you in. “God, you look disgustingly put-together. I hate you.”

You laughed, squeezing her hands. “You look amazing too. Like — you look like someone who drinks green smoothies and has a skincare routine.”

“I do neither,” she said proudly, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sat back down. “That’s just natural beauty.”

You sank into the chair across from her, exhaling in a way you didn’t even realize you needed to. The restaurant was warm, dimly lit, full of low chatter and clinking glasses. It felt intimate, cozy—like a soft landing after months of running.

Jannette flagged down a waiter with the confidence of someone who had eaten here enough to have opinions. “We’ll start with the garlic bread. And the Brussels sprouts. And two glasses of the red blend, please.”

The waiter nodded and walked off.

You raised a brow. “No menu?”

“I know what’s good,” she said with a dismissive flick of her hand. “Austin is my kingdom.”

You snorted. “You moved away for two years.”

“And came crawling back because Dallas is hell on earth.” She said it with the same blunt certainty she used at sixteen when declaring which boys were cute or which teachers were out to get you.

The two of you eased into conversation the way some people slip into warm baths—slow at first, then fully immersed. She told you about her job, about how she’d taken a promotion and then immediately regretted it, about her coworkers who were “performing adulthood like a bad improv routine,” and about the apartment she was leasing that was “small in a charming way, not in a tragic way.”

You told her about the move, your new position, the adjustment of returning to Austin after so many cities. She listened with her chin in her hand, nodding thoughtfully in spots where she used to interrupt, proof that time had smoothed some edges even if most of her remained exactly the same.

When the wine arrived, she lifted her glass. “To you coming home,” she said, eyes warm. “Finally.”

You clinked your glass to hers. “To home. Whatever that means now.”

She smiled at that, but there was a quiet softness in her expression you didn’t miss. “It means you’re here,” she said simply. “And that’s enough.”

Dinner came quickly after that—warm dishes, shared bites, familiar flavors. The conversation flowed naturally, skipping across years as easily as if they’d been days. She told you stories about mutual friends who had gotten married or divorced or both. She updated you on her parents, her neighbors, the dog she was thinking of adopting but wasn’t emotionally stable enough to handle.

Eventually, she leaned back in her chair, swirling the last of her wine. “You know,” she said, “it’s weird having you back. In a good way. I just— I got used to you being in a different time zone. Like you lived in some parallel universe where we texted at odd hours.”

You nodded, understanding more than she knew. “I got used to that too.”

“Well, selfishly,” she said, propping her chin on her hand again, “I’m thrilled to have you back in my gravitational pull. I missed this. I missed you.”

You smiled, a warm, full feeling settling in your chest. “I missed you too.”

Dinner had blurred into laughter and stories and Jannette’s familiar shrieking giggle, and now the two of you wandered down the streets with cups of peppermint hot chocolate in hand, the city glowing in that golden, slightly chaotic way it always did during the holidays.

You hadn’t walked these streets with her in years, not like this. She pointed at new shops that had popped up since your last visit, complained dramatically about the traffic that had somehow gotten even worse, rolled her eyes at the influencer-infested boutiques. The two of you fell into step as if no time had passed at all.

“So,” she said, bumping your shoulder with hers, “what are you doing for Christmas? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because that’s a crime.”

You huffed a laugh, watching your breath plume in the cool air. “Not nothing. Just… solo stuff, I guess.”

She stopped mid-stride, planting herself in front of you like an interrogating mother bird. “Explain.”

You took a sip of your drink, eyes drifting toward the twinkling lights strung between palm trees. “I didn’t tell my parents ahead of time that I was moving back. It all happened really fast, and they’d already booked Cabo months ago. Flights, hotel, everything.” You shrugged. “They tried to cancel when I told them—my mom nearly went to war with their airline miles program—but I told them not to. They were excited. They deserve the vacation.”

Jannette gave you a look that managed to be both deeply fond and profoundly unimpressed. “So you’re telling me your first Christmas home in, what… five years? Six?”

“Seven,” you admitted quietly.

“Seven,” she repeated, staring at you like you had just confessed to a felony. “You’re planning to spend your first Christmas home in seven years alone in your house?”

You opened your mouth to object — gently, diplomatically — but you didn’t get the chance.

“Nope,” she declared, turning on her heel and walking again, her ponytail swishing with purpose. “Absolutely not. Unacceptable. Illegal. I won’t allow it.”

You hurried to catch up. “Jannette, seriously, I’ll be fine. I wasn’t trying to guilt-trip my parents into canceling their trip. I don’t want to crash your family holiday. Really.”

She scoffed, a sharp, dramatic sound. “Girl, you practically grew up in our house. You think my mom won’t cry tears of joy when she sees you? You think my dad won’t start grilling the second you walk in? Please.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You’re spending Christmas with us. End of discussion.”

“Jannette—”

“Nope.” She looped her arm through yours, anchoring you to her as you crossed the street. “I’m not letting you sit at home watching Hallmark movies alone, eating takeout and pretending you don’t care. You’re coming over. You’ll sleep in the yellow guest room — Mom redecorated it, it’s hideous — and you and I will drink eggnog and complain about the same things we’ve complained about since we were seventeen. It’ll be perfect.”

You laughed, helpless against her steamroller certainty. “So it’s already decided?”

“Oh, it was decided the second you said ‘Cabo,’” she said smugly. “This is your home. We’re your people. And you’re not spending the holidays alone when we’re ten minutes away.”

Warmth spread through your chest — unexpected, a little overwhelming. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this, missed her, missed the way the Seresins just claimed you without hesitation.

“Okay,” you murmured. “Christmas at your house. Deal.”

She beamed, looping both arms around yours and squeezing tight as you walked. “Good. And hey— maybe my little brother will be home too.”

You snorted. “Jake?”

“The very one.” She shot you a sly little grin. “He hasn’t been home in ages either. You two keep missing each other like ships passing in the night.”

“Well,” you said lightly, brushing off the odd flutter that stirred in your stomach, “if he’s around, I’ll say hi.”

She nudged you. “You better.”

You smiled into your cup, letting the lights blur softly around you as you walked — warm, full, and for the first time in a long time, home.

—

Jake Seresin stepped off the plane with the easy swagger of a man who owned every inch of ground he walked on, but beneath the crisp uniform and the mirrored sunglasses and the stupidly perfect hair, something in him eased in a way it hadn’t in years. The moment the humid Texas air hit his face — warm, familiar, a little heavy with cedar — his shoulders dropped half an inch, the tightness in his chest loosening like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

Home. Damn, he’d missed it.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel, the movement fluid and controlled, the same practiced confidence he carried into every briefing and every cockpit. Lieutenant Commander Jacob Seresin wasn’t the awkward, wiry kid who used to trip over his own cleats and push his glasses up his nose every five minutes. That version of him felt like someone else entirely, a ghost of a boy who cleared out of his own skin the second he discovered weights, contact lenses, a decent barber, and the revelation that confidence could be carved out of sweat and grit and sheer force of will.

The Navy had done the rest.

Years of deployments, missions classified enough his mother would never sleep again if she knew the details, endless hours in the sky where his world narrowed to g-forces, oxygen flow, and instinct. Hangman was born out of that crucible — sharp, relentless, impossibly sure of himself. The best stick on any base he landed on. The cockiest son of a bitch in any room. And entirely, meticulously unstoppable.

But here — here he was just Jake.

He stepped into the terminal, tugging his sunglasses off as he scanned the crowd. No cameras, no salutes, no clipped orders. Just families holding handmade signs, people hugging as though the world stopped spinning outside these walls, kids bouncing on their toes with excitement. He watched them with a quick, private smile tugging at his mouth.

He’d never admit it — not to the Daggers, not to anyone in uniform, not even if waterboarding came back in style — but being home for Christmas made something warm settle in his chest. Something he’d missed more than he let himself think about.

It had been what — three years since he’d been home? Four? Time blurred when you were always on the move. Holidays came and went, replaced with night flights, briefings, nights at the Hard Deck, and holidays spent at whatever base he landed on. He sent gifts, called whenever deployment allowed, promised he’d be home “next time.”

There was never a next time.

Until now.

Thirty whole days of leave. He’d pretended to groan when command handed him the paperwork —What, sending me home? You sure you can spare me?— but deep down, he’d felt something unclench. The last mission had been rough, even by his standards, and his mother’s voice had wobbled a little the last time he called.

“Just come home when you can, baby.”

Well, he was here. Finally. On Texas soil, breathing Texas air, thirty minutes from the kitchen he grew up in and the woman who would squeeze him half to death as soon as she saw him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar, satisfied smirk curve his lips. Christmas at home wasn’t the worst way to spend a month off. He could help out around the house, eat his weight in pecan pie, charm whichever women in the neighborhood his mother insisted on setting him up with, maybe hit up a few old friends.

A little rest. A little quiet.

He slung his duffel over one shoulder and headed for the exit, boots striking the floor with purposeful strides.

He had no idea —none at all— that someone else had just come home too.

Someone he hadn’t seen since he was seventeen.

Someone who used to smile at him like he wasn’t the awkward Seresin kid with bony elbows and fogged-up glasses.

Someone he’d had a crush on so big, it had swallowed him whole.

But for now, Jake just stepped into the Texas sun with a slow, satisfied breath, completely unaware that this holiday was going to blindside him in ways he’d never expect.

—

Jake stood on the familiar front porch, his duffel slung over his shoulder, the wood beneath his boots creaking in that same old way it had when Jannette was sixteen sneaking in past curfew. The house looked exactly the same — warm light in the windows, wreath on the door, a faded “Merry Christmas Y’all” mat that his mother refused to replace even though it had survived a decade of Texas weather.

He hadn’t told them he was coming today. He’d kept his voice smooth and casual on the phone, Don’t worry, Ma, I’ll be home before Christmas, promise. but he’d left out the part where he’d actually managed to get an earlier flight. Surprises weren’t his thing, usually, but for this? For them? He wanted it.

He knocked twice.

There was shuffling on the other side of the door, the faint murmur of the TV, and then... the door flew open so fast he thought the hinges might snap.

“Jacob Thomas Seresin,” Christina breathed, one hand flying to her mouth, eyes going wide and glassy all at once. “Oh my God. Oh, my God.”

He barely had time to drop his duffel before she launched herself at him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, face buried in his chest as she started crying: loud, messy, unforgiving tears. The Seresin kind.

Jake laughed, the sound thick in his throat as he hugged her back just as tight, lifting her an inch off the ground the way he always did. “Hey, Mama.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming today,” she scolded into his shoulder, voice wobbling through the words. “I thought it’d be another week. I was— Jake, I was worried sick.”

“You saw me six months ago,” he said softly, hand smoothing over her back. “I’m alive. I swear.”

“I know,” she sniffed, pulling back just far enough to cup his face between both hands. “But I needed to see you. To make sure you’re eating. To make sure you’re sleeping. God knows the Navy lets you boys run around like you’re indestructible.”

He smirked, because of course she said that. “I’m fine, Ma.”

“You look too skinny.”

He laughed again. “I weigh more than your fridge.”

“You’re deflecting,” she said, swatting his arm, though her eyes were still wet, still drinking him in like she hadn’t seen her son in years. “Come inside. Oh, your father is going to lose his mind.”

She tugged him inside, fussing over his jacket, his face, his hair, everything. The smell of cedar, cinnamon, and something in the oven wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Carl!” she shouted, voice ringing through the house. “Carl, get in here!”

Jake set his duffel down by the stairs, wiping his boots on the rug as footsteps thumped down the hallway.

His father appeared, bewildered, holding a hammer and half a string of Christmas lights. “Honey, what on earth are you holler—”

He froze.

Jake hadn’t seen his father speechless many times in his life. He was a tall man, solid, steady, always a little gruff–– the kind of man who shook your hand so firmly you felt it in your teeth. But right now his expression cracked wide open, surprise folding into something warm and overflowing.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Jake’s chest tightened in a way that felt thick and oddly young. “Hey, Dad.”

Carl crossed the room in three steps and pulled him into a hug that was all arms and strength and quiet emotion. No tears, but his voice wavered just enough to betray him as he said, “Welcome home, son.”

Jake swallowed hard. “Good to be home.”

Christina clapped her hands together, buzzing around them like a hummingbird. “You should’ve told us! I would’ve made something special for dinner. I would’ve cleaned the guest room better. I would’ve—”

“Ma,” Jake said gently, “everything’s perfect.”

“Well, just wait until your sister gets here,” she huffed affectionately. “She’s coming this afternoon to help me with the decorations before the girls’ night she’s got planned.” She waved a hand. “She’ll scream when she sees you. Mark my words.”

Jake smiled, leaning against the doorway as he took in the house— the lights, the garlands, the slightly crooked stockings on the mantle he knew she’d fuss over later. “Good. I wanna surprise her too.”

Christina softened, stepping closer to run a hand down his cheek like he was still her boy instead of a grown man with medals and scars and a call sign stitched under his heart. “You’re really staying the month?”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. Whole month.”

She pressed her lips together, fighting emotion again. “That’s the best Christmas gift I could’ve asked for.”

He didn’t say it out loud—not yet—but deep in his bones, he felt the same.

Home. Finally home.

Jake set his duffel on the mattress—bigger than the twin he’d once outgrown but still tucked against the same wall, under the same window—and let out a slow breath as he took in the room.

His room.

Frozen in time.

Sure, the bedding was new and the TV was bigger than the one he used to play video games on, but everything else? It was like stepping into a perfectly preserved museum dedicated to the nerdiest years of his life.

His science fair trophies lined the shelves, each one a crooked little relic from a decade he pretended he didn’t remember in vivid detail. Blue ribbons for physics projects. A couple second-place ones he used to obsess over. His collection of model planes—some with fading decals, others still immaculate—were displayed in tight formation on the top shelf, a tiny squadron waiting for takeoff.

He approached them instinctively, fingers ghosting over the sleek edges of a vintage F-14 he’d built when he was fourteen. The paint was chipped in one corner where he’d dropped it the night before presenting it to his freshman science class. He smiled despite himself.

God, he’d been such a dweeb.

His eyes drifted to the framed photos on his dresser—and that’s when the smile faltered.

Because there he was.

All awkward limbs and sharp elbows, swamp-green glasses slipping down a nose dusted with freckles. Hair trimmed into that unfortunate bowl-cut his mother loved and he endured. Oversized Seresin football jersey hanging off his gangly frame. Braces. Braces.

Jake groaned under his breath.

Christina had no business keeping photographic evidence of that era.

He picked up one of the pictures—him at fourteen, wearing goggles perched crookedly on his forehead, grinning like he was about to burst as he held up a blue ribbon. He remembered that day. Remembered how proud he’d been. Remembered how a certain girl—you—had ruffled his hair and told him he was “pretty much a genius.”

He placed the frame back down carefully.

That kid didn’t look anything like the man standing in this room now—and Jake liked that. He liked the man he’d become. The broad shoulders, the sharp jaw, the body honed by thousands of hours in the sky. He liked the way people stared when he walked into a room now, the way women’s eyes lingered, the way everyone seemed to expect something from him. Strength. Confidence. Charm.

He liked being desirable. Liked owning space instead of shrinking in it.

But as he glanced back at the models, at the stacked physics textbooks on the shelf, at the laminated certificates pinned to a corkboard his mother refused to replace, something quiet and familiar tugged at him.

Because that boy—the lanky, eager, overly curious one—was still there. Buried under the uniform and the swagger and the persona of Hangman, but not gone. Not really.

Jake still loved planes with an almost embarrassing ferocity. Still read scientific journals when missions kept him up at night. Still tore through thick engineering books no one would believe he understood. And when he had the rare free weekend, he still sat at his kitchen table in his apartment in California and built tiny aircraft from scratch, paintbrush in hand, tongue between his teeth, exactly the way he used to.

But that part? That part was locked up, hidden. No one in the Navy saw it, none of his squadron knew.

People saw what he let them see, and Hangman was easier than nerdy Jacob Seresin had ever been.

He let out a breath, sinking into the desk chair he’d once spent hours in, going over equations and dissecting flight mechanics before he even had a driver’s license. The seat creaked under his weight, older but still familiar.

He ran a hand through his hair.

Maybe it was this room. Maybe it was being home. Maybe it was exhaustion he’d been ignoring for months. But for the first time in a long time, he felt that kid tugging at him from under the surface, reminding him where he came from.

Reminding him who he used to be.

Jannette’s voice hit the house like a gust of warm wind—loud, chaotic, impossible to miss.

“Mom? Dad? Y’all better not have started without me—”

Her footsteps thundered up the stairs before Jake could sit up straighter. The door flew open without a single knock.

“JACOB?!”

Her scream was so shrill he was sure the glass on his trophy shelf rattled. She launched herself across the room, arms flung wide, and Jake barely had a second to brace before she crashed into him.

He laughed as he caught her, lifting her clean off the floor the way he once never could. She was tiny compared to him now— she’d always been petite, but he’d spent his entire adolescence looking up at her. Not anymore.

“Easy there, Netty,” he said into her hair as she squeezed the breath out of him.

“I can’t believe you’re here! You didn’t tell me, you idiot!” she scolded, smacking his arm before hugging him again. “Why didn’t you text? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you—”

“Wanted to surprise you,” he interrupted, smiling.

“Well, you did,” she said, finally stepping back to take him in. “Jesus, look at you. What do they feed you at that base? Concrete? You’re enormous.” She poked his bicep. “I feel like a hobbit next to you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Good to see you too, sis.”

They settled on the edge of his bed, her legs crossed, his stretched out, the afternoon light warm through the window as she grilled him with all the enthusiasm of someone who had been saving questions for months.

“So tell me everything. And don’t skip over the important parts. Not the flying—I don’t care about the flying.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I want to know about the hot pilots you work with.”

Jake groaned. “Jannette…”

“What? I’m young, I’m single, and the Navy is a buffet I’ve never gotten to sample,” she said with a shrug. “Indulge me.”

He rubbed his face. “Rooster would eat that attention up.”

“Rooster?” she repeated, eyebrows lifting. “Is he the mustache one?”

Jake stared at her. “How do you even know that?”

“I stalked your squadron on Instagram, obviously. Anyway, continue.”

And he did, because saying no to her had been impossible since he was ten and she was eleven and a half and had decided she knew better than everyone. She laughed at all the wrong moments, teased him relentlessly, and somehow made him feel normal in a way most people never did.

She had just begun recounting, with dramatic flair, how Christina had remodeled the kitchen last spring when she paused mid-sentence.

“You okay?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Jake blinked a few times. His vision had gone soft around the edges, dry in that familiar, irritating way.

“Contacts are just a little tired,” he admitted.

Jannette’s expression snapped from curious to exasperated so fast he almost laughed. “Then take them off.”

“Can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Don’t wanna wear my glasses.”

She stared at him. Blinked once. Then snorted so hard she nearly toppled off the bed.

“Oh my God. You are unbelievable.”

“What?”

“What?” she mimicked, reaching over to smack his shoulder. “Ah yes, the new and improved Jake Seresin doesn’t wear glasses. Not even if he’s half-blind. Not even if his retinas are about to fall out. Because God forbid someone realizes Lt. Cmdr. Hangman wears prescription lenses.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” she said, leaning back on her hands with a knowing grin. “You think I don’t know you? I’ve known you since you were a fetus. You’re still that nerd who read physics books at the dinner table, except now you’ve got muscles and cheekbones and a smirk you think fools people.”

Jake scoffed, but he didn’t deny it. Jannette gave him a gentler look then, softening around the edges in that sisterly way she had.

“Wear them,” she said simply. “At least here. I promise the Christmas tree won’t judge you.”

He huffed out a laugh despite himself. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do it,” she corrected.

Jake didn’t answer. He just leaned back beside her, letting the memories of childhood and the warmth of home settle around him.

They stayed upstairs talking until Christina’s voice floated up the staircase, calling them down for dinner. Jannette sprang off the bed immediately and Jake followed, trailing behind her with a small smile tugging at his mouth.

The dining room smelled like home: roasted herbs, butter, something warm and hearty simmering on the stove. Jake helped set the table out of habit, moving plates and silverware with practiced ease, the same way he used to before deployments became his normal and home became something he visited rather than lived in.

Once they sat, they dug in, the quiet clinking of utensils mingling with easy conversation. It felt good to be here again, surrounded by people who loved him without needing anything in return.

Which was exactly when Jannette chose to drop a bomb.

“So,” she said casually, stabbing her fork into a dinner roll, “Guess who’s coming for Christmas.”

Jake froze mid-chew when she said your name.

Just half a second. A tiny pause, barely noticeable— unless you were looking directly at him, which of course both women were. He blinked once, swallowed, and forced his expression into something calm, almost bored.

Christina let out a delighted little gasp. “Oh, I didn’t know she was back in town!”

Jannette grinned, pleased with herself. “She took a promotion, but the transfer was super last-minute. She told me her parents had already booked Christmas in Cabo, so she’d be alone for the holidays. I told her she’s coming here instead.”

Christina nodded immediately, glowing with excitement. “Of course she’s welcome here anytime.”

And then —like a spotlight flicking on— her gaze landed on Jake.

Jake didn’t look up. He cut his dinner with unnecessary precision, jaw tight and posture just a little too controlled. He could probably land an F/A-18 on a pitching carrier deck blindfolded with more ease than he could handle the sudden sound of your name drifting through the dining room.

Jannette noticed immediately. Of course she did.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and eyeing him with a grin so wicked he should’ve seen it coming. She opened her mouth —Jake felt the tease forming like a storm front— but Christina shot her a warning look sharper than a commander’s reprimand.

“Not at the dinner table,” she said, light but firm.

Jannette huffed, kicked Jake under the table anyway, and returned to her plate with a smirk that promised she’d bring it up later.

Jake ignored her. Or he pretended to.

Because his mind was drifting on its own. Not far —not enough that he missed conversation around him— just far enough to stir something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He hadn’t heard your name spoken aloud in years. Not like this. Not at this table.

He saw you occasionally—flashes of you on Jannette’s Instagram stories, snapshots of brunches, birthday dinners, blurry vacation selfies. You always looked bright. Beautiful. Effortlessly yourself in a way that made something in him ache in a place he didn’t visit often.

Maybe it was nostalgia. Or maybe it was the memory of who he used to be when he first knew you; awkward, scrawny, bowl-cut and glasses and tripping over his own feet. The kind of kid who hid behind science books and plane models like they were shields.

You, meanwhile, had always seemed… untouchable. Not intentionally, not in a cruel way— you were just warm, kind, comfortable in your own skin, and Jake… wasn’t.

Not then.

But now?

Now he was different. A man forged under afterburners, molded by years of training and survival and expectation. Confident, sharp, admired.

And yet, somehow, the thought of seeing you again made him feel a little too much like that old version of himself. He cleared his throat softly, tried to focus on the conversation, on the familiar comfort of being home.

But your name lingered in the back of his mind, warm and dangerous. And even if he’d never admit it out loud…

He wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for this.

—

The next day, you’d set out early with a mission: find Christmas presents for the Seresins—plural. You loved them too much to settle for gift cards or generic candles, and that meant hopping from store to store until the bags dug into your forearms and your fingers ached from hauling them.

By midday, downtown Austin buzzed with holiday shoppers, lights strung between lampposts, wreaths hanging from every window. You blended right into the chaos, weaving through clusters of people while balancing far too many bags. If someone had filmed you from afar, you would’ve looked like a festive pack mule.

Eventually, you pushed your way into a store filled wall-to-wall with cowboy boots—every shade, every stitch pattern, every heel. The smell of leather hit you instantly, warm and earthy, comforting in a way that reminded you of Texas summers.

You were making your way toward a display near the back when you turned too quickly and collided with someone. Hard.

Your bags swung, you stumbled, and a deep voice let out a low, surprised “whoa—”

You looked up. And kept looking up.

The man was tall—ridiculously tall—with shoulders built like they could hold up the roof. He wore a burnt-orange long-sleeve with the buttons undone over a plain white tank, the kind of casual layering that shouldn’t have been legal on someone built like that. His hands went out instinctively to steady you, large and warm as they briefly brushed your elbow.

You opened your mouth to apologize, but the words died the moment your eyes really focused on his face.

Sharp jaw. Sun-kissed skin. A hint of stubble. Eyes greener than you remembered eyes being capable of being.

There was something familiar there—too familiar. It hit you like a slow, dawning realization, one that crawled from the back of your mind to the front with stubborn insistence.

No.

It couldn’t be.

“Jake?!”

Your voice came out higher than intended. The man’s lips curved —slowly, softly— into a smile. Not a smirk, not cocky or teasing or arrogant. Just warm, gentle. Something that felt like home stretched its limbs after a long sleep.

He dipped his chin once.

“Hey.”

Three letters, one syllable, and it sent a shock straight through your chest.

Because yes.

Yes, it was him.

Except… not the Jake you knew. Not the skinny boy with a bowl cut and glasses that constantly slid down the bridge of his nose. Not the teenager who used to turn red when someone complimented his school projects or his science fair ribbons.

This Jake was—

God.

He was hot.

Taller by a mile. Broader in a way that suggested years of training and discipline. The haircut actually suited his face, and facial hair did criminal things to his jawline. His shirt clung to muscles he definitely did not have at thirteen. His voice had dropped an octave. Maybe two.

You had to remind yourself to blink.

“It’s been a while,” he said, calm— too calm, given the way his heart was hammering inside his chest so loudly he was convinced you might hear it.

Fourteen years. Fourteen entire years. The number felt unreal.

You swallowed, shifting the bags on your arms, your pulse skittering somewhere between shock and disbelief.

“That’s… wow. That’s really you?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound warm enough to melt the frost from the windows.

“Last time I checked.”

You stared another second—maybe two—because your brain needed proof that this wasn’t some cosmic prank.

Jake Seresin.

The awkward little genius who once helped you build a papier-mâché volcano. The boy who grew into this.

Jake’s gaze dipped to the bags weighing down your arms—three on the left, four on the right, one hooked awkwardly by the crook of your elbow. You hadn’t realized how ridiculous you looked until his brows lifted, amused, and before you could protest, his hands were already reaching.

“Here,” he murmured, taking half the load with effortless strength.

You blinked, startled but grateful, the pressure on your fingers easing instantly. “Thank you. I went a little overboard.”

“A little?” he teased gently, shifting the bags like they weighed nothing. “You’re one pair of mittens away from needing a pack mule.”

You laughed, the sound soft but genuine, the kind that came easily around him—just like it used to. “It’s Christmas. I have no self-control in December.”

“Still the same,” he said, smiling to himself.

You tried not to think too deeply about the warmth in his voice, or the way it tugged at something you thought you’d outgrown years ago.

“So,” you said, adjusting the strap of your purse, “how long have you been in town? Last I heard, you were somewhere on the West Coast.”

Jake’s mouth twitched, something proud and something tired flickering behind his eyes. “Got in yesterday. Straight from San Diego.” Then he looked at you more closely, softer. “What about you? When did you get back?”

“A week ago,” you said. “Still adjusting. It’s weird being home after so long.”

He nodded, slow and understanding. “Jannette told us you were spending Christmas with them.”

You let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head. “She announced it, did she?”

“Oh yeah. Right in the middle of dinner.”

“God,” you groaned playfully, “I’m so sorry I’m crashing your family Christmas.”

“Crashing?” His grin deepened, warm enough to melt the leather-scented air around you. “You’re practically an honorary Seresin. My mama’s be over the moon.”

Your cheeks warmed, an involuntary reaction you hoped he didn’t notice. “She’s always been too sweet to me.”

“That doesn’t stop,” he said. “Trust me.”

You wandered through the aisles together, steps falling into an easy rhythm, like muscle memory. Talking felt natural, unforced, effortless in a way you hadn’t expected after fourteen years.

After a moment, Jake shifted the bags in his hands and asked, “Want me to take these to your car?”

“Oh—I didn’t bring one,” you said, shaking your head. “It’s nice out. I walked.”

He blinked at you like you’d confessed to hitchhiking on the highway. “You walked?”

“It’s not far,” you laughed.

Jake tilted his head, unimpressed. “Where are you parked?”

“At home.”

That earned a full grin, wide and incredulous. “You walked from your place? With all this?”

“I like walking,” you defended, nudging his arm lightly. “And it’s Christmas in Texas, not the Arctic.”

Still, he didn’t budge. “I’ve got my dad’s truck. Let me drive you.”

“It’s really okay, Jake—”

“Darlin’, I’m offering because I’m not letting you haul ten pounds of gifts across the city like Santa on foot.”

Your breath caught at the “darlin’,” spoken casually, naturally, like it wasn’t setting off tiny fireworks in your chest.

He raised a brow, patient but firm.

“Fine,” you relented quietly, smiling. “You can drive me.”

“Thank you,” he said, victorious but gentle.

“But,” you added quickly, pointing a finger at him, “I’m still looking for something for Jannette.”

Jake’s shoulders relaxed, and he followed you deeper into the store with an amused huff. “Boots?”

“Boots.”

He took this mission seriously—far more seriously than you’d expected. He sifted through styles with the concentration of someone choosing a gift for a president. You watched as he narrowed it down, comparing stitching, heel height, leather softness.

“This pair,” he finally said, holding up a beautiful tan set with turquoise embroidery. “These look like her. And she won’t shut up about turquoise lately.”

Your eyes widened. “These are perfect.”

Jake’s smile met yours. “Told you.”

After paying for the boots and gathering the growing mountain of bags, you let Jake take the lead. His hand hovered behind your back — not touching, just guiding — as he steered you out of the store and into the winter-bright parking lot. He walked with an easy confidence, long strides purposeful and relaxed, the picture of a man who knew exactly who he’d grown into.

“There she is,” he said, nodding toward a familiar old truck. His dad’s. The same one you’d ridden in a handful of times growing up.

Jake opened the back door first, loading every bag with an efficiency that made you laugh. Then he rounded to the passenger side, pulled the door open, and offered his hand to help you in— gentle, warm, steady.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His lips tugged into a half-smile. “Mama’d have my head if she heard I let you climb in alone.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach did an uneven little flip anyway.

He shut the door softly, and for the brief moment you were alone inside the truck, you let yourself breathe and silently asked yourself what the actual hell had happened to Jake Seresin.

It wasn’t just that he’d grown into himself. It wasn’t only the height, or the shoulders, or the jawline that could probably cut through drywall. It wasn’t the sun-warmed skin or the messy-styled blond hair or the way he carried himself with that quiet, lethal confidence.

It was that he looked like a man now—built, gorgeous, magnetic in a way that made your brain short-circuit. A Greek god in a burnt-orange shirt and worn denim. And somehow, impossibly, he was still Jake.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, the truck dipping slightly with his weight, and turned on the engine. The cab filled with the low rumble of heat and the faint scent of leather.

“Alright,” he said, turning to you with that warm, polite grin, “where to?”

You gave the cross streets, but he blinked, brow furrowing. “Those new roads by the river? Didn’t even know they built houses over there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you said, amused. “Here, just gimme your phone.”

He handed it over, and you typed the address into the GPS, the little map lighting up between you.

Jake pulled out of the parking lot, navigating the roads with steady hands on the wheel. Conversation began easily, naturally— like some part of you had already remembered how to talk to him.

“So,” you said, eyeing him cautiously, “the navy. You have to tell me everything.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Everything’d take years. But… it’s good. Busy. A lot of deployments. A lot of moving. Not much sleep.”

“You look like you’re doing well,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyes flicked to yours — quick, unreadable — but there was something grateful there. “I’m alright,” he admitted. “It’s exhausting sometimes. But it’s what I always wanted.”

Your chest warmed. You’d known that. Even when he was twelve, building those model planes with ridiculous precision, even when he insisted on watching documentaries no one else understood, even when he talked about physics the way other kids talked about superheroes—Jake had always had that spark.

“And you?” he said, glancing at you with genuine interest. “Last time I heard anything, you were in London.”

You laughed. “God, London feels like forever ago. I worked there after college for a bit. Then New York. Then back to Boston. Then work offered a promotion and a transfer, so… here I am. Full circle, I guess.”

He made a face—soft, teasing. “A Texan in London, huh? Bet you froze your ass off.”

“I did,” you admitted, laughing. “Absolutely. No shame in it.”

“You poor thing,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Those London winters aren’t for the weak.”

“I’ve been away for so long,” you teased, “I’m not sure I even am Texan anymore.”

Jake snapped his head toward you, eyes wide in playful offense. “Excuse me?”

“Might’ve lost my Texan card,” you continued dramatically. “Maybe I’m a Northerner now.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t you dare say that. Once a Texan, always a Texan. Doesn’t matter if you lived on the moon.”

You smiled, warmth curling in your ribs at the earnestness beneath the joke.

Outside, the city moved slowly past the windows—holiday lights strung across storefronts, people bustling with bags and bright scarves, the soft haze of early evening settling over Austin.

Inside the truck, it felt strangely intimate. Like a thread that had frayed with time had knit itself quietly back together. Like fourteen years hadn’t really been so long after all.

Ten minutes after Jake pulled up in front of your house, slowing to a stop as the wrap-around porch came into view. He turned off the engine, unbuckled, and before you could even reach for your door handle, he was already outside, rounding the truck.

“Jake—” you started when he opened your door for you again.

“Don’t fight me on this,” he said lightly, offering his hand.

You rolled your eyes but let him help you down. It wasn’t like you minded.

Then he went straight to the backseat, ignoring every protest you threw at him as he gathered all the bags—every single one—looped over both arms.

“Jake! At least let me grab one—”

“Nope,” he said, adjusting the mountain of gifts with unfair ease. “You’ll throw off my balance.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Been told that once or twice.”

You shook your head, leading him up the walkway and onto the porch, digging out your keys with a sigh. You unlocked the door and pushed it open, flicking on the hallway light.

“Sorry for the mess,” you said quickly. “I’m still unpacking.”

There were a few half-opened boxes near the living room wall, packing paper scattered nearby, and two flat, unopened bookshelves leaning against each other like toppled dominos. A couple of framed photos rested face-down on the couch, waiting to be hung. The space smelled faintly of new paint and pine from the tree you’d decorated last night.

Jake stepped inside and looked around with quiet curiosity, setting the bags down gently near the wall.

“Looks good to me,” he said. “Homey.”

“Homey?” you snorted, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “It looks like a storage closet exploded.”

He just shrugged. “Every new place looks like this at first.”

You walked ahead, kicking a box closed with your foot. “I’ve just been busy at the office. Haven’t had a chance to put the furniture together. Or figure out how to make the bookshelves stand up without killing me.”

Jake glanced at the unassembled pieces, then back at you. “You want help?”

“No, you don’t need to—”

“Darlin’,” he cut in, raising a brow, “I haven’t done a single useful thing today except drive a truck and pick out boots. Let me earn my dinner.”

You huffed out a laugh. “You want to build furniture to feel useful?”

“Exactly.”

You gave in—because it was Jake, and because the idea of sending him home after he’d carried your entire holiday haul felt wrong. “Fine. But don’t blame me if it’s missing pieces. I’m convinced they do that on purpose.”

He clapped once, rubbing his hands together. “Let me at it.”

You left him in the living room while you ran upstairs to change. You wanted to be comfortable—and also maybe to not look like a zipped-up jacket and jeans disaster next to a man who looked like that.

You slipped into soft black leggings and a loose cotton shirt, tied your hair out of your face, and headed back down.

And promptly forgot how to breathe.

Jake had shed his burnt-orange shirt, leaving him in a white tank top that fit like a second skin. His biceps flexed as he tightened something with a screwdriver, the muscles shifting under warm, tan skin. His shoulders were broader than you imagined, wider than seemed fair. His back was a map of lean strength and hours of work.

And then there was his face — head bent, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, brows furrowed, lashes low over his squinting eyes. You wondered if he still wore his glasses; If they were folded neatly in some case, If he still looked impossibly sweet in them.

He must’ve heard your footsteps because he glanced up— smiling the moment he saw you.

“These are a piece of cake,” he said, patting the partially assembled skeleton of a bookshelf. “I’ve built worse things.”

“You look very proud of yourself,” you teased, kneeling beside him and grabbing the bag of screws.

“I am,” he admitted, no shame whatsoever. “Plus, when’s the last time you had me do manual labor for you?”

“Never.”

“Exactly. I’m making history.”

You nudged him with your elbow and passed him the next set of screws. The two of you fell into a quiet, comfortable rhythm—him working, you handing him tools, both of you tucked into the soft glow of the living room light. It felt strangely domestic, strangely easy.

When you finished the first bookshelf, you sat back, admiring your work. Jake cracked his knuckles, pleased.

“Want to start the second?” he asked.

“You hungry?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I could eat.”

“I’ll order something,” you said, grabbing your phone. “Any cravings?”

“Surprise me.”

You placed the order, and twenty minutes later the doorbell rang. Jake immediately started to rise, pulling out his wallet, but you planted your hand on his shoulder—his big, warm, unfairly muscular shoulder—and pushed him gently back down.

“Absolutely not,” you said. “You built my furniture. The food’s on me.”

“I was raised to pay for dinner.”

“Well, I was raised to repay favors.”

He looked up at you, amused, defeated, soft around the edges. “Alright,” he said. “You win.”

Your fingers lingered on his shoulder for half a second too long before you pulled away. And Jake noticed. He didn’t comment— but he noticed. The faint curve of his lips proved it.

You return from the kitchen balancing the two plates carefully in your hands, the warmth of the food rising in soft curls. He’s still crouched by the second bookshelf, tightening the last screw with that quiet concentration he has.

When you tell him it’s ready, he wipes his hands on the side of his jeans and joins you on the floor again, settling opposite you the way he did earlier—one knee bent, the other stretched out, like he’s already decided the floor is the most natural place to be with you.

You hand him his plate and immediately start apologizing again, waving vaguely at the dining table cluttered with half-unpacked boxes and the kitchen island buried under kitchenware you haven’t sorted yet. “I swear it looked worse earlier,” you joke weakly, but you’re still embarrassed.

He glances around, then looks at you with an easy shrug. “I don’t mind,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice softens something in your chest. He nods toward the plate. “Thank you for the food.”

For a moment, the apartment goes quiet except for the occasional distant hum from the street and the soft clink of silverware. You sit a few feet apart, legs folded, plates balanced on your laps, the kind of silence that isn’t awkward—just warm, a breath between two people who aren’t quite sure how close they’re allowed to sit yet.

Eventually, you ask him if he’s staying in town for long. He swallows, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, and leans back on his palms.

“Got about thirty days,” he says. “On leave.”

You nod, letting that sink in. Thirty days feels like a lot and not enough at the same time.

He tells you a bit about being stationed in California—how he likes the squadron, how the flying keeps him grounded in ways nothing else does, how the ocean smell still hits him weird sometimes. You ask if he misses Texas, and his answer comes with a slow exhale.

“Yeah… sometimes. Mostly my folks. And Jannette.” His voice shifts a little on her name, not sad— just honest.

You look down at your plate before meeting his eyes again. There’s a softness threading under your ribs, one you’ve been trying not to acknowledge since he walked through your door. “I’m… happy you’re back,” you say quietly.

For a second he doesn’t move, like the words catch him off guard. Then his mouth curves, small and real, warm enough that you feel it in your stomach.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes lingering on you a beat too long. “I’m happy you’re back home too.”

—

Jake had just finished climbing down from the stepladder, dusting his palms across his jeans, when the doorbell rang. His mom was elbow-deep in some Christmas recipe that Jannette was very obviously sneaking bites from, so Christina called out, “Jake, honey, can you get that?”

He pushed a hand through his hair and headed toward the foyer, still warm from the heater and smelling faintly of cinnamon and whatever Christina was baking. When he opened the door, the cold morning rushed in—and so did you, in a way.

You stood there bundled in a coat almost too big, scarf wrapped twice around your neck, gloves tugged up to your wrists. And in your hands? A precarious tower of perfectly wrapped gifts that rose so high he could barely see your eyes peeking over the top. Your breath clouded in the air, cheeks pink from the cold, and Jake had to bite back a laugh because you looked so damn cute he almost forgot to say hello.

“Well,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe, “are you doin’ some kind of arm workout, or do you just have a personal vendetta against traveling light?”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it wasn’t very effective with most of your face hidden behind a stack of metallic paper and crisp ribbons. “Ha, ha. Very funny,” you muttered, shifting the gifts before they toppled. “Are you going to help me, or should I just file for workers’ comp now?”

Jake grinned as he reached forward and scooped the whole leaning tower of presents out of your hands like they weighed nothing. “You’re welcome,” he said, stepping aside so you could slip into the warmth of the house.

“Thank you,” you replied, brushing a gloved hand over your coat as if it would make you look less flustered.

But you didn’t get a second more to compose yourself because Jannette’s shriek echoed from the kitchen— bright, high-pitched, delighted. In an instant she appeared, barreling toward you at full speed. She collided with you in a hug so tight Jake winced on your behalf.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” she squealed into your scarf before dragging you toward the kitchen like you weighed nothing at all.

Jake followed with your gifts in his arms, just to the edge of the doorway. Christina turned around, saw you, and let out a squeal that matched her daughter’s in pitch and enthusiasm. She wiped her hands on a dish towel before rushing forward to hug you herself.

From where he stood at the threshold, Jake watched the three of you—voices overlapping, hands busy, warmth practically radiating off the kitchen tiles. Something in his chest tugged, something he refused to name.

Before he could take a step inside, Carl called from the living room, “Jake! Need your help with this bracket!”

Jake lingered one more heartbeat, eyes tracing the way you laughed as Christina fussed over your coat and Jannette immediately tried to steal something from the stove again. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted the pile of gifts under his arm, and headed back to the living room.

The kitchen felt warmer than any heater could manage. It was the kind of warmth born from clattering pots, soft laughter, the perfume of cinnamon and roasted something drifting from the oven. Christina handed you a cutting board, Jannette passed you a knife she’d already stolen a tomato with, and you slipped into the rhythm of helping them prep for tomorrow night’s dinner.

Your parents were already in Mexico for the holidays, and being here—being folded into the Seresins’ chaos—felt strangely natural. You wanted to help, needed to feel useful when their kindness had opened their home to you without a blink.

Jake moved between the living room and the kitchen every so often, delivering decorations for Christina to approve or returning with tools Carl needed. And every time he stepped through that doorway, whether it was with a hammer in his hand or a strand of garland slung over his shoulder, he let his gaze drift toward you. Quick, almost shy glances—like he didn’t want anyone to notice, but he couldn’t help himself.

Of course, Christina noticed. And Jannette did, too. The moment Jake turned away to answer his dad, the two women exchanged a look so subtle it barely registered, but you caught the tail end of it. A shared, knowing smile.

They remembered. They remembered everything.

Growing up, Jake’s crush on you had been embarrassingly transparent, all long limbs and red cheeks and too-fast talking. He hadn’t been good at hiding it then— and if the soft warmth on his face each time he glanced your way meant anything, he wasn’t good at hiding it now either.

You weren’t much better.

You tried to be discreet, you really did, but your eyes had a mind of their own. They tracked the line of his shoulders under that fitted shirt, the flex of muscle in his arms when he lifted a box of ornaments, the curve of his profile when he leaned in to listen to something his mom said. He had grown into himself, into his height and his strength, into that steady confidence that radiated off him like heat.

And you were looking. A lot.

Every time your gaze dipped — just for a second— down the plane of his chest or the sharp cut of his jaw, a quiet thrill shot down your spine. Like touching a live wire. Like being reminded you were still very much alive.

You told yourself it wasn’t because he was hot now, not only that.

But God, he was.

And it had been… a while for you. Dating, intimacy, even something as simple as being touched. The absence of all of it had left a kind of hollow ache you didn’t like to acknowledge. A low, restless hum under your skin.

And now here you were. Getting all worked up because Jake Seresin, Jannette’s little brother, for God’s sake, smiled at you from across the room like you were something warm to come home to.

The realization startled you more than it should have. The suddenness of it, the sharp tug low in your stomach, the heat prickling at the back of your neck.

You cleared your throat and focused on chopping vegetables, pretending you didn’t feel his eyes on you again.

Pretending the flutter in your chest wasn’t answering him back.

—

You stayed the entire afternoon without even meaning to. One minute you were helping Christina peel potatoes, the next you were wiping down the counters while Jannette stole cookies straight off the cooling tray, and somehow the sun slipped low without any of you noticing.

Eventually the kitchen duties were handed off to timers, ovens, and Christina’s uncanny intuition, freeing you to wander into the living room where Carl and Jake had finished arranging decorations. The tree glowed softly in the corner—warm white lights, gold garland, and the familiar collection of mismatched Seresin ornaments.

You sank into the couch with a relieved sigh, pulling out your phone to check a few work emails. You only managed three lines of a message before Jannette plopped down beside you dramatically and smacked your phone right out of your hands.

“It’s Christmas,” she declared.

“It is not Christmas yet,” you retorted, leaning down to reach for your phone. “It’s the twenty-third—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Your whole body paused, suspended mid-reach, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Because Jake Seresin was walking down the stairs.

Freshly showered. Hair damp, curling faintly at the ends; face warm from the heat of it, broad shoulders framed by a soft, worn T-shirt.

But none of that was what made your brain short-circuit— It was the glasses.

Simple, thin-framed, perfectly fitted glasses perched on his nose, making him look sharper and softer at the same time. They framed his face in a way that was almost unfair. Handsome didn’t cover it. He looked intelligent, grounded, older, hotter— God, hotter. As if he needed any help.

Your heart stumbled over its own rhythm.

Beside you, Jannette followed the line of your gaze, took one look at her brother, then at your stunned expression—and smirked like a cat who’d just cornered a canary. Her elbow found your ribs with cruel precision.

“Shut up,” you whispered, swatting her lightly.

“I wasn’t talking,” she sang quietly. “You were staring.”

You forced your eyes off Jake —honestly, ripped them away— and pretended Jannette’s rambling about cookie icing required your full intellectual capacity. Still, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jake settle against the far wall, scrolling through something on his phone, glasses sliding down his nose just enough that he pushed them back up with the knuckle of his thumb.

You almost groaned. Silently. Internally.

It was dangerously close to indecent.

Time passed in a blur of warmth and soft chatter until you noticed the hour glowing on the clock. You stood, brushing your hands down your sides.

“I should head out,” you announced gently. “It’s getting late.”

Christina, perched beside Carl on the loveseat, looked scandalized. “You shouldn’t be driving at night, sweetheart.”

You waved a hand lightly. “It’s fine, really. I’ve done it a thousand times.”

Christina shook her head, already set in her ways. “No. You’re tired. The roads are dark. It’s not safe.”

Before you could argue, Jannette, eyes gleaming with mischief, said, “Jake can drive her.”

Jake’s head snapped up. He blinked once, confusion melting quickly into something bright and alert. His gaze drifted to you, locking on, and your breath caught again because glasses.

Christina lit up instantly. “That’s perfect! Yes. Jake, take her home. And darling, leave your car here. He’ll pick you up tomorrow too.”

Your cheeks flushed warm. “Mrs. Seresin, really, that’s not—”

“I don’t mind,” Jake said, voice sliding in low and steady, cutting off your protest.

Jannette muttered under her breath, “Of course you don’t,” earning herself a sharp look from him.

You swallowed, nodded softly, thanked them all, and gathered your things. Jake grabbed the truck keys from the shelf by the door and held the door open for you.

The chill of the night met you both at once— crisp air, quiet street, the scent of pine lingering on your coat. Your breath puffed out in little clouds, mixing with his.

Your cheeks were still warm from the attention, from the glasses, from the way Jake kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

Jake opened the truck door for you just like before— effortlessly, almost instinctively, as if it were second nature. He offered his hand to help you climb in, the warmth of his fingers brushing yours for a moment that felt much longer than it actually was. Then he closed the door gently and circled the hood, breath visible in the cold night air.

Once he slid behind the wheel, he turned the key, letting the engine hum to life. The headlights washed over the quiet street as he eased out of the driveway. The inside of the truck was warm, dimly lit, and filled with the soft rasp of the heater and the low rumble of the engine. Jake kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, and every now and then he reached up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the lightest tap of his knuckle.

You watched him do it once. Then again. Then again— each time something fluttering low in your stomach.

After a stretch of comfortable silence, you said softly, “I didn’t know you still wore glasses.”

He huffed a small laugh, eyes flicking toward you before returning to the road. “Yeah, I’m still pretty blind,” he joked. “Contacts help, but by the end of the day they get annoying.”

You smiled, leaning back against the seat. “I can’t believe Christina didn’t want me driving at night. I’m offended, honestly.”

Jake laughed, real and warm, the sound filling the cab in a way that made your chest feel too full. He shook his head, voice lighter than before. “Yeah, you’re clearly the bigger hazard.”

You grinned, pretending to be scandalized. “Wow. Thank you, Lieutenant Safety.”

He glanced at you again, longer this time, and there was something soft in his eyes, something easy and fond that made you swallow around the sudden warmth in your throat. He returned his attention to the road, but the faint smile stayed on his face.

The world outside the truck was dark and still— houses wrapped in Christmas lights, lawns sparkling with frost, the sky a deep velvet blue. Inside, though, it felt warmer and smaller, the space between you charged with something neither of you wanted to name yet.

You shifted slightly in your seat. The fabric of your leggings clung to your skin, warm from the heater, and you crossed your legs, then uncrossed them, fingers idly brushing your thigh. You told yourself it was the cold. The long day. The exhaustion.

But then Jake pushed his glasses up again, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the cut of his cheekbone— and your thighs pressed together without you thinking.

You tried to play it off, adjusting in your seat, pretending to get comfortable. But the truth pulsed hot and low: you were attracted to him, wildly, stupidly, overwhelmingly attracted. The kind of attraction that made your breath catch and your skin warm. The kind that made your mind wander to places it absolutely should not go— not while sitting beside Jake Seresin. Not while wearing a seatbelt.

He didn’t seem to notice, thankfully. Or maybe he did and was too polite to say anything. Or maybe he noticed, but the curl of a smile ghosting the corner of his mouth suggested something else entirely—something that made your heart thump hard against your ribs.

You stared out the window, trying to breathe normally.

Jake reached up, pushed his glasses up one more time, and you were gone again.

After a while, he pulled up smoothly to the curb and cut the engine. For a moment neither of you moved, the quiet settling between you like a warm blanket, thick and charged and impossible to ignore. Then he unbuckled, stepped out into the cool night, and rounded the truck with long, confident strides. He opened your door with that same gentle care he’d shown all day, offering a hand to help you down.

You met his eyes as you slid out of the seat. “Thank you for the ride,” you said softly, breath visible in the cold. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Jake shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, shoulders lifting in the faintest shrug. “I wanted to,” he said, simple and earnest.

A small wave of silence washed over you—warm, a little nervous, strangely comfortable. You stood there on your front walk, the porch light casting a golden glow over the two of you. Jake looked taller in that light, broader, impossibly handsome with the frames perched on his nose and the cold brushing color onto his cheeks.

Neither of you knew what to say, neither of you wanted to walk away.

“Goodnight,” you whispered, finally breaking the spell.

“Goodnight,” he echoed, voice quieter than before.

You turned, walking toward your porch steps. You made it halfway to the door, heart pounding, breath uneven, before stopping dead.

Fuck it.

You spun around.

Jake was still standing exactly where you left him, hands in his pockets, breath curling in the cold air. His eyes widened when he saw you coming back, mouth parting like he was about to speak—

—but he didn’t get the chance.

You reached him in one determined step, hands sliding up his chest as you surged forward and crushed your mouth to his. The kiss landed hot, full, desperate. Jake froze for just half a second, but then he melted into you, hands flying from his pockets to your waist, pulling you firmly against him like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.

The world tilted.

You kissed him deeper, your fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that stole your breath. When you finally pulled back for air, barely an inch away, he chased you— capturing your mouth again before you could even inhale, like he couldn’t bear the distance.

You walked backwards without looking, letting instinct guide you, and he followed without hesitation, steps perfectly in sync with yours. He kissed you like you were something he’d dreamed of and never expected to touch. Like he was starving and you were the first real taste of something good in years.

His chest pressed to yours, his breath warm, his glasses slightly askew.

You hit your door with a soft thud.

Jake kissed down your jaw to your neck, his lips hot against your skin. “Where are your keys, sweetheart?” he murmured against the curve of your throat, voice rough, low, absolutely devastating.

Sweetheart.

Your knees almost buckled.

You fumbled in your purse —shaky, breathless— until your fingers closed around the keys. Jake stayed pressed to you, hands exploring your waist, your hips, the small of your back, claiming every piece of you he could reach. You managed to get the key into the lock on the second try and push the door open.

The moment you stepped inside, Jake followed, shutting the door behind him with one hand while the other found your waist again. His lips returned to your neck, nipping lightly, and you let out a breathless giggle. Your fingers slid into his hair, brushing the edge of his glasses, and he pulled back just enough to smirk against your skin.

“Couldn’t keep your hands off my glasses, huh?” he teased, voice warm and wicked.

Before you could answer, he kissed you again, backing you farther into the house until the door clicked shut behind him and the world outside disappeared.

Jake guided you deeper into the house until your back met the wall, the gentle thud echoing in the quiet room. He didn’t kiss you right away. Instead, he paused— breathing hard, chest rising and falling against your — just looking at you like he was trying to memorize every line of your face.

His eyes swept over you, slow and reverent.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, warm and trembling with honesty he probably hadn’t planned to share. “You have no idea how many times I dreamed about this.”

Heat shot straight through you.

Your lips curved, eyes lifting to his through your lashes as you leaned in, brushing your mouth near the shell of his ear. “Tell me what you dreamed about,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin.

Jake pulled back just enough to see you clearly, and something shifted behind his eyes. A spark— dark, certain, hungry. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and sinful.

“No hesitation at all, huh?” he drawled softly.

Before you could respond, his hands slid down your sides, warm and sure, settling at the back of your thighs. In one smooth, practiced motion he lifted you— effortless, like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands flying to the back of his neck, fingers curling in the soft hair there.

Your legs wrapped around his waist by instinct, your body fitting to his like you’d done this a thousand times instead of not at all.

His mouth found your neck again, lips hot and open as he kissed a path up toward your jaw. You tilted your head without thinking, granting him more access, a soft moan slipping out before you could stop it.

Jake groaned quietly at the sound, tightening his grip on you.

And then he started walking.

Up the stairs.

Carrying you like he’d been waiting fourteen years for the chance.

Each step jostled you just enough that your breath hitched, your arms clinging tighter around his shoulders. His body was strong and steady beneath you— solid muscle, warm skin, that faint scent of soap and aftershave still clinging to him after his shower.

He kept kissing you between steps, his lips brushing your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn’t stop touching you.

By the time he reached your bedroom door, your pulse was pounding, your fingers tangled in the hair at his nape, your legs locked tight around him.

Jake nudged the door open with his shoulder, eyes lifting to meet yours— full of every dream he’d never said out loud.

He laid you softly on the bed, his body hovering over yours as your back hit the mattress. The room felt charged, the air thick with anticipation as his warmth pressed close. He planted one hand beside your head, the other trailing down your side, fingers igniting sparks along your skin. His lips captured yours in a deep kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth with confident ease, tasting you thoroughly. You moaned into him, your hands roaming his broad back, slipping under his shirt to feel the hard ridges of his abs clenching under your touch.

You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head in a rush. Your eyes devoured him: toned chest, defined arms, every inch screaming raw power. He mirrored you, stripping your top away and unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers, exposing your breasts to the cool air. They ached for him already, nipples hardening. As he reached for his glasses, you grabbed his wrist.

“Leave them on,” you whispered, voice husky with need. He smirked, that green gaze sharpening behind the lenses, adjusting them before crashing back into another kiss, his mouth devouring yours.

His lips trailed down, hot and insistent, nipping at your jaw before settling on your neck. He sucked hard, tongue lapping at the skin, drawing a gasp from you as a bruise bloomed under his mouth.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmured against your throat, his voice low and rough. You arched into him, fingers threading through his hair. He moved lower, open-mouthed kisses peppering your collarbone, then your breasts. His hand cupped one, thumb circling the nipple while his mouth latched onto the other, sucking firmly.

The pull shot straight to your core, making your pussy clench with empty need. He switched sides, teeth grazing the sensitive peak, leaving faint red marks that would darken into hickeys by morning. Your moans filled the room, body writhing as pleasure built.

“Jake... please,” you breathed, hips shifting restlessly. He released your breast with a wet pop, kissing down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel. His hands hooked into your leggings, peeling them down slowly, caressing the newly bared skin of your thighs.

Cool air hit your soaked panties, the fabric clinging transparently to your folds. He settled between your legs, broad shoulders parting them wide, his breath ghosting over your inner thighs. You rocked up instinctively, seeking friction against the ache in your pussy.

He dragged his fingers along the waistband of your panties, eyes locked on yours through his glasses, that smirk promising everything.

“So wet for me already,” he said, voice gravelly. He tugged them off, exposing your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze. You felt vulnerable, exposed, but the way he stared—like he wanted to consume you—only made you throb harder. He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, sucking marks into the soft flesh, each pull making you whimper. The hickeys would linger, a secret reminder of this night.

“Please, Jake,” you begged, voice breaking. He looked up, green eyes piercing behind the frames, and without a word, his mouth found your pussy. His tongue flattened against your slit, licking a long, slow stripe from entrance to clit.

The sensation was electric, your hips bucking as he lapped at your juices. He hummed in approval, the vibration sending shivers through you. Then he focused on your clit, sucking it between his lips with precise pressure, tongue flicking the swollen nub.

You cried out, hands fisting the sheets. His mouth worked you relentlessly, tongue circling your clit before sucking harder, drawing obscene wet sounds from your pussy. He made out with it, lips and tongue worshipping every fold, dipping inside briefly to taste your arousal before returning to that sensitive spot.

“Look at me, darling,” he commanded, voice muffled against you. You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense stare as he sucked your clit again, the suction pulling a scream from your throat. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, your thighs trembling around his head.

He pulled back just enough to speak, one finger sliding along your slit, gathering your wetness before rubbing firm circles on your clit.

“Did you know not all women orgasm from penetration? Stimulation like this—or toys—can be key. But bet I can make you cum from my tongue alone.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, confident and teasing. Then he dove back in, mouth sealing over your pussy, tongue thrusting inside while his fingertips tugged at your clit. You screamed, the dual assault overwhelming, your body arching off the bed.

His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open as he ate you out with expert focus. Tongue lashing your clit, sucking it rhythmically, he built the pressure higher. Your moans turned to gasps, breaths ragged, every nerve alight. He added a finger, sliding it deep into your clenching pussy, curling to hit that spot inside while his mouth never stopped its assault on your clit.

The combination was devastating— wet slurps mixing with your cries, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat. You felt the edge approaching, body tensing, but he didn't let up, determined to push you over with just his mouth and that skilled touch.

“Jake... I'm so close,” you panted, eyes locked on his as he glanced up again, that smug glint in his green eyes urging you on. His tongue flattened once more, licking broad strokes before pinpoint sucking on your clit, finger pumping steadily. The pleasure crested, threatening to shatter you, but he held you there, drawing it out with every precise movement.

Your body convulses as the orgasm rips through you, waves of pleasure crashing hard. Your pussy clenches and gushes, soaking Jake's mouth with your hot cum. He doesn't flinch— instead, he presses his tongue flat against your swollen folds, lapping up every drop like it's the sweetest nectar.

His lips suck greedily at your entrance, tongue delving deep to scoop out more of your juices, slurping loudly as you tremble beneath him. The wet sounds fill the room, mixing with your ragged breaths, your thighs quivering around his head.

You think he's done, that he'll pull back and give you a second to recover, but Jake's eyes lock onto yours through his fogged glasses, dark with hunger. His tongue keeps working, flicking over your sensitive clit, sending jolts straight to your core.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he moans against your skin, the vibration making you whimper. Before you can beg for mercy, he slides one thick finger into your dripping hole, stretching your walls with its girth. It's long, rough from whatever he's been doing all day, and he thrusts it slow and deep, curling it just right to hit that spot inside.

Your juices coat his finger easily, making obscene squelching noises as he pumps in and out. You gasp, hips bucking involuntarily, but he pins you down with his free hand on your thigh.

“A lot happens in your body during orgasm, especially in the brain,” he says casually, like he's reciting from a textbook while finger-fucking you senseless. “It has been shown that when you reach orgasm, the area behind your left eye, known as the lateral orbitofrontal cortex, shuts down. Kind of why you look so fucked out right now.” His words hit you as hard as his finger, your mind reeling from the mix of science and filth.

“Oh god,” you moan, your voice breaking as he slips a second finger inside, stretching you wider. Your pussy flutters around the intrusion, stuffed full already, but he doesn't stop. He starts scissoring them, twisting and thrusting, while his thumb sneaks up to your clit, rubbing firm circles that make your vision blur. The pressure builds fast, your nerves on fire from the dual assault. “Ho-how do you know all of this?” you stammer, words tumbling out between gasps, your body arching off the bed.

He smirks, never breaking rhythm, his fingers plunging deeper, knuckles grazing your entrance.

“I just read a lot.” His voice is low, teasing, as his hand works you relentlessly. You feel every ridge of his fingers dragging along your inner walls, hitting your G-spot with precision. “Did you know a female orgasm can burn between 60 to 100 calories? That’s on top of the calories burnt during sex.”

“Did you major in women's anatomy or something?” you manage to choke out, your breaths coming in short pants as pleasure coils tighter in your belly.

He shakes his head, eyes gleaming with dominance. “I learn a lot online.” Before you can respond, his mouth replaces his thumb on your clit, sucking hard, tongue swirling around the throbbing nub.

His fingers thrust faster, curling against your G-spot with every stroke, the wet slaps echoing louder. You cry out, the second orgasm slamming into you like a freight train. Your pussy spasms around his fingers, cum coming out in hot spurts as he drives them deeper, fucking you through it without mercy.

He pulls his mouth away just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal. “I want to make you squirt.” The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, but you shake your head weakly, still riding the aftershocks.

“I've never... I don't know if I can,” you whimper, your voice hoarse, body already oversensitive.

Jake's grin turns wicked. “It's different for everybody, but some people may achieve squirting from stimulation to the clitoris, vulva, or other parts of the vagina or body.”

As he talks, his fingers pick up speed, slamming into your G-spot harder, the pressure building to something intense and unfamiliar. “A person may find it easier to squirt when masturbating. Right now, I'm hitting your G-spot. You may feel a tingling sensation or the need to urinate.”

You nod frantically, biting your lip to stifle a scream, the pleasure bordering on too much. That tingling spreads, a full bladder ache mixing with the ecstasy, making your muscles clench.

“Dual stimulation is important, see?” he says, voice rough with his own arousal. His head dives back down, mouth latching onto your clit, sucking and flicking while his fingers piston inside you, relentless on that spongy spot. The overstimulation hits like lightning— deliciously painful, your nerves screaming as the third orgasm barrels toward you.

Your hips jerk, trying to escape the intensity, but Jake locks your thighs in place with his strong arms, refusing to let you pull away. He speeds up instead, fingers curling and thrusting, mouth devouring your clit.

The pressure explodes. You scream his name, body seizing as you squirt hard, a gush of fluid spraying over his face. It soaks his glasses, dripping down his chin, wetting his chest and the bed, but he doesn't stop.

He drinks you in, tongue lapping at the flood, moaning deep in his throat as his hips grind against the bed, cock straining in his pants. Your legs shake uncontrollably, pussy pulsing around his fingers, every muscle going limp as your brain shorts out in bliss.

Jake keeps licking, slower now, savoring every last drop until you're empty and twitching. He finally pulls back, chin glistening, glasses ruined and streaked with your squirt, but his eyes burn with satisfaction. He watches you, sprawled and fucked-out on the bed, chest heaving, pussy still fluttering.

“Told you I could make you squirt,” he says, voice husky, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers trail up your thigh, teasing the edge of your folds again, hinting at more to come.

Your mouth opened, ready to answer, but Jake’s phone rang with a notification from the corner of the bed he had discarded it earlier —

Guessing you’re gonna spend the night there, just know mom will go get your ass if you’re not here to open the gifts tomorrow — naked or not!

The little bar off Main Street is already humming by the time you and Tyler slide into your usual corner booth. Neon lights buzz overhead, the smell of fried pickles and beer curling through the air, a blend of 90’s country and classic rock spilling from the jukebox. It’s familiar, easy…and somehow charged tonight in a way Tyler can’t pretend not to feel.

You’re in that cotton sundress he likes a little too much. Soft cotton, thin straps, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs every time you shift.

You didn’t choose it because of him. Or maybe you did. But either way, he’s telling himself you wore it for him.

He sits beside you instead of across from you, one arm draped along the back of the booth, thumb brushing your shoulder on instinct. His beer is half empty, but judging by the way his eyes keep flicking down to you, you’re the one making him dizzy.

Your friends chatter around you, laughing about some story from a concert last week. You try to listen, but the bar feels smaller than usual. Warmer. Like Tyler’s body heat is crawling across the vinyl seat and straight into you.

The waitress drops off your drink: margarita with your favorite tequila, a lime wedge, and a salted rim.

Tyler looks at you, and a tiny smirk appears on his lips. Because he knows exactly what happens when you drink tequila.

You lift the glass in a little cheers, take a slow sip, and swirl your tongue across the rim to catch the salt. Tyler watches every second of it. His fingers tighten just slightly behind your shoulders. 

“Don’t start,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it.

You blink up at him, all fake-sweet innocence. “Start what?”

He gives you a soft huff in response. “You know damn well what, darlin’.”

Another sip. Another swirl of your tongue. Another spark in his eyes.

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear as he speaks. “And I know that smile,” he whispers, voice warm, “and what it’s about.”

A shiver races straight down your spine. You don’t even try to hide the smile this time. You just tilt your head, meet his gaze, and let your teeth graze your bottom lip.

The group’s laughter spikes again, and someone calls out, “You two ain’t makin’ it ’til close, are you?”

You shoot them a dirty look. Tyler just grins and takes another pull from his beer. But his hand drops from the back of the booth to your thigh under the table. His thumb traces lazy circles on your warm skin.

“When you wanna head out?” You murmur, catching the way his brows lift just slightly.

He tips his chin toward your glass. “You just got that one.”

“I can drink fast." You smile, slow and pointed. “We don’t have to stay ‘til two.”

His jaw flexes. He leans in, lips brushing your temple. “We can leave after you finish that one.”

Half an hour later you’ve finished your drink, Tyler’s paid the tab, and you are sliding out of the booth. Your friends call after you, teasing about you two calling it quits so early.

Someone shouts, “Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!”

Tyler snorts. “Ain’t a damn thing y’all wouldn’t do.”

You’re laughing as you follow him to the door, hand catching his bicep, sundress swaying with every step. The moment you step outside, warm wind rushes over your skin, carrying the smell of rain and electricity.

Tyler looks over and shakes his head once before muttering under his breath, “Lord help me.”

The parking lot lights buzz overhead, casting shadows across his face as he opens the truck door for you. The second you climb in, the skirt of your dress slides up your thigh. Tyler pauses halfway into his seat like the air just left his lungs.

You reach over and trail your fingers along the line of his jaw. “Tyler.”

His eyes flutter. It’s barely anything, but it hits him hard.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, shutting the door behind him, “are you tryin’ to kill me?”

The truck engine growls to life. You settle back into your seat, heart pounding, thighs still warm from his touch under the table. He glances over at you as he shifts into reverse, eyes dark with something you know all too well.

The second the truck rolls out of the bar’s gravel lot, you feel the tension coil between you and Tyler like a live wire. Tyler’s got one hand on the wheel, the other still resting on your thigh. Warm. Firm. Thumb stroking just a little too slowly to be innocent. The cab smells like his cologne and your body spray, and God, it’s a dangerous mix.

You let a few minutes pass. Let him think he’s got a handle on things. Then you lean over the center console.

“Sweetheart…” He says. It’s a warning, low and already strained.

You pretend not to hear him, your hand sliding up the front of his shirt, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before drifting down, lower and lower until he inhales so sharply you swear you hear it over the radio.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, voice already wrecked.

“Not trying to start anything,” you whisper against his jaw, brushing your lips over the rough stubble there. “Just want to be close to you.”

“Yeah,” he says, breath shuddering, “well…don’t.”

You grin against his skin, because Tyler Owens only gets bossy when he’s two seconds from losing control. Your hand grazes the hem of his shirt, fingertips dipping underneath.

He jerks the wheel just slightly. “Hey.”

“Hmm?” You blink up at him all innocent again. It’s becoming your favorite game.

He flicks his eyes to the speedometer. You follow his gaze. He’s doing seventy in a fifty five. You bite your lip. He notices. He always notices.

“Sweetheart,” he warns, “you’re gonna make me—”

You kiss his neck. Just a soft press of lips to warm skin. He groans. You keep going. And Tyler completely unravels.

“Okay,” he snaps, voice dropping dangerously low. “Enough.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, heat sparking under your ribs. “Tyler—”

“No.” He shakes his head once, jaw tight. “You do one more thing, and I swear to God…”  His knuckles are white on the wheel. “I’ll pull this damn truck over and take you right here on the side of the highway.”

You swallow. “You wouldn’t.”

He meets your eyes just long enough for you to see the truth simmering there. “Try me.”

The air leaves your lungs all at once. The highway stretches ahead. Tyler’s breathing is harsh and uneven, the sound of a man trying to keep his last thread of restraint.

So naturally, you break it. Your hand slides higher on his thigh. His head snaps toward you like he can’t believe you’re that brave, but his breath falters before he can say anything.

“You want me to stop?” You whisper, fingers digging in just enough.

He swears loudly. The kind he only uses when a tornado’s on the ground or when you’re driving him completely out of his mind.

“Baby,” he grits out, “I’m not kidding. I’ll put this truck in park right…”

His voice breaks off into a growl when your lips brush the spot just below his jaw again. You glance at the speedometer again. He’s pushing ninety now.

“Tyler!”

“You wanna keep teasing me?” He says, leaning forward, eyes blown dark. “Gonna make the fifteen minute drive home in five.”

The truck surges forward, and Tyler’s hand slides from your thigh to squeeze it. Tyler takes the last turn to your place a little too fast, gravel crunching under the tires. He kills the engine, breathing hard like the whole fifteen-minute drive was one long test of will he barely passed. You pop the seatbelt and slide out of the cab, dress swaying around your thighs as you head to the porch.

But you don’t even make it three steps. The truck door slams behind you. Tyler’s boots hit gravel. And then you hear him.

“Hey.”

A calloused hand wraps around your wrist, spinning you back toward him. You gasp, half from surprise, half from his eyes that are blown wide, dark with want, pupils swallowing the soft gold around them. Rain beads in his eyelashes, runs down the sharp cut of his jaw.

He doesn’t say a single word before his other hand comes up to your face, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip like he’s been starving for the taste of you all night.

Then he kisses you. Hard. It’s the kind of kiss that steals your breath, your balance, everything. You fist your hands in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer without even thinking. He groans against your mouth, and it’s all the encouragement he needs. He backs you up until your spine gently hits the side of his truck.

The metal is still warm from the drive, humming against your back. Tyler doesn’t break the kiss, not even for air. He angles his body into yours, one arm braced beside your head on the truck, the other still gripping your face like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to drag in a rough inhale, forehead pressed to yours.

“I tried,” he growls, voice low and completely wrecked. “Swear to God, sweetheart…I tried to wait ‘til we got inside.” His fingers slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make your knees go weak. “But I  wasn’t lettin’ you get another damn step from me.”

You manage to slip out of his arms long enough to make a half dizzy beeline for the front steps. Your hands are shaking. They’re trembling like hell, and the keys jingle way too loud in the quiet night as you try to separate the right one from the whole metal mess.

“C’mon,” you mutter under your breath, squinting at the keyhole like that’ll help.

You get approximately one second of concentration before Tyler comes up behind you. His hands slide straight onto your hips. His chest hits your back with a low, needy groan that vibrates right through you.

“Tyler,” you breathe, but your voice breaks when his lips brush the side of your throat.

He’s not even pretending to play it cool. He’s been wound tight the whole drive home and now that he has you cornered at your own front door? Yeah, he’s done for.

“I told you,” he murmurs against your skin, “you were gonna pay for that little stunt.”

The key misses the lock again because his mouth finds that spot just under your ear and you swear your knees forget how to support you. Then his hips grind forward, slow but deliberate, and the sound you make is embarrassingly whiny.

He does it again. And again. Just enough pressure to relieve some of that tension, but not nearly enough to help either of you.

“Tyler, you have to stop,” you whisper, forehead pressed to the door.

Tyler smirks against your neck. You can feel it. “It’s what you get for that little stunt in the truck, darlin’.”

The key finally slips into the lock, but your hand is shaking too much to turn it. Not when he’s breathing you in like he’s starving. Not when he’s rolling his hips again, harder this time, a hot curse spilling into your shoulder. For a moment you wonder if he plans on taking you right here on the front porch.

“Open the door,” he growls, voice low, frayed, wrecked.

You try. You really do. But Tyler’s hands slide forward, fingers curling into your waistband…and concentration becomes impossible.

The second the lock finally clicks, Tyler’s hand covers yours on the knob, and he pushes the door open like he’s been waiting his whole life to cross the threshold with you.

You get maybe one step inside before he kicks the door shut behind you, grabs your waist, and spins you around. Your back hits the wood with a soft thud, and he’s already leaning in, already breathing hard, already looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense.

Then he kisses you. Harder than he meant to. Softer than you expected. A perfect mess right in the middle. Your hands fly up, curling into his shirt, and his slide down, following the line of your body like he’s mapping you from memory. He presses closer, chest to chest, hips to yours, every part of him saying we’re not making it far, sweetheart.

You kiss him back with the same hungry, shaky urgency you’ve been holding onto since the truck. His mouth opens against yours, tongue brushing yours, and the heat in your stomach drops straight through you.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, just enough for you to feel the air between you crackle.

“Bedroom,” you breathe.

His smile is sinful. “Lead the way.”

You push off the door and start down the hallway, your heart hammering faster than your feet. You feel him right behind you, close enough that his breath grazes your shoulder every few steps.

Then you reach the middle of the hallway, hook a finger into your straps, and let your dress slide down, pooling at your feet. You glance back over your shoulder just in time to see Tyler stop in his tracks.

His eyes drag over you. Slow. Devouring. Reverent. And then that tongue of his comes out to wet his bottom lip.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re tryin’ to kill me.”

You smirk and take one step backward toward the bedroom.

Tyler doesn’t walk after you. He lunges. In two strides his hands are on your waist again, big and warm and desperate. He presses you up against the hallway wall this time, mouth finding yours in a breathless, almost frantic kiss. His fingers splay across your newly bare skin, roaming, exploring, worshipping. His body cages yours in completely. Nowhere to go, no reason to run.

Your breath hitches when his hands slide lower.

Tyler pulls back just enough to speak against your lips, voice rough enough to shake you.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he says, “and we’re not makin’ it to the bedroom, darlin’.”

You let out a shaky laugh, almost breathless, teasing, “What, can’t wait?”

“Can’t help it,” he muttered, voice rough, dragging a hand down your back to hook around your thigh. The other hand cupped your face, tilting it toward his as he kissed you:hard, urgent, claiming. Your nails raked down his shoulders, through the fabric of his shirt, and he shuddered against you. He tasted like the beer he’d drank and something entirely his own: earthy, musky, undeniably Tyler.

Your own hands wandered, sliding under his shirt, mapping the hard planes of his chest, feeling the tension that had built all evening. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, and it mirrored your own. Every brush of his fingers, every press of his lips, seemed to light sparks along your nerves, each one demanding more.

The hallway blurred around you both as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist without thought. He backed you toward the bedroom door, spinning on his heel to close it behind you. The click of the lock was lost beneath the storm of kisses and whispers spilling between you.

“Been thinkin’ about this all damn day,” he murmured, voice thick with desire, lips grazing your jaw as he pressed you into the wall.

“And I was waiting,” you whispered back, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below his ear.

Tyler groaned low, the sound vibrating through his chest against you. His hands slid lower, tracing the line of your spine, fingertips ghosting over the swell of your hips, the softness of your thighs. You shivered, catching your balance on the back of his shoulders as he shifted you closer, pressing you to the doorframe with a need that matched your own.

Clothes became an afterthought. His shirt hit the floor first, the fabric discarded as his hands explored freely. You tugged at your underwear, sliding it off, letting it fall in a pool at your feet. The sight of you, finally bare before him, made something deep in his chest tighten. He licked his lips, eyes dark, then dove back into kissing you, mouth claiming yours with an urgency that left you dizzy.

Your hands roamed down his back, catching the belt loop of his jeans, tugging him flush against you. He hissed into your mouth at the contact, his own fingers gripping your hips with intent, lifting, pressing, holding. Every brush of his body against yours sent a jolt up your spine.

His hands didn’t hesitate. One slid up your back, over your shoulder, tangling in your hair, while the other guided you to the edge of the bed. You fell onto it, and he followed immediately, pressing you down with the weight of him, lips traveling across your collarbone, chest, neck…every inch of you set alight.

You gasped, hand threading into his hair again as his lips brushed over a spot that made your stomach coil. Tyler paused for a fraction, looking up at you, eyes searching. In that second, there was tenderness, the raw connection behind the heat, a glance that said he was just as caught up in this as you were. He kissed you softer, lingering on your lips just for a moment.

Hands moved faster, exploring more, every brush of his skin against yours making you ache. The urgency in the room was palpable, messy, hungry. You met it with your own, arching against him, curling fingers in the sheets as he pressed closer. The sound of your moans mixed with the low growls and whispers he let slip, each one fanning the fire higher.

The headboard hit the wall with a muted thud, a rhythmic percussion to your frenzy. Tyler’s movements were fierce, but threaded through the intensity were flashes of care. A hand paused to brush a damp curl from your face, a thumb grazing your cheek as he captured your lips in a slower, more sensual kiss. You melted against him, grounding yourself in those fleeting moments of tenderness before the need overtook you again.

“You’re mine,” he murmured into your hair, lips nipping at your ear. “All damn day thinkin’ ‘bout this.”

“Then don’t stop,” you breathed, letting him know exactly what you wanted.

The minutes that followed were a blur of heat and skin, of whispered names and desperate touches. Every gasp, every shiver, every shudder of your body against his became a testament to the rawness between you. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest you two had conjured inside that small bedroom.

Finally, spent and tangled in each other’s arms, Tyler pulled you close, the soft rumble of his chest vibrating through you as he tucked you against him. Your sweat slicked skin pressed together, the warmth between you both wrapping around like a cocoon.

“Don’t need nothin’ else but this,” he murmured low, lips brushing your hair as you let yourself drift, heartbeat slowly syncing with his.

Outside, the storm softened, rain tapping against the windows, but inside, the world had narrowed down to the two of you, tangled in the sheets and in each other, the heat of the night giving way to a quiet, intimate calm.

You nuzzled into him, breath still ragged, a smile tugging at your lips. 

“Not gonna lie,” you murmured, “this is exactly what I was thinking about all day.”

Tyler chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound vibrating through your side. And with that, you let sleep take you, tangled and warm, the storm outside fading into nothing more than background noise, the two of you cocooned in your own little world.

-

Tag List - if you'd like to be tagged please let me know. I did start a new tag list as my old one had a lot of inactive usernames and people that weren't interacting with my posts. If you were on the old one and would like to be added to the new one, please let me know with a comment

If someone wanted to trap you, the Barnes & Noble at The Grove had all the right bait: new book smell, iced coffee, and far too much stationery you absolutely didn’t need but suddenly couldn’t imagine living without. 

“So, we’ll get through the Q&A, and then I’ll get you set up on the second floor by the windows for signings.” 

You scowled—mostly at yourself—when you realized exactly why your publicist had picked the second floor: it kept you safely out of reach of the iced coffee and the dangerously cute cactus/cat/corgi-themed stationery. 

Still, you smiled brightly and said, “Perfect.” 

Even as you died a little inside, riding the escalator that slowly carried you away from the stand of themed sticky notes, you made a mental note to come back for a stack of Pawst-Its and Tabby Tabs. 

The Q&A buzzed by quickly—some new questions mixed with the usual ones about your process and Glen’s supposed muse status. The moderator half-read a few cards, tossed others aside, and moved quickly through the stack. 

By the time the crowd formed a line for signed copies, it wound around the back of the cooking section and looped in on itself. 

“So, I have to ask,” your brother Dave hummed—third in line, with your giggly, squealing niece reaching for you like you were a celebrity in your own right. “Did being with my favorite naval aviator-slash-astronaut-slash-Long-Fingered-Boy help you write this amazing book?” 

Your sister-in-law was likely somewhere in the “Minecraft books” section, being led around by your nephew, arms full of whatever his latest obsession was. You couldn’t count on her to husband wrangle. 

You rolled your eyes, let out the driest laugh you could muster, and grabbed a fresh copy of Every Other Universe. You’d barely touched the Sharpie to the title page when a thud on the table caught your attention. 

“Actually—” he shifted and slid a copy across the table. The edges were worn, pages dog-eared, spine cracked. “This one.” 

He didn’t say it was his. Didn’t say he’d read it, adored it, or even hated it—just let it sit between you as the unspoken proof that he’d bought a copy. 

As the eldest daughter—and his only sister—you’d grown up mercilessly teasing your younger brother. When he shot past you in height at thirteen, he’d started dishing it right back. Now, well into your thirties, the sarcasm still flowed—equal parts needling and affection—which made moments like this hit a little deeper. 

“I should’ve known it was you making the moderator hate her life during the Q&A,” you muttered, signing the inside cover with a flourish. You tried to slip in something that said I love you, I see you, thanks for being in my corner—but it came out loopy and delicate: 

“You’re going to H-E-L-L double hockey sticks.” 

You were confident he’d understand. 

“Pretty sure I saw her eyeing the balcony ledge more than once.” 

“Someone had to ask if your sex life with your movie star boyfriend made it into the narrative.” 

 Despite your best efforts, you flushed, shoved the battered copy back at him and waved him off. “Can you get out of here? You’re holding up the line.” 

He rolled his eyes, grabbed the book, tucked it under one arm—then, without being asked, tipped your niece toward you over the table. 

 You pressed a butterfly kiss to her cheeks and nibbled her tiny hand, earning a delighted squeal. 

“You coming to Disney with us tomorrow?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it.” 

“Great. Don’t forget sunscreen for your pasty complexion.” 

 He winked, stepped aside, and the line shuffled forward again. 

A few readers, a few smiles, a few familiar questions about process, character arcs, and whether the story was inspired by real life. You slipped into a rhythm—signing, chatting—letting your hand cramp in quiet protest. 

Somewhere between a girl in a handmade book-themed dress, the Taylor Swift–style bracelets with your characters’ names, and a pair of sisters (or cousins) debating which scene made them cry hardest, you caught a flicker of movement to your left. 

Not in the line, but behind the velvet rope near the far edge of the open mezzanine, next to a display of The Love Hypothesis, Bride, Mate, and Problematic Summer Romance. 

Dave—his tall, lanky frame unmistakable in a crowd otherwise made of your book’s target audience—was bouncing slightly on his heels the way he always did when his knees got stiff. But it was who he was talking to that made the grip on your Sharpie falter. 

It took you a second—behind the smudges on your octagonal-lensed glasses and the distraction of a few more signatures—before you could look back. 

Glen. 

He wasn’t in line—black Texas Longhorns ballcap low, dark henley sleeves pushed up to his elbows.  

He was leaning back slightly, listening as Dave spoke animatedly with his whole body, using that same ridiculous gesture you’d seen a hundred times to reenact something—probably about your nephew, or maybe the dog—and Glen was laughing. Big, honest laughter, his perfect smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. You watched—almost entranced—as he clapped Dave on the shoulder like they were old friends. Maybe, possibly, someday... ...in-laws. 

Dave said something else, and Glen nodded, grinned, then answered with a short, emphatic shake of his head—both of them chuckling. 

Dave elbowed him gently, tipping his head toward your niece, who had begun squirming in his arms. Glen didn’t pause. He reached out, arms open, and took her with ease—adjusting her like he’d done it a hundred times: one arm braced under her legs, the other wrapped securely around her back. 

You felt it register—ping-ponging through your entire body. The swell in your chest, the deep-settled need to see this man with babies of his own, and the quiet sigh of contented, stupidly giddy happiness. 

Your niece went still for a moment, blinking up at him—then squealed as she reached for the chain half-tucked inside his shirt and smacked her other chubby palm against his cheek. Glen flinched exaggeratedly, played along with a soft “oof,” and kissed her temple like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

You squirmed in your chair, heart pounding in your chest as you watched Glen make faces at your niece, earning wild, bubbling laughter from her. Dave—oblivious—squatted down to tie his shoe, muttering something you could almost hear about needing to exercise more between firehouse shifts. 

“Can you make it out to Rylee? R-Y-L-E-E.” 

You turned back, smiled at the excited fan, and your Sharpie squealed across the page.  

To: Rylee—keep your heart open. 

The shift from your day (various book promo related responsibilities) to the night felt cinematic—so much so, you were pulling out your phone in the back of the hired car on the way to Glen’s place, quickly jotting down the skeletal frame of an idea before it left your mind as it came: without warning. 

You were thankful Glen’s stylist knew your measurements—and your best colors—well enough to match whatever Glen would be wearing, because you’d found a dress in the most gorgeous shade of green hanging beside his outfit at his place. 

Soft satin, the hue of sunlit emeralds, thin straps holding up your bust through hope, prayer, and a bit of Hollywood magic. The long slit stopped mid-thigh—designed to make Glen forget his name for at least a beat. 

When you stepped outside, just as the car pulled up, he was already on the step, checking his watch out of habit more than frustration. He knew you always needed “five more minutes,” even on your best days, and he never rushed you for it—just waited, easy and patient, like he’d built the extra time into the night on purpose. 

“Holy hell,” he muttered on the tail end of a long whistle. His eyes swept down, then back up, like he couldn’t decide which part of you was his favourite. 

“Not so bad yourself,” you hummed, stepping into him as his hands came up to frame your hips. You straightened his bow tie, then planted a lingering kiss on his lips. When you pulled back, you wiped the smudge of terracotta lipstick from his bottom lip. “Very James Bond meets Southern charm. Dangerous combination, Powell.” 

“Could you say that again?” He dramatically reached into his pocket and fished out his phone. “Just—into the speaker. I’ll send it to the Bond Casting Director.” 

You smiled, dipped your chin toward the phone, and tried on your best sultry voice, eyes flicking up to his and locking there. “I, of sound mind and body—” Glen’s eyebrow quirked, and he stifled a smirk as you continued, “—attest that Glen Powell is the sexiest James Bond you could hope to cast. He also makes the most adorable sound when I—” 

He swallowed hard. “Okay, okay. Cut. That’s not going anywhere. I’m keeping that for later. Motivational material.” 

“Was it not good?” you teased. “I can try again—maybe with a huskier tone? Amp up the bedroom eyes?” 

He didn’t acknowledge the fact it was a voice recording. Instead, he wiped a hand down his jaw, clicked his tongue, and gave a dry laugh. His hands settled on his hips, suit jacket swept aside, tongue pressed into his cheek as he shook his head slowly—like he couldn’t believe your audacity. 

“You know what? We should just stay in,” he mused, a defeated shrug pulling his shoulders up. In the next moment, he swept you up—legs over one arm, back cradled against the other—hugged tight to his chest. “Definitely starting to feel a bit of a cough coming on.” 

You laughed, fumbling with your clutch as he made to march you both right back into the house. 

 “Glen—” you managed between a wheeze of laughter and a startled squeak when his fingers dipped past the hem of your dress, as if assessing the hurdles he’d need to clear before locating the nearest flat, private surface. “You can’t—” 

“What? I’m just trying to help with your next book.” 

 He was halfway to the front door now. The driver stood outside the car with his hands folded on the roof, clearly impatient. 

“—you’re literally one of two people getting an award tonight. They’re gonna notice you’re not there.” 

 You mouthed a silent sorry along with your best geez, this guy face over Glen’s shoulder at the driver. You doubted he saw it. 

“Research. Very important for artists, I would know.” 

 “Glen—” you whispered, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the smooth edge of his fresh shave. “You deserve to see and hear the difference you make. You deserve to be there to get this. Let me cheer so loudly from whatever nosebleed they stick me in that you’ll pretend not to know me when I embarrass you.” 

For a second, he paused to look at you—bundled in his arms—while the soft glow of the dipping sun caught the angles of his lips and nose, the gentle crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the ghost of dimples at his cheeks. 

“Okay,” he sighed, as though interrupting his plans physically pained him. His forehead dipped to yours, grounding himself. “Okay. Later.” 

He carried you back to the car, nudged the door open, and set you down on the leather interior. One hand caught your knee as it slipped from the dress’s slit, his fingers brushing your skin as he guided it gently inside the car. When he stood, he leaned on the door, eyes catching yours. “But you’re mine the minute this thing wraps.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” 

Without hesitation, he dipped back in and stole a quick kiss. When he pulled back, you leaned forward, chasing his lips. The smirk you caught before he closed the door did something treacherous to your insides, even as he rounded the car to his side, pausing only to thank the driver for his patience. 

“They filmed Pretty Woman here.” 

Glen pointed toward the lobby, past the crushed velvet ropes where a cluster of photographers snapped away. 

 He turned, slid an arm around your waist, and posed. 

The Beverly Wilshire Hotel had been transformed into an upscale gala venue. 

Inside, it felt like stepping into the golden age of Hollywood: thousands of candles catching on the gilt crown moulding, champagne towers shimmering beneath the dim glow of grand chandeliers overhead. Wait staff drifted between standing tables, balancing trays of delicate finger food. A live band played something soft and unobtrusive—music that didn’t drown conversation, only gilded it. 

Glen had been nominated last month for the GQ Rising Voice Award—something he’d played off as “not that big a deal” when you were chatting with him over the car speaker.  

He’d been in Italy; you’d been home in Victoria, juggling a writer’s festival in Vancouver. He’d tossed the nomination into conversation like a footnote—even as you cheered so enthusiastically at a stoplight that the entire family in the SUV beside you stared. 

Between then and now, not much had changed about his utterly humble approach. When a statuesque blonde from ET asked how he felt about the nomination, he shrugged, laughed, and leaned into the mic: “I’m honoured, but I think they just ran out of names.” 

You knew better—you knew Glen quietly cared about these things. He was steady and consistent, like everything else he poured his heart into: his work, his friends, his family… you. 

Now, surrounded by every Hollywood facet—publicists, directors, actors—in a sea of sequins and brand names, he somehow kept you effortlessly anchored.  

When you’d smiled at Willem Dafoe—biting back the urge to mention the “Willem Dafoe/Willem Dafriend” meme—Glen kept his hand on your lower back as he chatted casually with him.  

When he pointed out Oscar Isaac across the room—subtly—he bent close to your ear to be heard over the music and pressed a quick kiss to your temple, right over the curl of hair. He joked he might consider being jealous of the way you craned your neck to see the Moon Knight-slash-Frankenstein actor. 

When the live band quieted and the host began the opening speech, you squeezed Glen’s hand, told him to break a leg, and floated toward the bar for a better view as he disappeared backstage. You cheered wildly when Glen was called up for his award, and while he gave the kind of heartfelt, half-charming, slightly self-effacing speech that made the whole room melt, you smiled so hard your cheeks ached. The swell of pride in your chest a buoyant, impossible thing. 

You noticed the way his fingers tapped the edge of the podium, the nervous tell of a guy who'd once told you, as a kid, he’d set up a lemonade stand to raise money for a local animal shelter. At the end of their driveway, with his sisters schlepping the drinks, his contribution was promising paying customers a song, but nervously hid behind a bush to sing Jailhouse Rock and Hound Dog.

You were too far from the stage to see the deepening of his dimple when he thanked “the people who keep me human—my family, my friends… and the woman who reminds me every day that heart makes you strong.” But you knew it was there. 

The applause swelled around you, a rolling wave of appreciation, and you clapped until your palms tingled. When he stepped offstage, award catching the low light of the room, his eyes scanned the crowd. You caught his smile when he found you—that real smile, crooked and earnest, a little bashful—and you blew him a kiss before he was swept into a crush of handshakes and shoulder-pats. 

Heart still soaring, you turned back to the bar to give him space to bask—to actually breathe in the appreciation he usually played off. 

As fever-dream-adjacent as it all felt—Florence Pugh across the round bar ordering a drink, Taika Waititi at her elbow laughing at something you couldn’t hear—you felt less like an outsider now. 

You felt the nudge at your ribs just as you accepted your drink from the bartender. 

 “You still with this ham?” The voice at your side was familiar and warm. You knew who it was before you turned. 

Joe. 

Without responding, you turned and pulled him into a tight hug. 

Your first “non-introduction” to Joe—of Jonas Brothers fame—hadn’t even been in person. It had been through the bag of kettle corn Glen tossed your way when he hopped over the back of the couch during an Ozark binge. 

The in-person introduction had been far less tame: a pre-Halloween party at a small New York club closed out for a private event. You’d worn a cute Santa outfit, pockets stuffed with candy canes (notoriously hard to find in early September), while Glen had shown up in a personalized varsity jacket and jeans as “Glen Coco” of Mean Girls throwaway fame. 

Joe had been dressed as a decidedly non–PG-13 cowboy. Without warning—while Glen slipped away to grab drinks—Joe, shirtless except for a flimsy cow-print vest and already somehow sweaty, shoved a beer into your hand and slung an arm around your neck, dragging you to the karaoke machine where you sang (badly) to “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” 

It had been your (unfortunate) choice—never one to thrive under pressure—and Joe at your shoulder rasping, “Quick, pick one—no, not that one,” certainly no help. 

Still, ever the showman (you saw that now—hindsight 20/20), he’d stolen the second verse, belting it shirtless and purposely off-key, theatrically dropping to his knees by the chorus. 

By the time Glen found you—well out of your shell—you and Joe were both breathless with laughter, half-losing your voices, fully cemented as the karaoke team you later argued over naming “Jam-a-llama,” vetoing Joe’s suggestion of “Joe and the Tone-Deaf.” The team no one wanted but secretly, maybe, needed. 

“Kait still putting up with your middle-child chaos energy?” you asked, eyeing his suit as you pulled back—something light grey with a dark button-up underneath, his hair slightly damp but somehow perfectly mussed. More of that Hollywood magic. 

Kaitlyn—Joe’s organized, easygoing, Virgo-energy girlfriend—quickly became your favourite person in most rooms. 

When you’d been the least famous person at the table—territory new and sometimes terrifying—she’d been the one offering you a brightly colored drink and making a joke at Joe’s expense. 

You’d been dating Glen for a few months when you met her—at a “casual” hangout with people who didn’t have casual names. Joe included. Danny was there too, and Monica—still with her boyfriend James at the time. 

You’d bonded over being the only people in the room who had yet to meet Tom Cruise and then over your similar taste in music. Unofficially, she’d become your beta reader and your “non-famous person in a famous person’s circle” touchstone. Last week, you’d sent her a “dog or mop” meme, followed by a millennial-appropriate number of GIFs. 

“Speaking of…” Joe pulled out his phone, and you automatically leaned in, already prepared with your best Glen impression (tongue out, eyes squished shut, Longhorns ‘Hook ’em’ on full display). He snapped the photo and fired it off before tucking the phone back into his pocket. “She’s gonna be pissed she couldn’t make it.” 

You nodded and took a pull from the tiny black straw. You understood the assignment. “I’ll tell her it was the worst celebrity function I’ve ever been to—because she wasn’t here.” 

“Coming in clutch, Glen’s girlfriend #14.” Joe raised his hand, waiting for the high-five. 

You left his hand hanging, slapped him lightly in the ribs instead, and rolled your eyes as he flinched reflexively and tried his best to look offended. When JJ Abrams walked by—nodding at Joe, smiling at you—you both froze and tried to look less like playground children and more like responsible adults. 

“Seriously though?” 

You raised an eyebrow at him—an eyebrow that said serious? are you even capable of being serious?  

If Joe caught it, he ignored it, eyes fixed on Glen across the room as he made his way back toward you both. “He’s been different since you’ve been around.” 

You opened your mouth—maybe to fire off a snarky comment about brain chemistry shifting, universe-rearranging, reality-bending sex paired with being with someone you actually liked spending time with—but he amended before you could speak. 

“In a good way. In a I’m going to taint the group chat with adorable facts about my girlfriend way.” Joe sighed, leaned back on the bar, and sipped his drink. “Do you know how hard it is to follow up with photos of my life-changing sandwich or that weird lizard I found at the greenhouse after he sends a link to your Good Morning America interview?” 

You mimed pouring one out for the BLT and tuna-melt selfies likely sitting in backlog on Joe’s camera roll, waiting for the perfect window between the photos Glen secretly snapped of the cookies you made when he thought you weren’t looking. 

“Just do me a favour: don’t go breaking his heart, or we’ll have to dissolve Joe and the Tone-Deaf.” 

When you looked at him then, the mask of humor had slipped for half a second, his eyes catching yours in a way they hadn’t before. And then it was gone—hidden behind the one-sided hug Glen threw around his shoulder. Glen was grinning now, mischievous and wry, the kind of expression he saved for Joe. 

“Kait said you’d be tied up—” 

“—not for Mr. GQ Rising Voice.” Joe straightened his suit jacket, trying to look put together. He took the shimmering award from Glen, huffed a breath on it, and wiped it with his sleeve. “Guess they give these things out to anyone now, huh?” 

“That’s what I said,” Glen huffed a laugh, eyes shimmering as he stepped into you, pulled you to his side. 

“You think they’d still give this to you if they knew about Mykonos? That time—” 

 The trill of his phone, muffled by his suit jacket, cut him off. 

“Ah, Zack Morris!” Joe slapped his pockets, searching for his phone. “That’s my cue.” 

Glen must have caught the puzzled look on your face from the corner of his eye. “He’s trying to replace ‘saved by the bell’ with—”