Vera

stepson! Aerion who doesn’t like you at all when Maekar introduces you as his new girlfriend at first because who the fuck do you think you are and why do you want to date his old ass dad? Are you trying to take advantage of him?

stepson! Aerion who refuses to be anywhere near you, especially when taking pictures, he doesn’t want to be associated with his dad’s new side piece at all. He’s seen this story far too many times to even want to consider being a part of it. He was almost out of college, so he just had to tolerate you for a bit.

stepson! Aerion who doesn’t eat your cooking because you could never cook anything up to his standards. He always deems them too complicated or too simple, and besides, he’s an athlete, he has to eat good food, not whatever slop his dad’s bedwarmer cooked.

stepson! Aerion who hates it when you’re the one who has to take him to get his wisdom teeth removed because Daeron got blackout drunk that very morning and Maekar has business meetings all day long. He even tried to re-schedule, but it was too late and he was stuck with you for the whole fucking day.

stepson! Aerion who, under the anesthesia, finally opens up to you and tells you that the reason he’s so mean and inhospitable is because he’s afraid of getting attached and you leaving anyways. That there’s nothing really wrong with you, he actually thinks you’re pretty chill, he just doesn’t see you being a permanent fixture in his life, respectfully.

stepson! Aerion who is so deeply embarrassed by the ‘moment’ you guys shared that he avoids you for the rest of the week. He practically lives in his room during all this time, even pretending to be sick so he wouldn’t bump into you when going to his classes/ practices.

stepson! Aerion who, surprisingly, finally sits next to you on the dinner table and lets you hold his hand when saying grace. He looks constipated but, it’s the thought that counts, yes?

stepson! Aerion who doesn’t let go immediately of your hand afterwards.

stepson! Aerion who hates having his dumb friends over because they keep calling you hot and a ‘milf’ and saying that they would ‘smash’ you. And they snicker whenever you bring them snacks or check up on them, nudging each other as they mutter profanities about you.

stepson! Aerion who tells his friends to shut the fuck up before he breaks their jaws and breaks their fingers and them shutting up because knowing how volatile Aerion was, it was fully possible,

stepson! Aerion who, begrudgingly, helps with deep cleaning the house when his dad is too busy and the rest of his siblings are off at school or AWOL (Daeron). And in the end, he genuinely enjoys it and you even find out that he likes ‘white girl music’.

stepson! Aerion who asks you to come to his fencing tournament because nobody ever really does and he hates driving himself back afterwards because he’s always tired and his arms cramp, so it’d be safer.

stepson! Aerion who tries to hide the smile on his face when he sees you in the stands cheering for him, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck shyly, then nodding when his teammates ask if you’re there for him, if you’re his ‘mom’.

stepson! Aerion who gets weird when Maekar finally proposes to you. Not outwardly angry but there’s this unreadable look on his face, and his smile is sharp but doesn’t reach his eyes like how it normally does.

stepson! Aerion who you find smoking weed in his room and instead of getting mad, you share the joint and talk about University and marriage and life. He opens up about feeling pressure in one of his classes and how he always feels like nobody ever really sees him for him and only sees what they want to see or what they expect of him.

stepson! Aerion who is shocked when you show him how to do ‘smoke rings’ and when you show him how to shotgun the smoke into another person’s mouth to try on ‘the ladies’.

stepson! Aerion who makes the comment of having dated you if you had been his age instead.

stepson! Aerion who lies awake that night, hard as a rock as he thinks about his step-mother’s half lidded eyes and lazy smile or as he thinks about how it felt when your fingers brushed. But not about how your lips almost grazed. No. Definitely not that.

stepson! Aerion who always eavesdrops whenever you’re doing anything sexual. Imagining the faces you’d make whenever you’re touching yourself. Whether you like fingering yourself or simply just rubbing your clit. Whether you like getting fucked in mating press or doggy. Your ass would look good in doggy.

stepson! Aerion who stays almost every weekend home to just catch a glimpse of you fucking his dad. And it gets so bad that he hides a camera in your shared room just to see, just to get some material. And he acts like his dad is himself and that that’s him fucking you.

stepson! Aerion who finds your toys while ‘cleaning’ and licks them clean while stroking his cock through his sweatpants while imagining he’s licking your pretty cunt.

stepson! Aerion who moans your name whenever he’s fucking someone else, they always just think it’s some ex he isn’t over, but little do they know.

stepson! Aerion who finds you drunk after a particularly bad fight with his dad and corners you on the couch, kissing you and shoving his hand down your panties.

stepson! Aerion who almost cries of joy when you spread your legs for him, when he finally shoves his cock in your pussy and fucks you raw. 

stepson! Aerion who is obsessed with watching your tits, there’s just something about him that drives him insane. He’s like a leech, his mouth abusing your sensitive buds while his hips slap against yours. Muttering things about them being so perfect and him never wanting to get off.

stepson! Aerion who takes pictures and records because he wants to remember your first time together forever. He needs material for afterwards, how else is he supposed to get off after finally, finally having a taste of you.

The thing with Wilbur was that although he had basically been your childhood friend all your life, you weren’t really friends. There was something seriously wrong with him. Or well, there wasn’t, but once puberty hit, that’s when he started going downhill. He had been a sweet kid, he played a lot with you and the rest of the neighborhood kids.

Memories of skinned knees, first time riding bikes without training wheels and pinky promises would come to mind any time you remembered anything about him. Brown curls framing his face as he grinned, lanky limbs flailing around when he fell.

But once middle-school came around, it’s like there was some sort of switch that got flipped in him and he did a complete 180. Where you developed into a young woman, getting your period, gaining your curves and getting braces, he got acne, had a small growth spurt and stayed inside pretty much all the time. Every time that you invited him to play outside, he’d refuse and say something about playing on his stupid computer.

You rarely got any glimpses of him anymore, just the occasional view of him taking out the trash at 7:30 pm the night before trashday. Or whenever you both coincidentally arrived home at the same time. To be frank, you also had changed schools, given that your parents had separated and now your full custody was with your dad.

Which meant that running into him, especially now, with you both being, presumably, in college, it would be harder to bump into him. You didn’t know anything about him anymore, you didn’t know if he had gone to college or maybe university? If he was employed or unemployed? Did he move to another state? The possibilities were truly endless and genuinely, you didn’t wreck your brain much about it.

So color yourself surprised when you bump into a lanky tall guy who grumbles a ‘watch where you’re going.’ And when you turn, you see Wilbur.

You laugh as you recognize him and he seems confused until he squints and seems to recognize you in the party’s lowlight. You both shuffle into a corner of the house and catch up. Mostly due to you, tipsy and eager, finding his acne scars cute and his height hot, grab his big hand and lead him to where you want him.

You can smell the beer in his breath but to be fair, yours was probably not any better. You guys talked for a bit, although it felt like hours and hours and hours. You noticed a bunch of stuff about him as you watched him stutter slightly while talking, especially whenever you leaned closer to him. He couldn’t hold eye contact for longer than 11 seconds (you counted) and he had a habit of calling women ‘females’ with light disdain in his voice. He cracked his knuckles a lot, and his hands were really pretty. Big, slender, veiny and sprinkled with little moles. You found yourself slightly hypnotized by them whenever he talked and gestured with them around.

He was studying something with… computers, and he had a hobby of playing the guitar. Although he prefers gaming all day. He likes monsters, and his favorite flavor is the ‘Strawberry dreams’ one. He wants to start going to the gym because he’s tired of getting ‘mogged’ by ‘true chads’ and that ‘femoids’ only really pay attention to ‘Adams’. You had no idea what he was saying. You didn’t care. There was a Kesha song playing and he looked and sounded hot.

You gathered all this information by staring at mostly his lips, and they were slightly chapped, you didn’t notice he stopped talking until you glanced up from watching his unmoving mouth for a few prolonged seconds.

“Huh?” You asked softly, and he smirked down at you, caging you in against the wall, hands on either side of your head as he leaned down a little. His nose brushed yours as his eyebrows scrunched up in faux sympathy. “You’re staring.” He said, with a hint of amusement in his voice. But it was clear he was nervous, or at least not used to female attention, or any positive attention for that matter.

“Sorry, I was just reading your lips, it’s hard to hear when the music is so loud.” You muttered an apology as you glanced up at his brown eyes. He didn’t look convinced and leaned down even further, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

But you weren’t. You tilted your head as his smirk widened further, he was acting like he already had you figured out. Taking your challenge as you simply playing hard to get. All girls are like that, he thought, all were sluts.

Apparently, he took your confused expression as an invitation and leaned in to kiss you, you turned your head, effectively swerving him, but he wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Don’t do that.” He whispered, hand gripping your hair and forcing you to look at him. “Look at how you’re dressed, you want it- Want me.” And he’s kissing you. He swallows your gasp as he tilts his head forcing the kiss even deeper. You can tell he doesn’t know how to kiss from his lack of technique and eagerness at this.

His teeth graze your tongue, and his tongue is too shy to fully go in, a contradiction of want, need and knowledge. Once he finally pulls away, you’re gasping for air and he’s sucking hickeys into your neck. His method is too rough and it has some heat pooling in your stomach from the sheer enthusiasm he exhibits. “Wil-“ You make out and he looks up at you. “What? What is it?” Had you finally noticed that he was a virgin? So quickly? Did you sober enough to see how disgusting and ugly he was? Could you smell that he had little to no deodorant on? Were his lips too chapped?

“Let’s go back to mine.” You said between deep breaths. You were inviting him to your apartment. You wanted him there. You wanted him. He was going to get to fuck you.

The journey back to your apartment that was near the frat house both of you were at was quick, soon enough he was on top of you on your bed, hands slipping under your dress as he mapped you out, memorizing that this is what a woman felt like. You could feel the hard ridge of his erection against your thigh, the coarse fabric of his skinny jeans making it drag even more noticeably against your bare thigh.

“You’re so… so soft.” He muttered with dazed awe as he nuzzled against your neck, licking a stripe up your neck, slobbering disgustingly against you. “Wilbur, stop licking me like I’m a lollipop.” You said firmly, but he wasn’t listening, dry humping your leg like some dog, his teeth grazed your neck again, nose pressed against it as he inhaled you like you were coke. “Smells so good, do all females smell this good?”

You grabbed his mop of girls and forcefully pulled him off just as he was about to bite you. His teeth made a clicking sound as he bit air and he groaned at his hair being pulled off. He didn’t stop, though, instead, pushing your dress up to your waist as he stared at your wet panties. “You didn’t shave?” He asks, confused, frowning. You roll your eyes. “Yeah, so? Did you?” His eyes snapped up to you, defensive. “That’s different.” A blush creeps up his neck as he stares down at your body. “G-guys don’t have to shave. It’s manly to have hair, raises our PSL scale.” He rambles on about things you’ve only heard about online and barely even understand. “Wilbur, shut the fuck up and fuck me.” He says too quickly and fumbles with his belt and jeans. “Y-yeah. Fuck. Fuck!” He’s so desperate and anxious that he can’t work his belt buckle and you have to help him.

Once his belt is off and his jeans are pushed down with his boxers, his cock is springing free, big, and veiny. You momentarily pause, which makes Wilbur’s anxiety spiral even more. “W-what?” He squeaked out, looking down at his twitching member. He had showered today… right? He didn’t even remember.

“Do you not have condoms on you?” You questioned as you stared at his cock, curved to the right. Wilbur bit his chapped lips so hard they bled. “N-no… I didn’t think I’d… get… I-“ You sighed and reached over to your nightstand to check if there were any left, there weren't and you groaned. “Fine, but pull out.” He nodded as he took off your panties, sniffing them like some creep before stuffing them in his backpocket. He tried to instantly slip inside and you pushed at his chest.

“You have to prep me first, honestly, is this your first time?” You huffed, annoyed. If he didn’t have such a big looking dick, you would’ve thrown him out, honestly. “No.” He said, quickly, defensively.

“J-Just thought…” He murmured as he stared at you, hips bucking back and forth, thrusting into the air. He looked utterly unsure of what to do. Normally, in the porn he watched, the guy just slipped it in.

“You have to stretch me out, Wilbur.” And he nodded, swallowing nervously as he felt the drool pool in his mouth. He reached out, long slim fingers teasing your clit accidentally. You moaned softly as he found your bundle of nerves with pure luck. He moved his hand, trying to mimic what he saw in the porns and hentais when they fingered the girls. middle and ring finger slipping in your wet cunt with a little fight. You were tight, and he should’ve started out with only one finger, but the stretch felt so good and his fingers were so long it made you see stars.

With you moaning and arching into his fingers, it was enough to make him spill precum all over his dick. “Fuck… s-so pretty…” He bit his lip again and his rhythm faltered, making you grind your hips against his hand, making the tips of his fingers hit the spongy spot inside of you, making you see stars. “W-will…” You moan and he eagerly adds another finger, earning a whimper from you. His thumb rubs your folds, clearly not able to find your clit, which if you had been completely sober, it would’ve gotten you as dry as physically possible. But somehow, this lucky bastard found it last second, thumb rubbing your clit gingerly as he fucked your cunt with his fingers.

“Mhmm? What is it p-pretty girl?” He tilted his head. “Feels good?” He said with faux sweetness. “So easy, t-taking m’fingers like a slut.” He degraded you, and honestly, even though his words were meant to be cutting, the way he stammered, stuttered and his voice cracked made him sound so pathetic. “Tell me whose pussy this is…” He muttered, and you placed your foot in his chest to push him off, but he grabbed your ankle and licked the sole of your feet, making his way up until he sucked your toes, his pupils were dilated. “You’re so disgusting, like a dog.” You groaned as he scissored his fingers in your cunt.

“M’your dog.” He moaned softly between lapping at your foot. You cringed at the feel of his mouth on your feet. You leaned forward, grabbing his hair and forcing his face against your cunt, the movement made his hand slip out of you.

“Stop sucking my feet, weirdo.” You scolded as he whimpered pathetically against your cunt. “You want to be a dog? Be a fucking good one at least.” He glared up at you, but relented, giving kitten licks against your folds. “Mm, that’s a good puppy, isn’t it?” You tugged at his hair, forcing his mouth higher, over your clit. He growled as he suckled on your clit. This was so fucking humiliating for him. He was between your thighs, kneeling on the floor like some fucking simp. But fuck, your taste was so addicting, and the smell of your arousal made his cock ooze precum like it was pee.

“Dumb mutt,” You said, looking down on him with a lustful stare. His eyes fluttered close, nuzzling his nose against your pubes as he lost himself in you. He was making out with your cunt, lapping at it, pressing kisses, both open mouthed and not all over your labia, his teeth grazed your sensitive bundle of nerves.

He somehow found flowstate like that, and you were on the edge of an orgasm in seconds. That telltale feeling like you were about to pee yourself was overwhelming as you tugged on his hair, bringing him back to the present. By the time he opened his eyes, you were already squirting all over his face.

And holy shit he knew pornstars squirted but he always thought that shit was pee. His cock twitched uselessly as he felt his face and shirt get soaked.

Once you were done, you let out a high pitched whimper and went boneless, exhausted and drained. “M’fuck…” You sigh out, he rises to his feet, grabbing the back of your knees and spreading your legs. “Will… what are you doin-“ You were mid question when he slipped his cock in you with a wet pop. He groaned as he bottomed out, hands holding your legs apart so tightly, you knew you were going to bruise. “F-fuck.”

He pulled his hips back all the way and slammed them against you again, knocking the air out of you. “Females feel so fucking good… so much better than a fleshlight…” He muttered as he bit his lip again. He didn’t have any finesse during sex. Clearly inexperienced. His head was tilted back and he sighed out a loud moan. He blinked up at the ceiling, it hit him that he was fucking you, he wasn’t dreaming, this was real.

He pushed your dress further up, exposing your bra, he growled and grabbed the front of it, desperately trying to rip it off while his hips fucked into you, he broke the front part of it from pulling, tearing it and making your tits spill out, nipples tight from your orgasm. “Pretty tits, fuck, you’re so fucking s-sexy. L-Like… Riley R-Reid or M-Mia Khalifa…” You were a mess underneath him, legs shaking in his hold as his body slammed against yours, the impacts hitting your sensitive clit and making you see stars. Wilbur kept trying to push your dress fully off, but he only had one hand, he growled again, frustrated.

You tried to fight his hand, it was too rough, but in the scuffle, he slapped you. “Stop fighting me, bitch.” You gasped as his big, slender hand wrapped around your neck, squeezing. “You take what I fucking give you, I-I don’t care if I have to rape you. You’re just a f-fucking hole.” He groaned, feeling your cunt tighten around him as he grinned down at you.

“Uhuh? You like that?” He taunted. “Fucking whore, knew all the girls are the same.” He chuckled as he fucked into you, you felt his balls tighten up, the telltale of his orgasm getting closer. Judging from his stamina and given that this was definitely his first time, he probably jerks off constantly, that’s why he didn’t empty his load the second his cock slipped in.

“You always pity Daeron.” Aerion groans out, slamming his hips against yours, his rhythm is cruel and excessive, yet he doesn’t seem to truly care. This has been his pace for the past half-hour, not even trying to prioritize your pleasure as he snaps in and out of this jealousy spiral over you and other men. He has been rambling, especially about Maekar, Valarr and Daeron. Alternating between them as he insulted them and then got all petulant over his very self.

“Why is that? S’it because he’s some…” he groans, feeling your cunt grip his cock like a vice. It felt so good it had him slurring like some dumb drunk, but he was sober, of course he was. He wouldn’t miss your cunt for anything in the world. No amount of dornish wine or Lyseni whore would ever compare to the feeling of being inside of you. “S’it ‘cause he’s a drunk?” He prods, jealousy evident in his gaze as he grabs your pale hair and pulls it so you’re looking at him. “You pity him?” He huffs, as if the very thought of his elder brother being pitied for his own incompetent choices genuinely offended him.

“What’s he got that I don’t? Hmm?” He growls, baring his teeth down at you as his rock hard cock kisses your womb. It was thick and although it wasn’t particularly long, it wasn’t exactly short either, and paired with his pace and force, it made him reach far deeper than it appeared it could, you could feel his veins when he pulled out slightly, they protruded from how achingly hard he was. “He’s…He’s dreadful and-and reeks. He reeks of wine.” He stammers lightly, eyes closing at a particularly nice thrust, feeling himself slip out from how soaked you were with a wet pop. He missed your slit and his cock stroked your folds and teased your clit, earning a moan from you. He reached down to slap himself against your clit a bunch of times before forcing himself back inside. He moans, eyes softening as he looks down at you.

His mother.

It truly is a sight for him, who has been trying to get you like this since he learned what sex was. He who has been trying to be caught masturbating by you. He who at times sneaks into the royal garderobe and would steal your used knickers and stuff them under his pillows to smell your cock. At times, he would fuck his fist with them wrapped around his hand so he would cum all over them. He was utterly and irrevocably obsessed. And he didn’t care. The gods had gifted you as his mother, and he wasn’t going to complain.

He doesn’t blink as he grabs the back of your soft thighs, finger pressing into the skin way too hard, probably leaving bruises under the touch, and rests your legs on his shoulders, the bones of his collar dig into your calves, but you don’t seem to mind as the new position allows him to bully his cock even deeper in your precious cunt. “S’it because he’s your first born?” He questions, his mind rattling with questions, with the need to prove himself. Globs of precum filled you, he was so wet, the sounds that were coming from your joining would make even the women from whorehouses blush. “I’ll kill him. I swear I will.” He mutters darkly, frowning. “I’ll burn him so at least his death is befitting of a Targaryen.” He growls, his teeth showing as he works himself up again.

“Aerion.” You finally manage to moan out as he whimpers at his very own mother’s sweet voice. Clear that even you were able to pull him from his dark thoughts. He snapped up to look at you, posture going straight even though you couldn’t see him, given that you were blindfolded. “Yes, mother?” He says, quickly, eagerly. He didn’t waste a second as he’s leaning down, practically folding you in half as he tried to kiss you.

“What s’it?” He slurs, whining as you deny him the kiss. Whining again like a kicked puppy. He forcefully kisses you, slobbering all over your mouth, teeth clanking painfully against yours as he tries to bite your lower lip. “Stop talking about your b-brother.” You moan again as his hips stutter at the sound of your voice. Even when you scolded him your voice could bring him to the very edge of his orgasm.

Gods was he whipped for you.

“Can’t help it, mummy, I want to be your favorite.” He nuzzles into your hand, slowing his pace to a grind as he licks your hand, not breaking eye contact with you. “M’your favorite, right?” He takes one of your fingers in your mouth, sucking and biting lightly as he stares intently at you, watching your breasts bounce with his thrusts like it was the most important thing in the world.

You wanted to scold him, motherly instincts kicking up to remedy your child’s insecurities, but the way he was grinding against you made his low abdomen brush against your puffy clit and it made it hard to think straight.

“Yes, Aerion, you’re my fav-“ He didn’t even let you finish as he picked his pace again. “F’course I am. M’a dragon.” He growled in answer after letting go of your hand, pulling back as his arms held your legs with surprising gentleness despite his strength. His soft lilac eyes drifted down to where he fucked you. Staring at your white curls that decorated your gorgeous mound being so wet from both of your arousals that your hair stuck to your pretty folds.

Mature, he thought, not like the women with complexes that felt the need to shave.

He found it immensely attractive at the fact that you didn’t shave off your pretty white curls down there. And he made sure to let you know earlier, when he kept nuzzling into your bush like some… some animal.

“That’s why you let me do this, right mommy? M’your dragon?” He whined as his hips stuttered again at the thought. Being a dragon and being used by his mother made his brain melt. He bit his lip, hard, drawing blood on purpose, his own washed messed up version of the Valyrian marriage ritual. “You l-like m’dragon-cock?” He whined again, leaning over to mix your blood with his, along with his spit, this time, he sucked on your tongue before pulling back, leaving you breathless.

“Yes, you’re my d-dragon, Aerion-“ You gasped as he dropped your right leg, moving to slot his hips perfectly flat with yours as he hugged your left leg close to his torso with one arm. This angle made him hit you straight into that spot inside that felt like he was touching your clit. Your eyes rolled back as he bit into your calf while his free hand slipped down to tease you. Finally, he touched you there.

He found your clit completely hard after fumbling a little, the pad of his thumb, slightly calloused, rubbed you up and down while his pace quickened.

“Aerion, love-“ You moaned, feeling your orgasm build at surprising speed. You would’ve tried to push him off, if you hadn’t been tied to your bed. “S-stop, Aerion-“ He ignored you, too obsessed with ripping this orgasm from you to care. He pressed open mouthed kisses to your leg but his rhythm was relentless. “M’go-gonna!-“ You bit down on your tender lip, the pleasure making you feel no pain as you did.

“Come on, mother, give it to me, y’know you want this.” He whines, switching between dominant man to lovesick puppy with ease as he licks your calf desperately, trying to connect with you in any way, even if that means slobbering all over your leg like some straw dog with a bone.

“M-mummy, please.” He moaned as he felt your walls convulse around him. Your orgasm peaked and you arched, the blindfold letting you peak at his blown out pupils as he saw you twitch with the waves of your own release.

Your cunt, feeling already full with the length of him and the precum in you, felt even more impossibly full as he came.

His orgasm felt way longer than it was, thick rope after thick rope of cum heating you up from the inside. He didn’t stop thrusting into you, fucking his release deep inside of you, hitting your oversensitive clit as he did so.

“Need to get you pregnant… need… I-I need you to carry my babes…” He groaned, moaning as your pussy milked him dry. “You’re mine. My mother. My wife. My blood.” He muttered as his pace slowed.

The flash hits hard, rapid, relentless. White bursts stacking over each other until the whole carpet feels unreal, like something staged just to see who cracks first. Jon Bernthal doesn’t. He never does. He's pretty much used to this already, having conditioned himself mentally for this premiere. He'd seen the comments, the gossip column's articles, he knew what people were saying of him, of you. He’d seen it all.

Not just a few comments here and there. Not just headlines you could laugh off and scroll past. All of it. The articles, the threads, the reposts, the people talking like they knew him, like they knew you, like they had any right to either.

It started the second he stopped hiding you.

He didn’t ease into it. Didn’t test the waters. He showed up with you, hand in yours, eyes on you like he wasn’t interested in pretending otherwise. That was it. That was enough to set everything off. And he never really did regret it, it's not like you were some secret he wanted to hide, you were his lover, his girl, he wanted to show you off any chance he'd get. But there were times where he regretted not making it gradual. It felt like he threw you in the deep end of the pool and yelled 'Swim'.

The first headline hit fast.

“Punisher Star Sparks Controversy With Much Younger Girlfriend.”

Then another.

“Fans Question Relationship as Jon Bernthal Debuts Partner 25 Years Younger.”

And then the one people kept repeating like it was clever, like it was something they’d come up with themselves.

“Punisher Actor in Relationship Frank Castle Would Probably Kill Him For.”

He stared at that one longer than he should’ve. Not angry. Not shocked. Just still. Like he was weighing it, deciding if it deserved anything from him at all. It didn’t.

The comments were worse, they always are. He’d catch them in passing at first. A tag here. A screenshot there. Then it turned into something louder, harder to ignore. People piling on like it was entertainment, like it wasn’t about real people.

“she’s obviously a gold digger lol” “be serious there’s no way she actually likes him” “this is so weird… he’s old enough to be her dad” “men like this are always predators idc” “he plays punisher but acts like the villain in real life” “blink twice if you need help girl” “this is embarrassing for him” “this is sad for her”

It kept going.

Long threads picking you apart like you were something to analyze. The way you dressed. The way you spoke. The way you stood next to him. People deciding your intentions, your intelligence, your worth, all from a few pictures and thirty seconds of footage.

Gold digger.

Clout chaser.

Naive.

Easy.

And him?

Predator.

Creepy.

Desperate.

A man who clearly couldn’t “handle women his own age.” He didn’t say anything about it. Not publicly. That almost made it worse for them. No statement. No apology. No explanation.

Just you.

Always you.

There were nights he’d sit with it, though. Quiet. Phone in his hand, screen lit with another article, another comment section he shouldn’t have opened but did anyway. His jaw would go tight, shoulders locked, that familiar tension settling in his chest like something waiting to snap.

He wouldn’t scroll much. Didn’t need to. It was all the same. Different words, same accusations. Same assumption that what you had couldn’t be real.

Then you’d walk in.

And everything in him would shift.

Not instantly, not like flipping a switch, but enough. Enough that his grip on the phone would loosen, enough that his eyes would lift, enough that whatever noise was in his head would start to fade.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you’d say, catching it every time. He’d glance at you, slower now. “What thing?” And you'd smile, knowing.“That thing where you pretend you don’t care,” you’d answer, stepping closer, “but you’re thinking about it anyway.”

He’d hold your gaze for a second.

Then exhale, low, tired, honest in a way he wasn’t with anyone else.

“I don’t care what they think,” he’d say, then pause. Then, quieter, rougher, “I care that they’re talking about you like that.” That’s the part he couldn’t ignore.

Not what they said about him. That never mattered. But you? That was different. Always different. You’d take the phone from his hand sometimes, not even asking, just pulling it away and setting it down somewhere out of reach.

“They don’t know me,” you’d say simply.

He’d watch you when you said it. Really watch you. Like he was checking for cracks, for doubt, for anything that said you were pretending to be stronger than you felt. He never found it. “They don’t get you,” he’d mutter. “No,” you’d shrug. “They don’t.”

“And they don’t get me,” he’d add, quieter. You’d tilt your head slightly. “I think you care more about that than you admit.” He’d huff, something almost like a laugh leaving him, but not quite “Maybe,” he’d say. Then his hand would find you. Always did.

Your waist. Your arm. Your hand. Somewhere he could hold, somewhere real, something that reminded him this wasn’t something people got to define from the outside. “They can say whatever the fuck they want,” he’d tell you, voice low, steady, certain. “Doesn’t change anything.” You’d look at him, searching his face the same way he searched yours. “Nothing?” you’d ask. His grip would tighten just slightly. “Nothing,” he’d repeat.

And the way he said it made it clear. It wasn’t a defense, it was a promise.

Right now, his hand is wrapped around yours like it’s permanent. Not loose, not polite. Firm enough that when your fingers shift, he immediately tightens, like a reflex he doesn’t bother correcting. You glance up at him, smirking faintly. “You look like you’re about to knock someone out.”

His jaw ticks. “If they keep running their mouths, maybe.” You roll your eyes lightly. “Jesus, Jon.”

That pulls his attention down to you instantly. It always does. The edge in him softens just a fraction, eyes dragging over your face like he needs to check you’re still right there.

“I’m serious,” he mutters. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” you say. “You’re the one acting insane.”

His thumb presses into your knuckles, slow, grounding. “Not insane,” he says. “Just not in the mood for bullshit.”

“Jon! Over here!”

He ignores the first call. Then the second. Turns only when he decides to, pulling you with him like it’s instinct. “Stay close,” he murmurs. You glance down at your locked hands. “I literally can’t get any closer.”

“Yeah,” he says, low. “You can.”

The interviewer is already watching you when you step into the light. Smile sharp, curious in a way that’s a little too interested. “Jon, you look incredible tonight,” she says, then flicks her gaze to you. “And this is… your girlfriend?” You don’t hesitate. “Yeah,” you answer for him, calm. “That would be me.” Jon’s grip tightens, not stopping you. Backing you. “That’s right,” he adds, voice steady.

The interviewer tilts her head, pushing. “There’s been a lot of talk. People are… surprised. The age difference, the dynamic…” You let out a small breath through your nose. “People talk when they’re bored.”

She presses again. “Some would say it’s more than that.”

Jon shifts beside you. You feel it immediately. His hand leaves yours, sliding to your waist, pulling you in tighter. Not aggressive. Just final. “Some people should mind their own business,” he says, flat. You glance at him, then back at her. “And some people ask questions like they’re owed answers.”

That makes her falter.

She smiles, but it’s tighter now. “So it doesn’t bother you? The scrutiny, the opinions?” You shrug slightly. “Why would it? I’m the one standing here. Not them.” Jon looks at you again then, something heavier in his expression. Pride, maybe. Or something closer to it. “Exactly,” he mutters. The interviewer doesn’t back off. “And you, Jon? You don’t think it’s… controversial?”

He exhales slowly, then looks straight at her. “I think people get real comfortable judging shit that has nothing to do with them.” You feel his thumb press into your side, once, firm. “And I don’t give a fuck what they think,” he adds. There’s a flicker of tension. Cameras catch it. They always do.

The interviewer shifts tactics, voice softer but still pushing. “You seem very… protective.” You huff lightly. “That’s one way to put it.” Jon glances down at you. “You got a problem with that?”

You tilt your head. “Do you?”

Then, quieter, closer, “No.”

His fingers move against your waist, slow, tracing the seam of your dress like he needs something to keep his hands busy. You feel every inch of it. Intentional. Grounding. “Jon, quick question about your return as Frank Castle,” another voice cuts in. “Fans are saying this might be your most intense version yet.”

You glance up at him. “You gonna answer that or keep staring at me like that?” His mouth twitches. “What, you got somewhere else to be?”

“Maybe,” you say. “Depends how annoying this gets.” That earns a low, quiet laugh out of him “Yeah,” he answers the interviewer finally, distracted. “We’ll see.”

“You seem distracted tonight,” the first interviewer cuts back in, sharper now.

You smile faintly. “He is.” Jon looks down at you. “I am?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You’re barely paying attention to anything that isn’t me.” He doesn’t even deny it. “Good.” The interviewer’s eyebrows lift. “So you admit it?” Jon shrugs slightly. “Yeah. I do.” You glance at him sideways. “You’re not even pretending to behave.”

“No,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Her eyes flick down briefly, catching the way his hand drags lower along your waist, thumb pressing in slow. “You don’t mind that kind of attention?” she asks you. You meet her gaze evenly. “I mind people thinking they get to comment on it.”

Jon’s jaw tightens again, but this time there’s something quieter under it. Approval.

He turns toward you slightly, hand sliding up your arm, slower now, more deliberate. His fingers settle at your shoulder, warm, steady. “You good?” he murmurs, low enough that it’s just for you. You hold his gaze. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you repeat. “Relax.” His thumb presses once into your shoulder before he leans in and presses a kiss there. Soft, but not shy. It lingers just enough to make it obvious it’s not for show. You glance at him after, voice low. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Problem?” He asks, but his puppy eyes are staring at your mouth. You shake your head faintly. “No.” Another call pulls him away, louder this time. You nudge him lightly. “Go before they drag you.” He doesn’t move immediately. His hand slides back down to your side, thumb pressing in once like he’s checking you’re still there. “Stay with me,” he says. “I am with you,” you reply. “Stay right here,” he corrects. You roll your eyes softly. “You’re intense.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “You like that.” You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Inside, when the lights drop and you both finally sit, the shift is immediate. You exhale, leaning back. “That was exhausting.” Jon drops into the seat beside you, but he doesn’t create space. His leg presses against yours, his hand settling on your thigh like it belongs there. And technically, it does. “You handled it,” he says.

“So did you,” you reply. He shakes his head faintly. “Nah. You were better.” You glance down at his hand, then back up. “You’re still doing that.”

“Doing what?” He asks, trying to feign innocence. You raise an eyebrow. “You know exactly what.” He huffs a soft laugh as his thumb drags slow against your thigh. “Yeah.”

“Jon.”

“What?”

“You’re not subtle.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he says.

You let out a quiet laugh. “People are literally right behind us.”

“Let ‘em look.” You turn toward him slightly. “You really don’t care?” He leans in closer, hand sliding from your thigh to your waist, pulling you just enough toward him that your shoulders almost touch. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”

You study him. “Not even a little?”

“Not even a little.” A pause. Then you nod once. “Good.” That does something to him. You see it in the way his expression shifts, something heavier settling in. His hand comes up to your face, brushing your hair back slower this time, fingers lingering along your jaw. “You look…” he starts, then exhales. “Fuck. You look gorgeous.”

You smile faintly. “You’ve said that already.”

“Not enough,” he says.

Then he leans in and kisses you. Still soft. Still controlled. But it lingers longer this time, just enough to feel deliberate. When he pulls back, he stays close, forehead nearly touching yours.

“Don’t listen to any of that shit,” he murmurs. You tilt your head slightly. “I don’t.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I meant it.”

“All of it?” you ask.

“All of it.”

The screen flickers to life in front of you, but neither of you looks right away.

Instead, his arm slides around you, pulling you into his side, his hand settling warm against your waist again, thumb moving slow like he can’t stop touching you even when there’s nothing left to prove. “You’re trouble,” you murmur.

The door doesn’t open quietly.

It never does with Jake, but tonight it’s worse. It slams just shy of the frame first, rebounds, then finally clicks shut like the room itself had to brace for him. The sound cuts through the dark, through the low hum of the AC and the distant buzz of the base outside, and it drags Bradley up from that half-sleep he’s been stuck in for the last hour.

He doesn’t move at first. Just listens.

Boots on tile. Slow. Uneven.

That’s new.

Bradley opens his eyes, the room still dim except for the weak spill of light from the window. Jake’s silhouette fills the space near the door, broad shoulders tipped slightly to one side like gravity’s pulling harder on him than it should. He doesn’t turn the light on. Just stands there, one hand braced against the wall like he forgot what he came in for. Bradley exhales through his nose. “You’re loud.”

Jake lets out something that might be a laugh, but it doesn’t land right. Too low, too dragged out. “Didn’t figure you for a light sleeper, Bradshaw,” he says. The words come out smooth enough, but there’s a weight behind them, like each one had to be pulled up from somewhere deeper than usual. Bradley pushes himself up onto his elbows, squinting across the room. “You’re drunk.”

A pause.

Then Jake’s head tilts, just slightly, like he’s considering whether to argue. “Observant,” he mutters. “That why they keep you around?” There’s no bite in it. Not the usual edge. It falls flat between them.

Bradley notices.

That’s worse than the noise.

Jake finally pushes off the wall, but it’s not clean. His shoulder drags for a second before he finds his balance, boots thudding heavier than usual as he crosses the room. He smells like it, too. Even from a distance. Whiskey, cheap and sharp, soaked into his clothes like he didn’t bother pacing himself. He makes it halfway to his bed before he stops again.

Just… stops.

Like something caught him mid-step. Bradley frowns. “You gonna stand there all night or-”

“Just give me a second,” Jake cuts in, quieter now.

That’s new, too.

Bradley doesn’t say anything after that. He just watches. Jake drags a hand down his face, slow, like he’s trying to wake himself up without actually sleeping. His fingers catch at the edge of his collar, tug it loose, then drop again like he forgot why he started. There’s something off in the way he moves. Not just drunk. Not just loose.

Unsteady in a way Bradley hasn’t seen before.

Jake exhales, long and uneven, then finally makes it the rest of the way to his bed. He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, staring down at it like it’s more complicated than it should be. “…You miss?” Bradley says, because he doesn’t know what else to do with this version of him.

Jake huffs, barely there. “Funny.”

He sits, but it’s more like he drops. The mattress dips under his weight, springs creaking, and he leans forward immediately, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. His head dips, chin almost to his chest, like the effort of holding it up suddenly got too heavy. 

Silence settles in again.

Not the usual kind. Not the one they’ve built between them on purpose. This one feels accidental. Fragile. Bradley shifts, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, feet planting against the cold floor. “You’re gonna regret that in the morning.” Jake doesn’t look up. “Ain’t nothin’ new.”

There it is.

A hint of something real, slipping through. Bradley’s jaw tightens. He pushes up, standing, taking a step forward before he can think better of it. Stops halfway between the beds. “Bad night?” he asks. Jake’s shoulders lift in something that almost counts as a shrug. “They’re all bad nights if you stay out long enough.”

It’s said like a joke. It doesn’t sound like one.

Bradley studies him. The uneven roll of his sleeves. The way his hands flex once, then still, like he’s trying to keep them from shaking. The fact that he hasn’t looked up once since he sat down “You get in a fight?” Bradley tries. Jake lets out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh. “Not tonight.”

Not tonight.

Bradley doesn’t like the way that sounds. He takes another step, slower this time. “Then what? Jake finally moves. Not much. Just enough to tilt his head, eyes flicking up for half a second before dropping again. It’s quick, but Bradley catches it. There’s something there that doesn’t belong to the version of Jake everyone else gets. Something stripped down. Uncovered.

“Just needed it to be quiet for a bit,” Jake says.

Bradley glances around the room. Same as always. Same tight space, same low hum, same nothing. “It is quiet,” he says. Jake shakes his head once, small. “Not like that.” Bradley doesn’t understand. Or maybe he does, and he doesn’t want to.

Jake leans back slightly, bracing his hands against the edge of the bed. His head tips up, eyes closing for a second like he’s letting the silence actually hit him for the first time all night. The room feels different with him in it like this. Less sharp. More… crowded, somehow, even though neither of them has moved much. Bradley shifts his weight again. “You’re gonna wake up the whole building next time you come in like that.” Jake’s mouth twitches, faint. “Wasn’t tryin’ to be quiet.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

Another pause.

Jake exhales through his nose, longer this time. His shoulders drop a fraction, tension bleeding out of them in slow, reluctant pieces. “Sorry,” he mutters. Bradley blinks. “What?” Jake doesn’t repeat it. Just lifts one shoulder again, dismissive now, like it slipped out and he’s already trying to take it back. Bradley stares at him.

Jake Seresin doesn’t apologize. Not for anything. “You hit your head or something?” Bradley says, because that’s easier than whatever this is.

Jake lets out a breath that almost turns into a real laugh this time, rough around the edges. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Somethin’ like that.”

Bradley doesn’t push it. But he doesn’t go back to bed either.

He stays there, standing in the space between them, watching Jake sit on the edge of his mattress like the room might tilt if he moves too fast, like whatever he brought back with him is still settling under his skin. And for the first time since they got shoved into this place together, the silence between them isn’t something either of them chose.

It just… is.

Jake stays like that for longer than he should.

Elbows on his knees, head bowed, breathing slow but uneven, like every inhale has to push past something stuck in his chest. The room feels too tight around it. Too small to hold whatever he carried in with him.

Bradley doesn’t move back to his bed. He should. That’s what they’ve been doing for weeks. Stay on your side, keep it clean, keep it simple. Don’t ask, don’t offer, don’t look too close. It’s easier that way. Cleaner. He doesn’t. “You drive?” Bradley asks after a while, voice low enough it doesn’t sound like he’s prying.

Jake shakes his head once, barely. “Nah.”

“Good.”

Another silence. It stretches, thinner now, like it might snap if either of them pulls too hard. Jake’s fingers flex again between his knees. Bradley watches them this time. Watches the way they curl in, then flatten, then curl again, like he’s holding onto something invisible and losing his grip on it in the same breath. “You always drink like that?” Bradley says.

Jake lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “Not always.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Jake tips his head back a little, eyes opening just enough to look at the ceiling. “Didn’t figure you for a worrier, Bradshaw. That don't make you a rooster, that makes you a hen.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure.”

Bradley exhales, sharper this time. “Then stop givin’ me a reason to be.” Jake goes still again, shoulders tightening for a second before dropping back down. He drags a hand over his mouth, slow, like he’s trying to wipe something off that won’t come clean.

“Wasn’t my intention,” he says.

Bradley studies him. “Then what was?”

Jake doesn’t answer right away.

Outside, somewhere in the distance, a car door slams. Voices drift, muffled, then fade. The AC kicks a little louder for a second, then settles back into its steady hum. Everything normal. Everything the same.

It feels wrong.

Jake’s throat works like he’s about to say something. Doesn’t. His jaw tightens, then loosens again, like he’s arguing with himself and losing. “…Went back home,” he says finally.

Bradley frowns. “When?”

“Last weekend.” Jake shrugs one shoulder. “Didn’t mention it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Jake huffs, like that’s almost funny. “Didn’t seem like your business.”

“It’s not,” Bradley says. Then, after a beat, quieter, “But you brought it up.” Jake nods once, like that’s fair. He leans back further on his hands, tipping his head toward the ceiling again. His throat is exposed like that, the line of it moving when he swallows. Bradley catches himself staring and looks away.

“Family’s doin’ good,” Jake says. The words sound rehearsed. Too neat. “Mama’s still got that garden she won’t let anyone touch. Dad’s… same as always.”

There’s something brittle under it. Bradley waits. Jake lets the silence sit, like maybe Bradley won’t push.

He does. “And?” Bradley asks.

Jake’s mouth presses into a thin line. “And what?”

“You didn’t come back like this over a garden.” Jake lets out a breath through his nose, sharp. “You always this persistent, or—”

“Jake.”

It cuts him off.

Bradley doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. There’s something in the way he says it that lands heavier than anything louder would’ve. Jake’s fingers curl against the mattress. For a second, it looks like he’s going to shut down. Pull back into that easy, untouchable version of himself and leave Bradley talking to a wall again.

He doesn’t.

“Went to church,” Jake says. Bradley blinks. “Okay.” Jake laughs, but it’s wrong. It sounds like something cracking. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Okay.” Bradley doesn’t understand. Not fully. But he knows enough to stay quiet now. Jake drags his hand down his face again, slower this time, like he’s trying to peel something off himself. “They prayed for me,” he says. It takes a second to process.

When it does, Bradley’s chest tightens. “…What?” he asks, even though he heard him. Jake’s mouth twists. “You heard me.”

“For what?”

Jake finally looks at him. Really looks. There’s no grin this time. No arrogance. No distance. Just something raw and tired and a little bit wrecked, sitting too close to the surface.

“For fixin’, sweetheart” Jake says. The word sits heavy in the room. Bradley feels something in his stomach drop. “Fixing what?” Jake’s laugh is quiet, hollow. “You really gonna make me say it?” Bradley swallows. “I want you to.” Jake holds his gaze for a second longer.

Then he looks away.

“That I’m wrong,” he says, softer now. “That somethin’ in me ain’t right. That if I just… pray harder, try harder, want it enough, it’ll go away.” Bradley’s hands curl at his sides without him realizing. Jake shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s tight. Forced. “Mama cried,” he adds, like it’s just another detail. “Said she just wants me to be okay.”

The way he says it-

Like 'okay' and 'something else' are the same thing.

Bradley takes a step closer before he can stop himself. “That’s...” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “That’s not-” Jake shakes his head, quick. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make it into somethin’ it ain’t.” Jake’s voice is still low, but there’s an edge creeping back in now. Defensive. “They mean well.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” Jake’s eyes snap back to him, something sharp flashing through them. “Didn’t say it did.”

“Then why are you-”

“Because they’re my family, Bradley.” The name hits different than Bradshaw. Heavier. Closer. Jake exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “Because they love me,” he adds, quieter. “Just… not all of me.”

There it is.

It sits between them, heavy and unavoidable.

Bradley doesn’t know what to do with it. “I’ve felt like I was a bad person since I was a kid,” Jake says, like he’s thinking out loud now. Like the alcohol finally loosened something he usually keeps locked down tight. “Seven, maybe. That’s when I figured out I was… different.” His mouth twists around the word. “Didn’t have a name for it back then,” he goes on. “Just knew I had to hide it. Knew it made people look at me different if they caught even a hint of it.”

Bradley’s chest aches.

Jake huffs a quiet breath. “Funny thing is, I got real good at hidin’,” he says. “So good that sometimes I forget what’s real and what’s just… somethin’ I put on so people don’t ask questions.” His eyes flick up again, catching Bradley’s. “The shame of bein’ seen,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’ll eat you alive if you let it.”

Bradley feels it like a punch. Because he knows something about that, too. Different shape. Same weight. Jake’s gaze drops again, shoulders curling in just a fraction, like he’s trying to make himself smaller without realizing it. “I hate it here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But I hated it there, too.” Bradley closes his eyes for a second. “Yeah,” he says, because it’s the only honest thing he has. Jake laughs under his breath, something broken in it. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

Silence settles again, but it’s not empty.

It’s full of everything Jake just laid out between them. Every word, every crack, every piece of himself he wasn’t supposed to show. Bradley takes another step forward. He’s close now. Close enough to see the way Jake’s lashes stick slightly at the corners, like he blinked too hard too many times. Close enough to see the tension still sitting in his jaw, like he’s bracing for something worse to follow. Close enough to see the hint of sun-born freckles dust his cheeks. Close enough to see the shape of his cupid's bow and how it'd fit perfectly in how own.

“You’re not wrong,” Bradley says.

Jake’s shoulders go rigid. Bradley keeps going anyway. “There’s nothing in you that needs fixing.” Jake shakes his head, sharp, immediate. “Don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I said don’t, Bradley.”

“Why?” Bradley pushes, voice tightening. “Because if you believe it, then what—”

“Because I don’t know how to,” Jake snaps. The words hit hard. Fast. Like they’ve been sitting there for a long time, waiting for somewhere to land.

The room goes quiet again.

Jake’s breathing is heavier now. Not from the alcohol. From something else. Something closer to panic than anything Bradley’s seen from him before. “I don’t know how to not feel like that,” Jake says, quieter this time. “Like there’s somethin’ in me that’s gonna ruin every good thing I touch.” Bradley’s throat tightens. Jake laughs again, but it’s barely there. “In the pursuit of bein’ happy,” he murmurs, eyes unfocused now, somewhere far away, “I just keep collectin’ things I gotta grieve.”

That one lands deeper than the rest. Bradley doesn’t think about it this time.

He closes the distance.

His hand comes up, hesitates for half a second like he’s not sure where to put it, then settles on the back of Jake’s neck. Warm. Solid. Real. It slots there perfectly, like God intended for it to be placed there.

Jake freezes.

Not pulling away.

Not leaning in.

Just… there.

Bradley’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You don’t have to earn being okay,” he says. “Not like that.” Jake’s breath stutters. For a second, it feels like the whole room is holding still with him. Then Jake’s hand comes up, fast, gripping Bradley’s wrist like he’s not sure if he’s trying to pull it away or keep it there. “…Don’t make this worse,” Jake whispers. Bradley’s chest aches. “I’m not,” he says. Jake shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut for a second. “Yeah,” he breathes. “You are.”

Because this...

This is the part that hurts. Not the shouting. Not the distance. Not the easy hatred they’ve been using as a shield.

This.

Being seen.

Being held there, even for a second, without being pushed away.

Jake’s grip tightens just slightly around Bradley’s wrist. He doesn’t let go. And that might be the worst part of all.Jake’s hand drops from Bradley’s wrist like it burned him. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a quiet release, fingers uncurling one by one until there’s nothing there at all. The absence of it feels louder than the contact did. Bradley’s hand is still at the back of his neck.

He feels it when Jake notices. The shift is small, but it’s there. A tension that wasn’t before. Like Jake’s suddenly aware of every point where they touch and doesn’t know how to exist inside it anymore. “You don’t gotta-” Jake starts, then cuts himself off. Bradley doesn’t move right away. His thumb drags once, slow, against the edge of Jake’s hairline. It’s not intentional. It just… happens. Jake inhales like it caught him off guard.

That’s what makes Bradley pull back.

Not all the way. Just enough that there’s space again. Enough that Jake can breathe without it hitching.

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. Jake shakes his head, quick. “Don’t be.” The words come out too fast. Like he meant the opposite. He leans forward again, elbows back on his knees, hands clasping together this time like he needs something to hold onto. His knuckles press white for a second before he loosens them.

“Y’know what the worst part is?” Jake says, voice quieter now, but steadier than before. Not as cracked. Just… worn. Bradley waits.

Jake stares at the floor like it might give him the answer if he looks long enough.

“It ain’t even them,” he says. “Not really.”

Bradley frowns. “Your family...”

“They’re just sayin’ what they believe,” Jake cuts in, not sharp, just matter-of-fact. “They think they’re savin’ me.” There’s no anger in it. That’s what makes it worse. Jake lets out a slow breath, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck where Bradley’s hand had been, like he can still feel it there. “It’s me,” he says. Bradley’s chest tightens. “Jake-”

“I keep thinkin’ they might be right,” Jake goes on, like he didn’t hear him. “That if I just-” He makes a vague motion with his hand. “Adjusted. Tried harder. Wanted different things.” His mouth twists. “Wouldn’t be so damn hard to exist.” The room goes very still. Bradley steps closer again before he can think better of it. “That’s not how that works.” Jake huffs, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know that.”

“Then why-”

“Because knowin’ somethin’ don’t make it feel true.” Bradley doesn’t have anything to argue with there. Jake finally looks up again, and there’s something clearer in his eyes now. Not better. Just… sharper. Like he’s stripped it down to something he can hold without it spilling everywhere. “I see God in everything,” he says, quieter. “In the trees, the sky, all that cliché stuff they talk about.” His lips twitch faintly. “Even in the bad parts. Pain, too.” Bradley listens. Jake’s gaze doesn’t leave his this time. “So I figure… if He’s in all of it, then He’s in this, too.” He gestures vaguely to himself.

“And if He’s in this, then it ain’t a mistake.” There’s conviction there. Fragile, but real. Bradley swallows. “Then what is it?” Jake’s smile is small. Crooked. Sad in a way that doesn’t ask for pity. It's boyish, young, a glimpse into a version of Jake that was fully honest. “Don’t know,” he says. “Maybe just… somethin’ I gotta live with.” Bradley’s jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t have to live with feeling like that.” Jake shrugs one shoulder. “Everybody’s got somethin’.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” Jake agrees quietly. “It ain’t.” That should be the moment something shifts. Where Bradley says the right thing, where Jake lets himself believe it, where it all gets a little easier. It doesn’t. Jake looks away first this time. “That bar tonight,” he says, voice flattening out again, slipping back toward something safer. “Full of people actin’ like they got it all figured out. Talkin’ loud, laughin’ louder. Thought if I stayed long enough, I’d feel… somethin’.” Bradley leans back against the edge of his own bed, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “And?”

Jake lets out a breath. “Felt alone.”

Simple.

Heavy.

Bradley nods once. “Yeah.” Jake glances at him, something almost curious flickering there. “You get that?” Bradley huffs under his breath. “All the time.” Jake studies him for a second, like he’s trying to reconcile that with everything he thought he knew. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for it,” he admits. Bradley shrugs. “People don’t usually get it right.”

That earns a faint smile, though it fades quick. Jake leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the mattress this time, looking up at the ceiling again. “I just wanna feel it all,” he says after a moment. “Good, bad, whatever. Instead of…” He gestures vaguely. “This halfway thing. Like I’m not really anywhere.” Bradley’s chest aches at that. “You are somewhere,” he says. Jake shakes his head. “Don’t feel like it.”

Silence again.

But it’s thinner now. Less suffocating.

Jake exhales, slow, like he’s letting something settle into place whether he likes it or not. “I’m tired,” he says again, but this time it sounds less like a confession and more like a fact. Bradley nods. “Then sleep.” Jake huffs, a ghost of his usual sarcasm flickering back. “That an order, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, quieter. “It is.” Jake’s mouth twitches. He shifts, finally, turning just enough to sit properly on the bed instead of hovering at the edge of it. His movements are slower now, heavier, but steadier than when he walked in. He doesn’t lie down yet. Just sits there. “Bradshaw,” he says after a second. Bradley looks up. Jake hesitates. It’s brief, but it’s there. Like he’s not used to this part. “…Thanks,” he mutters. It’s quieter than the first apology. Rougher. Bradley exhales. “Yeah.”

Jake nods once, like that’s enough acknowledgment for him. Then he finally lies back, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s trying to block out more than just the light. Bradley stays where he is for a while, listening to Jake’s breathing even out in uneven pieces, like sleep is something he has to fight his way into. It takes longer than it should.

When it finally comes, it doesn’t look peaceful.

Jake’s brow stays faintly furrowed, jaw tight even in rest, like whatever he carries doesn’t loosen just because his eyes are closed. Bradley watches him longer than he should. Then he turns away, sitting back on his own bed, staring at nothing.

The room feels different now.

Not smaller.

Just… heavier.

Like something’s been said that can’t be taken back. Like they crossed a line neither of them knows how to uncross. Bradley lies down eventually, staring up at the ceiling, the dark pressing in around him. He doesn’t sleep right away.

And when he finally does, it’s not any easier. Jake doesn’t fall asleep. Bradley can tell.

The room goes quiet the way it does when someone’s pretending, breathing too measured, too aware of itself. Jake’s arm is still thrown over his eyes, but his chest doesn’t settle, not really. It rises and falls like he’s trying to force it into something steady and failing.

Bradley lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to it. He shouldn’t say anything else. They already went too far. Said too much. Crossed something that doesn’t uncross clean.

He sits up anyway.

The movement is small, but it’s enough. Jake’s arm shifts, just slightly, like he felt it. Like he was waiting for it. “Go to sleep, Bradshaw,” Jake mutters, voice rougher now, worn down. “You’re not asleep,” Bradley says.

A moment.

Then, quieter, “Didn’t say I was.” Bradley swings his legs over the side of the bed again. The floor is cold. Grounds him in a way the rest of this doesn’t. He doesn’t think about it too long. If he does, he won’t move. He crosses the space between them in two steps.

Jake doesn’t sit up. Doesn’t move away. Just lowers his arm enough to look at him, eyes adjusting to the dark, searching Bradley’s face like he’s trying to figure out what this is before it happens.

“What’re you doin’?” Jake asks, softer now.

Bradley doesn’t answer right away. Because he doesn’t have one. He just stands there for a second, close enough that the air shifts again, close enough that Jake has to tilt his head back slightly to keep looking at him.

“I don’t know,” Bradley admits. Jake studies him, something unreadable flickering across his face. Not guarded. Not exactly. Just… careful.

“You don’t strike me as the impulsive type, ain't that why you're named Rooster? Always sitting in that damn perch...” Jake murmurs. “I’m not,” Bradley says.

“Then why-”

“I said I don’t know.” Jake’s mouth twitches faintly at that. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. For a second, neither of them moves. It would be easy to step back. To let this dissolve into something they can pretend didn’t almost happen. Jake’s gaze drops, just briefly, to Bradley’s mouth. That’s what does it.

Bradley leans in.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. Not like something that’s been building toward impact. It’s slow. Hesitant. Like he’s giving Jake time to stop him.

Jake doesn’t. Not when Bradley gets close enough to feel his breath, warm and uneven. Not when Bradley pauses there, just for a second, waiting. Jake’s hand lifts, almost without him realizing, fingers brushing against Bradley’s wrist again. Not holding this time. Just… touching.

Then Bradley closes the distance.

The kiss is soft. Careful. Like they’re both afraid of breaking something that’s already fragile. Jake stills under it at first. Completely. Like his body doesn’t know what to do with something that isn’t forceful, isn’t demanding, isn’t taking anything from him.

Then he exhales.

And it shifts.

His hand tightens slightly against Bradley’s wrist, thumb pressing there like he needs to feel something solid. His other hand comes up slower, hovering for a second before settling against Bradley’s side, not pulling, just anchoring. Bradley kisses him like he means it. Not like a mistake. Not like something to get out of his system. Like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t have words for. Jake makes a quiet sound against his mouth. Barely there. Surprised more than anything else.

It’s gentle.

It shouldn’t be.

Everything about them has been sharp, edged, built on friction and resistance. This should feel wrong in a louder way. It doesn’t. That’s what makes it dangerous. 

Jake leans into it before he can stop himself. Just a fraction. Just enough that it’s not one-sided anymore.

Bradley feels it.

Feels the way Jake’s hand shifts, fingers curling slightly into his shirt like he’s grounding himself. Feels the way his breath catches again, but not from panic this time. From something softer. Something that doesn’t hurt in the same way.

For a moment, it almost feels like relief. That’s the part that breaks it. Jake pulls back. Not far. Just enough that their foreheads almost touch, breath still shared between them, too close to pretend it didn’t happen.

“Bradley…” he murmurs.

It’s not a warning. It’s not permission either. Just his name, said like it means something now.

Bradley doesn’t move. Neither does Jake. They stay there, suspended in that space, where everything is quieter than it’s ever been between them. Jake’s eyes flicker, searching Bradley’s face again, slower this time. Less guarded. “…That ain’t gonna fix anything,” he says, voice low. Bradley swallows. “I know.” Jake studies him for another second. Then, softer, almost to himself, “Didn’t feel like somethin’ that needed fixin’.” That lands deeper than anything else. Bradley’s chest tightens. Jake exhales, eyes closing briefly, like he’s letting himself feel it for just a second longer than he should.

Then he leans back, breaking the contact completely this time.

The absence is immediate. Cold. He drags a hand over his face, sitting up halfway, not looking at Bradley now. “That can’t happen again,” Jake says. The words are steady. Too steady. Bradley doesn’t argue. “Okay,” he says. Jake nods once, like he expected that answer. Like he needed it. But his hand lingers where it last touched Bradley’s wrist, fingers flexing once, like they remember something he’s already trying to forget. Bradley steps back. The space between them comes back too easily. Too familiar. Jake lies back down again, turning his head away this time, arm back over his eyes.