Mrs. Jacob Scipio

As a rising star in the industry, currently in the spotlight thanks to the incredible success of Michael, Jaafar was invited to the 2026 FIFA World Cup opening match between the US and Paraguay in Los Angeles. Allowed to bring guests along, he not only wanted his brothers, Jermajesty and Randy Jr., by his side, but also you, his girlfriend.

A world cup is a big thing, but nothing could have prepared you for the absolute fear surging through your every vein right now. This isn’t just any event, not just a football game. This is your first public appearance as Jaafar Jackson’s girlfriend. You first time walking a carpet. Your first time standing in front of hundreds of photographers who seem to know exactly who you are, having done their thorough research despite never even seeing you before.

A small part of you thinks that once you step out of this car, everything changes. Because before that moment, you were just you. The girl who got to spend lazy mornings and quiet evenings with Jaafar. The girl who knew every version of him but especially the one that existed away from the cameras. The girl who laughed at his absolutely terrible jokes and stole his hoodies. The girl who danced around with him in the kitchen with no worries in the world.

Today the world is going to get a glimpse of you, the girl Jaafar Jackson chose, who he loves with all of his heart. No pressure.

You feel like prey, just waiting to be devoured by the hungry predators surrounding you.

“Hey, everything alright?”, Jaafar’s gentle voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you feel his warm hand on your thigh, giving a gentle squeeze. Slowly, you tear your gaze away from the passing view outside the window and turn toward him. His brown eyes meet yours, warm and steady, carrying that familiar softness you always get lost in.

“Y-Yeah.” Not very convincing.

“You look like you’re about to jump out of the car”, he remarks with a soft smile.

You let out a nervous laugh, glancing down at your hand that you now intertwine with his on your thigh. You avert your gaze again, not being able to stand the pure affection you find in his eyes, meant only for you.

Jaafar has always had a way of seeing through you. It doesn’t matter how carefully you try to hide your emotions, how much effort you put into looking calm and collected. He notices the little things. The way your fingers fidget. The way your breathing changes. The way you stare out the window, letting a storm of thoughts consume you. You really tried to not look overwhelmed and apparently, you terribly failed.

“Sorry”, you shrug with a shy smile, nervously smoothing down your pants with your free hand. Since the dress code isn’t super formal – it is a football match after all – you’re wearing a cream tailored fitted vest and flowing wide-leg trousers. Subtle jewellery adorns your ears, wrists and fingers and black sunglasses tie everything together. Your outfit perfectly complements that of Jaafar, who is wearing a cream button-down shirt with a textured pattern, left slightly open at the collar, paired with matching tailored trousers that give him a relaxed yet polished look. The soft neutral tones compliment his warm complexion, while the dark sunglasses add just enough edge. Jaafar, as always, looks effortlessly put together, which somehow makes it unfair and so much more difficult for you.

He isn’t dressed like he is trying to impress anyone while you, on the other hand, are very much trying to do just that.

His brothers also match the colour scheme, all dressed in cream, white and black. A choice that also subtly signals which team you’re rooting for. That is at least for today, because the three of them are supporting Colombia as well while you are rooting for your country, too.

“Don’t be”, Jaafar says with a slight grin, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re going to do amazing. They’ll love you.”

Easy for him to say. He’s already accustomed to the spotlight, the cameras, the eyes. Everyone loves him. Of course they do. There is nothing to not love about him. But the idea of millions of strangers having opinions about you and your relationship makes your stomach twist in discomfort.

“I just don’t want to mess this up”, you admit quietly.

Jaafar’s eyebrows pull together like he has a hard time understanding what you just said. “Baby..”, he starts and the nickname makes your heart jump. “You’re not going to mess anything up.”

“Unless you trip”, Jermajesty adds out of nowhere, sitting across from you. He had been playing on his phone just moments ago, but the conversation didn’t go past him. Not that he could have missed it, you’re literally sitting right in front of him.

“Bro.”

Randy next to him snorts but quickly regains his composure and jabs his elbow into Jermajesty’s side, being the older, responsible one and all that. Jaafar, on the other hand, shoots his brothers a death glare.

“What? I’m just preparing her for every eventuality. I didn’t say it would happen!”, Jermajesty immediately defends himself, raising his hands in surrender.

“Not helpful.”

“Maybe keep your tips to yourself next time”, Jaafar suggests with a smile so bittersweet it makes his brother swallow hard. It’s a smile that is somehow both amused and threatening enough to make Jermajesty hesitate.

“Nah. I promise if anyone is going to mess it up, it’s going to be me”, Jermajesty says with such confidence as if he has already planned the entire disaster in his head. “Aaaaand I’ll shut up now”, he quickly adds when he receives another death glare, basically jumping headfirst back into his phone.

Despite yourself, you laugh. Somehow, their banter was exactly what you needed. The nerves that had been twisting your stomach begin to loosen. You know that you are not alone. That when you step out of this car, you won’t just have Jaafar beside you. You’ll have people who genuinely want you to feel comfortable, who will stand beside you and make sure you feel safe.

“I got you, baby”, Jaafar whispers softly, guiding your intertwined hands to his mouth to place a gentle kiss on the back of your hand without breaking eye contact. The warmth radiating from him, his touch, his presence, the certainty in his eyes, slowly melts away the tension you’ve been carrying, your shoulders slumping back into the seat. You can’t help but lean over and give him a quick kiss to the cheek, making him smile brightly.

It takes around two more minutes to reach the venue and you immediately tense up again, your breath catching in your throat. With the stadium towering ahead, your gaze falls on the throngs of photographers lining the blue carpet, eagerly waiting for the next celebrity guest. It isn’t until the car door opens that the sounds from outside truly reach you: distant music from the stadium, the constant clicking and shuttering of thousands of cameras, and people.

Jermajesty and Randy step out of the car first, followed closely by Jaafar though not before he whispers a few more reassuring words into your ear.

“Eyes on me.”

“What?”

“When it gets overwhelming, just look at me.”

Like the true gentleman he is, he waits by the door and extends his hand to help you out of the car. Meanwhile, his brothers are already posing for photos in front of the backdrop, completely comfortable in all the chaos.

You, however, feel like your knees might give way beneath you. You place your hand in Jaafar’s and let him gently pull you out of the car, making sure you don’t trip (even though Jermajesty would have probably loved if you did, proving his prediction). The second you are out of the car and the first photographer spots you, the shouting grows impossibly louder.

“Jaafar!”

“Over here!”

“Jaafar, a picture with your girlfriend!”

“Can we get one together?”

“Look this way!”

To say you are overwhelmed is an understatement, your heart racing, but Jaafar makes sure to tightly secure your hand in his, leading you onto the carpet and in front of the backdrop. Lights flash in an instant, not allowing you to even get into position.

Jaafar’s hand slides to the small of your back naturally, allowing him to pull you against his side without obscuring your matching outfits. You can’t help but grin, his closeness automatically calming your nerves by each second. Both of you smile at the cameras, giving them time to get the perfect shot of you, giving them exactly what they came for.

“One without the sunglasses!”

You both immediately follow the request, taking off your sunglasses to give them unrestricted views of your faces. Jaafar gives you a playful pinch at the waist that catches you off guard, making you look up at him with a giggle, one hand resting on his chest. The cameras keep snapping photos of you, even when you stop paying them any attention and simply gaze at each other. Which is exactly what Jaafar had in mind: making you forget everything around you, focussing solely on him.

Later, this will turn out to be your favourite photo: the two of you looking at each other with unconditional affection, beaming smiles and a look that suggests you’re in a world of your own.

“Can we get a picture of just her?”

The request takes you completely by surprise, but before you can even react, Jaafar smiles proudly and steps aside to leave the spotlight to you without any hesitation. At first, you hold tight onto his hand, your eyes practically pleading with him to stay, but he gives you such an encouraging smile that you can’t help but go along with it.

Suddenly, you feel incredibly shy without him by your side, but the photographers are telling you exactly how they want you to pose and what to do. You give them what they want, and maybe even a little more, and realize you’re actually starting to enjoy it a little. Standing nearby, Jaafar looks incredibly proud as if he were witnessing something beautiful, something he had never seen before in his life and now cannot tear his eyes away from. He truly is your biggest supporter.

It doesn’t take long before Jaafar is back by your side, and the two of you move along the carpet as a unit, heading toward the far end where his brothers are already waiting. Both of them are looking at you with broad, knowing smiles, making you lower your head in embarrassment as you reach them.

“There they are!”

“The celebrities.”

“Don’t even star-”

“How was it, little Miss I’m-so-scared-I’ll-mess-it-up-but-end-up-stealing-everyone’s-spotlight-anyway?”, Randy interrupts, clearly enjoying himself, not letting the opportunity pass to tease you a little. All three of them knew you would do an amazing job. There was never any doubt about it.

“Why’s no one asking me?”, Jaafar says, rolling his eyes dramatically as he slips his hand from yours and flexes his fingers with an exaggerated pout. “Might need a new hand.”

Your eyes drop to his hand immediately. “Oh God. Did I squeeze too hard?”, you ask in alarm, wasting no time in taking his hand between both of yours and cupping it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. In a way, it was – like an anchor keeping you steady. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.”

The concern on your face causes his teasing expression to break.

“I’m just playing with you, baby. It’s all good”, Jaafar laughs, flashing you one of his perfect smiles before he gently frees his hand from yours, placing it against your chin and tilting your face toward him. Then he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your lips.

“So.. are you guys going to pounce on each other, or can we go inside?”, Jermajesty asks in all seriousness, making you burst out laughing. Jaafar gestures for them to go ahead and you follow them. On the way to your seats, Jaafar interlocks your fingers again.

“You okay?”, he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

As soon as you step out into the stands, it finally hits you where you are and what a special event this is. Who gets to say they attended the opening match of a World Cup and in the very country where they live, no less? The atmosphere is ecstatic, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Thousands upon thousands of people are filling the stadium, flags waving, chants echoing.

Randy leads the way and finds your seats with ease. They are located in the main stand in a separate area reserved for special guests, so-called “Business-Seats”, allowing for a bit of privacy and security. It even has an exclusive lounge offering catering before, during, and after the match. Eventually, you find yourself in a seat between Jaafar and Jermajesty, with Randy on Jermajesty’s other side.

Your body is still overflowing with adrenaline from before, making it nearly impossible for you to sit completely still. You look around constantly, taking everything in: the massive screens, the field, the crowd. Everything feels entirely surreal.

You snap a few photos to look at later and maybe even post. Since your relationship is completely official now, you’re free to post whatever you want without having to worry that people might piece together who you were with, or where and when you were there. You don’t have to hide anymore and even pose for the boys’ selfies.

You notice Jaafar’s camera land on you, making you smile shyly. You lean against his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his phone and thus his snapshot.

“Delete that one”, you say immediately, feeling embarrassed about the way you look in it.

“No”, Jaafar replies, holding his phone out of reach so you can’t make a grab for it.

“Jaafar”, you whine, trying to reach it anyway.

“It’s cute.”

“It’s not!”

“It is! You look so excited.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop smiling nevertheless.

“Any predictions?”, Jermajesty eventually asks, looking between all of you with an amused smile. “Winner gets to choose where we’re eating tonight. Losers are paying.”

“2:0”, Randy replies, sliding his sunglasses back over his eyes as the sun hits his face.

“3:0”, you state with no hesitation, feeling confident in your answer.

“3:1”, Jaafar immediately chimes in, looking at you with a playful sparkle in his eyes that tells you the challenge is on.

“I’m going with 4:1”, Jermajesty claims with an approving look at the line-up on his phone.

“In your dreams maybe”, you giggle. He places a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Wow. No faith in our team?”

“I’m just being realistic”, you respond with a sweet smile. Jermajesty opens his mouth to argue some more but is quickly shut down as music fills the arena and the lights dim. The opening ceremony begins shortly after, and the entire stadium seems to come alive. The field transforms into a celebration of football, culture, and everything that makes the World Cup such a massive event.

You all watch in awe, completely captivated.

At one point, the cameras begin scanning the VIP sections and the giant screens above the field show some of the celebrities attending the match: Tom Cruise, Leonardo DiCaprio, David Beckham. The crowd immediately reacts every time someone familiar appears.

You watch along with everyone else, but deep down, you can feel the nerves slowly creeping back in. Because if the camera is scanning the VIP section, what’s stopping it from landing on Jaafar? And if it lands on Jaafar, it will inevitably land on you.

Your hand unconsciously tightens around his for a moment, but thankfully, the camera moves on before you have to worry about being on the giant screens. A small sigh of relief escapes you.

You are not too keen on a full stadium of seventy thousand people to know you’re here.

“You okay?”, Jaafar asks again.

“Yeah.”

When the match finally begins, the atmosphere becomes even more intense. You quickly realize that all of you are much more invested in the game than you expected, leaning forward, screaming, complaining, cheering.

Even Jaafar, who had seemed so calm earlier, is completely caught up in the excitement. “Come on!”, he shouts, jumping slightly in his seat when the USA nearly scores, making you laugh. His excitement is adorable, warming your heart.

And just like that, the first half goes by faster than you expect. By halftime, the scoreboard shows exactly what you predicted: 3:0. You turn toward Jaafar with the biggest smug smile.

“I would like to remind everyone of my prediction”, you announce proudly. You lean back in your seat, completely satisfied. “I’d actually like to go home now and spend the rest of the evening basking in this victory.”

“Don’t be too confident, baby”, Jaafar winks at you. “It’s not over yet.”

The halftime entertainment begins, giving everyone a chance to relax before the second half, which will undoubtedly be just as exciting. You and Randy decide to make yourselves useful and head toward the lounge to grab food and drinks for everyone. Inside, the atmosphere is completely different from the stadium. Still busy, but much calmer. The lounge is bustling with a mix of guests – influencers, models, actors, athletes, and also people you’ve never seen before. Then again, plenty of them are probably thinking the exact same thing about you.

You gather everything you need and carefully balance the drinks and food as you make your way back to your seats alongside Randy, who’s carrying the other half. The second Jaafar sees you approaching, he’s already standing. Before you can protest, he’s taking half the things from your hands, preventing anything from falling.

He smiles one of his sweet smiles at you, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your cheek once you sit down again. “Thank you for the fries.”

You laugh, knowing they are his favourite. “You’re welcome.”

Down on the field, you can see a few cheerleaders performing, otherwise the stands are relatively empty, which is not at all typical for American halftime shows. However, you realize too late that the camera operators are having some fun, moving through the stands to get people to kiss. You thought kiss cams were strictly an American football thing, but apparently, they’ve adopted the tradition for the World Cup, too. You freeze when you suddenly see your face on the giant screen in front of you, your eyes wide.

Except it’s not Jaafar who’s shown next to you, but Jermajesty. For a moment, nobody reacts. The entire situation is so absurd that your brain can’t even process it. You and Jermajesty simply stare at the screen in utter bewilderment.

Jermajesty immediately starts waving his hands frantically and making an X with his arms, trying to signal to the cameramen that they have made a mistake, but the damage is already done, a flush rising in your cheeks. Randy is doubled over with laughter, completely losing it, and Jaafar isn’t doing much better, struggling to compose himself.

“Unbelievable”, he mumbles through a fit of laughter. But then his eyes soften and he does something you don’t expect: He reaches over, placing one hand gently against your jaw. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he turns your face toward him and kisses you. In front of seventy thousand people.

A wave of cheers rises around you, louder than before. The kiss lasts no more than five seconds, but it’s long enough to make you forget the world around you and the embarrassment you feel. It’s only Jaafar and you in the biggest stadium in the world.

When he pulls away, his forehead almost touches yours and the smug smile on his face makes you laugh. You immediately hide your heated cheeks behind your hands, shaking your head at him as the camera moves on to its next victim.

“You know that’s going to be all over tabloids tomorrow, right?”, you say shyly, pinching the bridge of your nose. Jaafar’s smile only grows while Jermajesty and Randy are having the absolute time of their lives, barely containing their laughter. You try to block them out by scooting forward in your seat, turning your back a little more toward them.

“Probably”, Jaafar shrugs, settling back into his seat while draping one arm casually over the backrest behind you. “Next to all the pictures they took of us on the carpet.”

“Great”, you sigh while sinking into your seat, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips either way. “I can’t believe you actually just kissed me in front of the entire world.”

“Technically”, he says, holding up a finger. “I just wanted to make sure that everyone knows who you’re here with.”

Laughter bubbles out of you as he nods toward his brother, who now has the decency to look slightly offended by the entire situation. “I was an innocent bystander”, Jermajesty defends himself.

Jaafar shoots him a mock glare until you all burst out laughing at the same time, drawing puzzled glances from the people around you. Suddenly, your embarrassment vanishes and your heart returns to its normal rhythm.

Throughout the entire second half, Jaafar’s proximity is palpable, his touch never leaving you: his hand over the back of the seat, on your thigh or interlaced with yours.

The game picks right back up where it left off. The USA continues to dominate and despite Jaafar’s warning not to get too confident, your prediction remains safely intact. That is until Paraguay scores and the scoreboard destroys your prediction, showing a 3:1.

“Told you so”, Jaafar teases, dragging out the words in a sing-song voice, pinching your side which makes you squeal. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking defeated, so you lightly push his shoulder. You try to ignore his further teasing close to your ear, but the smile on your face gives you away.

“I’m still in the game!”, Jermajesty proudly announces. The next moment, he clutches his head in frustration as the USA squanders another chance.

Even though you lost your little competition, you can’t tear your eyes away from the game, it’s just too much fun. Then, when the USA scores to make it 4:1 in the final seconds of overtime, you all leap from your seats and cheer. Jermajesty, of course, the loudest of all. Jaafar laughs beside you before wrapping his arms around you and briefly lifting you off your feet in celebration. You barely have time to react before he sets you back down, both of you laughing.

“Oh, he’s never letting this go”, Jaafar says, shaking his head.

“You’re going to be so sick of me!”, Jermajesty cheers loudly.

When the final whistle blows and the USA ultimately wins, the entire stadium erupts once more. Slowly, the stadium begins to empty, but the excitement remains. Since the traffic leaving the stadium is going to be insane, you decide to wait it out in the lounge. Which also happens to give you a temporary escape from Jermajesty’s endless chatter about how he perfectly predicted the game.

Jaafar introduces you to a few guests you recognize and plenty you don’t, but everyone is surprisingly welcoming. Every time Jaafar introduces you, hearing the word girlfriend leave his lips in a public setting makes your heart skip.

What surprises you most is that everyone is so friendly and warm. You had spent the entire day imagining judgment, whispers, people analysing every little thing about you. But instead, they smile at you or compliment your outfit or ask how you enjoyed the game. They make it feel like you belong.

At some point, while you’re talking with a group of guests on your own, you catch Jaafar watching you from across the room, admiring you. When you catch his eyes, he gives you the sweetest smile ever. One that says: ‘See? You’re okay. I’m so proud of you.’ The second he’s at your side again, he leaves a gentle kiss on your temple.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

About an hour after the final whistle, you’re finally sitting inside the car on your way home. The adrenaline is slowly fading, leaving behind a feeling of exhaustion. Your head rests against Jaafar’s shoulder as you watch the city lights pass by outside the window.

Occasionally, one of his brothers talks about the match or laughs about the kiss cam moment that will probably haunt Jermajesty forever, but other than that, there’s a comfortable silence.

Your mind is spinning, thinking back to everything you’ve experienced today, to every moment that scared you so much beforehand, but that you handled so well. Somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling like you were being introduced to the world, but more like you were being welcomed into it.

And Jaafar played the biggest role in making it such a pleasant experience for you.

You think about how your hand barely left Jaafar’s the entire day. Your hand moves without thinking, sliding down his biceps until your fingers find his. You intertwine them together on his lap.

“You okay?”, Jaafar asks quietly. You feel him press a kiss into your hair after taking in the familiar scent of you. The question makes you smile. Because of course he asks, even now.

You’d thought that eventually, the novelty of it all would wear away, that you’d grow used to seeing Jaafar all ready for a red carpet or an interview and you could go back to thinking like a normal human being around him. As of yet, though, that hasn’t happened, and when you see him tonight, your mouth goes dry.

Normally, you accompany Jaafar to these events under mostly professional pretenses. You come along to help with hair and makeup, to support him, to remind him how talented and worthy of praise he is. Tonight, you’re with him just because you can be.

You can’t even hide under the guise of being there to help with makeup, your whole kit is back in L.A. and you have nothing with you besides your small purse that can barely fit your lip products in it. Jaafar had asked if you wanted to come out to New York with him, for the interview and to spend a few days together in the city. 

Of course you’d said yes, grateful for the opportunity to relax together and for the chance to be with him not in any sort of a professional capacity, but in a purely personal one.

Now, though, you wish you had something to distract yourself with.

You’d seen pictures of the suit, had seen it hanging up in the room he’d been assigned when you and Jaafar had shown up. But seeing it on him was another story entirely.

Even while buttoned up to the top, his neck and throat were left exposed by the collar. The suit framed him beautifully, every aspect tailored to perfection. And the deep red of the fabric drew you in, reminding you of wine and ripe cherries and the thumping of your own blood.

“It looks okay?” Jaafar asks when he sees you staring, a flash of worry dancing across his face. You hadn’t realized just how insane you looked, practically boring holes into him with your eyes, your expression a blank mask as you tried not to show just how affected you were by the sight of him.

“Okay?” You respond in disbelief, finally snapping out of the trance he’d put you in. “You look perfect.”

Jaafar chuckles, dips his head away from you. He can handle the screaming of fans, the compliments of friends and the wardrobe team and everyone else he crosses paths with, but it feels different when it comes from you. It’s like it means more, somehow.

“You think so?” He crosses the small space to reach you, extending his arms long for you to get the full picture. You motion with your hands, and Jaafar rolls his eyes, but he spins around slowly for you anyway.

The whole time, he feels your eyes roving up and down his body, taking in the cut of the fabric and the way it clings to his form. When he faces you again, though, you’re already looking right at him, a teasing smile on your face as you debate whether or not it would be fair to him for you to truly speak your mind.

“Baby, I’d jump your bones if you didn’t have to be onstage soon.” You decide on honesty, and based on Jaafar’s reaction, it was exactly the right choice.

His eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head, and he chokes on air, making a startled, sputtering sound as you grin. He can feel the heat rising in his body, mentally feeling flushed as red as his suit.

“You can’t just say things like that,” he complains, even as he steps towards you once again, desperate to feel you close. He settles his hands on your waist, feeling the silky fabric of your dress beneath his warm palms.

“Why not?” You tease, “I’m just being honest.”

You’re practically fluttering your eyelashes at him, preening as you take in the expression on his face. Others might not notice it, but after spending so much time together, after staring at his face for hours a day during filming, you’re able to read him like a book.

And he wants this just as much as you do.

“I gotta get out there,” Jaafar says, as if he needs to remind himself. At the same time, though, he’s dipping his head closer to yours, until there’s only a fraction of an inch between you.

You’re pressed flush together, your hips and ribs pressed against his as you loop your arms around the back of his neck. The weight of them is enough to have Jaafar closing that gap between you, pressing a kiss to your lips.

It starts out entirely sweet, but within seconds, the heat is building like a wildfire. Jaafar could claim that he only intended for it to be a kiss, something quick to settle himself before getting on stage, but you’d both know that was a lie.

Jaafar’s hold on you is insistent, his palms pressing and squeezing against your sides through the fabric of your dress. You nudge your hips forward, and gasp out when you feel him, hard beneath his suit pants. Ever the opportunist, Jaafar uses the opening of your mouth to slide his tongue against yours.

It’s messy, a clash of lips and tongue and saliva. You’re practically devouring each other, acting as if you haven’t seen each other for weeks, as if the first thing you did when you made it to your hotel wasn’t diving beneath the sheets and letting Jaafar press you into the mattress.

The suit just does it for you.

Soon enough, you’re both panting and entirely desperate, your hips jutting against each other because you just can’t help it. You’re already so strung out, needy beyond belief, and you can practically hear the ticking clock counting down to Jaafar’s interview.

You pull back, gossamer threads of saliva still connecting your lips to his, and it’s almost enough to make you dive back in but you know you’re running out of time.

“We gotta be quick, yeah?” You say, slipping your hands down the front of his suit, fumbling for the closure of his pants. Jaafar nods against you, sliding his hands down to the hem of your dress and bunching it above your hips.

He walks you backwards, until you feel the solid surface of the wall at your back. You’re entirely caged in, Jaafar pressed against your front, the feeling of him just as strong and sturdy as the surface behind you.

“And you have to be quiet,” you add, just as Jaafar loops a finger in your panties, pushing them to the side. You manage to work open his clasp, pull down his zipper, and the second he feels your palm wrapping around him, a whine works its way from Jaafar’s throat.

You pause, hand wrapped around his needy, throbbing cock, and settle him with a stare. The expression on his face is almost enough to make you laugh, he looks so utterly wrecked. His lips are spit-slicked and his eyes are wide and needy, and he’s never looked prettier.

“I know,” he whispers, as if trying to prove a point, as if the mere feeling of your hand on his dick wasn’t enough to make him whimper seconds before.

Both of you are aware of the time constraints pressing down on you, so you waste no time. There’s no build up, no sweet exploration, no taking your time. Jaafar hitches a hand underneath your thigh, wraps it around his waist, and sinks into you.

There’s always a stretch, no matter how long he spends opening you up. Sometimes, you think it’s more for him than it is for you, he could spend hours between your thighs with his face buried in your pussy and he’d be perfectly content. 

He loves to watch you come apart, to hear the way you whine and whimper and moan for him, loves watching the way you tense around his fingers, loves feeling the way you squeeze him. Now, though, he needs to squeeze his eyes shut to keep some of his sanity.

His hips drive upward, shunting you up against the wall over and over again. The hand that isn’t supporting your thigh is resting at your hip, keeping the fabric of your dress held out of the way. Your hands, however, grip into the lapels of his suit, trying to keep yourself grounded. You clench the fabric, wishing you were sinking your hands into his skin, his hair, instead.

Between your desperation, the sight of Jaafar in front of you with his eyes pressed shut and his bottom lip tugged beneath his teeth, and the fact that anyone could walk in at any second and tell him it’s time to go is enough to have you hurtling towards your orgasm with miraculous speed.

Jaafar leans himself forward, resting his forehead on the wall beside your head as he continues to press into you so wholly and completely you swear you can feel him in your throat.

“‘M close,” you whisper, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. You feel him nod, urging you on with a squeeze of his hand at your hip and a deep, steady roll of his hips. His pace picks up, driving into over and over and over, until you're pressing a hand to your mouth and arching your back as much as you can with Jaafar pinning you to the wall, your orgasm rushing over you.

Everything goes white at the edges, and all you can hear is static in your ears. Your senses seem to rush back at you, Jaafar’s uneven breathing and cut off whines filling your ears. His thrusts turn sloppy, even needier than before, no rhythm to the drive of his hips now. 

It doesn’t take long for him to follow suit, the feeling of your clamping down on him compounding with everything else until he was overstimulated beyond belief. He gives a few more lazy thrusts with his hips before stilling completely.

You both feel utterly boneless, and the situation suddenly becomes rather humorous. You start to giggle as Jaafar straightens himself up, laughing to yourself as you fix your panties and your dress.

“I really like the suit,” you tell him, as you help him straighten himself out. He just exhales in amusement, rolling his eyes at what feels like the understatement of the century. Reaching up, you gently brush your thumb against the corner of his mouth, wiping away a smudge of your lipstick.

As you do, there’s a knock at the door that sends you both jumping, springing apart like you’d been caught red-handed.

“We’re ready for you,” a voice calls out, and you and Jaafar exchange a look. You give him a nod, trying to fix your own hair as he gives you one last sweet smile, as if he hadn’t just taken you completely apart mere moments before. 

You watch the interview from the audience, utterly amused that no one else can tell why he gets that cute little flush across his face when he makes eye contact with you from your seat.

No one had treated you so sweetly, so kindly, as if you were someone worthy of the purest form of affection. From the moment you met, Jaafar has been a gentleman, through and through. A friend of a friend had invited you to a party, and Jaafar had been taking acting classes with a different friend of the host’s. So your paths crossed, and you were smitten almost immediately.

It would have been harder to resist the near magnetic pull you felt towards him the first second you laid eyes on him, to not spend the whole night staring in his direction. He was almost unfairly attractive, the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen by far. Jaafar caught on quickly, felt your gaze on him from across the room and it made him feel shy in ways he’s never known.

Building up his courage, trying to come up with an opening line that wasn’t cheesy or lame, Jaafar eventually made his way over to where you stood in a corner, talking with some friends away from the rest of the room.

“Want a drink?” He offers, extending his hand out to you. For a split second, you hesitate, bowled over by just how perfect he looked up close. But then you slot your hand into his, and it was like the last two pieces of a puzzle slotting into place.

He pulls you away from the crowds, takes you somewhere quiet. Jaafar can’t remember the last time he’s been to a house party like this, all loud and packed and full of alcohol. He also can’t remember ever feeling the way he feels about you.

After spending the whole night talking, you exchange numbers and make a plan to meet up again, for a real date. You practically squeal when you see his text asking you out, feeling like a kid again with your first crush, almost vibrating with excitement and anticipation. You can’t remember the last time anyone asked you out like this, wanting to take you out for a nice meal instead of bringing you back to a dingy apartment.

But Jaafar makes a reservation at a nice restaurant, requests a table in a quieter section so the two of you can talk. He spends far too long agonizing over his outfit choices, changing his clothes three times before he has to leave. Even just the thought embarrasses him, feeling so overwhelmed at a simple dinner date, but there’s something different about you.

When he tells you he’s on his way, that he’ll meet you at your front door, you bite down hard on your bottom lip to keep from grinning as you stare down at your phone. You don’t think, with the exception of prom while you were in high school, that a date’s ever come to your doorway like this.

You’re grateful for his heads up, scurrying around to make sure everything you can see from the front door looks clean and organized. Your bedroom is another story, looking as if a tornado has ripped through your wardrobe with the amount of clothes thrown around. You feel out of practice, like you’ve never been asked out before, because when you think about it, you really haven’t, at least not at this caliber.

Sure, you’ve gone on dates and had relationships that lasted a few months, but no one’s ever treated you like this. You’re already amazed, and he hasn’t even picked you up yet. The last date you’d gone on, you’d gotten an Uber and your date had shown up ten minutes late looking like he’d rolled out of bed. 

It had almost been enough to make you swear off dating, but then you’d met Jaafar at that party.

Meeting you at the door, flowers in hand, Jaafar’s speechless when he sees you. You look ethereal, and it makes him feel a little better knowing that second guessing his outfit no less than a thousand times paid off. At the end of the day, he just wanted you to feel like you were cared for, that he was doing everything in his power to make sure you know how he feels about you.

Taking the flowers when he offers them to you, you’re grateful for the excuse to look for a vase so you can grin to yourself like a crazy person. Racking your brain, you can’t think of the last time a boy brought you flowers. You set them up in some water and place them on the kitchen table, where they’ll catch the light and you can admire them all day long.

Now, though, there’s something more important for you to admire. You spend almost the entire drive ogling Jaafar, letting your eyes rove across his face as he focuses on the road. He doesn’t say anything about it, but he can feel you staring, and it makes his chest feel all warm, makes his heart thud against his rib cage.

He feels nervous in ways he can’t explain, because all he wants to do is make a good first impression. Really, what he wants is for you to agree to a second date, and then a third, and then forever, but it all starts with the first date.

Deep down, though, he’s not treating you any differently than he’d treat any other date. He’s been raised to open doors and bring flowers and pull out chairs, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. Sure, he’s bringing his absolute a-game because it’s you, but he’s simply treating you like a gentleman because that’s what you deserve.

To him, it feels like the bare minimum, but it’s rocking your entire world.

After he parks, he gets out of the car and makes his way to the passenger side. You open the door before he can get there, though, and you smile self-consciously when he huffs out a laugh.

“I woulda gotten that,” he says it like it’s obvious as you slide out of the car, shutting the door behind you. Because to him, it is obvious, to open your door for you and help you from the car, because that’s what any gentleman would do.

“Oh,” you respond, absolutely shocked at the notion of a date opening the car door for you, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he grins, reaching for your hand, “it just means I have to be quicker next time.”

Just like that, you’re at ease again as you walk the few blocks towards the restaurant. It’s the perfect summer evening, sunny and breezy and warm, and the two of you get so wrapped up in your conversation that you’re a little surprised when you realize you’ve already made it to your destination. Jaafar steps around you and pulls the door open, and the gesture makes your heart flutter.

Jaafar catches the way you smile, and the sight fills him with pride and a little tinge of sadness because it’s obvious that no one’s ever treated you this way and to him, it’s like second nature. Jaafar vows to change that for you, to always make sure you know exactly how much he cares for you, how much he respects you, because it’s the least he can do.

He’d give you the world if he could, but for now he settles for opening doors and pulling out chairs, bringing you flowers and learning your go-to drink orders.

The two of you get shown to your table, and Jaafar makes sure to pull your chair out for you. That same smile blooms on your face, a little shy and self-conscious and so full of affection, he just has to smile back.

It makes him think, as you look over the menu, about how you’ve clearly never been treated right. He knows he’s a few years older than the people you usually date, but it’s not as if he’s recently learned manners, recently figured out how to treat someone when you ask them out. It absolutely baffles him that this is all so new to you, when you should have been treated like this from the very beginning.

As you scan over the prices on the menu, you’re reminded of the times where your date has asked you to split the bill unexpectedly at the end of the date, after being the one to ask you out in the first place. You know that Jaafar would never do that to you. You’re sure that even if this was the worst date of all time, even though it’s already far surpassed any date you’ve ever been on, he’d still pay the bill and drive you home and say you look lovely, because that’s just the kind of person he is.

Over the course of the evening, the two of you relax, finding that steady, comfortable rhythm you’d both noticed when you first met. It seems like suddenly, you’ve known each other for years, and you don’t think you’ve ever had such an instant connection with someone before. He makes you laugh, he truly listens when you talk, and he looks at you like you’re something worthy of being admired. 

Any apprehension that had been pressed into you by memories of the failed dates of your past evaporates, and you end up ordering dessert. Unable to make up your mind, Jaafar orders one of each that you’d been torn between and you split them, and it’s such a sweet, simple gesture it makes you feel a little bit nauseous with affection.

With the plates spread out between you, the two of you start trading your dating horror stories, all of the failures and awkward moments you can never seem to forget. Really, before now, you could never seem to escape from those dates, but you have a feeling you’ll never go through those experiences again.

“It’s happened to me, like four or five times,” you say, using your spoon to scoop up more of the whipped cream on the plate. Across from you, Jaafar chokes on his drink in his shock. He coughs a few times and sets his glass down, looking at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“You’ve split the bill four or five times?” He asks through his coughing, still trying to regain his composure, his sense of equilibrium. The thought of anyone having to split the bill on a date after being the one to get asked out, especially when it’s you, is absolutely unbelievable to him. You could have ordered everything on the menu, and he would have happily paid for it, because that’s the treatment that you deserve.

“Mhm,” you nod, sticking the spoon in your mouth, “and once, I got coffee with this guy and I forgot my wallet.”

Jaafar nods, taking a sip of water. You wait until he’s set the glass back down, certain what you say next would cause another coughing fit.

“He paid, and then sent me a Venmo request for eight dollars.” You were right with your guess, and you can read Jaafar’s shock on his face, plain as day. His mouth dropped open momentarily, before its replaced with a smile at the sound of your laughter, which floats around the two of you like music notes in a cartoon love story.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says adamantly, reaching for your hands across the table. A shiver of delight races down your spine when your fingers touch.

“Wanna hear the worst part?” You ask with a grin, eyes flitting between your interlocked fingers and Jaafar’s face in the warm, low lighting of the restaurant.

“That wasn’t the worst part?”

“My coffee only cost seven-fifty.”

Jaafar squeezes his hand around yours, and another peal of laughter bursts from you. He wants to bottle up that sound, wants to memorize it and play it over and over again. He could never get sick of that noise, could never get sick of you. Even after only a few weeks of knowing each other, even after a single date, he knows it’s the truth.

And sitting across from him, being treated like you’re something precious, someone worth love and attention and respect, you know it too.

this dynamic is so so so fun omgggg thank you for this request i absolutely loved writing it!! feel free to send in more age gap jaafar requests they're my fav right now for sure <3

“What the hell are you talking about?” Megan chimes in, leaning in with her elbows on the table as if to hear you better.

“When Jaafar turned twenty-one, I was twelve.” You tell them slowly, feeling a prickle of insecurity running down your spine from how intently your friends are staring at you. One of them even has her mouth dropped open, as if you’ve shocked her that badly.

“So how old are you saying he is now?” Cassie pipes up again, tilting her head to the side as if she’s trying to do the math in her head and coming up short. Your words just aren’t making sense to them, like you’re purposefully playing a prank on them.

They all knew Jaafar was older than you, but none of them ever thought he could possibly be older than twenty-three, maybe twenty-four, but even that was pushing it. Most of them still refused to believe you, assuming that he could only be a few months older than you. He didn’t look a day over twenty, but with what you’re insinuating, he’s almost a decade over.

“He turns thirty in a few weeks,” you say simply, taking another sip from your drink as the table erupts in shrieks and shouts. Everyone’s voices were overlapping, yelling excitedly that you had to be lying, that there was no way your boyfriend was twenty-nine years old.

You just sat back and let them talk over themselves with a pleased little smile on your face. You remember the first time you found out how old Jaafar was, and how you laughed in his face when he told you. He’d sat you down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees as if he had something extremely difficult to tell you.

At this point, you’d only been on a handful of dates, and while you knew he was older than you, exact ages had never really come up. And, quite frankly, it barely ever crossed your mind. The two of you had such a good time together no matter what you were doing, and all of your thoughts seemed occupied by him even when you were apart.

So when Jaafar sat you down and told you that he was twenty-eight years old, almost twenty-nine and a whole eight years older than you, you laughed at him. His brow furrowed and he straightened his stance, looking at you with disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you squeak out through your laughter, and Jaafar braces himself for the rejection he’s certain is coming, “this has to be a fucking joke.”

“Why would I lie about it?” He asks, and even after only a few weeks of knowing each other, you catch on to the concern lacing his voice. You do your best to calm down, taking big, dramatic breaths to steady your heart rate and get your giggles under control. 

“That’s not what I mean,” you reach for him, grab his hand where it had fallen on the cushion between you and squeeze, “it’s just that there’s no way you’re telling me you’re almost thirty.”

“I’m not almost thirty,” he says defensively, voice creeping up an octave in a way that makes you grin, “I’ve got over a year till I’m thirty.”

“No, I know,” you scooch closer, “but it’d be easier for me to believe that you’re nineteen.”

As if to prove your point, you reach over and settle your palms on either side of his face. You look at him intently, as if you’re searching for something in his features. Jaafar can’t look you in the eye, the experience far too intimate, especially with him already feeling so stressed about this conversation, your reaction.

You just lean forward and plant a kiss on the tip of his nose, smiling when he scrunches up his nose at the contact.

“So you’re not gonna turn and run away because I’m too old?” Jaafar asks, and it makes you scoff that this was even a possibility he was expecting.

“Please, it’ll take a lot more than that to get rid of me,” you tease, leaning forward again, “plus, you’re too cute for me to leave.”

You snap back into reality when you realize your friends have all quieted down, the shock of the moment evaporating the more they sit with it. The rest of the night passes unremarkably, with no more revelations shocking the group. When you return home, kicking off your shoes and locking the door behind you, Jaafar is there to greet you in a matter of seconds.

“You’ll never guess what happened,” you say with a beaming smile before Jaafar’s able to even greet you. He’s grinning at you, at your excitement, looking at you fondly in a way that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

“What happened?” He asks, always game to go along with your antics, even when they’re at his expense. 

“None of them knew how old you are,” you say matter-of-factly, and Jaafar gets a confused look on his face, even though he’s still smiling at you. “They all thought I was lying to them.”

“How did that come up?” Jaafar inquires, watching as you lean yourself back against the counter. After spending the whole night apart, he’s craving your presence, so he crowds you in, pining you back with his hands on either side of your hips on the countertop, looking at you with that confused sort of smile the whole time.

“Dunno,” you shrug, “well, at first they were mad at you for not inviting me to your twenty-first birthday.”

“You were twelve,” he counters with a grin, and you smile back at the fact that the two of you had the same exact thought.

“I know that, but they didn’t,” you tell him, “and then they asked how old you really were, and I said twenty-nine, and then they all yelled at me.”

“They yelled?” His concern comes back, always looking out for you even if it has to be retroactive.

“I guess it was more like yelling near me,” you correct yourself, “they just couldn’t believe it.”

“Well, you couldn’t either,” he teases gently, and you settle your hands against his ribs. In return, he shifts his hold onto your hips with a gentle squeeze that has you beaming up at him.

“I know,” you say sweetly, “you’re just too pretty, it’s unbelievable.”

Your shameless flirting hits him like a train, and he goes all shy in an instant. No matter how long the two of you are together, how often you heap compliments upon him, he can never get used to that raw adoration you have for him. It’s too much to handle in such a large dose, with your attention fully on him, it’s like his brain just shuts down.

Ducking his head, Jaafar thinks back to a few moments before and then straightens up, leveling you with an unimpressed look. 

“Did you say twenty-nine, or almost thirty?” He asks, and you grin because you know he sees right through you.

“Almost thirty,” you say, and Jaafar groans dramatically, slumping forward and resting his head against your shoulder.

“You have to stop saying that,” he grumbles against your skin, “I’m not thirty yet.”

“That’s why I said almost.” Your response is cheeky, and it makes Jaafar squeeze your hips again, an increase in pressure that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s like he doesn’t know the effect he has on you, when he does things like this.

“I’m twenty-nine until the day I turn thirty,” he straightens up, takes in the mischief in your eyes and bites his bottom lip in an attempt to contain his smile, “stop saying almost thirty. It makes me feel old.”

“You are old,” you tease, and Jaafar’s shoulders slump as he sighs dramatically.

“You’re so mean to me, I don’t know what to do with you,” he purses his lips as if he’s thinking, racking his brain for a response even though you both know where this is going.

“I can think of a few things,” you practically purr, and for a few seconds, the two of you lapse into silence, just staring at one another. Jaafar cracks first, his smile taking over his face as he laughs at your ridiculous comment. You follow soon after, amazed that you could hold it together for so long.

The two of you are just a giggling tangle of limbs, pressed against the counter, and you’ve never been happier.

this was such a good request omggggg i hope you enjoy!!! i'm happy to cook up more age gap jaafar if you guys want i lowkey absolutely completely love this whole vibe. like this is so me i can't lie

The ride from the hotel hadn’t been long, but it had been carefully planned down to the minute. You’d stood for most of it inside the Sprinter van so your dress wouldn’t crease. Earlier, at the hotel suite, your stylists had worked quickly but precisely. Touching up your makeup, resetting your hair, before helping you step out of the elaborate Met Gala gown and into something entirely different for the night ahead.

Now, for the afterparty, you’re in a form-fitting black velvet dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline. The deep black fabric shimmers in the glow of the night, while a diamond necklace adorns your throat, catching sparks of light whenever you move. It’s elegant and timeless. With your choice of dress, you and your team tried to ensure a bit more comfort for the long night ahead while staying true to this year’s theme, “Fashion Is Art”.

The photographers are already calling your name again and again and again. Adrenaline surges through your every vein. It almost feels unreal how quickly you become the focus of the entire street, as if they’ve been waiting for this exact moment. Yet, just a few hours ago, they had ample opportunity to snap countless photos of you at the Met Gala already. Since you’ve changed into a different outfit, however, they are eager to capture just as many new shots of you.

You wave a little shyly at no one in particular and make your way across the red carpet. It’s quite short and makes everything feel less formal, but more immediate. Security lines both sides, creating a narrow corridor toward the entrance of the club. Behind you and in front of you, your own team and bodyguards follow close behind to ensure neither fans nor paparazzi swarm you.

Once inside the club, you take a deep breath. You haven’t been in the business very long, so every public appearance brings a mix of nerves and excitement with it. There’s a certain type of awareness that every step, every glace is being watched, captured, and discussed in real time. After all, the Met Gala is one of the biggest nights in the industry, and even here, at one of the many afterparties scattered across New York, it feels like you’re transported to a different world. One of pure glamour and shine.

Since you are still relatively new to the scene, you don’t know many of the other stars yet, and a part of you hopes tonight will change that. After all, that was half the purpose of these parties: socializing, making connections, seeing and being seen, putting down roots in an industry that still feels exciting and intimidating all at once.

Music greets you as you venture further inside, your team now free of their duty after safely escorting you in. The air is noticeably cooler than outside, scented faintly with perfume and champagne. The volume of the music is just right: loud enough to fill the room and give it life, yet not so overpowering that it drowns everything else out. Across the room, a DJ stands behind illuminated desks, and a stage has already been set up for the performances planned later in the evening. There are plenty of artists among the guests tonight, so someone is bound to end up on that stage.

You stand at the top of a short, sweeping staircase, giving you a perfect view of everything below. The afterparty has taken over what looks like the ballroom of some extravagant palace. Gold detailing adorns the cream-colored walls, curling in elaborate patterns around marble columns. Massive crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling high above. Scattered around the dance floor are circular tables draped in white linens and decorated with small arrangements of white roses and candles. Some celebrities lounge in velvet chairs, chatting in small groups, while others move between tables.

Along one side of the room stretches a magnificent marble bar, illuminated from beneath with a soft golden light. The bartenders work in black suits and with effortless precision, pouring champagne and mixing cocktails. Waiters drift gracefully through the crowd carrying silver trays filled with drinks. Voices mingle into a pleasant hum that rises and falls.

You let your gaze drift over the sea of faces as you stand, anxiety tugging at your nerves.

You keep your expression composed, even as your pulse refuses to settle. This is one of the parts you’re still learning: how to walk into a room full of people who all seem to know each other and act like you naturally belong there too.

What if you spend the entire evening awkwardly standing at the bar, unable to strike up a conversation with anyone? What if no one is even interested in talking to you? These thoughts drift through your mind but are suddenly swept away the moment your eyes land on him.

Jaafar is standing and chatting with two men you can’t identify right now because their backs are turned to you. Or rather, he was chatting until he spotted you.

Because the second Jaafar’s eyes land on you, everything else simply disappears. He doesn’t hear another word being said, forgets whatever he has been saying. Forgets where he even is for a second, every coherent thought leaving his mind at once, only being occupied by you.

And you look –

God.

He knew you would change dresses, obviously. You teased him about it earlier, laughing when he tried to convince you to show him pictures or give him some sneak peek.

“No. It’s a surprise”, you’d insisted. “Besides, if you know exactly what I’m wearing, it’ll ruin the reveal.”

And what a reveal it was.

His gaze drifts over your dress longingly. The black velvet hugs your figure beautifully, elegant and timeless without trying too hard. The off-the-shoulder neckline frames your collarbones where he’d left kisses a thousand times before, the diamonds at your throat catching the light every time you move.

All of a sudden, Jaafar feels sixteen again. Not Jaafar Jackson, celebrity guest at one of the most exclusive parties in New York. Not Jaafar Jackson, part of the Jackson family, son to Jermaine Jackson, nephew to Michael Jackson. Just a man hopelessly in love with his girlfriend.

His eyes soften immediately, the corners of his mouth lifting before he can stop them. There is admiration there, but more than that, there is something helplessly affectionate. Because all he can think is: That’s my girl.

You had already looked like the most beautiful woman in the world in your Met Gala gown and he hadn’t thought you could top that. But, of course, you did. Jaafar feels as though he will be unable to think about anything else for a long time, either about you in this dress or about how he’s going to get you out of it. Depending on where his thoughts take him.

You can feel his heated gaze directly on your skin, even where it’s covered by fabric. Your whole body tingles and suddenly you aren’t nervous about the attention anymore, but about him. Deep down, you had secretly hoped for a reaction like this, but seeing it happen in real time stirs something in you, tightening your chest. You try to ignore the warmth rising from your neck to your face.

You have to control yourself. After all, you and Jaafar are in a secret relationship and the way you’re looking at each other right now doesn’t feel very secretive. It makes it way too obvious that there is so much more going on between the two of you.

On the other side, Jaafar is struggling to keep his very distracting thoughts at bay. No matter what he tries, he simply cannot tear his gaze away from you. But above all these thoughts, above everything, he just wants to hold your hand. Tell you how beautiful you are. He wants to kiss your forehead, make you laugh, hear about every nervous thought running through your head.

He wants to stand beside you openly.

The thought suddenly pains him, imagining what it would’ve been like if none of this had to be hidden. If you had walked the red carpet together earlier, stopping to give everyone the chance to snap photos of you. Not as two separate people who happen to be at the same event, but as a unit. He imagines how it would’ve felt like to have his hand resting against the small of your back while reports called both your names. How you would’ve shared stupid little smiles between interviews.

Jaafar wants to show you off to the world so badly. Instead, he had to spend the entire evening pretending not to know the woman he’d fallen asleep next to the night before. Pretending he didn’t sneak out of your hotel room in the early morning hours to get back to his own. Pretending your arrival times at the gala weren’t purposefully set thirty minutes apart to not raise suspicions. Pretending you didn’t put on a perfect charade during the entire event, even though there were glances that lasted half a second too long.

You entered different conversations, sat on different tables, far apart from each other. There was a careful, almost comical little wave you’d exchanged inside the museum, pretending to be nothing more than friendly colleagues.

Somehow, the two of you had pulled it off. No one knew that he’d slipped out of your room before sunrise. No one knew he’d almost broken his promise when he first spotted you on that carpet. No one knew that every time he’d looked across the museum and caught the tiniest glimpse of you, he’d had to physically stop himself from walking over.

Judging by the way you are looking at each other right now, smiling without meaning to, neither of you is doing a particularly good job of hiding how much more there is beneath the surface.

You’re fortunate that the afterparty has a strict no-professional-photography policy. No paparazzi, photographers or television crews are allowed inside for it is an exclusive event, meant only for the stars of the evening. It makes the atmosphere feel noticeably more relaxed. It doesn’t stop every guest from having a phone tucked away somewhere though, eager to capture memories for Instagram posts and stories before the night is over. A single photo in the wrong place at the wrong time could still spark rumours. So while you and Jaafar can afford to be a little less guarded than you were at the Met Gala itself, you still have to be careful. Lingering too close or disappearing together would be enough for someone to start asking questions. At least you’re no longer performing under the relentless glare of hundreds of professional cameras, and that alone makes it a bit easier to breathe, the pressure feeling not quite as intense.

The Met Gala is your first major Hollywood event and Jaafar can only imagine how overwhelming that has to feel. Which makes all of it so much harder because all he wants is to cross the room, take your hand, and ask if you’re doing okay. To introduce you to people as his girlfriend, make sure you aren’t standing alone. Instead of all this, he has to pretend you are just another guest.

At the same time, it was his first Met Gala too. Yes, he is used to public attention, but that doesn’t change the fact that there is so much you want to ask him. You want to spend the whole night talking about how he’s doing, what he’s experienced, and the new people he’s met. Instead of all this, you find yourself doing the exact opposite of what every instinct is telling you. You force yourself not to walk over. Or smile at him. You try your best not to make it obvious that, to you, he is the only person in the room.

“May I help you?” The warm voice beside you abruptly pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to break the invisible thread that stretched between you and Jaafar. You turn. When you realize who the voice belongs to, it takes your breath away, for standing before you, one hand casually extended toward the staircase, is none other than Michael B. Jordan. He smiles with an effortless warmth that immediately makes you feel more at ease.

“Looks like you got stuck at the top of the stairs.”

Your eyes widen ever so slightly, heat rushing to your cheeks. Has it really been that obvious?

“O-Oh”, you let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks. That’s.. really sweet of you.”

You groan internally, mentally slapping yourself for stammering. Fantastic. You’re talking to Michael B. Jordan and you’ve already forgotten how to form a complete sentence, too starstruck. He just chuckles, apparently finding your reaction more endearing than awkward.

“Don’t worry”, he says as you accept his hand. “First big event?”

You nod sheepishly while he guides you down the last few steps. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

You look at him with an embarrassed smile, letting go of his hand when you reach the bottom.

“I’m trying really hard not to look terrified”, you admit, smoothing down your dress in an attempt to calm your nerves.

His grin only grows, easy and reassuring, as he offers you his arm. “Come on. Nobody should spend a party standing by themselves.”

You hesitate for a brief moment before slipping your arm through his. The gesture is purely gentlemanly, a quiet way of making sure you don’t feel stranded in a room full of strangers. He leads you toward a lively group gathered near one of the cocktail tables, introducing you to his own co-star Hailee Steinfeld.

You immediately exchange introductions and compliments. Since Sinners is one of your – and Jaafar’s – absolute favourite movies, you feel starstruck once again. Hailee, on the other hand, admires you too, which feels incredibly surreal. What do you mean the Hailee Steinfeld thinks your acting is great and can’t wait to see you in more films?

There are a lot more people in the group, faces you recognize from posters, award shows or magazine covers. Michael effortlessly introduces you to everyone, making it sound as though you belong there just as much as everyone else and you are extremely grateful for it. He quickly catches a passing waiter and plucks two champagne flutes from the tray, offering one to you.

“For the nerves”, he says when you thank him, taking a sip and letting the drizzling liquid run down your throat. The conversation flows naturally after that. He has a way of asking questions that immediately puts people at ease, introducing you whenever someone new joins the circle, making sure you don’t feel awkward.

Every now and then someone asks about your latest project. Someone else compliments your dress, another person jokes that the real challenge isn’t the carpet but surviving the shoes. You meet so many different celebrities that you lose count: Zendaya, Pedro Pascal, Zayn Malik, Daisy Edgar-Jones, Simone Ashley and so many more. You never even dared dream you’d be in the same room as these people, let alone talk to them about fashion or your travel plans.

After a while, the group dissolves naturally, some of them already a bit tipsy. They disappear into the crowd with cheers and laughter, deciding to hit the dance floor, leaving you and Michael alone at the bar to treat yourselves to another drink. By now, you’ve completely lost track of time and have no idea whether you’ve been at the afterparty for one hour or four. Oddly enough, that feels like a victory. It means you are enjoying yourself, almost forgetting that something is missing.

Still, every so often, almost without realizing it, your eyes wander across the room, keeping an eye out for Jaafar. You saw him talking to Colman a few hours ago, or at least you think it has been hours ago, but since then, he’s vanished. The room has only grown busier as the night went on and finding one person in a room this crowded is nearly impossible. Unfortunately, you can’t go looking for him, nor can you make it too obvious that you’re scanning the room, as someone would surely ask who you’re looking for. Have you seen my secret boyfriend no one knows about? isn’t exactly a good conversation starter.

Because the music is quite loud near the dance floor, everyone instinctively leans closer whenever someone speaks and Michael is no exception. More than once, his voice brushes against your ear, warm enough that you can feel his breath before he straightens again. You find yourself doing the same, leaning toward him because there’s no other way to hear him over the bass. Every time you respond, he shifts in, closing the gap.

Occasionally, his hand brushes lightly against your elbow as he laughs at something you say. When he gestures toward something across the ballroom, his arm briefly crosses behind your back as he points. It’s not an embrace. It’s not even contact. Still, it lingers a second longer than necessary before he lets it fall away again as if proximity is simply the natural setting between you. Other times his hand rests on the bar near yours, not touching, not nothing either. Just a space that keeps shrinking. He makes you laugh easily, sometimes soft, sometimes full-on laughter.

At one point, he looks at you with something unreadable in his expression. It lingers for half a second too long before he smiles again, like it never happened. But surely, he isn’t flirting with you, right? He’s just like this. Charismatic. Attentive. Effortlessly good at making people feel seen. You’re reading far too much into it; that’s just how things work in this industry. You can’t exactly tell him that you’re taken either, so you simply let it be what it appears to be: friendly, comfortable. The effortless charisma he’s known for.

You don’t think anything of it. You don’t treat it like it means anything unusual.

But Jaafar does. Across the room, he notices every single time. He hates that he notices. He’s trying to stay composed, he really is. One of the producers beside him is telling a story that’s apparently hilarious because everyone around him bursts into laughter. Jaafar laughs too, half a second late. His attention keeps slipping, always back to you.

He can’t hear anything from here, but he doesn’t need to because he can see. He sees the way Michael leans in when you speak. The way you tilt your head slightly toward him in response. The way Michael’s focus doesn’t wander when other people join the circle. The way his eyes are practically glued to you when you laugh.

It hits Jaafar harder than he expects. He tells himself it’s nothing. That Michael is just being social. Warm. Charismatic in the way everyone talks about him. That’s all this is.

It’s perfectly innocent. Michael doesn’t know you’re together. Michael doesn’t see the love marks beneath the fabric of your dress. As far as he knows, you’re simply a beautiful actress attending her first major Hollywood event.

Of course he’s being welcoming. Of course he’s making sure you’re comfortable. Jaafar knows that and he should be grateful.

Instead, his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. This is ridiculous he tells himself, exhaling quietly through his nose as he takes a sip of his drink.

He trusts you. None of this is inappropriate.

So why does every instinct in him scream that he should be standing where Michael is? Why does it bother him so much to watch someone else make you laugh?

Not because Michael is doing anything wrong but because Jaafar wishes he could. He wishes he could lean down and ask if you’re enjoying yourself. Or hand you a drink before someone else has the chance. Or rest his hand against the small of your back as he introduces you around the room, telling everyone you’re his girl.

Instead, he has to watch somebody else make you feel welcome and that stings far more than he wants to admit.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t approach you or do anything at all beside watch.

Jaafar loses track of time as he watches Michael touch you, make you laugh, and ensure you’re having a good time. All he knows is that he’s completely tuned out the party and the conversation around him. Inside, he’s waging a battle with himself, fighting hard against that sickening feeling in his chest, something that feels dangerously close to jealousy and is spreading through his body like poison.

Eventually, he has enough when he sees Michael briefly touch your face. His fingers hover near your cheek for a second longer than necessary as he finishes. Apparently, he’s fixing something, maybe your lipstick. Whatever it is, it pushes Jaafar over the edge. Not the touch itself, but the comfort behind it. He sets his glass down on a table with a bit too much force, excuses himself from the conversation, and walks purposefully toward the two of you at the bar.

Jaafar isn’t the jealous type. That is the problem. He doesn’t know what to do with it when it comes. Doesn’t like it one bit and doesn’t trust it either. And worst of all, he doesn’t think he has the right to even feel it when you are standing there with your life still fully your own.

It doesn’t stop it from happening anyway.

“Hey, hope I’m not interrupting”, Jaafar says, stepping into your conversation. His hand moves toward your lower back almost instinctively, though he manages to control the impulse at the last moment. “I haven’t really seen you properly all evening”, he greets you, a blatant lie, though the alcohol in his system has made him a bit bolder; on any other day, he would have blushed in embarrassment. There’s a slight edge of heat behind his words that he doesn’t quite manage to bury.

You, on the other hand, hadn’t expected Jaafar to approach you so openly at all, but your heart is clearly delighted, practically leaping out of your chest. You can finally study him up close – his beautiful eyes, his skin glowing in the warm light of the chandeliers, his cheeks slightly flushed, likely from the heat and the drinks. His suit fits perfectly, accentuating his torso in all the right places, so much so that you have to fight the urge to tear it right off him and show everyone who he belongs to.

You and Jaafar exchange exactly the kind of greeting two co-stars might. A warm smile. A brief hug. Nothing unusual though both of you are holding back hard.

Michael doesn’t react like he’s been displaced. If anything, he adjusts seamlessly, turning toward Jaafar with the same ease he’s shown everyone all night. “Hey, man”, he says, already smiling. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” Their handshake turns into easy conversation almost immediately. Jaafar positions himself just slightly closer to you than necessary, not blocking or touching but it changes the space immediately. Like a line has been drawn, a wall that cannot be crossed.

“You look incredible”, Jaafar suddenly tells you all politely. You almost choke on your drink.

“So do you.”

“Thank you.” That’s it. Very professional, friendly, not too over the top. No one would ever guess that sixteen hours earlier he’d been kissing you goodbye in a hotel room.

Standing beside each other after being apart all day and evening is torture in the best and worst way. You can smell his cologne again. Feel the warmth radiating from his body. But you’re not allowed to touch him or do anything about the burning feeling in your lower stomach.

Michael continues talking beside you both, smoothly adding Jaafar into the conversation like nothing has changed at all. In fact, he keeps getting extremely close to you, completely ignoring the boundary Jaafar is trying to draw, acting as if it isn’t even there. It’s really starting to get under Jaafar’s skin now, the way Michael’s attention keeps returning to you, the way you don’t seem to notice, or maybe you do and simply don’t read it the way he does.

But how can Michael be so oblivious? Doesn’t he notice the daggers Jaafar is shooting at him? It doesn’t help that you barely interact with Jaafar. Not coldly or anything, just not at all. He isn’t even sure anymore whether you’re ignoring him on purpose because of his behaviour or just putting on an act to keep up the façade that Jaafar almost broke down with his rash act. Jaafar’s jaw clenches; he feels like he’s about to explode if he doesn't remove himself from the conversation.

He doesn’t like how all of this makes him feel.

That’s why he excuses himself from the conversation and slips away, leaving you speechless. Just a casual exit for everyone else, delivered with the kind of calm that makes it unquestionable, nothing wrong with it, just a celebrity moving on to other conversations. But you know him and you realize right away that something is wrong. Your heart, which was already racing because he’d been so close to you, finally, is beating even faster now.

Jaafar is halfway through the crowd, weaving past people without stopping. His shoulders are tense in a way you recognize too well now that you’re looking for it. Something in your chest tightens.

“I’ll be right back”, you say quickly, even though no one is really asking you anything.

Michael glances at you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah”, you lie automatically, already stepping away from the bar. “Just.. need to freshen up. Sorry.”

You’re already moving and don’t care to finish your sentence, your only goal being to find Jaafar. You weave through the crowd, keeping an eye out for him. Finally, you see him walking up the stairs that lead to the exit and the restrooms. You move quickly, careful not to draw too much attention to yourself. In all honesty, no one cares about you. Everyone is preoccupied with their own problems.

You walk past familiar and unfamiliar faces, and, more or less unsurprisingly, no one stops you. You follow Jaafar up the stairs and watch as he moves away from the main floor, toward the quieter edges of the venue where the noise dulls.

You follow at a distance, stopping when you spot him standing along the side balcony that overlooks the ballroom below, half hidden behind marble columns and heavy velvet curtains. His hands rest across the railing, head slightly bowed as he looks down at the party beneath him. If you didn’t know better, you’d imagine he was talking to himself. The tension in his shoulders gives him away.

You glance around quickly to ensure no one has followed you up here and you are alone before approaching him. His head snaps up immediately once he hears your heels softly click against the marble. For a split second, relief washes over his face, but it is quickly overshadowed by something sharper.

“Why did you follow me?”, he says quickly, voice low but firm. “Someone could see us.”

You both know that that isn’t really the problem right now. Besides, no one can see you up here anyway. The balcony is quiet except for the music bleeding up from the ballroom below. Tall columns and heavy curtains wrap the space in shadow, hiding anyone standing near the railing.

You stop a few steps away from him, heart still racing.

“You left”, you say simply.

A beat. Several more until you realize he won’t answer.

“Jaafar.”

“What?”, he snaps, straightening his posture to retreat even more into the shadows. He apparently did not expect how harsh the words would sound coming from him, which is why he immediately breaks eye contact.

At first, you don’t even know what to say. The alcohol in your system doesn’t make thinking any easier, even though you haven’t had that much and are just slightly tipsy. You hate that you don’t dare step any closer to him, for fear that someone might see you. Right now, it could still be dismissed as a purely private conversation between co-stars. But that could change in the split of a second. You absolutely loathe everything about it.

“Did I do something wrong?”, you ask quietly, unsure. His eyes immediately find yours again, staying on you this time.

“No”, he says way too quickly, too harshly. Then quieter, almost frustrated with himself more than anything else: “No. You didn’t.”

Jaafar hates himself so much for this right now. How did he manage to make you think it’s your fault, when it’s crystal clear that the problem lies with him and his stupid ego, which apparently can’t stand it when another man talks to you?

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

His voice drops even lower. “Like what?”

“Like you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you”, he states, but it doesn’t sound very convincing. You finally bring up the courage to step closer to him, closing the gap between your two bodies that was too much to bear for this long. You can’t stand it when something is obviously wrong and you don’t know what it is.

“Then what are you?”, you inquire and your question makes him look away immediately, down to where the party is still in full power. It’s a question he can’t answer cleanly because the truth is simple and infuriating: He is jealous. And he hates that he is.

Jaafar exhales slowly through his nose as if that would help him reset. “I trust you”, he then starts quietly, like it costs him something to say it out loud. It’s obvious that he would love nothing more than to vanish right now. He feels incredibly uncomfortable with the situation and, above all, with his own feelings. He knows he has no right to these feelings. His gaze lingers somewhere over your shoulder, not being able to meet your eyes. The confidence he’d worn so effortlessly downstairs is gone now, stripped away until only the vulnerable man beneath it remains.

You can practically see the battle he’s fighting with himself. He’s embarrassed. By none other than himself.

Jealousy is foreign to him, an emotion that feels ugly and disgusting the moment he recognized it. For a few fleeting seconds downstairs, it had felt justified. Now, standing here in front of you, all he wants is for it to disappear. He hates that he’d let it get this far. Hates even more that he’d walked away instead of simply trusting what he already knew.

You watch him in silence, trying to understand where he’s going with this.

“But I don’t trust..” He stops, jaw flexing once. “Others.”

His words hang between you for a second. You’re taken back a bit at first until the realization hits you, every piece clicking into its rightful place. Your expression visibly softens. You lower your head for a moment, biting your lower lip in a hopeless attempt to hide the smile threatening to spread across your face. So you weren’t imagining it after all.

You glance back up at him, amusement behind your eyes.

“Are you..”, you ask slowly, drawing the word out just enough to make him squirm, “.. jealous?”

Once the word leaves your mouth, he visibly tenses in front of you, his eyes squeezing shut for a second. His only answer is a defeated groan. A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

“Oh my god. You’re actually jealous”, you chuckle, looking at him as though you’ve just uncovered the sweetest secret imaginable. Jaafar, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather the marble floor swallow him whole.

“I don’t like this feeling”, he finally admits, nervously playing with a ring on his finger. It gives him something to focus on besides the embarrassment creeping across his face. He almost looks like a little boy all of a sudden. A little boy who’s been caught doing something he isn’t proud of, already bracing himself for impact even though you haven’t even said anything yet.

His shoulders lift slightly with a controlled inhale. With his voice even heavier, he then says: “I can’t do it though.”

You blink. “Can’t do what?”

“This”, he replies, gesturing vaguely back toward the room below. “Standing there pretending it doesn’t bother me. Because it does. It really really does.”

He’s met with silence from your side.

“What exactly is bothering you?”, you ask gently. You already know the answer, or part of it, but you want to hear him say it. Want to understand what has him looking so unlike himself. And you would be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel a little good about yourself.

“It’s not about him”, he says immediately, though the words come out faster than intended. He runs a hand through his hair, looking away for a second again. Then back to you.

“It’s just..”, he starts not knowing how to form the sentence to convey what he feels. “I don’t like watching you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not the person you’re with. Like you’re not my girl”, he states matter-of-factly. You’re actually stunned by this, his words leaving you speechless. A dull ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs. Because that’s never what you wanted him to feel. That he thought he isn’t the only man you care about. That he isn’t the man you desperately want to be with, day and night. Not then, not now, not ever.

Jaafar lets out a small, humourless breath.

“I know it’s stupid”, he adds quickly. “I know. I just- I can’t handle it.”

He stops himself then, shaking his head like he’s so disappointed in himself. The noise of the party feels very far away now. You take a small step closer without thinking.

“It’s not stupid”, you insist, lifting your hand to cup his cheek. Your thumb brushes gently across his skin.

“It is”, he counters immediately, averting his gaze which turns out to be much more difficult now that you are so much closer to him. “I trust you. I know you didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t either.”

You tip his chin lightly, wanting him to look at you and he obeys.

“Watching someone else make you laugh.. Watching someone else get to stand next to you..”, he closes his eyes before forcing himself to continue. “I hated it. I hate that I’ve spent six hours trying not to stare at my own girlfriend. I hated that I wanted to be in his place.”

Your heart aches, not because he’s jealous but because he genuinely believes he’s wrong for feeling it when you clearly felt like Michael B. Jordan was, in fact, flirting with you.

“But it is your place”, you finally encourage him with a gentle smile. “Right here, with me. You know that, don’t you?”

Your other hand comes to rest lightly against his chest, directly over his heart. You glance toward the ballroom below, where music and laughter continue as though your world hasn’t temporarily stopped.

As his only answer, Jaafar gives a small shrug before reaching for your hand resting against his chest, threading his fingers through yours. “I was being pretty ridiculous”, he admits.

“You really weren’t. If anything..”, you say with a teasing grin spreading across your face. “I found it incredibly cute.”

His brows knit together in confusion immediately as if he’s personally offended by the word. He genuinely doesn’t understand it. To him, jealousy feels ugly and irrational. Something he should’ve had better control over. If he could’ve reached inside his chest and ripped the disgusting feeling out altogether, he would’ve done it without hesitation.

“I wish they all knew”, you sigh then, your expression softening as your eyes drift back toward the ballroom below. “If they did, I would’ve stood next to you on the carpet. I would’ve introduced you as my man every chance I got. I met so many amazing people today, but do you know whose face I kept looking for?”

You don’t wait for him to answer because the answer is, in fact, pretty obvious.

“Yours, Jaafar. Only yours”, you say with full certainty in your voice, smiling to yourself. “You’re the man I wake up thinking about and the one I spend an entire evening searching for in a room full of the most famous people in the world.”

From the way he looks at you, eyes only flickering across your face, you can tell that there’s still that tiny flicker of doubt lingering beneath. So you decide to use your last resource, your strongest weapon.

“What are you doing?”, he asks, the words dissolving into a laugh as you pepper his face in featherlight kisses, the sound like music to your ears. You honestly don’t even care anymore if someone sees you right now. Let them see. Let them see how much you love this man.

“Showing you how much I love you”, you giggle, continuing as every kiss gets him smiling so widely he can’t hide it anymore. “And making up for all the kisses I couldn’t give you downstairs.” You place a kiss on his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, his forehead, everywhere you can reach.

His smile is small and shy, but relieved. His cheeks are flushed pink. “You’re making this so difficult”, he murmurs when you finally stop, but you are still standing incredibly close, pushing him further into the shadows with your hands on his suit jacket, smoothing the lapels.

Innocently, you tilt your head. “Making what difficult?”

He studies you for a long moment, completely deadpan. “Not kissing you.”

A grin spreads across your face. “I’ve been kissing you this whole time, so what’s stopping you?”

Before you can tease him any further, he gently hooks a finger beneath your chin and closes the remaining distance. The kiss is slow at first, almost hesitant, as though he’s making up for every time he’d wanted to reach for you that evening but couldn’t. Instantly, you melt into him. What started innocently quickly turns into something more intense. His hand grips your waist firmly, allowing him to pull you even closer until you are pressed flush against his chest.

“You’re my girl”, he breathes against your lips in between kisses, making it sound like a prayer.

“I’m your girl”, you reply breathlessly, a soft giggle escaping you when Jaafar slides both hands around your waist. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, placing gentle kisses there while breathing in your scent, your expensive perfume mingling with the fragrance that’s unmistakably yours.

You arch your back instinctively, a quiet laugh leaving your lips as the sensation tickles. Between the champagne still lingering in your system and the overwhelming relief of finally having him this close again, your head feels wonderfully light.

You’d love nothing more than to stay like this, kissing him until the break of dawn, – or until someone finally catches you in this scandalous position and tells the whole world about it – but reality catches up with you all too quickly. Reluctantly, you place both hands against Jaafar’s chest and gently ease him back, only far enough for his forehead to rest against yours.

“How about you meet your girl in her hotel room in an hour?”, you suggest with a reluctant smile and the tips of his ears immediately turn pink as he nods a little too eagerly. He looks utterly lovestruck right now: His tie sits slightly crooked around his neck, the collar of his shirt is crumpled from your wandering hands, his lips are plush and tinged pink from your kisses, and one stubborn curl has fallen across his forehead.

“Can’t wait”, he says, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache. Leaving him here is far more difficult than you’d expected. Still, the promise of spending the rest of the night and the early hours of the morning with him makes it somewhat bearable.

When you were hired to be starring alongside Jaafar Jackson in the movie, Michael, you would’ve never thought your relationship would end up being more than co-stars.

More than co-stars meaning you would’ve never thought you’d end up in his trailer between every break you had or after rehearsals with him standing between your legs as you sit on the vanity, him pressing soft kisses against your neck as your fingers tangled in his long curls.

You knew Jaafar had a girlfriend at home. He knew he had a girlfriend at home, but that never stopped the two of you, did it? You couldn’t stay away from him and he surely couldn’t stay away from you. You both knew it was wrong, but whenever he got his hands on you again, you both would forget the consequences.

None of those mattered as long as you got to have Jaafar alone, in that trailer, his mouth against yours as you both tried to keep quiet to prevent anyone from hearing the terrible things you were doing.

The first time this happened, a manager had asked you to bring some coffee to Jaafar, per his request. Being the good co-star you are, you accepted, nothing harmless in bringing your co-worker coffee, right? wrong.

Arriving to Jaafar’s trailer, you stepped up to the door, preparing to knock but once you got close enough you could hear some muffled sounds. They sounded like he was…yelling? You couldn’t clearly understand what he was saying or who he was talking to but it sounded bad. This went on for a few minutes, the coffee in your hand going from steaming to lukewarm.

You finally knocked when you heard the yelling stop, assuming it was over. The door swung open with a clear anger, a scowl across Jaafar’s face that softened once he made eye contact with you.

“Hey! I have your coffee you wanted..”

Jaafar looked over at the coffee then back towards you, wondering how long you’ve been out here. How much did you hear between him and girlfriend? He took the coffee out your hand, mumbling a soft thanks.

“Come in.”

You watched Jaafar step aside, letting you walk into his trailer. You sat on the couch in the corner, you hadn’t been in his trailer before, you had no reason to be.

You watched Jaafar take a sip of the coffee, hoping he couldn’t tell it went warm ages ago, indicating you’d been out there for a while.

“How much did you hear?”

shit.

“W-what are you talking about?” You asked, trying to fake being clueless.

“The coffee? It’s warm. I know you’ve been out there for awhile.”

You stayed silent, trying to think of an excuse.

You got distracted? No.

It was already warm? No.

“I promise I didn’t mean to snoop,” you say after a few minutes of silence, deciding to go with the truth. “I just didn’t want to intrude. You were yelling and it sounded serious, If I knocked in the middle of it, it would’ve been weird..”

Jaafar didn’t say anything, just placed the coffee on a nearby table before walking over and taking a seat next to you. You could feel his thing against yours once he sat, personal space not existing between you. You don’t move away, in all honesty you’ve dreamed of being this close to him before, but he didn’t need to know that.

You looked up to his face and could tell he was exhausted. You wanted to ask what happened, why he was yelling and if everything was okay, but it truly wasn’t any of your business. Your eyes trailed down his body, he was still in the practicing outfit for the Bad rehearsal. He looked incredible, the pants being a little too tight on him, his thighs straining against the fabric.

“It was my girlfriend.”

Oh.

“Pardon?” You looked back up to his face and he was already staring at you.

“The yelling. I was on the phone with my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend? You couldn’t help to feel a little sting in your chest, you knew your chances with him were limited, but now you were sure they were at zero.

“Jaafar, you don’t have to tell me this..I don’t want to intrude on your guy’s relationship.”

As soon as you said that, you could feel his hand rest on your thigh. You tried to ignore it, but then he started to move it, caressing you as he continued to talk about his girlfriend..maddie, was it? You could barely focus with what he was doing to you right now.

One thing then lead to another and somehow his lips were on yours and he was immediately shifting you into his lap, causing you to make small noises into the kiss. Your brain was telling you to get off him, stop kissing him, but you couldn’t. His hands felt too good on you.

This little incident would then continue for months. You going to his trailer, convincing your co-workers you were bring him a snack or some coffee, or just needed to talk to him.

These moments would only happen in his trailer. As soon as you both had to go back on set, Jaafar treated you like a respected co-star again. You understood why, I mean how would people react to Jaafar Jackson cheating on his girlfriend? That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. You knew everyday after rehearsal, after you guys would have a little quick makeout, he would go home and do everything he did with you to Maddie.

You hated it.

You wanted to be his girlfriend, to take Maddie’s place. But instead, you were just a girl he would have moments with in his trailer, moments that he would also share with his girlfriend—who he claimed he loved.

You wanted him to break up with her. You wanted him to start dating you instead. So, one afternoon, in his trailer, you decided to ask him.

He had you on top the vanity desk, his mouth moving against yours as he whispers sweet nothings against your lips.

You’re nothing like her.

You’re so much better.

She could never take care of me the way you do.

Everything he was saying was making your brain go fuzzy, forgetting why you came to his trailer in the first place.

“J…wait,” You tried to pull away from the kiss, but he wouldn’t let up. “Hm?” He moved from your lips to towards your neck, going to that sweet spot that made you lose it every time. “What’s wrong, pretty?”

“When—mm..when are you going to leave her?”

You could feel Jaafar freeze, the kisses to your neck stopping abruptly. He removed his face from your neck to look you directly in the eyes, his hands still gripping your waist with your arms still wrapped around his neck.

“J..?”

He stayed quiet. The truth is, he hadn’t even thought about leaving Maddie, but he couldn’t tell you that. He knew you were waiting for him to breakup with her, but he still needs time to calculate how he was going to do it. Maddie had been his girlfriend for 4 years, he couldn’t just randomly break up with her, not yet at least.

“I’ll..I’ll break up with her today, baby.”

Why did he say that?

“you f’real J?”

“mhm. promise.”

You smiled, pulling him back into a kiss that he deepened quickly, you would finally have Jaafar all to yourself.

Ი︵𐑼

You walked into work the next day smiling from ear to ear, Jaafar was finally single, or he should be. He promised you. You knew he would never lie to you. Everyone you passed by asked why you were so smiley that day, you just gave them a shrug and said, “just happy!”

Truthfully, you couldn’t wait for the first break to be called.

After about 2 hours of straight rehearsal, you waited a few minutes before making your way over to Jaafar’s trailer. You stepped up to the door, happy as ever, knocking with a certain impatience to you.

The door opened, revealing Jaafar, and you swore you could see the color run from his face when he saw you, but you ignored it. You quickly stepped in and wasted no time pushing him back onto the couch, climbing on top of him.

“B-baby..wait,” You ignored Jaafar’s words, pressing your lips against his desperately, he was finally yours, even if he hadn’t officially asked you yet.

Your hips started moving, wanting to feel more of him. He threw his head back against the couch with a low groan and you took that opportunity to start attacking his neck, kissing and sucking, causing dark purple spots to appear on his brown skin.

You and Jaafar were both lost in your own world, you didn’t even hear the handle of his trailer starting to rattle, and the door swinging open.

“Honey—what the fuck!!?”

You and Jaafar both jumped, turning your heads to look at who just walked in.

“Maddie!”

Jaafar quickly shoved you off his lap and tried to wipe away any of your gloss that was around his lips, getting up and walking over to Maddie.

You were overly confused.

What was Maddie doing here? Didn’t Jaafar break up with her?

“Jaafar, what the fuck! Why are you in here letting some girl grind and kiss up against you! Are you fucking cheating on me!?”

But they broke up..right?

“No, Maddie I promise it’s nothing like that!”

Nothing like that?

“J? I thought you broke up with her?”

Maddie’s head quickly turned to you, anger written all over her face. “Broke up? Jaafar, what the hell is she talking about?”

Jaafar didn’t know what the fuck to do. His girlfriend of 4 years had just caught him cheating, the hickeys on his neck being clear as day.

“I..um..fuck, I’m so sorry Maddie. It never meant to get this far and (name) I’m so sorry I lied to you, I just..I couldn’t break up with her..”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing right now. Jaafar had lied to you? He had let you believe that he was going to break up with her and be with you. And now, you’re hearing that they’re still together? You could feel your eyes stinging, tears threatening to spill.

“Jaafar I can’t believe this. If this is what you want then go ahead, throw 4 years away for what, a few months?”

Now Jaafar being forced to make a choice? He was fucked. He loved Maddie, she was his childhood friend turned girlfriend. But, he..loved you as well? You gave him the release he was craving, but that isn’t love.

It’s lust.

Was Jaafar going to choose you? The girl he met on set who was there for him when he and girlfriend argued and you helped him release his anger?

Or was he going to choose Maddie? His loving girlfriend, who’s been there for him through thick and thin, never leaving his side even when times got rough between them.

“No, Maddie..I want you. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen..”

The tears were threatening to spill earlier were definitely coming down now. You should’ve known he would’ve never gave up his long-term relationship for something that was solely sexual release. You knew this, whatever you had, wasn’t going to go anywhere. You sat there, watching Maddie hug Jaafar, forgiving him.

You knew it was never going to be you, you don’t know why you even bothered.

a/n: ouuu shittt