big-ooof

[big-ooof]

Jake x f!reader; established relationship, journey to parenthood

note: sexual content 18+ more fluff and slice-of-life though.

It’s the kind of morning that feels like a soft exhale. The air is warm but not hot, the sun filtering gently through the canopy of trees that line the path of the farmers market. Canvas tents flap lightly with the breeze, and the scent of ripe fruit, fresh bread, and roasted coffee blends into something familiar and comforting. A golden retriever trots past, tongue lolling, and a busker nearby plays a mellow acoustic tune that hums beneath the buzz of cheerful conversation.

Jake walks between the stalls at an easy pace, a woven tote bag slung over his shoulder. It swings lightly with each step, already half-full with fresh herbs, a jar of local honey, and a bunch of sunflowers you’d tucked under his arm earlier “for the kitchen counter.”

You’re only a few stalls down, negotiating the price of a carton of white peaches with an old man who, frankly, looks seconds away from giving them to you just for the smile you gave him.

Jake grins, eyes fond, then turns to the next stall in the row—a familiar one. A small handwritten sign still hangs over the awning: “Marta’s Morning Bakes”. The table is lined with flaky galettes, cinnamon buns spiraled with sugar, and your shared favorite—plum and vanilla scones. The ones you always split in the car, crumbs gathering in the folds of the seat, the taste forever tangled with road trips and quiet Sunday mornings in bed.

“Jake!” Marta beams, her white apron streaked with flour, her round face glowing with delight as he approaches. She’s probably in her late sixties, though the twinkle in her eyes makes her feel more like someone who exists slightly outside of time. “You’re back. I saved you two a few of the scones, just in case.”

Jake’s smile spreads like butter on toast. “You’re the best, Marta. I was hoping you had some left.”

“Of course I do. You and your girl are predictable,” she teases, placing two wrapped scones in a small brown bag with practiced care. “And I say that with love.”

Jake chuckles, pulling out his wallet. “It’s a fair accusation.”

Marta leans on the counter a bit, eyes narrowing in that way older women do when they’re about to get nosy with no shame at all. “How long have you two been together now?”

He thinks for a moment. “Coming up on three years, I think.”

She clicks her tongue, the sound somehow both amused and exasperated. “Three years? Goodness. You’d think with the way you look at her, it would’ve happened already.”

Jake blinks, halfway through handing her a few crumpled bills. “Happened?”

She waves a flour-dusted hand meaningfully. “You know… it. The down on one knee business.”

Jake flushes. “Oh. Well, we’re not really in a rush.”

“No one ever is until it’s too late,” she says, but her tone is gentle, the words wrapped in warmth rather than pressure. “But love like that doesn’t always come around twice. She’s a good one. You’re a good one too, of course, but I like her more.”

Jake laughs, shoulders relaxing as he takes the bag of scones and the teasing in stride. “That makes two of us.”

Marta winks. “Better scoop her up before someone else with a fruit stall and good hair makes their move.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, gaze already drifting back in your direction.

You’re just finishing up with the peaches, cradling them in your hands like little golden orbs of summer. The sun catches the strands of your hair as you thank the vendor, tucking a bill into the jar before turning around. Your eyes find Jake’s immediately, and his expression softens in that way it always does when he looks at you—like the world just got a little quieter, a little kinder.

You smile as you walk toward him, balancing the carton carefully. “They’re ripe. The kind that drip down your chin.”

He raises the bag in his hand. “Marta gave us our usual and scolded me for not proposing.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Did she now?”

He shrugs with a helpless smile. “Said you’re out of my league.”

“True.”

You both laugh, and Jake gently shifts the tote bag so he can take the peaches from your hands. The scone bag crinkles between your fingers as you link arms again, walking slowly, as if the world outside this lazy little market doesn’t quite exist yet.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re not actually going to let a pastry lady dictate your timeline, are you?”

Jake leans down and kisses your temple, his voice low and amused. “Nah. But… she’s not wrong either.”

You glance up at him, something warm fluttering in your chest. He’s not proposing—not today—but in that moment, with the scent of peaches between you and scone crumbs waiting in the car, it’s enough. Being with him has always made sense. Like waking up in a house where everything smells like home.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud when you arrive home, and the weight of the morning settles around the two of you like a familiar blanket. Jake sets the bags down on the kitchen counter, the scent of the farmers market—sun-warmed fruit, fresh bread, and the lingering cinnamon sugar of Marta’s scones—trailing in behind him.

“Do you want coffee or tea?” he asks, already moving toward the cupboard. His voice is easy, light. The domesticity of the moment is so second-nature it barely needs words.

“Oo tea,” you reply, leaning your hip against the counter. “But iced.”

He grins. “Going fancy on me today.”

“I’m hot.”

“You are,” he says, turning to flash you that playful, boyish smile. “Temperature-wise too, I guess.”

You laugh and swat his arm, then start unpacking the rest of the produce, setting the peaches out on a clean kitchen towel. They’re warm from the sun and so fragrant it’s almost dizzying.

Jake fills the kettle, sets it on to boil, and then steps behind you. His arms wrap around your waist easily, chin dropping to your shoulder.

“Marta’s definitely planning our wedding in her head now.”

You hum. “Do we get free pastries if she officiates?”

“Honestly, probably.”

You both laugh again, but there's a stillness in the beat that follows—a soft exhale, like the conversation has momentarily caught its breath.

Jake’s voice lowers a little. “She was right about one thing.”

You tilt your head back slightly to glance up at him. “Which part?”

“That being with you just… makes sense.”

There’s no performance in his voice. No grand gesture, no orchestral swells—just quiet sincerity, like the way warm light spills through windows in the morning. Familiar. Certain. You turn in his arms until you’re facing him, and his hands rest against your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles against your hips.

“Yeah,” you say. “It always has.”

Jake looks at you for a long second—eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing something he already knows by heart. Then, without a word, he leans forward and kisses you. It’s not rushed. Not heavy. Just soft and grounding, the kind of kiss that says: we’re home. When he pulls back, you’re smiling.

“You’re not proposing, are you?” you tease, voice light.

He laughs under his breath, resting his forehead against yours. “No. Not yet.”

“Yet?”

He gives you a look that’s half fondness, half certainty. “You're it for me, I’m not letting anyone else with a fruit stall and good hair steal you.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart tugs in your chest in that sweet, aching way that love often does. “Better start saving for a ring then, Sim.”

He grins and kisses you again—quick, this time, a punctuation mark at the end of a moment.

The kettle hisses and he steps away to finish making the tea. You plate the scones while humming something under your breath. You sit together on the balcony with your mugs sweating in the heat, feet brushing under the table, the rest of the day lazily stretching ahead of you.

And even though there’s no ring yet, no speech or spotlight or flowers—you can feel it anyway. In the way he looks at you across a table. Like it’s always been meant to be.

It’s raining the soft kind of way that makes the world feel smaller, cozier. Inside, the apartment glows with warm light and the faint scent of roasted garlic and basil from dinner still lingers in the kitchen. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, legs tangled with Jake’s, a shared bowl of ice cream melting on the coffee table between you. The TV plays quietly in the background, some low-stakes baking competition neither of you are really watching.

Jake has that look on his face—the one where you know he’s been turning something over in his head all evening. He does this thing with his thumb when he’s preoccupied, absently rubbing it against the seam of the couch cushion, and he hasn’t spoken in a few minutes.

You glance at him. “Okay, spill it.”

He blinks. “Spill what?”

“That thing you’ve been mentally monologuing for the last twenty minutes.”

He exhales a laugh and leans his head back against the couch cushion, eyes closing for a beat. “Is it that obvious?”

“Like, cartoon thought bubble obvious.”

Jake bites the inside of his cheek and shifts slightly so he’s facing you more. He brushes his fingers against your knee, gentle and grounding. “I’ve been thinking about… the living situation.”

You tilt your head, not sure what he means.

“I mean, you’ve been here for almost a year now. Since your lease ended. And it’s been—like, actually amazing. Better than I expected, honestly.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You expected it to go badly?”

“No! I mean—no. But it was technically temporary. At first. And I think I kind of just… ignored that part.”

You study him, curious now. “Where are you going with this?”

He looks nervous in a way he didn’t look when Marta suggested a ring. This is different—less about romance and more about logistics, adulthood, permanence. The real, quietly scary kind of stuff.

“I think we should move,” he says finally, his voice quiet but steady. “Together. Like—not just you living in my apartment. Not you squeezing your clothes into the guest closet or your books into my already-too-small shelves. I mean us finding a place that’s ours. From scratch.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the weight of it.

“Not that I don’t love having you here,” he rushes to add, eyes wide. “I do. God, I do. I just—this place was never meant for two people. I’ve had the same couch since college. The water pressure sucks. The neighbors upstairs practice amateur tap dancing at midnight. It’s not where I want us to… keep building.”

You’re quiet for a moment, not because you’re unsure, but because it’s hitting you all at once—how significant it is. This isn’t about space. Not really. It’s about intent. About the kind of partnership that means choosing your shared life, not just falling into it.

Jake watches you nervously. “Too much?”

You shake your head, voice soft. “No. It’s just… weirdly more emotional than a proposal.”

He laughs, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. “Right? That’s what I thought. People make jokes about marriage being a big deal, but honestly, shopping for a rental together is so much scarier. Like, how do we both agree on natural light, kitchen storage, and commute times?”

“Don’t forget pet policy. I know you’ve been dreaming about a dog.”

“Or a cat.”

“Or a cat,” you concede.

A moment of quiet falls between you, but it’s warm, full of all the future things left unsaid. Your heart feels full in that wide, steady way—not fireworks, not drama, but the kind of clarity that seeps into your bones.

You lean forward and rest your forehead slowly against his. “Let’s do it.”

His hands come up to cradle your face, relieved and giddy all at once. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “Let’s find something ours.”

You found the perfect place together and moved in within 2 months of that the conversation.

The last box was unpacked just before sunset. Now, the apartment is quiet in the way that only new spaces can be bare walls still waiting for frames, echoes bouncing gently off corners that haven't learned your rhythms yet. But the soft lamp glow in the living room, the scent of leftover takeout, and the shared, satisfied exhaustion makes it feel real. Yours.

You’re in one of Jake’s old T-shirts—something soft and oversized—leaning against the kitchen counter with a water glass in hand. He’s across the room, barefoot, tugging a blanket off the back of the couch with the kind of lazy movements that only come after a long day of building furniture and debating where the silverware drawer should go.

He catches you watching him. “What?” he asks, smiling around the edges, cheeks flushed from the heat still clinging to the walls.

You tilt your head. “Just thinking how stupidly good you look when you’re tired.”

He scoffs lightly, running a hand through his already-mussed hair. “I probably smell like cardboard and stress.”

“And yet,” you murmur, stepping toward him, “I want you anyway.”

Jake’s smile fades into something softer, something more aware. When you reach him, your hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin. You look up at him, letting the moment stretch.

“I know we’ve both been running on fumes,” you say, voice low. “But I’ve been thinking about this night for months. Being here. With you. Not in your old apartment. Not temporary. Ours.”

He exhales, like your words winded him. You rise up slightly to kiss him—slow, coaxing. Your hands splay against his lower back, drawing him in closer until your bodies are flush. Jake deepens the kiss with a quiet groan, one hand sliding up your thigh as your leg hooks loosely around his.

“God, baby,” he murmurs against your mouth, “you trying to ruin me?”

“No,” you breathe, lips trailing down his jaw, “I’m trying to take care of you.”

Jake swears softly when you nudge him backward toward the bedroom—barely furnished, but the mattress is there, clean sheets on it, the room still smelling faintly of fresh paint and laundry detergent. He sits on the edge of the bed as you tug his shirt up and off, revealing the stretch of his chest, the subtle slope of his shoulders.

You stand between his knees and let your fingers drag slowly across his skin—up his arms, over his collarbone, down the line of his stomach.

“You’ve done so much,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “You built everything. Lifted everything. Took care of all the details.”

He reaches for you, but you gently press him back with a palm to his chest.

“Let me, baby.” you say.

Something flickers in his eyes—need, affection, trust—and he lets you push him down until he’s lying flat, hair splayed on the pillow, looking up at you like you hung the moon. His breath comes shallow as you slowly crawl over him, straddling his hips, and dip your head to press a kiss to his chest.

You take your time. Tracing his skin with your mouth. Whispering soft thanks between kisses. Letting your hands roam with intention—reverent and greedy at once. Every gasp he gives you, every roll of his hips or twitch of his hands against your thighs encourages you to keep going.

By the time you finally reach down, slide his boxers down, and take him in hand, Jake is already half-gone, eyes heavy, lips parted. You tease him at first—just enough to make him curse under his breath, his thighs tightening beneath you.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes.

You smile. “Not yet.”

And then you lean down and take him into your mouth. Slow, deep, deliberate. Jake’s whole body shudders. His hand instinctively tangles in your hair, not to control, just to anchor. You work him gently, expertly—savoring every reaction. Every shaky exhale. Every muttered Jesus, baby, and the way his voice cracks when you take him deeper, letting your lips drag slow as you pull back.

You don’t stop until he’s trembling beneath you, his hips fighting not to buck, his voice breaking as he begs—soft and ragged—for you to let him cum. When he does, it’s with your name on his lips and your hair in his fist, chest arching off the mattress as he falls apart for you. You crawl back up to kiss him, lazy and warm, your body draped over his like you’ve found your home in him. Jake pulls you close, still breathless, still stunned.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he murmurs.

“I wanted to,” you whisper against his jaw. “You deserve to feel taken care of too.”

He hums and rolls you onto your side, wrapping himself around you like he’s never letting go. There’s no need to say I love you. It’s stitched into every breath. Every touch. Every decision that led you here. The rain continues outside, soft against the windows. And for the first time, you fall asleep together in a place that’s the both of yours.

The following morning the first thing you register is sunlight. Not glaring—just warm, honey-colored morning light spilling through the windows you haven’t covered with curtains yet. The air in the bedroom is still, cool from the night breeze, and the sheets are tangled around your hips in the aftermath of sleep and the soft wreckage of the night before.

Then you feel him. Jake’s body curved around yours, one arm under your head, the other draped over your waist. His chest rises slow and steady against your back, and his breath flutters against your shoulder, warm and familiar.

You hum softly, shifting under his touch. He doesn’t speak at first—just tightens his hold, pressing his lips against the curve of your neck.

“Morning,” you whisper, voice thick and sleep-heavy.

“Barely,” he murmurs, his voice still low and gravel-soft. “Sun’s only been up for like… ten minutes.”

“Should we keep sleeping?”

Jake chuckles against your skin. “I was thinking the opposite.”

You open one eye. “Oh?”

He moves closer, hips pressing against the curve of your backside, and you feel just how awake he is now. One hand slides along your bare waist, fingertips tracing the dip of your hip, the curve of your stomach.

“You did a lot for me last night,” he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder, then your jaw. “Think I owe you.”

You smile, already melting into him. “Owe me, huh?”

Jake shifts so you’re on your back and he’s leaning over you—hair mussed, eyes still sleepy but hungry.

“I want to take care of you this time.” He kisses your collarbone, the center of your chest. “Make you feel good. Make you feel mine.”

Your breath catches as his mouth trails lower, his hands sliding under the sheets with easy, confident affection. There’s no rush. No pressure. Just slow, consuming warmth as he takes his time—kissing down your stomach, coaxing your legs apart with steady hands and soft groans against your skin.

He’s thorough. Devoted. You gasp his name when his mouth finds you, and Jake groans in response like you’ve just handed him a gift. He doesn't stop—not until your fingers are tangled in the sheets, your back arching, and he’s holding you through every wave that follows. He kisses up your body, catching your breath in his, his hand cradling your cheek like you’re still trembling—and you are.

“You’re dangerous,” you murmur when you finally come back to yourself, nuzzling into his neck.

He grins. “You started it.”

Later, with sleepy limbs and matching coffee cups in hand, you find yourselves in the car—windows down, music low, heading to the farmers market even though it's a longer drive now. Something about it pulls you both back. Familiar. Sacred, even.

The stalls are all the same. The same busker with the soft acoustic guitar. The same flower vendor with the too-proud dahlias. The same stall with the sticky ripe peaches. It feels like time didn't pass—like you just slipped out of your old life into a better one with the same soundtrack.

And of course, there’s Marta. She spots you two from across her stall like a hawk who smells affection.

“Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence,” she calls out, both hands on her hips, her apron once again dusted in flour.

Jake laughs. “We moved a bit further out. Took us longer to get here.”

“Mmhm.” She eyes the two of you over her glasses. “Heard about that. Heard you found a place together.”

You blink. “How…?”

Marta grins, smug as sin. “Market grapevine, sweetheart. I know things.”

You and Jake exchange a look.

“Relax,” she says, already wrapping two of your favorite scones. “I’m thrilled. About time you two stopped playing house and actually made it official.”

“Oh we make it official alright,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “New lease. Shared bills. The whole thing.”

Marta squints at you like she’s seen five couples say the same thing and still break up over mismatched dish towels. “Sure, sure. But let me know when there’s a real commitment.”

Jake raises a brow. “Buying furniture together isn’t real enough?”

Marta winks. “It’s a start. But the way you two look at each other? I’m expecting rings. Or vows. Or at the very least, a dog.”

You laugh and take the bag she offers, grateful for the familiar weight of it. Jake slings an arm around your waist and leans in close, whispering just loud enough for her to hear: “We’ll name the dog Marta.”

“You’d better not,” she shoots back without missing a beat, then shoos you away with a smile.

Back in the car, the bag of scones sits between you, still warm. Jake reaches for your hand and squeezes. You glance over and catch the look on his face—quiet, fond, steady.

“You know,” he says softly, “it doesn’t matter how far we move. That place will always be a little part of us.”

You smile. “Especially with Marta haunting our relationship timeline.”

Jake grins. “You think she’d officiate if we asked?”

“She’d probably demand it.”

You share a laugh, then a kiss—sweet and slow, flavored with sugar and sunshine. And as the car eases back onto the road, peaches in the trunk and a shared life unfolding one soft morning at a time, everything feels right.

You’re sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by open boxes of winter clothes you swore you’d organize two days ago. The soft whirr of Jake working in the next room hums in the background, and you’re halfway through refolding a hoodie when your phone buzzes.

[ Sunghoon ] calling…

You blink, surprised. You haven’t talked to him in a while—not since that impromptu double date with Jake and some girl named “something that starts with M and ended badly.”

You swipe to answer. “Hey! Everything okay?”

Sunghoon gets right to the point. “Remember the black lab who almost stole you from Jake?”

Your breath hitches. “…Storm?”

“The one and only,” he says. “Turns out, my friend—the one who adopted him—needs to move for work and can’t keep him. Long hours, tiny apartment. It’s not fair to the dog.”

You sit up straighter. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Sunghoon says. “Storm’s still the same—a big, dumb, perfect sweetheart. But he needs a home. And, I mean, I know it’s a big ask, but I couldn’t not call you. The way you looked at him that day…” He trails off. “Jake didn’t even look mad. He looked resigned.”

You laugh, heart pounding.

“I can send you pictures,” Sunghoon adds, like he already knows you’ve softened.

You glance toward the bedroom, where Jake is still on his call, then look back at the heap of hoodies. You close your eyes for a second. “Send the pictures.”

Jake’s leaning in the doorway ten minutes later, phone in one hand, the other braced on the frame. He’s smiling. “So…” he says. “You want to tell me why there are four pictures of a black lab named Storm on my phone?”

You blink innocently. “Because the universe is generous?”

Jake crosses the room, drops onto the couch beside you, and studies your face. “You really want him.”

“He almost did steal me once. It feels poetic.”

Jake grins. “And chaotic.”

“He’s well-trained,” you say. “Mostly.”

Jake gives it two seconds, maybe three, before sighing and nodding. “Yeah. Let’s go meet him.”

You meet Storm two days later. He’s even bigger than you remember—still all shiny black fur and tail-wagging optimism. He recognizes you instantly, bounding forward like no time has passed, knocking your shoulder with his head before flopping onto his side for maximum belly access.

Jake crouches beside you, hand cautiously brushing over Storm’s back. After a few tail wags and one full-body dog sigh, he glances at you and murmurs, “We’re so done for.”

You beam.

Your first Saturday as dog parents begins with wet nose nudges and a 6:22 AM tail slap to the ribs. Jake mutters something unintelligible into his pillow before groaning and dragging himself out of bed to clip on a leash. Storm, it turns out, loves mornings. And couches. And chicken. And trying to eat the mail.

But he loves Jake best of all—trailing after him from room to room, sleeping on his feet while he types, thumping his tail against the couch every time Jake looks at him.

“You’re such a traitor,” you tell Storm one afternoon.

Jake smirks. “He just knows who gives the best belly rubs and who comes home from the grocery store with treats.”

You roll your eyes. “Let’s take him to the market.”

Jake looks up. “Seriously?”

You nod. “Marta has to meet him. It's a requirement.”

Storm walks through the market like he owns the place. People stop to pet him. Vendors wave. One little girl gives him half a granola bar and after he scarfs it down you have to explain, gently, that it's not okay to accept bribes from toddlers.

When you reach Marta’s stall, she’s elbow-deep in powdered sugar and muttering to herself about someone’s botched almond glaze. She doesn’t look up until she hears the leash jingle.

“Well, well,” she says, eyes widening as she takes in the beast at your side. “So the rumors were true.”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “What rumors?”

Marta snorts. “Someone saw you two at the pet store. Buying food. A few collars. I have sources.”

Storm sits politely, tongue lolling, tail thumping like a drum. Marta crouches, holding his face in both flour-dusted hands. “You’re a good boy,” she murmurs, rubbing his ears. “You’ll keep them honest.”

She glances up at you. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

You already see it coming. Jake sighs.

Marta stands and brushes off her apron. “Dog’s the gateway to more commitment. Mark my words. First it’s chew toys. Then it’s wedding favors.”

Jake laughs. “If we even think about setting a date, you’re banned from the guest list.”

Marta scoffs. “Honey, I’d officiate. And I’d bring cupcakes.”

As you walk away, Storm trotting between you, you glance over at Jake. He looks peaceful—content in that settled kind of way, like this weird, wonderful life is exactly what he’d always hoped for, even if he hadn’t known it yet. You slide your hand into his.

“You realize this dog is just more proof we’re doing the life thing, right?”

Jake squeezes your hand. “Good. I like doing life with you.”

Storm barks once, happily, as if in agreement. And just like that, you keep walking—into whatever comes next.

And apparently that thing is hosting. You weren’t trying to make it a big thing. It started with a group chat. Just a “hey we’re thinking about having people over this weekend, nothing big.” And somehow that turned into Sunghoon and his roommate bringing two bottles of wine, Heeseung showing up with a six-pack “just in case,” and Jay dropping by despite saying he was busy but he brought homemade pasta so no one had the heart to question him.

Now there are too many shoes by the door, music buzzing low from the speaker, and Storm curled up right in the center of it all like he’s the host. Jake keeps muttering about someone stepping on the dog, and Sunghoon has already declared this “the most mature party I’ve ever been to, and I love it.”

You hand out mismatched mugs because you haven’t unpacked the real wine glasses yet. Jake opens another bag of chips with his teeth. Heeseung accidentally sits on a throw pillow that turns out to be Storm’s chew toy and yelps so loud everyone looks over.

“This place is so domestic,” Jay says, looking around with a grin.

“You’ve got candles. You’ve got framed photos. You’ve got dog hair on your floor.”

Jake raises a glass. “Cheers to settling down.”

You clink mugs. The music shifts to something nostalgic. The wine does its work.

Later—much later—you’re tucked into the corner of the couch beside Jake, your legs across his lap, his hand idly rubbing circles into your shin. Sunghoon is sitting cross-legged on the floor with half a cookie in one hand and a bottle in the other, eyes glassy but happy.

He points at you both. “You guys ever think about, like…” He pauses, squints. “The future-future?”

Jake blinks. “You mean like figuring out what's for dinner tomorrow or do you mea the next ten years?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon says, nodding too hard. “Like… weddings. Babies. Or—or like… joining Costco. That kind of commitment.”

You snort. “That escalated.”

Jake looks at you, something soft in his eyes. “We talk about stuff sometimes.”

“Do you want that?” Sunghoon asks, and the question—drunk or not—hangs there for a second longer than it needs to.

Jake doesn’t look away. “Yeah. Eventually. Not because it’s expected. Just… because it’s her.”

Your heart trips over itself.

Sunghoon blinks. “Whoa. That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard while holding a beer bottle…”

Jay, from across the room: “Write that in your vows!”

Jake turns slightly, voice low, meant only for you. “Seriously, though. No rush. Just… whenever we’re ready. I’m in.”

You smile at him, leaning in to hold his hand. “…Thank you.”

It’s well past midnight by the time everyone’s gone. The lights are low. Storm is snoring softly at the foot of the couch. Jake is brushing his teeth in the half-lit bathroom while you pull on one of his shirts and finally let your hair down. You catch a glimpse of yourselves in the mirror—him behind you, sleepy and smiling, you leaning into the frame like you belong there.

“You looked so calm when you said it,” you murmur.

Jake wraps his arms around your waist. “Because I meant it.”

“Even the Costco part?”

He chuckles. “Especially the Costco part.”

You laugh into his chest, and he presses a kiss to your temple, slow and sure.

Back in bed, the two of you curl around each other like always. Storm eventually finds his place by the door, loyal and half-asleep. The apartment is quiet again. And you think about the conversation from earlier: The future? Yeah. We’re building it already.

Storm’s been acting weird lately. Not barking or whining—just hovering. Following you more than usual. Sitting by the bathroom door every time you go in. Sniffing your lap like you’ve rolled in something suspicious. He even tried to climb halfway onto the bed while Jake was kissing down your stomach last night, completely unprompted and definitely unwelcome.

You’d laughed it off—“he's needy tonight”—but Jake had narrowed his eyes like he was starting to wonder about something. And now, tonight, you’re curled up on the couch, Jake’s hand under your shirt and his mouth warm against your neck, when Storm gets up from his bed and pads straight over.

Right in front of the couch, he sits. Tall. Still. Watching.

Jake pauses, then mutters with a groan, “Okay, what is with you lately?”

Storm just thumps his tail once and tilts his head toward you.

Jake’s eyes flick to you. “…You’ve been feeling weird at all?”

You laugh lightly, fingers threading through his hair. “You mean other than feeling some type of way because our dog is giving me side eye?”

“Exactly that,” he says, and kisses you again. “Forget it. We’ll deal with his jealousy later.”

He slips his hand further up your shirt.

Later that night, it’s different. It starts slow, like it always does when Jake’s in this kind of mood—lazy, reverent, confident. Like he wants to see you fall apart, not just feel good. The sheets are half-kicked off. Your shirt is gone. His hands are everywhere, warm and steady and just this side of rough.

Jake moves between your thighs, breath hot against your skin. He holds you open, mouth working you in slow, sinful circles until you're gasping, reaching, shaking. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes. His voice—low, coaxing, filthy—falls in between kisses and groans: “Let me hear it, baby…” “You’re already dripping, fuck…” “You sound like you missed this—did you?”

You barely have the breath to answer. Then he’s up again—lips swollen, pupils blown—sliding into you with a low, grateful moan. The kind that makes your stomach flutter in that way you’ve never really been able to name.

Jake fucks you like he means it. Deep. Slow. Arms caging you in as he rocks into you, forehead brushing yours, both of you panting between messy kisses. You clutch at his back, nails dragging when he angles just right, hitting a spot that turns your moans into whimpers.

His mouth is right against your ear now, his voice almost pleading. “Let me give it to you—want you full, baby—want you fucked full and shaking—”

You do shake. You fall apart around him, crying out his name as your body clenches, pulls him deeper, and God, he loves that—he groans like he’s losing it, thrusts once more, and spills into you, hips twitching through it.

You hold each other after. His chest slick against yours, your thighs trembling, his lips pressed to your temple like he’s trying to ground himself in the moment. Neither of you speaks for a while. Until Storm whines from his spot by the door.

Jake lifts his head. “Okay, now I’m concerned.”

You’re standing at the bathroom mirror, brushing your teeth, when it hits you. You freeze. Spit. Rinse. Think. And think. You grab your phone. Open the calendar. Count backwards. Twice.

You stare into the mirror and whisper: “…holy shit.”

Storm walks in smug and noses your hip. You blink down at him. “You knew.”

He pants at you like that’s old news.

Ten minutes later, you crawl back into bed and press your forehead to Jake’s chest. His voice is gravelly. “That bad?”

You shake your head.

“Wait—did you cry? What happened?”

You look up at him, eyes wide, heartbeat in your throat. “Jake.”

His demeanor changes instantly. “Talk to me.”

You whisper it. Just once. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Jake stills. Then—softly, carefully—he cups your face. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay.”

He lets out a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. “Okay,” he says, pulling you into him completely. “Okay. We’re good. We’re so good.”

You bury your face in his chest and feel his heartbeat thumping strong and steady against your cheek. You both hear Storm settling in his bed.

Jake groans. “He called it.”

You laugh. “Yeah. Before either of us did.”

Jake kisses your hair and whispers, “He’s gonna be a big brother.”

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel scary at all.

The rain starts sometime around 9 a.m.—gentle at first, then steady enough that Storm sits by the window with his chin on the sill, watching each droplet like he’s waiting for it to spell something important.

You’ve been curled into Jake’s side on the couch, half-asleep and tangled up in his hoodie, warm mug in your hands, when he murmurs: “Wanna go see Marta’s new shop?”

You blink up at him, surprised. “Now? In this weather?”

He grins, leans in to kiss your cheek. “It’s perfect weather. She’ll be open, and I’ve been craving those orange cardamom buns since she posted them.”

You pretend to think it over. “Will there be hot chocolate?”

Jake squeezes your thigh. “I’ll make her serve you two. Extra whipped cream. Bribe her if I have to.”

You kiss him, slow and soft. “You got your priorities straight.”

The shop is nestled on a quiet corner, all red brick and mossy charm, the kind of storefront you’d walk past and hope is as good as it looks. The windows fog with warmth from the inside, golden light spilling out across the rain-slick sidewalk.

Marta’s new sign reads: Sweet & Honest Breads • Pastries • Stories

Jake opens the door for you with a dramatic bow. The bell overhead jingles. The warmth hits immediately—cinnamon, brown butter, a hint of fresh basil from something still baking.

It’s cozy and lived-in already: mismatched chairs, local artwork hung with charm, shelves lined with jars of jam and recipe books. You’re peeling off your coat when Marta looks up from behind the counter and beams.

“Oh my God, if it isn’t the dog parents I’ve been keeping tabs on—get over here.”

You laugh as she hugs you, flour still on her hands, smelling like heaven. Jake accepts a one-armed hug while reaching toward the pastry case like a man on a mission.

“You’ve got almond croissants, right?” he asks.

You settle into a corner table by the window. Storm lies at your feet, tail wagging faintly every time someone walks by the front door. Jake’s warm knee bumps yours beneath the table. Rain whispers against the glass. You eat slowly, talk lazily, laugh too much over nothing. You tell Marta about the party, and she tells you about the guy who tried to return a croissant because it “wasn’t the right texture for a sandwich.”

Eventually, between bites and sips, she pauses. Leans against the counter. Looks at you both with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Okay,” she says. “You two are glowing. Like, suspiciously.”

Jake shifts in his seat. His thigh brushes yours.

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. “Marta…”

She gasps so dramatically that Jake actually chokes on his hot chocolate.

“Nooo.”

You say nothing.

She claps a hand to her mouth. “Wait, actually?!”

You nod. Slowly. “We haven’t told anyone yet. Not really.”

Marta sprints out from behind the counter to hug you. “You sneaky little wonder. You’re gonna be such a good mom.”

Jake stands too, pulling both you and Marta into his arms like he can’t not be a part of it. He’s beaming. Quiet, proud, glowing just like she said.

By the time you leave, the rain’s slowed to a mist. Jake holds your hand the whole walk home, paper bag of extra pastries swinging in his other. Storm trots ahead like he knows the way by heart. You’re walking slower now—not because you’re tired, but because it all just feels so right. Like this life is unfolding gently, with purpose, and you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Jake glances at you. “That was kind of… surreal.”

You nod. “In a good way?”

He lifts your hand to his lips. “The best way.”

The mist halos around you in the streetlight. The smell of sugar still clings to your coat. And inside your belly, quiet and small and still just a whisper, something new is growing. You smile to yourself, press closer to him.

You’re in bed getting ready to sleep when Jake starts talking again. His arm is around your waist, his hand splayed gently over the lower curve of your belly—protective, absentminded, always there now. The lights are off. The room is warm. Storm is snoring lightly at the foot of the bed.

And Jake whispers, soft and drowsy, mouth pressed just behind your ear: “So, little bean,” he begins, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “you missed a weird day.”

You smile, eyes still closed.

“First of all,” he continues, rubbing slow circles over your stomach, “your mom made these insanely good noodles for lunch and didn’t even act like it was a big deal. But it was. I almost cried.”

You let out a quiet laugh. Jake kisses your shoulder, keeps going.

“Then Storm found an empty bag of chips under the couch and tried to frame me for it. Not cool.”

He shifts closer, his body curling around yours instinctively. His voice softens.

“And then I spent twenty minutes just… sitting in your room. Thinking about you. And us. And how it’s gonna feel the first time I hold you.”

You blink your eyes open slowly, throat catching.

Jake’s voice cracks just a little. “I don’t know what kind of music you’ll like, or if you’ll have my nose or her hair, or if you’ll keep us up every night like a tiny goblin, but—”

He stops. Breathes. His hand stills.

“I can’t wait to meet you. I’m already so in love with someone I haven’t even met.”

You roll over and tuck yourself into him, your forehead pressed to his collarbone, arms wrapped tight around his ribs. You don’t even try to speak—just let your breath carry the answer.

Jake holds you close and rests his chin on your head. He whispers, “We’ve got you, little bean.”

And that’s how you fall asleep.

You don’t even get a word out before Sunghoon squints at you from across the table, halfway through his bibimbap, and says, “Something is off.”

Jay nods, suspicious. “You’re glowing.”

Sunoo gasps. “Like, skincare glowing, or like… divine intervention glowing?”

Jake coughs into his drink. You press your lips together to hold back a smile.

Sunghoon sets down his chopsticks. “No, seriously. What’s going on?”

You and Jake exchange a look—he lifts his brows like, ready? You nod, fingers laced together beneath the table.

Jake clears his throat. “So, we wanted to tell you guys something—”

Sunoo shrieks. “OH MY GOD YOU’RE ENGAGED.”

Jay practically flips the food containers. “WHAT?!”

“NO—” Jake waves his hands, laughing. “Not engaged! Can I finish?”

Sunghoon stares like he’s solving a math equation. “Then what else can it be?”

You reach over, pick up your drink calmly, and say, “I’m pregnant.”

The silence is immediate. Then:

“You’re LYING.” — Sunghoon“

Stop it. STOP—ARE YOU SERIOUS?” — Jay

Sunoo just starts crying. Literally crying. “Oh my God, the baby’s gonna be so cute.”

Jake grins so wide you think his cheeks might cramp. “We found out a few months ago but wanted to wait until was got a solid, healthy 13 week scan. We’re still adjusting. But yeah. It’s happening.”

Jay launches across the table to hug you both. Sunghoon follows with a stunned “holy shit,” and Sunoo squeezes into the group with wet eyes and the biggest smile. Storm barks once and immediately regrets it when three people try to include him in the hug.

After they settle down (barely), the follow-up chaos begins:

Sunoo: “Can I plan the baby shower? I already have ideas.”

Jay: “They’re gonna need a crib. I’ll build a crib.”

Sunghoon: “Wait. Does this mean I have to start being responsible around the baby? I can’t say shit anymore.”

You: “You just said it.”

Sunghoon: “Oh my GOD.”

You spend the rest of the night fielding ridiculous name suggestions (Sunoo’s convinced the baby should be named something celestial, Jay is lobbying hard for names that have cool nicknames, and Sunghoon just keeps saying “Maverick” like it’s a dare). But when things calm down and everyone’s full and happy and a little sleepy, Jake catches your eye.

The room’s glowing with laughter. Your belly’s just barely starting to show. And you’re surrounded by love you didn’t even know you’d get to have. Jake leans in, kisses your temple, and murmurs just for you: “Little bean’s gonna have the best uncles in the world.”

The plan was supposed to be simple: Have the guys over. Build the crib, dresser, and rocker. Order food. Make progress on the nursery.

The plan goes sideways around ten minutes in.

“I’m positive this piece goes here,” Jay insists, holding a mysterious slat upside-down.

“That’s the bottom of the drawer, you maniac,” Sunghoon counters, flipping through the manual.

Sunoo’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, every tool spread neatly around him like he’s hosting a live tutorial. “If you two would just let me pre-sort the hardware, we could all avoid emotional trauma.”

Jake’s kneeling next to the half-built crib, screwdriver in hand, grinning like a proud but slightly overwhelmed dad already. “I’m just here so the baby has somewhere to sleep that doesn’t collapse.”

From the doorway, you laugh and lean against the frame. “I’m taking Storm for a walk,” you say, hand rubbing your small-but-growing belly. “Try not to build a time machine by accident.”

“We make no promises,” Jay says solemnly.

Jake turns and catches your eye. He walks over, presses a kiss to your forehead, then another one—quick and reverent—to your belly. “Bring me back a muffin?”

You smile. “If you survive this, maybe you get two.”

The sidewalks are quiet this morning, golden leaves sticking to the wet pavement, the chill just soft enough to enjoy with a scarf wrapped high and your coat zipped snug. Storm walks close beside you, leash slack, nose twitching at every rustle of a bush.

When you round the corner, the scent of cinnamon and espresso hits you first, and then you see her. Marta stands just outside her shop, hands on her hips, hair up in a messy clip, watching the light drizzle mist her front window.

She sees you and immediately smiles. “Hey, mama.”

You laugh. “Hey, muffin dealer.”

She tilts her head, eyes soft. “You walking the beast or running from the men?”

“Little of both.”

She holds the door open for you with a knowing look. “Come on. My bet is you’ve got ten minutes before they start calling you for reinforcements.”

Inside, it’s warm and fragrant and humming with low music. Marta fixes you a tea without asking and hands Storm a little treat from behind the counter. But then, she does something unexpected. Instead of launching into a story or teasing you about Jake’s inevitable meltdown over Allen wrenches, she just leans on the counter, elbows propped, and looks at you.

Like she’s really seeing you. “You doing okay?” she asks softly.

It catches you off guard in the best way. You nod slowly. “Yeah. I am. Tired. A little achy. But… I’m good.”

She keeps her gaze steady. “It’s a weird thing, isn’t it? Growing a person. Being known from the inside.”

You blink. Then exhale. “It feels big in ways I didn’t expect.”

Marta reaches across the counter and squeezes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re allowed to feel all of it. The bigness, the joy, the fear. It doesn’t mean you’re not ready— it just means you’re already carrying more than one heart.”

Something in your throat tightens. You weren’t expecting to tear up over tea and muffins, but here you are.

She grins at you, soft and solid. “Also, for the record? You and Jake are gonna raise one hell of a cool kid.”

You laugh wetly. “We’ll settle for one that sleeps.”

Storm thumps his tail at your feet.

Marta walks you back to the door, tucks a muffin bag into your hand, and kisses your cheek. “Next time, bring me a belly update. I have plans to teach your kid the fine art of brioche folding.”

You pause, hand on the door, and look back. “Thank you. For being… real with me.”

She smiles. “Anytime. This shop runs on flour and feelings.”

When you get home, there’s sawdust on the living room rug and someone’s gloves hanging from a curtain rod. “Progress?” you call out.

Sunghoon’s voice drifts from the nursery: “Depends on how you define progress.”

Sunoo’s follows: “We’ve built four out of seven pieces correctly and one of them is now an elaborate birdhouse since we accidentally messed it up.”

You step into the hallway and Jake rounds the corner, hair mussed, screwdriver in his back pocket, and a guilty-but-proud look on his face. He pulls you into a one-armed hug and kisses your temple. The nursery isn’t done yet. The house is a mess. You’re exhausted. And somehow, everything feels exactly right.

Jake is rearranging the nursery books for the third time. You’re sitting on the floor—well, technically on the plush rug he insisted on getting—with Storm curled beside you like a bodyguard. One of your hands rests over the curve of your belly, a gentle habit now.

Jake’s kneeling by the new little shelf, sorting a stack of board books that’s already growing faster than you expected.

You smile. “You do realize they won’t even be able to read for, like, years.”

He glances over his shoulder. “I know. But I want them to have good taste early on.”

You laugh softly. “Jake. One of those is The Very Hungry Caterpillar.”

“Exactly.” He holds it up, grinning. “Classic literature.”

He chooses a book, sits beside you, then shifts until he’s lying back against the wall, legs long and bent at the knee. He pats his thigh. “Come here.”

You scoot over and tuck yourself between his legs, back resting against his chest. His arms wrap around you automatically, one hand finding its favorite spot over your belly.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs.

“Mmhmm.” You tilt your head so your cheek rests against his jaw. Then, quietly, like it’s not a big deal: “I wanna read to them.”

Your chest tightens, but not in a painful way—in that this is real way. The kind that wraps around your ribs like something sacred.

He opens the book slowly, his fingers trembling just a little. And then he reads. Soft and a little shy at first, voice gentle as he weaves his way through the pages, pausing to do the little voices, making you laugh with his caterpillar impersonation. His chin rests lightly against your temple. Every now and then, he stops to kiss the top of your head or trace your belly through your shirt with absentminded reverence.

“And then, after being a caterpillar… he became a beautiful butterfly,” he finishes, voice quiet.

He closes the book, lets the silence settle. You both stay like that for a minute. Breathing. Listening to the quiet hum of the house. Storm snoring somewhere outside the room. Jake speaks again, but this time to your belly.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice lower now. “I hope you liked the story. Your mom’s the real reader in this house, but I’ll try to keep up.”

His hand brushes over your skin.

“I just… I want you to know my voice. Even before you get here. I want it to feel safe.”

You blink fast, heart aching with tenderness.

Then Jake says, even softer: “We love you so much already. Okay? We’re so ready for you.”

And that’s when it happens. Just the faintest, fluttering pressure under his palm—not gas, not digestion—a soft, definite movement.

You gasp.

Jake freezes. “Did you—?”

You nod, eyes wide. “Did you feel that?!”

He looks completely wrecked in the best way. “Oh my God.”

His hand spreads wider, both of yours covering his, like if you press together hard enough the baby might kick again. It does.

Jake’s eyes shine. “Holy sh—” He stops himself. “Holy… muffins. That’s you, huh?”

You laugh through a tear and kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “First kick.”

Jake leans down and you make room for him to kiss your belly like it’s a person. “Hi,” he whispers. “Can’t wait to meet you.”

One day you start to feel heaviness low in your belly that’s hard to place. Not pain—not exactly. Just… off. You haven’t felt the baby move all day, and while you tell yourself that’s normal. The baby’s small, they nap, you yourself were busy—something in your gut won’t settle.

By the time Jake gets home from running errands, you’re sitting on the edge of the bed with both hands over your stomach, trying not to spiral. He freezes in the doorway the second he sees your face. “Hey,” he says gently, dropping the bag of groceries. “What’s wrong?”

You try to explain—the quietness, the stillness, the not-knowing. Jake’s expression shifts slowly, from concern to full-on worry. He crosses the room in two strides and kneels in front of you, his hands already lifting your sweatshirt, his palms warm and shaky on your belly.

“Okay. It’s okay,” he murmurs, more for himself than you. “Let’s go in. Just to be safe. We’ll check. We’ll hear them.”

He’s already helping you into shoes, grabbing your coat, moving fast but careful— like he can’t think straight but won’t let it show. Storm whines at the door as you leave. The ride to the hospital is mostly quiet except for the sound of Jake’s hand squeezing yours in rhythm.

When the nurse leads you into the triage room, you change into the gown with Jake’s hands still on your shoulders. He kisses your temple three times—a ritual now—and murmurs, “I’ve got you. We’ve got this.”

The monitor is cold against your skin. The nurse says something reassuring, but you’re barely hearing her. You’re staring at the ceiling, breathing in twos and fours, and Jake’s forehead is pressed to your hand.

Then — woosh-woosh. woosh-woosh. woosh-woosh.

The sound hits like a wave. Jake exhales all at once, a half-sob trapped in his throat. Your eyes fill instantly.

“There you are,” he says hoarsely, rubbing his face into the crook of your arm. “Oh my god, there you are.”

The nurse smiles. “Strong little heartbeat. They were probably just curled up, taking a nap. It happens.”

You nod, wiping your cheeks. Jake kisses your knuckles, your wrist, your shoulder—like if he doesn’t keep kissing you, he’ll come undone.

Later, in the car, his hand rests over your belly again. He doesn’t say much. Just: “I didn’t realize how much of me already lives in you.”

And you press his hand tighter to your skin.

A few weeks later your friends show up with bags. Sunghoon practically kicks the front door open, balancing a giant giraffe plushie under one arm and a stack of gift bags under the other.

“Okay,” he announces, “I refuse to be the boring uncle.”

Jay comes in behind him, arms full of neatly labeled boxes. “Some of us read the registry.”

Sunoo enters last, dragging a bag the size of a small child and grinning like Christmas came early. “I went rogue. You’re welcome.”

You’re barely able to contain your laughter. “We said small things!”

Jake shrugs. “We said that. But we knew better.”

In the next hour, your living room becomes a tornado of tiny socks, organic baby lotion, books about feelings, and the loudest battery-operated swing on the market. Sunghoon insists the giraffe should be named something “majestic, like Fabio.” Jay quietly sets up a white noise machine in the corner like he’s nesting harder than you. Sunoo hand-delivers a onesie that says “Team Chaos” and then cries when Jake promises to frame it.

You and Jake collapse on the couch, surrounded by the evidence of people who love you.

And that’s when nesting begins. It starts with Jake determined to assemble the changing table tonight. Sunghoon joins in, fueled by cold brew and raw ambition. Jay tries to enforce organization: labels, bins, systems. Sunoo starts folding the baby clothes by color, mood, and potential vibe.

You sit back, one hand on your belly, the other holding a root beer float that Sunoo insisted you needed “for calcium.” Storm lies across your feet, smug and certain he’s the baby.

Jake glances up from the disaster zone of half-built furniture, grinning like a man deep in purpose. “I feel like we’re building a whole world,” he says.

You meet his eyes. “We are.”

And it’s messy. Loud. A little unhinged. But it’s home.

The nursery has been coming together for weeks: furniture built in chaos, walls painted between takeout meals, tiny clothes washed and folded with more care than your college laundry ever saw. But today, for some reason, it feels real. And it hits you all at once.

Maybe it’s the soft light filtering through the curtains. Maybe it’s how Jake’s hand finds yours as you both step into the room, no music, no laughter from friends… just quiet.

The crib stands against the far wall. There’s a cozy rocker in the corner, and a shelf filled with board books, some you recognize from your own childhood. The changing table is stocked, organized in a way that only lasted because Sunoo labeled everything. A basket of stuffed animals sits beside the rocker, with Fabio the giraffe poking out like a proud mascot.

Jake exhales slowly beside you. “Damn,” he murmurs. “It looks like someone actually lives here.”

You nod, squeezing his fingers. “Almost.”

He lets go of your hand only to wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you gently against his side. “I keep picturing it,” he says quietly. “Late nights. You rocking them here. Me falling asleep on the rug because I said I’d stay awake with you.”

You smile. “Storm snoring louder than the white noise machine.”

Jake laughs, resting his chin on top of your head. “I want all of it.”

The weight of his words settles over your chest—warm and grounding. You lean back slightly, look up at him. “I’m a little scared,” you admit. “But in a way that makes me want to do everything right.”

Jake doesn’t flinch. “Me too.” And then, softer: “But I think we’re doing it. Right now. Just by loving them this much already.”

You nod. Then he walks you over to the rocker, helps you sit, and lowers himself to the floor in front of you, head resting gently on your belly.

“Hey,” he whispers, hands on either side. “Your room’s ready. We’ve got books and giraffes and way too many wipes, but… mostly we’ve got love. And your mom. And me. And Storm, who’s convinced he’s the favorite.”

You laugh through a tear.

Jake looks up at you, eyes shining. “We’re ready when you are, okay?”

You’re already in bed when Jake slips out of the room. He thinks he’s being quiet, but you can hear the soft pad of his socks across the hallway, the faint creak of the living room floor, the telltale sigh of Storm stretching out. You wait a minute before tiptoeing to the doorway. He’s sitting on the rug, cross-legged, one hand buried in Storm’s fur. The lights are low, the world hushed.

Jake sighs and scratches behind Storm’s ear. “I know. Everything’s changing.”

Storm rests his chin on Jake’s thigh like he understands exactly what that means.

Jake keeps going. “You’re still my first. Okay? You made me a dog dad before I ever thought I could take care of anything. You taught me about showing up and being soft and knowing when someone just needs you to be close.”

He pauses, stroking Storm’s back slowly.

“But now we’re gonna have a baby. A real one. And I don’t want you to feel left out. Because I’m gonna need you, buddy. To help me show them how love works.”

Your throat tightens. Storm snorts like he’s making a promise.

Jake leans forward, resting his head on Storm’s shoulder. “They’re gonna love you. And you’re gonna love them. I just know it.”

You wait until he’s done, then tiptoe back to bed with tears in your eyes and a heart so full it hurts.

The nursery looks the same as it did when Jake and the guys finished it a month ago. But now there’s a baby in it. Wearing the onesie you laid a week ago. This isn’t a daydream anymore that elicited a feeling that tugged at your chest.

An actual baby. Your baby.

You’re rocking slowly in the chair, your daughter curled up against your chest, tucked into one of the many impossibly soft onesies Sunoo insisted you needed in “every pastel color known to man.” Her fingers twitch occasionally, her nose scrunching as she settles deeper into sleep. Her warmth, her weight, the sleepy rhythm of her breathing—it roots you to the floor like nothing ever has.

Jake is on the carpet, back against the crib, head tilted to the side as he watches both of you. “You know,” he says softly, “I thought this room felt alive before.”

You smile down at your daughter, smoothing a thumb over her cheek. “Me too.”

“But this is different…warm.” Jake reaches out and brushes your leg gently. “It feels like ours.”

You let out a breath before crying for the third time today. “I didn’t know I could love something this much while falling apart.”

Jake looks up at you, and something flickers across his face—raw and reverent. “Hey, you didn’t break,” he whispers. “You make us whole.”

You reach for him, and he rises to kneel at your feet, resting his head gently on your thigh. For a moment, there’s nothing but the soft sound of your baby breathing, the slow creak of the rocker, and the quiet hum of the baby monitor blinking steadily beside the crib.

The front door opens not long after that, and your peaceful bubble is promptly burst by the unmistakable trio of footsteps, half-shouted greetings, and the clatter of grocery bags.

“Where’s the baby!”

“Jay, she’s probably sleeping—”

“Too late, I already announced our arrival. She’s getting all these uncles right this minute.”

Jake laughs from the hallway as you trail behind him with the baby safely nestled against your chest. Storm trots ahead of you, tail wagging like a proud big brother.

Sunghoon freezes at the sight of her. “I think I want one too.”

Sunoo’s already washed his hands and is reaching out gently. “Can I—?”

You nod and pass her over, heart aching in that weird new way that comes from loving your child and letting her be held at the same time.

Jay just smiles, eyes crinkling. “She looks like both of you. But mostly her mom.”

Jake wraps an arm around your waist. “That’s why she’s perfect.”

The guys come with pre-prepped meals, a bag of household essentials, and an unspoken agreement to run the vacuum while they’re here (but not when the baby’s sleeping). Jay fixes the crooked cabinet door you’ve been ignoring. Sunghoon changes the battery in the smoke detector. Sunoo somehow manages to organize the fridge without you realizing he opened it.

It’s a miracle. You and Jake get to sit down. Together. Like humans.

Later that evening, when the house is quiet again—just the four of you—Jake wraps you in a blanket and guides you to the couch. The baby’s in her bassinet beside you, fingers twitching, mouth in a perfect little pout.

“You wanna know something?” he murmurs, pulling you into his side.

“Always.”

“I used to think the nursery would be the center of everything. But it’s here. Right now. Wherever we are with her. That’s home.”

You close your eyes and rest your head on his shoulder. “We’re not sleeping well for a long time, are we?”

“Absolutely not, but we got each other and she has us.”

You both laugh softly, tired to your bones. But also loved, anchored, home.

[big-ooof]

Jake x f!reader; friends to lovers

You freeze during a meeting. Your mouth is open, the words almost there, hanging on the tip of your tongue. But your brain hits a wall, splintering your momentum into a silent, blinking pause. Your mind goes frustratingly blank, even though you were just rattling off stats like a clipboard-wielding campaign manager five minutes ago.

“…Sorry, I just—” you stammer, glancing down at your meticulously highlighted notes for grounding, even though the paper now looks like a Jackson Pollock painting of anxiety.

Jake, sitting two chairs down, clocks the shift instantly. His brows knit, concern flickering briefly before he leans forward with an ease that feels rehearsed— like he’s done this before.

“Well, if we’re going off the proposal she sent last night, then option two is probably our most sustainable bet,” Jake says, voice steady, casual, but sharp enough to redirect the room’s attention. “She even included a contingency plan for if funding falls through. Slide twelve, bottom section.”

There’s a shuffle of pages and scrolling fingers. You exhale. A quiet thank-you blooms behind your ribs.

Later, when the meeting wraps and people heading out, Jake hangs back. “Hey,” he says, nudging your elbow with his own. “You good?”

You nod, sheepish. “Just short-circuited for a sec.”

He grins. “It’s okay. You short-circuit better than most people function at full charge.”

You let out a laugh, tension loosening. “That’s not comforting.”

“It’s supposed to be a compliment,” Jake smiles, then adds with a tilt of his head, “You want to do something dumb?”

“Define dumb.”

“Something that isn’t campus council, chairperson meetings, or anything requiring a Google Calendar invite. C’mon.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “What are you proposing?”

“An off-campus escape,” he says, already pulling out his phone and opening the maps app. “There’s a drive-in an hour away that’s playing horror movies all night. And I know for a fact you haven’t eaten since like… that protein bar at 9 a.m.”

You blink. “You remembered that?”

Jake looks at you like you’re the unhinged one. “You think I wasn’t watching you pace the library with a protein bar and a stress bun?”

Touché.

And somehow, before you know it, you’re in his passenger seat with the windows down and the last bit of sunset casting a peach glow across his arm as he drives. He hums along to some playlist he made months ago—a mix of old hip hop and newer indie-pop that shouldn't work together but somehow does, just like the two of you.

At the drive-in, he buys you both a suspiciously large amount of snacks (“It’s part of the adventure,” he insists) and throws a flannel blanket over the hood of his car so you can sit outside while the movie plays.

You don’t end up watching much of the movie. Not because it's boring—it’s a classic, all jump scares and cheesy dialogue—but because Jake keeps stealing glances at you during the scary parts like you might be the one who jumps. When you finally catch him doing it for the fourth time, you shove a handful of popcorn at him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.” He grins. “But you’re relaxed now. That was the goal.”

You look at him… the boy who jumped in for you during a meeting without missing a beat. The one who knew exactly how to pull you away from the over commitment spiral you’ve been spinning in for weeks. Jake isn’t just paying attention. He’s showing up. And maybe you didn’t plan for this. Maybe it wasn’t in your calendar or your twelve-point proposal, but… You shift closer, tucking your shoulder against his, and whisper, “Thanks for rescuing me today.”

He smiles—soft, a little smug. “Anytime. Just give me the signal.”

You tilt your head. “What signal?”

Jake leans in, eyes playful, voice low. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll see it.”

And just like that, the night stretches ahead of you, popcorn-dusted and star-drenched, the buzz of something new flickering quietly under the surface.

You don’t know what you’re doing exactly—but for once, you’re okay with not knowing. Because you’re not alone in it. You’re with Jake. And for now, that’s more than enough.

Jake was trying to finesse your roommate for information about you. Not in a shady way, more like a strategic way. Because ever since that impromptu horror movie detour, he’d been thinking about you more than was probably healthy. Not that it was news to anyone. He’d always been watching you a little too closely during meetings, quick to back you up or shut down a dumb idea with just the right amount of charm-laced authority. But now? Now it felt personal.

So when you mentioned in passing that you were heading home for the weekend to see your family: “My mom’s making galbi and she will cry if I miss it again”— Jake had a window.

You’d only mentioned your roommate in brief offhand comments before: Met in Econ freshman year. Solid guy. Chill. Needed someone to split rent after his last roommate dropped out mid-semester. You were still living at home then, so signing the lease didn’t come with extra challenges. Practical. No drama, no mess. The two of you coexisted well—in that quiet, established rhythm that came with no romantic tension, no blurred lines.

Which made him perfect for what Jake needed now: Intel.

So Jake shows up Saturday afternoon with a plastic bag of convenience store beers and a grin that says “I come in peace.” Your roommate opens the door, one AirPod still in. “Uh… hey?”

“Hey, man. I’m Jake,” he says, offering his hand like they’re at a networking event instead of your dingy apartment threshold. “We’ve met a couple times, right? Council stuff, Halloween party?”

“Right,” your roommate says, clearly confused but not hostile. “Come in?”

Jake steps in like he belongs there, tossing a can toward the guy before flopping onto the beanbag in the corner of the living room. “Figured I’d hang while she’s gone. Thought I’d get the inside scoop— you know, roommate to… wannabe more mate.”

That earns a snort. “So that’s what this is.”

Jake shrugs. “I’m not trying to be weird about it. Just—I like her. I think she maybe likes me back. But she’s impossible to read and too good at multitasking feelings like they’re committee minutes.”

Your roommate hums thoughtfully, cracking the beer. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

Jake leans forward, elbows on knees. “So what do I need to know?”

There’s a beat of silence as your roommate studies him—not unkind, just curious. Then he says: “She does this thing where she bottles everything until someone makes it safe for her to let go. She’s not scared of feeling stuff. She’s scared of it not being mutual. Or worse—being inconvenient. So she’ll shove it down instead of risking a wrong move.”

Jake exhales. “Yeah. That sounds… right.”

“She’s also the best person I’ve ever lived with. She’s up at seven even if she’s been up till three. She labels leftovers and leaves sticky notes with dumb jokes if she eats your last protein bar.”

Jake smiles, soft. “Of course she does.”

“And she doesn’t waste time. So if she’s giving it to you—her attention, her brain, her energy—that means something.” Silence again. Your roommate nods toward the front door. “She’ll never say it first. But if you mean it, really mean it… then stop waiting. Go show her.”

Sunday night. You’re back in your apartment, it’s dim, your suitcase kicked into the corner of your room, your mom’s tupperware stacked in the fridge. And there’s Jake. Sitting on your couch.

You blink. “What are you—”

He stands. “I talked to your roommate… And he told me you’d be back tonight, I didn’t sit here all weekend.”

You narrow your eyes. “Jake—”

“He said you only let go when it feels safe. So I’m here to make it safe.” He walks toward you slowly, a kind of tension rolling off him that’s more nervous than cocky. “I like you. I think about you all the time. In meetings, on campus, when I’m alone in my room and you text me some dry, unhinged meme about council politics.”

Your mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again.

Jake steps closer. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I just— I needed you to know. And if you ever do want to say something back, I’ll be here. Not just when you freeze in meetings, or when you need a break from running the world. I’ll be here when it’s quiet, when it’s real, when you’re not performing at all.”

You blink, heart stuttering. You glance at the counter then you ask, “Did you really bribe my roommate with beer?”

Jake grins. “Only the cheap stuff. He’s easy.”

You laugh and it cracks something open. A warmth you weren’t letting yourself hope for. And maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something you don’t have to carry all on your own.

You invite him to dinner later that week. It’s casual, intentionally so. A text sent late in the afternoon, short and simple: hey, ramen tonight? the place near me. 7?

Jake replies in less than a minute. absolutely should i bring anything or just my sparkling personality

You don’t answer that. He doesn’t press.

By the time 7 rolls around, you’re waiting outside the narrow storefront, soft glow of the overhead sign flickering neon against the sidewalk. The air smells like garlic and simmered broth, and there's already a line stretching halfway down the block—but you’ve been coming here since freshman year. You know the staff, know the system, and know exactly which corner table is the warmest in winter and best for people-watching year-round.

Jake shows up two minutes early, hands in his jacket pockets, hair slightly tousled from the breeze. He slows when he sees you and doesn’t rush the moment— just grins and lifts his hand in a small wave like this isn’t a big deal, even though it kind of is.

You wave back. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he echoes, then adds, “Thanks for inviting me. I wasn’t sure if… well.”

You glance at him, amused. “If you crossed a line?”

“I think I absolutely crossed a line.” He smirks. “…I’m glad you didn’t block my number.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think about that…I mean you did bribe my roommate.”

“Hey—hey now—technically, I bonded with him over canned beer and mutual respect for your chaos.”

You nudge his shoulder as the hostess waves you in. “C’mon. You’re buying.”

Jake doesn't argue.

Inside, the place is loud and steamy, the kind of warm chaos that makes you instantly unclench. You order without looking at the menu— miso with extra garlic oil, egg, and scallions. Jake copies you, then adds gyoza for the table, and you don’t stop him.

The food comes fast, as always, and you fall into a rhythm you didn’t realize you’d been missing: real conversation, no council agendas or time limits or looming group projects.

Jake is funny. You knew that. But he’s also thoughtful—asking about your mom’s cooking, your capstone progress, even the random book on your nightstand he glimpsed once when dropping something off.

You twirl your noodles, chewing slowly. “Are you always like this when you’re not being the campus golden boy?”

Jake lifts a brow. “You mean humble and charming?”

“I mean weirdly observant. And kinda soft.”

He shrugs, smile lopsided. “Only with people who matter.”

That makes your throat tighten a little, so you take a sip of broth instead of answering. After dinner, you walk back together, your pace unhurried. The air is cooler now, your breath visible in short bursts, and the ramen sits warm in your stomach, grounding.

Jake kicks a pebble along the sidewalk as you near your apartment. “So… are we doing this?”

You glance at him. “Doing what?”

“This,” he says, motioning vaguely between you. “The talking. The intentional eye contact. The ramen. I mean, I’m into it. Even if you’re taking it slow—especially if you are.”

You stop just shy of your building’s steps and face him fully. “I don’t want this to be a crash-and-burn. I’ve had enough of those.”

Jake nods, eyes sincere. “I’m not in a rush. Not if it means you’ll actually let me be here.”

You study him for a moment— how he stands there with no expectations, just the quiet offer of something real. And you decide, maybe for the first time in a long while, to trust your gut.

“Want to come up?” you ask. “Just to hang out.”

Jake smiles like you’ve handed him the moon. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

So you climb the stairs together. Slowly. Side by side. And for once, it feels like you’re not trying to outpace your own heart.

Your roommate, Eli, as in “short for Elias, but don’t call me that unless you’re my landlord or my grandma”, invites you and Jake to a party one Thursday night. You’re halfway through folding laundry when he knocks on your door, half-dressed in a vintage tee and chain necklace combo you’ve seen maybe twice: once at a concert, once on his Tinder profile (you helped him pick the photo).

“You two busy this weekend?” he asks, leaning against the door frame like he isn’t about to drop a bomb.

You blink, socks in hand. “I mean, I’ve got a study group Saturday morning. And Jake has his—what is it—solar co-op meeting?” You glance toward the living room, where Jake’s hunched over a spreadsheet at the kitchen table, hoodie sleeves pushed up.

“It’s not a co-op,” Jake calls without looking up. “It’s an energy transition panel.”

Eli smirks. “Whatever it is, cancel it. You’re both coming to my party.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Your party?”

Jake turns fully in his seat now, interested. “Like, you’re hosting?”

“I’m headlining,” Eli says, with zero humility.

You stare. “Headlining what?”

“The party,” he says, like it's obvious. “Downtown. Warehouse venue. Real speakers. Lights. Smoke machines. It’s legit.” He pauses for effect. “I’m spinning the midnight set.”

Jake speaks first. “Spinning—are you saying you’re a DJ?”

You’re still trying to process the words headlining and warehouse.

Eli grins. “Surprise.”

You gape. “You’re a DJ? You’ve lived with me for nearly two years. I’ve never seen you touch a turntable.”

“I practice at my friend Marco’s place,” Eli says, like that’s normal.

“Better acoustics. Fewer distractions. Also, I didn’t think you cared about house and techno.”

“I don’t, but I still feel wildly betrayed that you’ve kept this from me.”

Jake, clearly amused, leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “Wait, what’s your DJ name?”

Eli runs a hand through his curls like he’s prepping for a photoshoot. “DJ Pet Theory.”

You and Jake immediately break into laughter. Jake chokes. “What?”

“It’s a nod to econ!” Eli says defensively. “You know, pet theory—a hypothesis someone’s overly attached to even if it’s not proven? Like how you always insisted energy markets are inherently self-correcting, even though they’re not—”

“Okay, wow,” you cut in, still laughing. “You are our major.”

Eli waves you off. “Anyway. I’ll put you on the guest list. Bring whoever you want. Just show up.”

Friday night comes faster than expected. You and Jake arrive at the venue a little past eleven, the building already pulsing with low bass and scattered LED strobe lights. It’s a warehouse in the loosest sense—somewhere between abandoned loft and art installation, with exposed beams and graffitied walls and a bar made out of repurposed scaffolding.

You didn’t know what to expect from “DJ Pet Theory,” but Eli is owning the stage. Black shirt. Headphones slung around his neck. A lit-up deck with spinning platters and glowing buttons. People are dancing — actually dancing — and the music is the kind of rhythmic, layered pulse that creeps into your bones and rewires your heartbeat.

Jake leans over to be heard. “Your roommate is kinda killing it.”

You laugh, eyes wide. “I feel like I live with a secret celebrity.”

You glance at Jake, whose hand is hovering just near yours—not quite touching, not pulling away either. “Wanna dance?” you ask, tipping your chin toward the floor.

And under Eli’s beats, bathed in colored light and unfamiliar adrenaline, you let yourself move—not the composed, calculated kind of movement you’re used to, but loose, free, wild.

The after party is at someone’s loft across town—all dim mood lighting, velvet furniture, and way too many people pretending they’re not as tipsy as they are.

You and Jake arrive together, trailing behind the mass of bodies that spilled out of the warehouse venue. Eli had given you both a nod and a smug wink before vanishing into a semi-circle of people who clearly worshiped the ground DJ Pet Theory stood on.

Jake’s saying something—probably asking if you want to dip early or see if there’s food—but you’re barely listening. There’s a pleasant buzz in your chest, a warm syrupy hum that’s half alcohol, half adrenaline. You didn’t drink much at the warehouse, but then someone handed you something in a plastic cup in the car, and now the room is kind of swaying like a sea anemone in slow motion.

And then, without warning, you reach for Jake’s hand. Not a brush, not a polite touch— you lace your fingers through his like you’ve done it a thousand times, and tug him into the crowd. He stumbles slightly, blinking down at your joined hands, clearly startled, but he doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens.

You snake through the tangle of bodies with surprising purpose, your free hand parting people as you lead him toward the corner bar. Jake follows, still looking at you like he’s not sure what just happened.

“Hey,” you say, turning to him once you’ve reached the bar, cheeks warm. You lean in, eyes a little glassy. “Can you get me water, please?”

Jake blinks. “Water?”

You nod, lips pushing into a subtle pout, and that’s when it clicks.

“Oh my God,” he laughs, breathless and bright. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m tipsy,” you insist, swaying forward just enough that he has to put his hand on your waist to keep you upright. “And thirsty.”

Jake grins like he’s never been happier to be chosen as your designated water-fetcher. “Okay, sweetheart. One water. Extra ice. Coming right up.”

You beam, turning your head slightly so your cheek brushes against his knuckles still resting at your waist. He doesn’t move, and neither do you.

A beat passes. Then you murmur, “You called me sweetheart.”

Jake’s mouth twitches, even as he flags down the bartender. “You held my hand like it was your birthright. I think we’re past nicknames being the boldest move of the night.”

You snort, leaning into him like he’s a safe place in a spinning room. “Bold’s kind of fun.”

Jake slips his arm around your waist. “Yeah? What else does bold want tonight?”

You pretend to think. “Water. Then maybe sitting down. Then maybe…” You tilt your head up at him, eyes gleaming. “Convince me you’re a good kisser.”

Jake actually chokes on his laugh, turning away briefly to accept the drink from the bartender, setting it gently into your hand.

He leans in close, voice low and amused, “You’ll remember saying that tomorrow, right?”

You grin around the straw. “I’ll remember everything.”

Jake shakes his head, grinning, still not letting go of your waist as he steers you toward a low couch near the windows. You curl into the corner with your knees up and your drink in hand, and he settles beside you, one arm slung casually along the back of the cushions. He’s not touching you, not quite, but close enough to remind you he’s still right there.

The city hums outside the window. The party swells behind you. Eli is still somewhere in the crowd, probably giving an impromptu lecture about modular synths or the collapse of the housing market.

And Jake? Jake’s watching you with a look that’s equal parts affection and awe. Like somehow, even drunk and pouting and stealing his hand in a sea of strangers, you’ve never been more yourself.

Jake gets you home safely. You don’t remember much of the ride back— just the steady thrum of tires on asphalt, your cheek against his shoulder, his hoodie soft and familiar beneath your temple. You think you mumbled something about noodles again. He laughed, low and fond, then carried most of your weight up the stairs when your legs refused to cooperate fully.

He didn’t try anything. Didn’t linger at your bedroom door, didn’t let his fingers drift anywhere they didn’t belong. He tucked you in, left a glass of water on your nightstand, and turned off the light without a word. You’re asleep before he even makes it to the couch.

You wake up with a cotton-dry mouth and the vague memory of dancing too close to speakers, of neon lights, of Jake’s laugh in the dark. You also remember holding his hand. And water. And maybe saying something about a kiss, though it’s fuzzy, and you decide not to dwell on it too hard. If it happened, you’re sure he’ll make fun of you eventually.

You pad into the living room, barefoot in a hoodie that might be his, and find Jake already awake, sitting upright on the couch with his phone in hand. His hair’s messy and there’s a blanket pooled around his waist. He doesn’t notice you at first.

He’s frowning. You’re about to say something—something light, something normal—when his phone buzzes again and you catch just enough of his expression to freeze.

“Morning,” you offer carefully, voice still sleep-rough.

Jake startles slightly, then looks up. His face shifts instantly—open, softer—but there’s something behind it. Something unreadable.

“Hey,” he says, voice a bit too even. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I swallowed sand,” you say, rubbing your eyes. “And maybe embarrassment.”

Jake smiles, but it’s distant. He sets the phone face down on the coffee table. “You were fine. Funny. A little clingy, but in an adorable way.”

“Clingy?” you ask, mock-offended.

“You tried to get me to order dumplings at the bar. At the after party.”

“That… tracks.” You blink. “Did I say anything else? Like… anything stupid?”

Jake hesitates. “Not stupid. Just… bold.”

You squint. “Did I flirt with you?”

He shrugs. “You kind of flirt with me all the time.”

That makes your stomach flutter. But before you can tease him for it, his phone buzzes again. He doesn’t reach for it this time. “What’s up?” you ask, nodding toward the screen.

Jake sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing.”

You give him a look.

He exhales, leans back against the couch. “It’s… someone I used to hook up with. She’s been texting since last night.”

Your stomach does an uncomfortable flip. “Since last night?”

He nods. “Saw my name tagged in someone’s story. At the party.”

You feel yourself retreating a little, quiet defenses clicking into place. “And she just… decided to say hi?”

Jake looks at you then, eyes steady. “She said we were ‘hilarious.’ That I looked whipped. Asked if we were ‘a thing’ or if I was just filling time.”

You flinch at that. Try not to show it.

He notices anyway. “Hey,” he says quickly. “I didn’t respond. I’m not interested in her—haven’t been in a long time. But I didn’t want to lie if it came up. I didn’t want you hearing it from someone else.”

You nod, throat tight. “Thanks for telling me.”

Silence settles between you. Not cold, just heavy. Like there’s too much you’re both still learning how to say. “I didn’t know if I should bring it up,” Jake says quietly. “But if this is going somewhere—and I want it to—I want to be straight with you. No half-truths. No games.”

You stare at him, heart thudding. “Even if I get weird about stuff?”

He reaches for your hand. Not like last night, not with adrenaline behind it, just gentle, grounding. “Especially if you get weird about stuff.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, even as your chest aches. “You’re really not gonna run screaming, huh?”

Jake squeezes your hand. “Nope. Sorry. You’re stuck with me.”

The buzzing phone is forgotten. The ache in your head dulls. And the thing between you—fragile, slow-building, messy—feels a little more real than it did the night before. You don’t kiss him. Not yet. But your fingers stay laced through his, and he doesn’t let go.

Jake’s waiting for you outside your lecture hall Monday afternoon, leaned against a bike rack in his grey hoodie and wind-tossed hair, one foot kicked back behind the other like he’s posing for a casual campus magazine spread. He perks up the second he sees you—eyes soft, dimples already showing.

“You look awake,” he teases, straightening.

“I drank three cups of coffee and threatened to fight my TA,” you reply, swinging your bag over your shoulder.

“So, thriving,” he says, falling into step beside you. “What’re your Monday cravings today?”

You glance at him. “Honestly? Dumplings.”

Jake smiles, slow and knowing. “Good.”

“Why good?”

“Because we’re going to my parents’ place. Just for a bit.” He reads your expression before you can speak. “Not to make things weird. You don’t even have to see my dad if you don’t want to. But you’ve been talking about dumplings for like a week, and my mom made a batch last night. She set some aside for us.”

You pout. “Jake…”

“She loves feeding people,” he says, nudging your arm with his. “If anything, you’re doing her a favor.”

You consider. He watches. Then you nod. “Okay. But I’m not changing out of this.”

He looks you over: hoodie, leggings, slight marker smudge on your hand from class. “You’re perfect.” You pretend not to hear that part.

His parents live just off campus— not far, not flashy. Their apartment is cozy and sunlit, filled with the smell of ginger and scallions. His mom opens the door with an apron tied around her waist and greets you like she’s known you forever.

“Oh! You’re the dumpling girl,” she says, beaming. “Come, come. Shoes off. Wash your hands.”

Jake laughs as he leads you in. “See? You’ve got a title now.”

The table is already prepped: bowls of filling, stacks of wrappers, a little dish of water for sealing. A plate of golden, pan-fried dumplings sits steaming at the center.

You take a seat and pick one up carefully, eyes wide. “These are perfect.”

Jake’s mom waves you off. “Try one. Then make one. Everyone contributes here.”

You take a bite. The wrapper is crisp and delicate, the inside warm and fragrant, with a perfect mix of pork, chives, and a little bite of garlic. You actually hum out loud.

Jake grins. “Told you.”

“You undersold it,” you say, licking your lip. “God, marry me.”

His mom wheezes with laughter. Jake chokes on a dumpling.

You freeze. “Oh, I—”

“It’s fine,” his mom wheezes, swatting the air. “He needs someone to keep him on his toes.”

Jake coughs into his water. “Wow. Betrayed in my own home.”

You spend the next hour learning how to fold dumplings properly. His mom shows you the pleating method she learned from her mom, correcting your hand placement with soft taps and guiding your fingers gently.

Jake leans in close from behind you, his chin nearly on your shoulder as he whispers, “That one looks like a shriveled raisin, just so you know.”

You elbow him, laughing.

But every time your hand brushes his, something buzzes under your skin. Not just from the shared space, from the ease. The way he fits here, and how easily he lets you fit too. Eventually, Jake’s mom shoos you both to the balcony with a plate of dumplings each. The sun is starting to dip low, casting everything in gold.

Jake leans back in the chair beside you, quiet for a moment. “Is all of this… okay?”

You glance at him. “More than okay.”

He doesn’t look away. “I know we’re not… labeling anything yet. But you’re important to me. Like, really important.”

Your heart kicks.

“I didn’t bring you here to pressure you,” he adds quickly. “I just… I’ve never had this before. Something that feels good without needing to rush it.”

You smile softly. “We’re making dumplings with your mom. This might be the healthiest relationship I’ve ever been in.”

Jake laughs. “That makes me happy to hear.”

You bump your knee against his. He bumps you back. The light shifts. The plates empty. Your hands still smell like sesame oil, and you think this could be a future. Quiet. Real. Built one careful fold at a time. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of that.

You’re standing just outside Jake’s parents’ place, the front door quietly shut behind you and the sky painted in soft purples and oranges. The warmth of dinner still clings to you— in your clothes, in your chest, in the corners of your smile. The scent of garlic lingers on your fingers, and you swear you still feel the gentle press of his mom’s hand as she sent you off with more dumplings than you’ll ever admit to needing.

Jake’s standing in front of you, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, and his eyes are on you like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. He’s been like this more often lately… watching you. Not in a heavy or expectant way. In a way that feels like quiet amazement. Like he still can’t believe he gets to be here.

The soft wind ruffles his hair a little, and you glance up at him, caught in the weightless moment before the world starts moving again. You smile. And he smiles back, slow and sweet. Something clicks. Not loud, just certain.

Because how is it possible that all this has happened—the meetings, the after parties, the hand-holding, the dumpling folding—and you still haven’t kissed?

Your thoughts slow to a single pulse. And you don’t overthink it. You don’t hesitate. You lean in and kiss him.

Jake freezes for half a heartbeat—maybe out of surprise, maybe because he’s been waiting for this longer than he let on—but then he melts into it, hands finding your waist like instinct. His mouth moves against yours gently at first, but it deepens fast, natural, hungry in the way only long-held restraint can birth.

You press up onto your toes, fingers curling into the collar of his hoodie as he tilts his head, pulling you closer, closer. His lips are warm and sure, a little breathless, a little desperate. Your back bumps softly against the brick wall of the entryway, and he barely breaks the kiss to breathe, just murmurs your name like a secret, like a prayer, before diving back in.

It’s not sloppy, not clumsy. It’s all heat and history and so much unspoken need finally unfolding between you. And when you finally part—noses brushing, lips kiss-drunk and swollen—he lets out a small, disbelieving laugh.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You rest your forehead against his, breath still shaky. “Yeah.”

He brushes his thumb along your cheekbone, tender and reverent. “So, dumplings… and that.”

You grin, heart soaring. “Best Monday ever?”

Jake’s voice is soft but certain: “Easily.”

You stay there a little longer, tucked into each other beneath the streetlight glow, not quite ready to go home yet—not because you need anything more, but because sometimes the best parts of a beginning deserve to linger.

It’s the end of the school year, and everything feels like it’s on the edge of changing. Finals are over. Campus is shedding its skin: flyers peeling off cork boards, couches showing up mysteriously on curbs, cardboard boxes stacked in dorm windows like a secret code.

You and Jake are still wrapped in the rhythm you found somewhere between dumplings and that first kiss. You’ve had a hundred more since then. Some soft, some breathless, some goodbye-kisses-that-turn-into-stay-awhile.

But now, summer is looming. Jake’s halfway through an old action movie on mute when Eli plops down beside him on the couch, two cold beers in hand like it’s a peace offering or maybe a trap.

Jake takes one, skeptical. “You trying to soften me up before asking for a ride to the airport?”

Eli grins. “Nah, just figured we should have a little talk before the semester ends. Y’know, guy to guy. Roommate’s boyfriend to roommate.”

You’re wrapping loose ends on campus and Jake agreed to wait for you at your place, leaving him home with Eli— which is normally okay, except Jake doesn’t know where this conversation is heading.

Jake blinks. “This sounds threatening already.”

“It’s not. Mostly.”

Jake opens the beer. “Shoot.”

Eli leans back, glancing toward your closed bedroom door. “You’ve been good to her.”

Jake’s caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Thanks, man.”

“I mean it. I’ve known her since she was falling asleep in Econ and eating saltines for dinner. She’s still stubborn as hell, but she’s… softer with you. Happier.”

Jake glances down, smile tugging at his lips. “She makes it easy.”

Eli hums, takes a sip. “Just promise me you won’t make things weird when I move out.”

Jake nearly chokes. “You’re moving out?”

“Thinking about it,” Eli shrugs. “Got some cash stacked from DJing, and I figure it’s time. You two practically live together anyway— I’m just the third guy in the rom-com montage at this point.”

Jake chuckles. “You sure you’re not gonna miss our passive-aggressive dishwasher notes?”

Eli points at him. “Hell nah. But… I might frame the one that says ‘rinse your rice bowls or face god.’”

Jake laughs, then sobers just slightly. “We might not have gotten together if you it weren’t for you.”

Eli nods, more genuine than Jake expects. “You’re good for her. That’s all I care about.” Then, with a grin: “But if you fuck it up, I am stealing her back for roommate rights and we’re no longer friends.”

Jake laughs and holds up his beer. “Fair enough.”

The next morning, sunlight's slipping across your kitchen floor, and Jake’s already made coffee — he hands you your mug the way he always does, thumb brushing yours like clockwork. You’re still in his hoodie, hair up, barefaced, and he still looks at you like you hung the damn moon.

“So…” he says between sips, leaning against the counter. “Summer.”

You raise a brow. “What about it?”

Jake shrugs, casual. “I was thinking… we stay. Here. Together.”

You smirk, setting your mug down. “What are you proposing?”

“Only that we keep making out, have sex, and fold each other’s laundry for the foreseeable future.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, settling against him. “That sounds… ideal.”

Jake kisses your forehead. “You’ve got your internship. I’ve got that research gig with Professor Kwon. We’ll both be busy, but we’ll come home to each other.”

You look up at him, touched by how natural it all sounds. How possible it feels.

“Okay,” you say softly. “You really thought this through.”

Jake smiles, hands resting on your hips like he doesn’t plan to let go.

“And hey,” he adds, a little grin tugging at his mouth, “if Eli’s really moving out…”

You grin. “We are not turning his room into a sex dungeon.”

Jake tries to look disappointed. “Okay, but like. Reading nook slash sex dungeon?”

“Oh babe, I was just kidding... but if you really thought about it...” You laugh, full-bodied and warm, pressing your lips to his. It’s domestic. It’s stupid. It’s exactly right.

[big-ooof]

My Old Rival’s Brother

Heeseung x f!reader

You didn’t think much of seeing Lee Heeseung, especially not after you graduated high school. So you thought you had imagined him: backlit in the kitchen at some off-campus college party, the flicker of cheap string lights catching in the gold rim of his beer can, a few inches taller than you remembered.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Just nods once, lifting his drink in casual acknowledgment. You nod back. Cool. Grown. Totally unaffected.

You know him because of his younger brother— who you haven’t seen since high school either. The same kid you used to butt heads with in every honors class, every student council meeting, every senior superlative vote. The rivalry was real, but juvenile. You told yourself it ended with the cap and gown.

So when Heeseung’s eyes lingered a beat too long, you didn’t read into it. You weren’t supposed to cross paths with him. And technically, you never really did. Not until that night, at a party you didn’t want to be at, wearing someone else’s lip gloss and laughing too hard to care who was around. You had too much. That much was clear. One moment you were reaching for a drink, the next, the room felt too loud. Someone’s hand landed on your waist, and when you tried to back up, it tightened.

Heeseung found you in a dim hallway—eyes sharp, voice low, pulling the guy off you with quiet authority. No fight, no scene, just a hand braced on your shoulder and a simple, “She’s not into it. Walk away.” You didn’t remember much after that... only that he got you water, stayed near the bathroom door while you sat on the edge of the tub, and offered to call a friend if you didn’t want him to take you home. You didn’t ask why he helped. Maybe because you knew he didn’t owe you anything.

“You okay?” he asked, crouched in front of you. His voice was gentle, not pitying.

You nodded too fast. “Just… embarrassed.”

He gave a quiet laugh. “Don’t be. He’s the one who should be embarrassed.”

You glanced up then, cheeks warm for a whole new reason. “You didn’t have to step in.”

He shrugged. “Sure I did. Look, my brother might be a dick, but you’re not a stranger. Honestly, I would've stepped in even if you were a stranger.”

You didn’t talk much after that night— a few run-ins at the library, the same mutual friend’s birthday dinner, a passing glance in the student center that made your stomach twist for no good reason.

But the thing about Heeseung is… he sees you. Not as a footnote to some petty rivalry from high school. Not as a girl who got drunk and needed saving. Just you in your fourth year of college, tired, busy, and doing everything you can to pretend he doesn’t make you wonder what would happen if you let your guard down.

You shouldn't want him. But something about him feels like a line you never expected to toe— like a secret the past left behind, waiting to be opened. And Heeseung? He never pries. Never assumes. But the way his gaze lingers when you speak, the way he calls you by your name, never his “little brother’s rival”, makes it hard to pretend he’s just another guy. Especially now that he knows what it looks like when you fall apart.

The air hits your face the second you step outside the party. The air is cool and damp with late fall, like it knows you need sobering up. You squint at the sidewalk. It wobbles.

“Why is the ground moving,” you mutter to no one in particular, a hand going up to your forehead like that’ll help realign gravity. You pause, then press your finger to your temple with deep concentration. “Okay. No. Wait. I got this.”

Behind you, the door clicks shut, and footsteps follow. You don’t have to look — you already know it’s him. Somehow you can feel it, like a drop in pressure. Your stomach does a tiny, useless flip.

“You good?” Heeseung’s voice cuts through the quiet, amused but not teasing. He stops beside you, a full step away, like he’s trying not to crowd you.

You nod. Then shake your head. Then furrow your brows and squint again at the concrete. “I was trying to walk in a straight line. But the line is… mean.”

That makes him laugh. Really laugh. It’s low and warm and it rumbles through your chest like an echo you didn’t ask for.

You glance up, your pout deepening. “It’s not funny. I’m serious. My body is perfect, the sidewalk is the problem.”

Heeseung leans against the railing, one brow raised. “Your body is perfect, huh?”

You blink, realizing what you said. “Oh my god,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Don’t repeat things.”

“You said it.” He tries, really tries, to keep a straight face but fails miserably. “I’m just confirming the facts.”

You swing half-heartedly at his arm and miss. He catches your wrist gently anyway, holding it between them. You don’t pull away. It’s not like you’re touching him, really. His grip is light. Reassuring.

Still, your voice drops to a murmur. “You really didn’t have to come out here.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, letting your hand go. “Didn’t want you wandering off to fight the sidewalk alone.”

You giggle, a surprised, slightly hiccuped sound that makes him smile. You try to school your expression into something less… soft, but it’s too late.

The silence settles between you like fresh snow. And then: “I want snacks,” you whisper, almost mournful.

He blinks. “You what?”

You pout harder, pointing vaguely down the street. “Convenience store. Like. Chips. Maybe banana milk. The good kind with the glass bottles and the sticker on top.”

He squints. “You mean the imported kind that costs, like, five bucks a bottle?”

“Yeah,” you sigh dreamily. “Bougie milk.”

Heeseung looks at you like you’ve grown an extra head... then grins, slow and reluctant. “I can’t tell if this is the alcohol talking or if you’re always like this when you’re tired.”

“I’m always like this when I’m comfortable,” you mumble, without thinking.

That shuts him up for half a second. When you dare to peek at him again, his gaze is gentler. Not heavy, not invasive—just there, holding the moment steady while your heart stutters behind your ribs.

Then, he nods toward the sidewalk. “Alright, come on.”

You blink. “Where?”

“Convenience store,” he says like it’s obvious. “You wanted snacks, right?”

You narrow your eyes. “Stop playing with me.”

He smirks. “I’m not, I’m walking with you to get overpriced banana milk because you look like you’ll cry if I don’t.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You were about to go to war with a sidewalk.”

“…Okay. Fair.”

You start walking, your shoulder brushing his briefly before you catch yourself and shift an inch away. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move, either. Just keeps pace beside you, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly in your direction as if he doesn’t want to miss anything you might say next.

And somehow—between the dim streetlights, the chill in the air, and the quiet crunch of leaves underfoot—it feels almost too easy. Almost like the past never happened. Like he’s not your high school rival’s older brother. Like you’re just two people on a late-night snack run, wrapped in the kind of silence that doesn’t demand anything but presence.

The bell above the door chimes softly as you step inside, and you immediately sigh in relief at the familiar smell: sugar, instant ramen, freezer air, and a faint, lingering citrus cleaner. Comfort. Simplicity. Heeseung walks in behind you, nodding a polite thanks at the tired college-age guy behind the counter. The fluorescent lights flicker once. You don’t even flinch. You’re too busy making a beeline for the drink fridge.

There it is. Top shelf, back corner— banana milk in the fancy bottle. A little overpriced and entirely unnecessary, but you beam like it’s the rarest treasure on Earth. You reach for it, still humming softly to yourself, then turn slightly, eyes trailing the snack wall. Chips, gummies, chocolate sticks. You could live here, probably. Set up a blanket in the frozen section and never leave.

You’re mid-stare, head tilted, when the clerk—now restocking a shelf you didn’t notice him behind—drops a box with a sudden thud. You startle visibly, heart lurching, and without thinking, your hand flies out and grabs Heeseung’s. Your fingers wrap tight around his like instinct. Grounding. Like your body chose safety before your brain caught up.

Heeseung goes still beside you, eyes flicking down to your hands. You don’t even notice. You’re too busy looking at the chip rack like it holds the meaning of life, brows furrowed in adorable confusion.

“Hm,” you murmur. “Why are there so many flavors of honey butter chips now? This feels like a marketing scam.”

He’s silent for a second too long. When he finally responds, his voice is quieter. “You okay?”

You glance up, surprised. Then you follow his gaze down. Your hand. His. “Oh,” you whisper, slowly letting go. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he says quickly, and when you glance at his face, you see it—the amused, almost fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Happy to know I’ve got steady hands for a guy who’s apparently a human seatbelt now.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but it doesn’t quite land with the heat you want it to. Mostly because you’re still slightly swaying in place and he’s still watching you like he’s memorizing every stupid, tipsy expression you make.

You turn back to the shelf, determined not to do anything else embarrassing. He lets you browse a minute more. Then, when you’re mid-debate between shrimp chips and strawberry gummies, you hear the soft beep of a scanner. You turn around. Heeseung’s already at the counter.

“Hey—hey, I was gonna get those.”

He shrugs, sliding his card back into his wallet. “Too slow. I win.”

“You what?”

“You heard me.” He grins, grabbing the little plastic bag and calling over his shoulder, “Come on, before you try to guilt-trip me into buying gum too.”

You scurry after him, flustered. “I wasn’t done shopping!”

“You were spiraling in front of the snacks,” he says, holding the door for you. “This was a mercy purchase.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. But when you step outside again—same crisp air, same sleepy quiet—something soft settles in your chest. You reach for the bag automatically and instead… you reach for his hand. You don’t mean to. Don’t even look down at first. But your fingers slide between his— loose, unguarded, like your body’s still running a second behind your thoughts.

Heeseung doesn’t say anything. He just adjusts his grip slightly. Holds on. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You walk the next block that way, your thumb brushing his without realizing, your head too foggy to register what’s happening.

And Heeseung? He watches your profile from the corner of his eye. The way your smile softens, the way your body leans slightly toward him like a sunflower tilting for warmth. He doesn’t remind you of who he is. He doesn’t ask if you’ll remember in the morning. He just lets you hold on, hand in hand under a streetlight neither of you notice, in a night that already feels like a secret.

You wake up to sunlight creeping through your blinds. You groan, squinting at your phone screen as the world comes back in slow, sleepy fragments. Headache: mild. Stomach: stable. Memory: spotty. You remember the party. Someone’s bad playlist. A hallway. Cold air. Then— the convenience store. Your brows knit. Did that really happen?

You sit up, ignoring the pounding in your skull, and look around. Your bag is on your desk. Your shoes are off. And on your nightstand sits a small plastic convenience store bag with... banana milk. The bougie kind. Glass bottle. Sticker on top. You reach for it slowly, like it might disappear if you move too fast. And that’s when your phone buzzes again.

Heeseung: hey hope you’re feeling okay you didn’t fight the sidewalk after i left, right?

You stare at the screen. Read it twice. No mention of your hand in his. Of the warmth between your fingers, or the way you leaned against him like he was yours. Just simple. Casual. Easy. Too easy.

Your heart sinks a little—the kind of low, hollow feeling you can’t explain. Because sure, maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just alcohol. But something about it had felt… different. Steady. Real. Now it feels like a dream you weren’t supposed to remember.

You: no fights sidewalk and i made peace thanks for the milk btw

A pause. You watch the typing dots appear, then vanish. Appear again. Then...

Heeseung: anytime you were cute about it lol banana milk diplomacy

You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself. You were cute about it. You remember the way you pouted, how he smiled. How warm his hand felt in yours.

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard… was i weird last night?

You delete it. Instead you text: let me know if i owe you anything

Three dots. Then—

Heeseung: you don’t we’re good

Simple. Unbothered. And somehow, that hits harder than anything else. Because Heeseung isn’t pretending you didn’t hold his hand. He’s just acting like it didn’t matter. And you? You wish you didn’t care that much.

You put your phone down. Take a sip of the milk. It’s sweet, nostalgic, familiar. It tastes like something you weren’t supposed to want, but did anyway. You press the cold glass to your cheek and close your eyes. Maybe it’s better this way. No tension. No weirdness. Just a quiet night and a boy who used to be untouchable — now close enough to hold. Even if only for a moment you won’t bring up.

You grab the bottle of peach soju from the shelf with practiced ease, cradling it against your hip as you move toward the checkout. It’s barely past 7 p.m., and the city’s already buzzing with pre-weekend energy— students crowding into bars, couples ducking into restaurants, people like you heading to casual kickbacks with friends and plastic cups.

You didn’t want to show up empty-handed, even if the group text said, “No pressure, we’ve got stuff!”You don’t do well with “no pressure.”

Your hoodie sleeves are tugged over your knuckles as you wait in line, eyes on your phone, scrolling aimlessly.

“Drinking again?” a familiar voice says just behind you— light, warm, and a little too amused.

You freeze. Turn. And there he is: Heeseung. Baseball cap. Black zip-up. Grocery basket in one hand, and that unreadable expression on his face—halfway between smirk and sincerity.

You open your mouth, but nothing clever comes out. So you go with: “It’s for a friend.”

He raises a brow. “A friend who just happens to like peach soju? Isn’t that your favorite?”

You narrow your eyes, cheeks heating. “I didn’t say I wasn’t drinking.”

He hums. “Ah. So you are drinking. Got it.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m just connecting the dots.” His tone is teasing, but not unkind. “Last time you drank, you nearly challenged a sidewalk to a duel and told me your body was perfect.”

“Oh god.” You bury your face in your free hand. “You said we were good. I thought that meant you were gonna forget.”

“I said you didn’t owe me anything.” He shifts slightly in line, then leans a little closer, dropping his voice. “I never said I forgot.”

That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does. You clear your throat. “Anyway. I’m heading to my friend’s place after this.”

He nods, eyes scanning your face like he’s reading something between the lines. Then he softens. “Don’t drink too much, yeah?”

You lift your chin. “Not planning to.”

A beat passes. Then he gives you a crooked smile, quieter this time, like he’s offering something just for you. “Have fun.”

You nod, too fast. “Yeah. You too.”

And just like that, you’re at the register. You fumble your card twice, leave the receipt behind, and walk out into the night with a stupid blush still on your face.

You leave around 10 p.m. The streets are quieter now, the party buzz behind you, and the soju in your veins has you pleasantly floaty—not messy, just light. Like your thoughts are wearing slippers instead of shoes. You walk with your hood pulled up, earbuds in but no music playing, half-talking to yourself as your steps echo down the sidewalk.

“I should’ve gotten snacks,” you mutter. “Why don’t I ever think about snacks on the way home?”

You pass a bus stop, glance at your reflection in the glass, and frown. “I look cute, though. Kinda flushed. Drunk but not tragic. That’s a win.”

“You always talk to yourself like that?”

You jump. Whirl. Heeseung. Again. You blink at him like he’s a ghost.

He’s leaned casually against the railing of a closed café, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a bottled coffee. He looks way too composed for someone who’s just caught you mid-drunken monologue.

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he confirms, clearly trying not to laugh. “You looked like you were giving yourself a pep talk.”

“I was. You interrupted.”

“Sorry,” he says—not sorry at all. “Was just heading back from the bar. Saw someone talking to a bus stop and thought, no way that’s her again.”

You cross your arms. “You’ve got amazing timing, you know that?”

He shrugs, steps forward. “Or maybe we’re just on the same wavelength.”

You glance away, your face warm. “Are you stalking me or something?”

“No,” he says smoothly. “But if I were, you’d never know.”

That shouldn’t make you smile. But it does. You try to hide it by biting your lip, and that just makes him grin wider.

“You headed home?” he asks.

You nod. “Just a few more blocks.”

“Cool. I’ll walk with you.”

You start to protest—something about him not needing to, that you’re fine, really—but you stop yourself. Because you want this. You want his calm presence next to you. The quiet way he notices you without demanding anything. The way he never pushes, never pretends.

You nod and fall into step beside him. No sidewalk wars. No banana milk. Just a streetlamp-lit walk home, and the slow, steady unraveling of something you never thought would begin.

You reach your door with a flushed face and a heart that’s trying way too hard to act chill. You pause, key half-raised, and glance back at Heeseung who’s standing just behind you. Neither of you says anything right away.

You’re still giggling over something dumb— some comment he made about the two types of drunk girls (the ones who want food and the ones who want validation, and you somehow want both). But now the silence stretches. Feels thicker. The hallway’s dim. Your porch light flickers once.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. “Thanks for walking me.”

Heeseung nods, hands still stuffed in his jacket pockets. “No problem.”

He doesn’t move. You look at him again and something in his expression has changed. Still casual. Still calm. But his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. Like he’s weighing something. Like he’s wondering how far he’s allowed to go.

“Did you wanna…” you start, voice quieter now. “Come in? Just for a bit?”

He raises a brow, unreadable. “You sure?”

You swallow. It’s not like you didn’t think about this. About what it might feel like to cross that line. The tension that’s been building quietly—the looks, the teasing, the memory of his fingers laced with yours—you weren’t imagining it. And you’re not too drunk to know what you want.

You nod once, slow. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click. You flick on a low lamp in the living room, casting everything in a warm glow. He steps out of his shoes while you shrug off your jacket off, the silence humming between you like a tightrope.

“Still feel okay?” he asks gently, watching you from the doorway.

You nod. “Honestly… better now.”

Heeseung smiles at that— a quiet curve of his lips, more intimate than anything he’s said. His eyes trail over you once, deliberate but respectful. His voice is softer now. “You looked cute tonight.”

You blink. “Really?”

He steps closer, his presence suddenly everywhere. “You don’t remember how you looked when you were pouting in the snack aisle?”

You exhale a shaky laugh. “God, you’re never letting me live that down.”

“Maybe I liked it,” he murmurs.

And when you look up at him, eyes wide and unsure, he finally lets the tension break. He kisses you. Slow, at first—just enough pressure to test the waters, to make sure you won’t pull away. But you don’t. You lean in. Your hands slide up the front of his hoodie and tangle in the fabric near his collarbones, tugging him closer.

His lips part against yours with a soft exhale, and the kiss deepens. More urgent now, like something long overdue. You feel his hands brush your waist, then settle low on your back, anchoring you.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Yeah?” he breathes, forehead almost touching yours.

Your heart stutters. You nod. “Yeah. Yes...please.”

Heeseung doesn’t need to be asked twice. Clothes come off in slow pieces. His hoodie, your tank top, your shorts sliding down your legs as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the skin he uncovers. He moves with quiet confidence: steady hands, lingering touches, like he wants you to feel everything, not just the heat but the intention.

Your back hits the bed and you gasp when he kisses down your neck, trailing over your collarbone.

He lifts his head briefly, voice low. “Still thinking about banana milk?”

You groan, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re such an ass.”

But you’re smiling. And he’s grinning against your skin.

In the morning, you blink yourself awake to the sound of sheets shifting. Heeseung’s chest is pressed against your back, arm tucked under yours, hand splayed over your stomach. For a moment, you don’t move. Because it’s real. Not a dream. Not a drunken blur. Your bed. Your room. Him.

And you’re warm in ways that aren’t just physical— the kind of warmth that settles behind your ribs and tells you, you’re safe here. You shift slightly and feel him stir behind you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravelly from sleep. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, his arm curls tighter around you.

You smile into your pillow. “Hey.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just buries his nose into your hair, breathing you in. Then his voice floats out—soft, slow, like he’s been holding it in all night.

“You know,” he starts, “you don’t remember holding my hand that night, do you?”

Your breath catches. He hums like he expected that.

“You were pouting at the sidewalk,” he says, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Looked so serious. Said the line wasn’t straight. Then you grabbed my hand and kept holding it while talking about overpriced milk.”

You press your lips together. “…I remember some of it.”

His thumb rubs slow circles against your stomach. “You laced your fingers with mine. Just like that. Didn’t even look down. Like it was nothing.”

You shift onto your back, staring up at the ceiling, your heart pounding. “I wasn’t that drunk.”

“I know,” he says easily. “That’s why I didn’t let myself forget it.”

That does something to you, snaps something loose and hungry in your chest. You turn your head toward him. He’s already looking at you. Hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep, mouth just barely curved. There’s no teasing this time. No guarded smirk. Just this honest, quiet affection in his gaze that makes you ache.

And you move before you can think. One leg swings over his hips, and you climb into his lap, palms braced on either side of his chest. His eyes widen for only a second before his hands find your thighs, then your waist, grounding you.

Your voice is low now. “You really remember all that?”

“I remember everything,” he says, almost reverent. You shift your weight slightly in his lap, and his grip tightens just enough to make your breath hitch.

“I remember how warm your hand was,” he continues, “how you didn’t flinch when I held it tighter. How you looked up at me like I was already someone you trusted.”

You swallow, body suddenly alight with the attention. The clarity in his voice, the memory you didn’t think he’d hold onto. “Heeseung...” you whisper, leaning down just enough that your noses brush. “You kissed me first last night,” you remind him, like it matters. Like it justifies the way you’re already rolling your hips against his, slow, experimental.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. He just murmurs, “Yeah... and you said please.”

That makes you whimper. The memory, the heat, the way he’s looking at you now like he wants to memorize this too. You kiss him again, and this time, it’s hungry. No hesitation. No fog. Just you, fully awake, fully wanting, fully aware of what this is.

Heeseung looks up at you, flushed, beautiful, already hard under you and still somehow calm in that maddening way. He meets you halfway, mouth opening under yours as his hands slide up your back, then into your hair. His grip anchors you in place, but his kiss is anything but controlling it’s open, generous, like he’s still letting you lead even now.

The sound of a pan sizzling competes with the quiet hum of your space heater, and the light in your kitchen is sleepy-soft, filtering in through gauzy curtains. You’re perched on the counter, oversized hoodie covering most of your legs, while Heeseung stands at the stove—barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, focused on not burning the eggs.

He glances back at you and smiles, like it’s easy, like he’s been doing this forever. “You okay with these?” he asks, nodding at the eggs.

You swing your legs. “I’m not picky. You could’ve handed me cereal and I would’ve clapped.”

He chuckles. “Cereal’s too easy. I’m trying to impress you, remember?”

You pause at that. The way he says it is casual, but his back is still to you—maybe so he doesn’t have to see how that lands. You feel your chest warm anyway.

“It’s working,” you say lightly, just enough truth under it to matter.

When he brings the plate over and stands between your knees, your fingers brush as you take it from him. He doesn’t move away. Just tilts his head slightly and looks at you—like he’s thinking about something deeper than eggs.

You stab a piece of yolk with your fork. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

Heeseung raises a brow. “Mm?”

“Your brother,” you say, careful. “What’d he think of all our high school rivalry stuff?”

He smiles into his coffee. “Oh, he was dramatic about it.”

You laugh.

“No, really,” he says, nudging your knee. “He’d come home after debate club or student council and rant about how you were ruining his legacy.”

You snort. “I was just trying to do my job. It’s not my fault he thought class president came with a throne.”

Heeseung leans in a little. “You scared him.”

You freeze. “What?”

“Not in a bad way. Just… you were good. Smart. Cutthroat when you needed to be. It made him insecure.”

You stare at him, a little stunned.

“I always liked that about you,” he adds, eyes softer now. “That you didn’t try to make yourself small, even when everyone expected you to. You were tough.”

You blink. “Were?”

He smirks. “Still are. But now you pout at sidewalks and get tipsy off peach soju, and it’s—” He breaks off with a soft laugh. “It’s cute.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “Stop.”

“I’m serious,” he says, voice lower now. “I remember that version of you — the girl who never let anyone get the last word. And I think that’s why this version…” His thumb brushes your knee gently. “The version who lets me hold her hand without thinking, who lets herself be soft in front of me… It just hits different.”

You can’t speak. You just look at him—really look—and wonder how long he’s been seeing you like this. And then your phone buzzes.

You groan. “Ugh. I forgot. My friend wants me to come by the bookstore before two.”

Heeseung steps back slowly, giving you space. “I’ll walk with you.”

You’re browsing near the poetry shelves when you hear someone behind you say, “Well, if it isn’t my old nemesis.”

You turn, startled. His brother. The one you haven’t spoken to since graduation. Hair longer, smile the same: smug, a little sharp, but not cruel.

“Hey,” you say cautiously, offering a small wave.

He glances between you and Heeseung. “Wow. This is unexpected.”

Heeseung steps up beside you. “Play nice.”

“Oh, I’m not mad. I’m impressed,” his brother says, giving Heeseung a playful shove. “I always knew she had good taste. Just didn’t know it extended to you.”

You raise a brow. “I curated the student artist’s work who won the competition and got to display their work at the gallery for a month while yours didn’t, right?”

His brother laughs. “Ouch. So we’re doing that.”

You smirk. “You opened with ‘nemesis.’”

“Touche,” he says, then glances at Heeseung again. “Seriously, though. Happy for you.”

Heeseung shrugs. “She came around.”

“She must really like you. I was never allowed this close without getting verbally destroyed.”

You grin. “That was self-defense. You weaponized bullet points.”

His brother raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I retired from the competition years ago.”

You give him a half-smile. “Same.”

There’s a beat of quiet—not awkward, just… full. Like all the past tension is still hovering but harmless now.

“I should go,” his brother says finally. “But it’s nice to see you. Really.”

“Yeah,” you say, surprised to mean it. “You too.”

He walks away with a backward wave. Heeseung watches him go, then turns to you. “That went better than I thought.”

You nod. “Weirdly… yeah.”

He watches you for another beat, then tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “Still think about destroying him sometimes?”

“Of course.” You grin. “But now I’m sleeping with his older brother, so. Feels like a win.”

Heeseung full-on laughs, the sound echoing through the quiet aisle. He pulls you gently by the hand, presses a kiss to your temple.

[big-ooof]

Runaway

Jake x f!reader sexual content 18+

You’ve been friends since orientation week. Two people who clung to each other in the chaos of college life. He was the reckless one back then, living for the next party, the next drink, the next story. You were quieter, observant, but when you drank — you ran. Literally. Out the door, down the street, through the quad barefoot at 1 a.m., always leaving behind chaos and a trail of worried friends.

He always followed.

Years pass. He starts to slow down. Not cold turkey, just gradually growing tired of hangovers and the shallow party circuit. But you? You’re still running, not just from nights out, but from your feelings… especially the ones about him.

He notices. He always has.

You call him when you’re walking home tipsy and barefoot again, and he shows up — no judgment, just soft laughter and his hoodie over your shoulders. You wake up the next morning with a pounding head and guilt gnawing at your ribs. He’s in your kitchen, making toast like he always does, like he’s always been yours.

You both pretend it’s not something more.

But the worst part? Everyone else sees it. Your friends roll their eyes when you deny anything’s there. They watch him tuck your hair behind your ear, watch your shoulders drop when he’s around. You both refuse to say it first.

Until one night, you run, again. But he doesn’t follow.

And that’s when it hits you.

part one: he always follows

You first met Jake during orientation week, the kind of meeting that felt like it wasn’t supposed to matter but somehow rewrote everything that came after. You were standing outside a dorm mixer, arms crossed, chewing your straw instead of talking to anyone. He saw you from across the lawn and came over, holding two red cups and that impossible grin.

“I brought backup,” he said, like he already knew you hated crowds.

You didn’t take the drink, but you let him stay.

From there, it was late-night fries and shared playlists, a friendship born in the margins — between classes, before exams, after parties you never stayed long enough to explain. Everyone else danced in circles around campus; you and Jake always seemed to find each other in the quiet.

And still, somehow, you never kissed him. You thought about it. Too often. But Jake was a little too reckless back then, and you were a little too good at disappearing. You didn’t know how to stay, and he didn’t know how to be still.

The running started your sophomore year. It wasn’t dramatic at first— just a little drunken flinch, an Irish goodbye after too many shots, a disappearing act when the room spun too fast or someone touched you too gently. You’d take off, sometimes no shoes, always no warning. Your friends called it your thing. Jake called it a pattern.

He learned not to drink too much when you were around. Learned how to spot the shift in your shoulders before you moved. He got good at slipping out after you, finding you on curbs, at vending machines, curled up on staircases with your knees pulled to your chest. You never asked him to. He never waited for thanks.

Now it’s senior year, and everything’s quieter. Jake doesn’t party much anymore. Says hangovers hit different when you’re thinking about job interviews and rent. He still goes out sometimes, but he nurses beers now, spends more time with his friends in kitchens than dance floors.

You’ve noticed. You’ve also noticed how he looks at you longer these days. How he doesn’t flirt with random girls anymore. How his hand lingers on your lower back when crowds press too close. It’s subtle—frustratingly so—but it’s there. A slow, patient ache.

And maybe that’s why it stings when you run again.

It happens on a Friday night, at a rooftop party hosted by someone you barely know. You weren’t going to go, but your roommate convinced you, and Jake said he’d be there too, so you let yourself dress up and try.

But the night gets too loud too fast. You drink too much. There’s some guy flirting with you. He’s nice enough, but you’re not interested, not really, not when Jake is leaning against the railing five feet away, watching but not stepping in. And that? That hurts more than it should.

So you leave. You slip out the side gate, not thinking, not planning—just walking fast, heart pounding, adrenaline surging like it always does when you can’t sit still with your own feelings. You don’t expect him to follow.

You walk six blocks before you realize he’s not behind you. You stop near the bus shelter, hugging your arms tight against the early spring chill. No familiar footsteps. No hoodie offered in silence. No soft, exasperated “Really? Again?”

Just you. Alone. Your chest tightens. The alcohol buzz warps into anxiety. You reach for your phone, thumb hovering over his name. You almost don’t press it. But then you do. He answers after two rings.

“Hey,” his voice is gentle, unreadable. “You okay?”

“I—I didn’t mean to just leave,” you whisper, your voice small. “I just… I needed air.”

“I figured.” A pause. “Where are you?”

“By 9th and Avery. The bus stop.”

Another pause. “Okay,” he says, but slower this time. “I can come get you.”

You close your eyes. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he says. “But I want to.”

When he shows up, he’s not smiling. He pulls his car to the curb, gets out, walks over and drapes his jacket over your shoulders without a word. You slip into it automatically. He opens the passenger door, and you get in, silence folding in between you. It lasts until he parks outside your place.

“I didn’t follow you this time,” he says, hands still on the steering wheel.

“I know.”

“I almost didn’t answer the call.” That stings when you hear it. He sees you flinch, his jaw flexes. “I just… I need to stop being your emergency contact every time the world gets too loud.”

Your stomach knots. “Jake—”

“I’m not mad,” he cuts in softly. “I just don’t know what I am to you anymore.”

That lands somewhere low in your chest, sharp and thick and awful.

“You’re…” You trail off, the words tasting like metal.

He turns his head, finally looking at you. “Do you even want me to stop chasing you?”

You blink. “What?”

“Because if you do, I will. I just need to know.”

The air stills. You reach for the door, but he says your name, low and careful, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again if he speaks too loud.

You can’t look at him. “I’m scared,” you admit.

“Of what?”

“That you’ll stop.”

Jake leans back, exhales slowly. “Then don’t make me.”

part two: don’t make me

The ride back should’ve been easy: a simple rescue, one of many. But something cracked open this time. You wake up the next morning in Jake’s jacket, curled under your own blanket, with your shoes by the front door and your phone charging on the nightstand. It’s all normal. Familiar.

But you don’t feel okay. Because he didn’t text. Not a goodnight, not a good morning. Nothing.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. His words play over and over in your head like a looped voicemail:

“I just don’t know what I am to you anymore.”

“Do you even want me to stop chasing you?”

“Then don’t make me.”

You haven’t cried yet. You don’t know if you’re allowed to. Not when you’re the one who keeps running, keeps confusing silence for safety. You’ve been selfish with him, haven’t you? Letting him be everything without giving him the title. Best friend, safe place, late-night ride, warm hoodie. He’s been all of it, and you’ve just… taken.

You pull the jacket tighter around yourself and sink back into the pillows, heart heavy.

It takes you two days to reach out. You send him something simple — a text that just says: “Are you free? I think I owe you a conversation.”

He replies an hour later. “Yeah. Come over whenever.”

You almost chicken out. But you go.

Jake’s apartment is warm and quiet when you arrive. He opens the door in sweatpants and a faded tee, barefoot, hair messy. His expression is unreadable. “You came,” he says softly.

You nod. “I didn’t want to pretend like that night didn’t happen.”

He steps back to let you in. “Good. Me neither.”

You sit on the edge of his couch while he stays standing, arms crossed loosely over his chest. You hate the distance. You hate that it’s your fault.

“I’m sorry,” you start.

“For what?” he asks. He’s not being cold… just tired. And honest.

“For making you feel like you’re not allowed to want more.”

Jake exhales. “That’s not on you, entirely. I should’ve set better boundaries.”

You nod. “But I should’ve been honest. With you. With myself.”

He watches you, gaze unwavering. “And what does honesty look like now?”

Your throat tightens. “It looks like me saying that I’ve been scared for a long time. Because the thought of losing you? Hurts more than the idea of never having you.”

The room goes quiet. He walks over slowly, kneels in front of you, hands braced on his knees like he’s steadying himself.

“You’ve had me,” he says quietly. “You’ve always had me. I’ve just been waiting for you to notice.”

“I noticed,” you whisper. “That night—when you didn’t follow—I noticed everything.”

Jake searches your face. “I didn’t follow because I didn’t want to be the person who enabled you anymore. I want to be the one you stay for. Not the one who always picks up the pieces.”

“I want that too,” you say. “I think I’ve always wanted that. I just didn’t think I was allowed.”

His eyes soften. “Why not?”

“Because I’m messy,” you admit, voice cracking. “I disappear when things get hard. I bottle everything up. I ruin things before they get real. And you—you’re good, Jake. You deserve someone who doesn’t need fixing.”

Jake reaches to hold your hands, rests them against your knee. “I don’t want perfect,” he says. “I want you. Even when you’re a little broken. Especially then.”

You breathe in.. shaky, overwhelmed, but for the first time in forever, you don’t want to run.

Later, you’re on his couch, side by side with a blanket pulled over both of you. A movie plays quietly in the background— something neither of you are watching.

Your head rests on his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, squeezing your hand.

He presses a soft kiss to your hair—not your lips, not yet. He’s giving you time. Space. A choice. And you know now that the next move is yours.

part three: you don’t run

The bar is loud, but not the kind of loud that sends you spiraling. It’s full, humming, warm—the kind of background noise you can blend into if you lean your head just right against the shoulder of the boy next to you. Which is exactly what you do.

Jake had invited you out, not like a date, not explicitly, but just you and him and a place that served late-night wings and even later-night milkshakes. You said yes because something in you was tired of running. Tired of guilt. Tired of missing him while sitting three feet away.

So now you’re here, in his hoodie, in his booth, in his space— and for the first time, you don’t feel like slipping out the back door and disappearing into the night. You sip your drink slowly. He’s nursing a soda. You both agreed earlier: no drinks tonight. Not because of what alcohol does to him, but what it always seems to do to you.

But you don’t feel wired or unsteady. You feel… soft. And you’re watching him. Jake’s turned slightly toward you, talking about some dumb thing his friend Sunghoon said during practice, something about spilled protein powder and a blender explosion.

You smile, nodding—and you must think you’re being subtle, but Jake catches it. The way your lip juts out just a little. The way your fingers fiddle with the hem of your sleeves, then stretch out, almost aimless, before hooking a finger into the loop of his jeans.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it. But he does. Jake’s voice trails off. And then he just smiles. It’s not cocky or smug. It’s soft. Disarmed. Like something warm just clicked in his chest.

“You’re pouting,” he murmurs.

Your eyes flick to his. “Am not.”

“You are.” He leans a little closer, just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. “You only do that when you want something and don’t know how to ask for it.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lift. He watches you for a second longer, then sets down his glass and nudges your thigh under the table with his knee.

“So.. what do you want?” he asks, voice quiet beneath the music.

You hesitate. Then: “Mini donuts. The cinnamon sugar kind. And maybe… nacho fries?”

Jake grins. “You want gas station snacks.”

You nod slowly. “And a movie. And… maybe your couch. Or your bed.”

The grin fades into something gentler. Something a little stunned. “You wanna come home with me?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance, but your fingers tighten on his belt loop. “I’m not running,” you say, finally.

Jake goes quiet. Then in a voice that barely makes it across the table: “Yeah. I noticed.”

You stop at the 24-hour gas station on the corner. You’re both giddy, half from the absurdity of it and half from the fact that this is what it feels like to choose him without fear.

You reach for the donuts. Jake grabs every flavor of chip he knows you like. You get two drinks, then go back for a third just in case. He holds your hand the whole way through the self-checkout line, your fingers swinging lazily together like it's the easiest thing in the world.

When you get to his place, you kick off your shoes, drop your snacks on the coffee table, and crawl onto his bed before he’s even taken off his jacket.

“You’re not even pretending to watch the movie, huh?” he teases.

“Nope,” you mumble into his pillow. “Wanna make out and eat fries. In that order.”

Jake freezes mid-step. And then he’s laughing—not loud, but breathless, delighted. He climbs onto the bed next to you and leans over until your faces are just inches apart.

“You sure?”

You look at him. Fully, calmly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you say.

So he kisses you. Slow. Careful. Your lips move against his like you’re testing the pressure of something precious—a question neither of you have answered yet, but both already know. His hand slides up your side, resting just under your ribs, and when he deepens the kiss, you sigh into his mouth like it’s the only place air has ever mattered.

You’re half-straddling him now, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, breath caught somewhere in your throat as his fingers skim the skin of your thigh, your waist, your neck. But he doesn’t rush. And neither do you. Your legs are tangled. His thumb is drawing lazy circles on your hip.

“You know,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, “you didn’t even flinch tonight.”

You blink up at him. “Hm?”

“When the crowd got loud. When I teased you. When we kissed. You stayed.” He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “…you stayed.”

You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair. “I think I was just waiting for a reason.”

Jake kisses you again, deeper this time. “I’m really glad you picked me.”

“I always picked you,” you whisper. “I just didn’t know how to stay.”

“Well…” he smirks against your skin, “now that you’re here, I’m not letting you go without a fight.”

“Good,” you murmur, curling into him. “I’ve got snacks and zero intention of leaving.”

You fall asleep in his arms, warm, fed, kissed breathless, and exactly where you were always meant to be.

part four: you showed up

The next morning is quiet. You wake in Jake’s bed, face tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms wrapped around you like they never moved once all night. It’s the first time in a long time you’ve woken up somewhere without dread clawing up your spine. There’s no guilt in your chest. No question mark hanging above your head. But there’s something else. Something tender and heavy blooming beneath your ribs.

Jake’s still asleep when you slip out from under the blanket. You put on his hoodie you found on a chair and pad softly into the kitchen, hoping to make coffee before he wakes. But standing there in the stillness, your hands wrapped around a mug, the weight of everything settles. Not in a warm, gentle way. In a what if you ruined it before it even began way.

You stare at the sugar jar like it’s suddenly miles away. Because last night was perfect. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it was too perfect— the kind of soft that only happens after the storm clears. The kind of peace you don’t always get to keep.

“It could’ve ended the night I left that party.”

The thought sneaks in before you can stop it. Your throat tightens.

“He could’ve stopped answering.”

“He could’ve moved on.”

Your heart starts racing. You’re not running this time—not literally—but you’re spiraling, full-force. You don’t hear Jake behind you until his hands are wrapping gently around your waist.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and sleep-heavy. “Why do you look like you’re trying not to break something?”

You let out a shaky breath. You don’t turn around. “I’m just… thinking.”

Jake rests his chin on your shoulder. “Dangerous.”

You huff a laugh that barely makes it out. “I need to say something,” you whisper.

He stays still, quiet. Waiting. You turn slowly in his arms. His hair’s still messy from sleep. There’s a faint red line on his cheek from the pillow. His eyes are soft, and so is his touch, even when yours start to tremble.

“I know you didn’t have to stay,” you say, voice breaking. “All those times. All those nights I ran, when I didn’t answer, when I disappeared into my own head—you didn’t have to be there.”

Jake’s expression starts to shift but you keep going.

“I used you,” you say, eyes blurring. “Not on purpose. But I did. You were safe and kind and patient, and I just kept… taking. And I’m so grateful, Jake, but also—” You swallow, breath catching. “It could’ve ended with that night. The night I left the party and you didn’t follow. You could’ve stopped.”

His brow furrows. “But I didn’t.”

You nod. “I know. And I’m so fucking relieved you didn’t, but I’ve been thinking about how close it came. I don’t deserve—”

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is firm but gentle. “Stop. Breathe.”

Your fingers dig into his shirt. He brings a hand to the back of your head, pulling you in until your cheek rests against his chest. You feel his heartbeat. Steady. Real.

“You didn’t just show up last night,” he says quietly. “You didn’t just crawl into my bed and fall asleep in my arms. You made the choice to. You came back when I stopped chasing. That mattered.”

You shake your head, words caught in your throat.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You think I was some saint for waiting around, but I was ready to give up. That night in the car? That was me pulling away. That was me saying I can’t keep doing this if she doesn’t want me.”

Tears well again. “And I almost proved you right.”

“But you didn’t,” he says. “You didn’t. You reached for me at the bar. You stayed. You touched me like I was yours, and you meant it. That’s all I ever wanted.”

You blink fast. “Even after everything?”

Jake smiles— not wide, not flashy. Just soft. Devastating. “Especially after everything,” he says. “Because I got to see you fight your way back. I got to see you stay. And that means more than if we’d gotten it right the first time.”

Something in your chest finally loosens. You lean into him again, burying your face in his shoulder. “I don’t want to think about the what ifs anymore.”

“Then don’t,” he says, arms wrapping tighter. “We’re here. Right now. No what ifs.”

You breathe him in, grounded by the scent of sleep and cinnamon and him. “I love you,” you whisper before you can stop yourself. Jake stills… and then lets out the softest sound, half a breath, half a laugh, like he’s been holding it for years.

“You better,” he says against your hair, “’cause I’ve loved you since the night you made me chase you barefoot across campus.”

You laugh into his shoulder, warm and wrecked and full of him. This time, when your heart races, it’s not from fear. It’s from finally being safe.

part five: the favor returned

The farmer’s market is bustling by mid-morning, full of woven baskets, iced lattes, the scent of herbs and stone fruit drifting through warm air. You slip your hand into Jake’s without thinking, and he laces your fingers immediately. No flinch. No hiding. You’re his, and you’re letting it show.

Jake’s in a faded white tee and black joggers, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. You’re wearing one of his zip-up and your legs bare beneath your favorite skirt. He’s been giving you looks since you left the apartment, the kind that say I’m being polite now, but just wait. You pretend not to notice.

You’re inspecting fresh heirloom tomatoes when someone calls your name. “Hey! Fancy seeing you two here.”

You turn to find your mutual friend Yeji smiling wide, holding two iced matchas and a tote overflowing with greens.

Jake chuckles. “You here every Saturday?”

“Guilty,” she says, eyeing your joined hands before subtly raising a brow at you. “New development?”

You blush, but you don’t let go of Jake. ���Something like that.”

Jake just squeezes your hand, smile easy.

Yeji grins like she knows everything. “Good. You were both annoying.”

You laugh—and for once, it doesn’t feel like she’s caught you in something. It just feels true. You chat for a few minutes, promising a double date sometime soon, then head off with your own bag of produce and your boy trailing close.

“She’s happy for us,” you say as you pass a flower stall.

“She’s smug,” Jake teases. “Like she finally won some long bet.”

You end up back at your place, unloading fruit and vegetables onto the kitchen counter. You kick off your sandals, put on music, and start chopping without missing a beat. Jake leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching like he’s in awe.

“You’re staring,” you say without looking up.

“It’s just—you’re cooking,” he says. “...for me. That’s… kind of sexy, not gonna lie.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re irresistible.”

You toss a towel at him, which he catches easily. Then comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck while you stir caramelized onions on the stove.

“You’re going to make me burn this,” you mutter, breath catching.

He hums. “Fine. I’ll wait.”

Dinner is warm and simple: roasted garlic pasta, cherry tomatoes, grilled bread, and fresh nectarines with honey for dessert. You eat barefoot on the floor, your legs in his lap, your hand never far from his.

The moment you start gathering the empty plates, Jake rises too, his hands gently take them from yours, setting them aside with a muted clatter.

You blink. “What are you—?”

“I’ve been patient,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. His eyes flick to your mouth, then down your body, hunger barely masked. “I’ve been holding back. But I watched you cook for me. Feed me. Take care of me like I mattered. And now—” He steps in, palm firm against your lower back as he pulls you close. “Now it’s my turn.”

You inhale sharply as your spine meets the edge of the counter, his body pressing flush against yours. One of his hands finds your jaw, thumb brushing lightly under your lip as he studies your face.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You don’t speak. You reach— wrapping your fingers in the fabric of his shirt, yanking him forward until your lips collide with his. He groans, deep in his throat, and you feel the shift instantly: from playful to starving.

Jake’s kiss is messy, consuming, like he’s finally been allowed to touch something he’s dreamed of for too long. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, as if he wants to taste everything you’ve never let him have.

You whimper when his hands find your thighs and lift, effortlessly sitting you on the counter. Your knees part without hesitation, his hips fitting between them like they always belonged there.

“Jake,” you whisper, breath catching.

His hand slips under your skirt, palm warm against your inner thigh. “Still okay?”

“Mhm” you moan, already trembling. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

Jake kisses down your neck, mouthing gently at the space under your ear, then trailing lower, pulling the straps of your tank top down with slow reverence. He tugs the neckline down far enough to mouth at your chest, soft wet kisses over your skin that make your head fall back against the cabinet.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your skin, “how long I’ve wanted you like this.”

Your response is a choked moan as his hand slides higher under your skirt, fingers brushing over your underwear.

“Fuck,” he whispers, grinning against your thigh. “Soaked already?”

“I’ve been waiting too,” you breathe. “You don’t even know.”

His smile fades into something heavier, darker.

He drops to his knees. Right there in the kitchen, between your thighs, Jake settles like he’s worshiping. Your skirt bunches at your waist, and he kisses over the fabric of your underwear first— slow, open-mouthed kisses that soak you further. Then he hooks his fingers under the waistband and peels them down, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“Stay with me, yeah?” he says, voice low, full of need.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Jake eats you out like it’s devotion. Like it’s repayment. Like he’s spent years memorizing your body with his eyes and now, finally, he gets to use his mouth. His tongue moves with intention— slow strokes at first, gentle teasing, until you’re squirming, until you’re gasping, until your fingers are fisted in his hair and you can’t even remember what day it is. He groans when you tug hard, the vibration shooting straight through your spine.

“Fuck, Jake—”

He pulls back only briefly, mouth glistening, lips swollen. “You taste better than every goddamn thing you made tonight.”

Then he goes back in, fingers curling into your thigh to hold you in place as he flicks and sucks and moans into you like it’s his last meal. Your orgasm builds faster than you’re ready for. Tight and hot and real, crashing through your body before you can even warn him.

He doesn’t let up. He rides it out with you, mouth relentless, holding you there through every trembling wave until you’re spent and half-limp against the counter, his name tumbling from your lips over and over.

When he stands, his hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and his mouth is red and wet and smug.

You reach for him. “Bed,” you whisper. “Now.”

Jake grins. He leans in, kisses you deep, then carries you to the bedroom. You barely get a word in before Jake scoops you off the counter, your thighs still trembling, your head pressing into his shoulder. He kicks open the door to your room like he owns the place — like he owns you, just a little now — and sets you down gently on the bed.

Then he just looks at you for a moment. Like he can’t believe you’re really here. Like he’s already undressing you with his eyes, but also worshiping you like some slow-burning fantasy finally caught fire.

He kisses you again. Hungrier now, almost desperate. Like he’s been holding this back for too long and the dam finally burst. His hands are everywhere, tugging at your shirt, pushing your skirt up higher, dragging his palm along your ribs like he’s trying to memorize every inch. He strips you slowly at first, then faster when you whimper—until you’re bare beneath him, chest rising and falling, pupils blown wide with need.

“Fuck,” he whispers, sitting back on his knees to look at you. His voice is reverent. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You reach for him, but he grabs both your wrists and pins them lightly to the mattress above your head.

Jake undresses in front of you—shirt first, then pants—all while keeping his eyes on yours. His body is lean, golden, toned from late-night gym sessions you’ve always teased him about. But now you’re silent, watching, wanting, thighs pressing together instinctively.

He sees it. Smirks. “Don’t hide from me now,” he says. “You started this.”

And then he’s on you again, settling between your legs, grinding his hips down until you can feel him—hard and thick, only a few layers of fabric away.

You gasp, arching up to meet him, needing more. “Jake, please—”

“Oh, now you want to beg?” His voice is low, teasing, dark with promise. “After all those nights I wanted you and you ran? You get one taste of me and now you’re needy?”

You whimper, and he kisses you again— biting at your bottom lip, tongue sliding in to claim you, dominating your mouth the way his body will soon.

But then…softness. He breaks the kiss to brush your hair from your face. “I’m just fucking with you,” he whispers. “I’d give you everything. I am giving you everything.”

Then he finally strips off his boxers and presses the full length of himself against your slick center. His cock is hot and heavy, tip brushing your folds, teasing. You try to rock your hips, but he pins you down again.

“Uh-uh,” he says. “I want you shaking.”

Then—finally—he slides in. Slowly. So slowly it hurts before it feels good. You cry out softly as he stretches you open, inch by inch. Jake groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, baby,” he whispers. “You feel like—fuck, you feel like heaven.”

You wrap your arms around his back, nails dragging down slightly.

“Jake—”

“I’ve got you,” he says again, and you believe it more now than ever.

He starts to move— long, deep strokes that make your toes curl. There’s no frantic rhythm at first. Just pressure, fullness, the wet sound of your bodies meeting, the quiet rasp of his breath against your skin.

Then he leans up on his forearms and starts talking, slow and dirty and honest. “Think I didn’t notice how you looked at me?” he pants, hips hitting harder now. “Think I didn’t hear you calling my name in your sleep when you’d crash on my couch?”

You gasp, eyes fluttering.

“Wanted to ruin you every time you bit your lip and pretended I was just your friend.”

“Jake—!”

“But you’re not pretending now,” he growls, pace suddenly snapping faster. “You’re mine now. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you cry out, shaking, gripping him tighter.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours, Jake — fuck, I’m yours.”

That’s it. He snaps. He pounds into you with a desperate rhythm, jaw clenched, arms flexed, eyes locked on your pleasure. Your legs wrap around his hips, locking him in, and all you can do is feel. Him, the years of waiting, the ache of everything unsaid finally spilling out between your bodies.

You cum first. It’s sharp and intense, your whole body tensing and then shuddering apart beneath him. He follows with a strangled groan, fucking you through it, his orgasm crashing into yours as he buries himself deep and spills inside you, hips stuttering, hand cupping your jaw like he needs to ground himself in your body.

After, he doesn’t move for a long moment. You both just breathe—tangled, damp with sweat, his hand still cradling your face. Then he kisses you. Soft and slow this time. Full of gratitude.

“You finally trust me... now I’m not going to let you go,” he whispers, still inside you.

You smile against his mouth.

[big-ooof]

Jake x f!reader

note: I didn’t force myself to write this past week… I’ve been getting new followers and I felt like I needed to put stories out to retain them but I know you guys won’t actually be mad or upset if I disappear for a while 🥺

sexual content 18+

It starts like it always does with Jake: too casual for how desperate it turns out. You’re curled up on his bed, legs tangled with his, one of his old rugby hoodies swallowing your frame. He’s propped against the headboard with his laptop beside him, a study guide opened on the screen. You’re supposed to be studying. His fingers have been tracing lazy circles on your thigh, slipping higher, brushing the hem of your shorts until they’re practically just in his way.

“Are you even trying to focus?” you murmur, eyes half-lidded, teasing.

Jake smirks, thumb pressing just under the band of your underwear. “Nope,” he says simply, voice low, raspy like it always gets this late. “You keep sighing like that and expect me to study?”

“You’re the one touching me.”

“You’re the one letting me.”

That’s how it always flips with him. Sweet, a little smug, always giving you the choice while making it feel like you’ve already made it.

He shifts, sliding down until he’s hovering over you, hoodie riding up your waist. His hands frame your hips, grounding you as his mouth brushes over your stomach — reverent, not rushed. You arch a little, fingers threading into his hair automatically, tugging when he bites just above your waistband.

“You want me to stop?” he whispers, kissing lower, softer now.

You shake your head. “Don’t you dare.”

There’s a pulse between your legs that’s unbearable with the way he takes his time. Drawing out every kiss, sucking a mark just inside your thigh, nuzzling against you through the fabric until it’s damp with want. And he just… keeps looking up at you like this is the best part, like he wants to memorize every reaction.

By the time he peels your shorts off, you’re already breathless, squirming under his mouth. He eats you out like he’s starved — greedy and unrelenting, but so good at making it feel personal, like he’s listening with every flick of his tongue. Your thighs clamp around his head and he doesn’t pull back, just groans like that turns him on even more.

He brings you over the edge with his mouth alone, then wipes his chin with the back of his hand, coming up to kiss you like he wants you to taste yourself on him. You pull at his shirt, moaning into his mouth, dizzy from how good and full and raw it all feels already.

“Condom’s in the drawer,” you gasp, hips rocking up to meet his.

He pauses, looking down at you like he needs a second to keep from losing it too fast. “You sure?”

“Jake.”

That’s all it takes. He fumbles the drawer open, rolls it on with shaking hands, and sinks into you like he belongs there. It’s slow, deep, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping at the stretch and warmth and how much it feels like more than just sex.

He starts moving with messy rhythm, kissing you through each moan, holding your hands down above your head. His name spills from your lips like a prayer. He drops one of your hands to wrap around your waist, guiding your hips to meet his thrusts. You’re trembling again already, second orgasm building sharp and fast.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers against your neck. “I got you. Let go for me.”

You fall apart on him with a cry, back arching. He follows not long after, with a breathy curse and your name half-muttered, half-worshipped.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Just holds you close, panting, kissing your cheek, your temple, brushing the damp hair off your forehead like you’re something delicate.

“You okay?” he murmurs, pulling the hoodie down over your hips again and stroking your thigh.

You nod against his chest.

He chuckles softly, still breathless. “Okay… me too.”

He cleans you up gently, pulls you under the covers, and doesn’t stop touching you. Fingertips dragging over your back, your hip, like he needs the contact as much as you do. His mouth finds yours one more time, this kiss soft, unhurried, grateful.

“You’re gonna wreck me,” he murmurs when he finally settles beside you, voice low, thick with sleep.

You smile, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “Too late.”

You both agreed to a chill night at his place. The lights are off. The movie’s on. You’re wrapped in one of Jake’s giant throw blankets, half-slouched into the couch cushions while he cradles you from behind. He’s in gray sweatpants and a tank top, hair damp from his shower, smelling like clean laundry and his body wash.

You’re not even paying attention to the movie anymore. Not when Jake’s arm is around your waist, his hand resting low on your stomach, thumb occasionally stroking under the hem of your sleep shirt. There’s no pressure behind it, just his quiet way of needing to touch you, keep you close.

But your mind drifts anyway. You press your back harder into him, shifting just enough that your ass brushes against something very much not soft.

Jake sucks in a breath behind you. “Don’t,” he murmurs, voice rough and warning.

You smile, wicked, and do it again.

“Baby.” His voice firm.

You feel how hard he’s getting, how it twitches against the curve of your ass even when he’s trying to hold still.

“You’re the one grinding on me,” you tease, turning in his arms to face him. The screen flickers blue across his cheekbones, and he looks at you like he wants to devour you.

His hand trails down between your bodies. He brings yours with it — slowly, deliberately — and presses it between his legs.

“Touch me here,” he whispers, breath fanning over your lips. “You feel what you do to me?”

You squeeze him gently through the fabric, and his head falls back against the couch with a groan. It’s instinct, the way your hand starts working him through the soft cotton, the way he ruts up into it with quiet gasps, already so desperate.

But it’s not enough. You slip your hand under his waistband, and he jerks. Eyes fluttering, hips lifting. “Fuck, baby—”

Your lips are on his neck, kissing down toward his collarbone while your hand strokes him slow, tight and wet and filthy under the blanket. He’s panting into your hair, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” you whisper against his throat. “Couldn’t stop imagining you like this. So hard. Needing me.”

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groans, dragging his hand down your back, under your shirt. He finds your ass, squeezes hard. “Come sit on me.”

You climb into his lap, no panties under your shorts, straddling him fully. His cock presses hot and heavy between you, and you grind against it slowly, teasing, letting the slick drag of your folds against his length drive you both insane.

He lifts his hips, trying to line himself up. “Let me in. Please. I need to feel you.”

You sink down onto him slowly, choking on your own breath as he fills you inch by inch. His hands grip your waist tight, trembling with restraint.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You feel so good—”

He leans in and kisses you then, messy and open-mouthed and all teeth and tongue. You move together under the blanket, lazy and grinding and way too deep. No rush. Just heat and pressure and the soft, gasping sounds of skin on skin.

“You like touching me like that?” he pants, kissing your jaw. “You like making me come apart?”

“Love it,” you moan. “Love how needy you get.”

His eyes darken at that, and his thrusts pick up but not rough. Just deep and unrelenting. Like he wants to stay buried in you forever.

“I’m close,” he whispers. “Cum with me, baby. Please.”

And you do — hips stuttering, back arching as you clench around him. Jake follows with a deep groan, arms wrapping around you so tight it’s like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You collapse onto his chest, breathless, trembling. His fingers trail soothing patterns along your spine. You feel his lips press to the top of your head, his voice a hoarse murmur in the dark.

“You’re unreal. Every time.”

You smile against his skin. “Movie’s still playing.”

“Couldn’t care less.”

A couple days later, you’re both spread out on his bedroom floor, textbooks open, flashcards between you, highlighters scattered like confetti from earlier attempts at productivity. Jake’s wearing joggers and a white t-shirt that clings to his chest a little too well. His hair still slightly damp from his post-gym shower. He smells like citrus body wash and stress.

You’re trying. Trying to focus. But you can feel his eyes on you more than the damn econ notes.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mumble without glancing up.

Jake leans back on his hands, grin spreading slowly. “I’m not even doing anything.”

“You’re chewing your pen like that on purpose.”

He glances down at the capped ballpoint between his teeth. “What, this?”

He flicks his tongue over the tip, then catches the pen in his mouth again, sucking it in with obscene ease. The pop as he pulls it out echoes louder than it should in the quiet room.

“Jake,” you say, warning in your voice and something else too. Something hotter.

He crawls toward you on all fours, textbook forgotten, eyes locked on yours. “You know I’ve got a thing for your voice when you say my name like that.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he murmurs, settling between your legs, “look way too good in that tank top to expect me to care about macroeconomics right now.”

You barely get a protest out before his hands are sliding up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. He dips his head between your legs, kissing the inside of your knee first — slow, reverent — then trails his lips higher.

“You’re not even gonna pretend to study?” you ask, breath hitching.

Jake smirks against your skin. “Oh, I’m studying, alright.”

And then he’s there, tongue slipping through your folds like he’s trying to commit your taste to memory, mouth hot and unrelenting. He moans into you, hands anchoring your hips down as you writhe beneath him.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging hard. “Jake, oh my god—”

“Focus,” he mutters, lips brushing your clit. “Come on, baby, study this.”

He wraps his mouth around you, tongue flicking and curling in all the right places, sucking like he’s addicted. He’s messy with it: spit and slick everywhere, wet sounds filling the room, and every time you moan, his grip on your thighs tightens like praise spurs him on.

He doesn’t stop when your legs shake. Doesn’t stop when you try to pull away.

“Uh uh,” he mumbles, mouth never leaving you. “Give me another.”

“Jake—”

“Use me,” he says, voice hoarse, eyes blown wide as he looks up at you. “I need it.”

You cum again, thighs clamped around his face, crying out his name as your back arches. He lets you ride it out, tongue still working you through every twitch, every aftershock.

When he finally pulls away, his lips are shiny, swollen, and he’s panting like he just ran a mile.

You’re dazed. Wrecked. Staring down at him with your shirt pushed up, skirt bunched at your waist, one hand still in his hair.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls up over you, cock pressing hard against your thigh through his joggers.

“You good, babe?” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then your lips. Soft and warm and tender now.

“Better than good,” you breathe. “You should’ve majored in oral.”

Jake laughs against your mouth. “What, like it’s hard?”

You swat at him, flushed and glowing and completely undone, and he just pulls you closer, murmuring between kisses.

“Guess we’ll finish the flashcards later, huh?”

Jake’s at his desk, glasses on, hoodie sleeves pushed up, pencil tapping against his notebook while he stares at a screen full of highlighted lecture slides. He’s got his legs spread wide, one foot bouncing in frustration, jaw flexing as he mutters something about “goddamn marginal cost curves.”

You’re curled up on his bed behind him, supposedly reviewing your own notes but you haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes.

Instead, you’re watching the way his forearms flex every time he writes. The curve of his back. The subtle way his sweatpants sit dangerously low on his hips.

You know he’s been stressed. Midterms. Group project hell. Two all-nighters in a row. You also know what that mouth of his did to you yesterday on that same floor. And yeah… you’ve got some ideas.

You pad over quietly, draping your arms around his shoulders from behind. He hums but doesn’t look up.

“I’m busy, baby,” he murmurs, voice strained. “Midterm’s in two days.”

“Mhm. Just needed a break,” you whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “For you. Not me.”

He stiffens just slightly when your hands slide down his chest, slow and teasing. When you snake one into his lap. “Wait—are you—fuck, you’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” you say, dragging your palm along the growing length of him. “Let me take care of you, babe.”

You’re already dropping to your knees beside the desk, nudging his chair back. He leans away from the desk with wide eyes, caught between resistance and sheer hunger. You tug his sweats down just enough, his cock springing free, hard and leaking already — he’s so sensitive from the stress, it twitches in your hand when you so much as breathe on it.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re not gonna let me study, huh?”

You look up at him with the most innocent expression you can fake. “Nope.”

Then you lean in, tongue flattening against the base of his cock, licking a slow, wet stripe all the way up. He groans, hand immediately flying to the back of your head. Not pushing, just gripping, like he needs something to hold onto. “Oh my god.”

You suck him in slowly, letting your lips stretch around him inch by inch, using your tongue to tease the underside. You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around the tip, then sink back down, deeper this time. And the way Jake groans—head thrown back, tells you exactly how much tension you’re unwinding.

His thighs are shaking. His eyes flutter shut. His pencil’s long forgotten, notebook abandoned.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps, hips jerking up. “Baby, fuck, that mouth—”

You moan around him, just to be mean. You know he loves it when you get noisy. He shudders, hand tightening in your hair.

“Look at me,” he pants. “Wanna see those pretty eyes while you suck me off.”

You do. You look up and make a soft whimpering sound as you bob your head, taking him deeper each time until your nose brushes his stomach. Drool drips down your chin, spit stringing between your lips and his cock. It’s so filthy, but the way Jake’s falling apart makes your thighs clench.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he groans. “Can I—baby, can I cum in your mouth?”

You nod, never breaking eye contact. That’s all it takes.

He bucks his hips up once, twice, and then he’s spilling down your throat with a broken moan of your name, thighs twitching under your hands. You swallow it all, licking him clean while he gasps through the aftershocks.

You crawl back into his lap after, smug and satisfied, brushing the hair off his sweaty forehead.

Jake’s panting. Wrecked. Eyes dazed behind his glasses. “I was trying to study,” he mumbles, voice hoarse.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “You can thank me later when your blood pressure’s back to normal.”

He laughs, arms curling around your waist. “Oh, I’m definitely returning the favor again. You’ve started something now.”

Bonus:

It’s late. The party’s long over. A celebration (if you will) for surviving another semester. Empty bottles and half-eaten snacks are scattered across your kitchen island, a pile of forgotten items your friends will text you about in the morning by the door. The living room smells like pizza and citrus candles used to mask the smell but failing.

Your friends left hours ago. Slurred goodbyes and sleepy hugs as they disappeared into the night, but you and Jake are still up. Barefoot. Sweats. Music playing low through a speaker someone forgot to turn off.

He’s drying dishes while you scrub at a casserole dish in the sink. Not talking, just moving in quiet tandem — bumping hips occasionally, stealing glances when the other isn’t looking. You’re both tired, sticky with sweat and laughter, but there’s something warm threading between you. A stillness that feels earned.

Jake tosses the towel over his shoulder and steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” you whisper back, smiling as you let the water run.

He sways with you a little, side to side, like there's a melody only he hears. His breath is warm against your neck, and his hands — god, his hands — settle low on your stomach like they belong there. Like they always have.

You sigh and lean into him fully, your back against his chest, your hands resting on his.

“You good?” he asks.

“Mm. Better than. Just tired.”

He hums. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then — quiet, almost hesitant, but so sure: “I could do this forever.”

You blink. Slowly turn your head toward him. “What?”

“This,” he says again, smiling into your shoulder. “Us. Hosting our friends. Falling asleep in the middle of cleaning up because we’re too full and happy to care.”

Your throat tightens. “Jake…”

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “I could see us doing this forever. Pizza nights, inside jokes, you cursing at burnt pans and me pretending to be helpful.”

You laugh and he kisses your cheek, then your temple, then the edge of your jaw.

“I think I knew even back then,” he adds, his voice even softer now. “Like… sophomore year. When you were wearing my jersey to that party. Something just clicked. I couldn’t see past you after that.”

You turn in his arms to face him fully. The kitchen lights halo around him: messy hair, flushed cheeks, a little eyeliner smudged from earlier when Sunoo got experimental with everyone’s makeup. And Jake’s eyes? God. They’re wide open. No walls.

“You wanna do forever with me?” you ask.

He lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles one by one. “I already am.”

You pull him into a slow kiss, deep and lingering, all breath and warmth and heartbeats syncing. When you part, foreheads pressed together, he whispers: “Let’s build something crazy together. A life. A loud house. Chaos and teamwork and laughter and—god, maybe even kids someday. Not now. But someday.”

Your eyes sting, and you nod. “Okay,” you say. “Let’s do forever.”

And right there — barefoot in the kitchen, surrounded by love and mess and all the leftovers of a life well-lived — Jake smiles like he’s already home.

[big-ooof]

Hey! Not sure if you take requests so feel free to ignore if you don’t, but I just wanna start by saying I love your works and how you write so much - you’re one of my favs on here :)

I think you’re the perfect writer for a jungwon au where you’re both spies or some sort of special agent - struggling to ignore your feelings for eachother since your lives are always on the line, so you both try to keep everyone at arms length

I’ll leave the rest up to your creativity, but I think some spice would fit in well here?? 🙈 and again there’s really no pressure if you don’t take requests!

from 🦕

special agent jungwon au x f!reader

note: tysm for your kind words and the request. hope you enjoy! i leaned more towards plot— it's not as easy for me to go full-on filth with the maknae line (sorry!) hopefully it's spicy enough, the sexual content is on the implied side. 18+

You learned early on that attachments get people killed. It’s rule number two in the unspoken code all agents should live by: keep your team close but your heart closer. Not for love—but for protection. You’d seen what happened when lines got blurred. Body bags. Closed caskets. Debriefings with too many black bars on paper.

So when Yang Jungwon showed up at your unit’s door, all sharp eyes and even sharper instincts, you made a promise to yourself. Don’t get close. But damn, he made it hard.

You weren’t sure if it was the way he moved—silent like a ghost, fast like a strike—or the way he looked at you sometimes. Like he knew what it felt like to carry the weight of too many names on a gravestone. Like he understood the itch to run and the ache to stay. Jungwon was your equal, your partner in more operations than you could count. You’d pulled bullets from his shoulder in the back of a stolen van. He’d carried you out of a burning warehouse with blood in his mouth and a shattered comm in his ear.

And still, you never crossed the line. Not once. Not even when he pressed his forehead to yours after a mission gone wrong and whispered, “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t make me think I lost you.” Not even then.

You train together in silence. Sparring gloves on. Sweat dripping. Eyes locked. His fists don’t hesitate, but his eyes do—every time you land a hit that could break something if you didn’t pull back.

“Again,” you tell him, breathless.

“You’re tired,” he replies.

You don’t argue. You just swing. He blocks it, grabs your wrist—and suddenly your backs hit the mat hard, his body hovering over yours, your breaths tangling. Your heartbeat isn’t just fast because of the fight. Jungwon freezes. You both do.

And then—he gets up. “Mission brief’s at 0900,” he mutters, voice tight, unreadable. He doesn’t look back. You wish he would.

That night, your team gets called in for extraction in Budapest. You’re mid-op, eyes on the target, when a sniper takes a shot that was meant for you—but catches Jungwon in the ribs instead. You see it all happen like slow motion.

He doesn’t go down. Of course not. Jungwon keeps moving, finishes the op with blood soaking his side, even gives you a nod across the rooftop like I’m fine, don’t break formation. But you do. You break every rule in the book. You drop your gun and run.

He wakes up two hours later in a mobile med van, pale and patched up, and the first thing he says is your name. You’re sitting beside him. You haven’t moved.

“You’re an idiot,” you whisper.

His voice is hoarse. “You broke cover.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

The silence between you isn’t heavy—it’s fragile. Like one wrong word would shatter everything you’ve both been holding in for years. “You can’t care about me like that,” he says, barely audible.

“Why not?”

“Because… we can’t”

You close your eyes, realizing how much you care about each other. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Then: “I think about you every time I go through a door first.”

“Jungwon…”

“You always say, ‘I’ve got your six,’ but I look back anyway. Every time.” You don’t breathe. “I can’t be distracted out there,” he continues. “Not when it’s you.”

“You think I’m not distracted too?” Your voice cracks, quiet and sharp. “Every time you take point. Every time you draw fire. You think I don’t freeze when I hear your comm cut out?”

“I know you do,” he says. “That’s why I can’t—”

“Can’t what?”

He looks at you then. Full of pain. Full of everything he’s never said. “I can’t lose you.”

You don’t say me neither. You don’t say you won’t. You reach for his hand instead, fingers curling around his like a promise. You don’t have forever. Hell, you might not even have tomorrow. But for tonight, in the back of a van, with blood on his shirt and your hand in his, you let the line blur. Just a little.

Flashback: The mission was simple—observe and report. No engagement. No contact. Just surveillance from the rooftop. You’d done this a dozen times before. But never with Yang Jungwon as your partner. He was new to your unit. Transferred from another agency. Too quiet. Too sharp. Too unreadable. But when you were paired together for the Paris intel op, there was no room to argue.

The two of you crouched beside a rusted ventilation unit, eyes trained on the penthouse across the street where the target’s silhouette passed behind sheer curtains.

“ETA for extraction?” you whispered into your comm.

“Fifteen minutes,” came HQ’s voice.

Beside you, Jungwon adjusted the scope on his rifle. “Movement at the eastern corridor,” he murmured. “Third man’s armed.”

You felt it before you thought it: something’s wrong. The team wasn't briefed about a third man.

“New variable,” you whispered. “We need a closer angle.”

Jungwon’s brow twitched. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not sitting up here blind.”

You moved. Fast, fluid, like you’d trained for—but it was still a risk. You clipped your harness to the zip line between buildings and dropped down, heart in your throat. The ledge was narrow, the glass was tinted, and the shadows inside the room danced just enough to obscure what you needed to see.

But it was what you didn’t see that mattered. The third man was gone. Suddenly—click. Cold metal at your back. Shit. “Don’t move,” a deep voice muttered in French. You didn’t breathe. And then—crack.

The man behind you dropped, hard, sedated dart in his neck. Jungwon was there. He grabbed your arm and yanked you back toward the ledge, voice low and furious. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You stumbled as he pulled you behind cover. “I saw a gap. I took it.”

“That wasn’t your call.”

“I was trained—”

“I don’t care what you were trained for,” he snapped, voice cutting.

“This is my team now, and if you’d taken a bullet because you wanted to play hero—”

You shoved him back. “Don’t act like you care.”

He paused. Looked at you. Then—softly, like it hurt to say it: “I didn’t want to watch you die on your first mission with me.”

That was the first time he let anything slip. And the last time you ever broke formation without him.

Present Day: Mission brief— Two agents. One luxury resort. Deep cover as newlyweds.

The arms dealer’s niece is getting married, your unit got the invite. You and Jungwon are sent to infiltrate the guest list and intercept the exchange. Intel suggests the deal goes down in 72 hours.

You didn’t expect the room to be so convincing. One bed. Rose petals. A bottle of champagne already chilling. The silence between you buzzes with tension.

“We need to look the part,” he says.

You look over. He’s undone the top two buttons of his shirt. His hair’s slicked back. Gold chain resting against his collarbone. He looks good—too good. Dangerous.

You try not to stare. “You’ve played the lover role before?”

“A couple times.”

You smirk. “Bet they didn’t make you share a bed.”

His eyes flick to yours. “…I didn’t want to.”

That shuts you up.

That night, you dance at the reception. His hand never leaves your lower back. You lean into each other’s touch like it’s habit—like you’ve done it a thousand times. But you both know it’s the first.

Later, in your suite, the walls come down fast. Your fingers tremble as you unzip your dress. “Let me,” he says softly, stepping behind you.

The zipper moves slowly, painfully slow, exposing your back inch by inch. His fingertips brush your skin, lingering. Your breath catches.

“Why doesn’t this feel wrong?” he asks, voice low, steady.

You turn to face him, dress falling to the floor. “Maybe because it isn’t.”

The kiss is immediate—hot, desperate, with everything you’ve shoved down for years. He lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he walks you toward the bed.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes against your skin, even as his mouth trails down your neck, “and I will.”

You don’t. You grip his shirt and pull him down with you.

That night is a blur of heat and tension finally snapped. His hands are careful but hungry. He maps every scar on your body like he’s memorizing you. You trade whispered promises neither of you dares say in daylight.

“You’re always in my head,” he says, voice breaking as he moves inside you.

“You never leave mine,” you whisper.

Afterward, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, you fall asleep on his chest. One of his arms stays looped around your waist, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

You both know the world outside the room is waiting. There’s danger. There’s mission protocol. But tonight? You let yourself have it. The one night where you don’t have to run.

[big-ooof]

omg i loved „The Quiet Ways You Ask For Love“ 😭 it felt so comforting and i loved the mix with suggestiveness. can you maybe write something familiar with jay also with a black cat maybe even avoidant fem!reader? it can also have slight smut, however you like it <3

Jay x f!reader

note: thanks for request! The Quiet Ways You Ask For Love tugs on my heartstrings a lot because i'm a sad girlie and writing it felt like a tight, warm hug.

But Jay's personality fits well with an avoidant female reader. you caught me at a good time because i'm not on the struggle bus today when it comes to smut lol. hope you enjoy! sexual content 18+ also tw: mental health themes— reader has an anxiety/panic attack.

You hadn’t spoken to Jay in years. Not since the morning you left his dorm with nothing more than a soft, “I’m sorry,” and the stuff you kept in his dorm in bag. You didn’t owe him an explanation—or at least that’s what your therapist tried to help you believe when you told her it was better to vanish than disappoint someone like him. Someone steady. Someone who knew how to stay while you didn’t.

You moved back to your hometown after burnout post-grad swallowed you whole. The city drained everything—your savings, your energy, your ability to pretend you were fine. You move into a small apartment near the edge of town. It's quiet, it echoes when you walk, and sometimes, when your heart gets stuck in your throat, it becomes too quiet.

You knew once your body slowed down and your environment was no longer high-stress that an anxiety attack would come. All the feelings and emotions you suppressed rose like a tidal wave. You feel it creeping, like hands wrapping around your ribs. You try the usual things—counting tiles, deep breaths, grounding techniques—but your limbs still go numb, and your chest still hurts.

So you text him: i’m okay. i’m just having an anxiety attack and i remembered that telling you would ease my mind a little bit, bc at least someone knew.

You don’t expect anything back. You especially don’t expect the knock on your door twenty minutes later. You hesitate opening it, not because you don’t know who it is—you do, because of course he came—but because you don’t know how to be seen by him now. Not like this. Disassembled. Small.

But when you open the door, Jay doesn’t speak. He just takes one look at your shaking form, kicks his shoes off, and steps inside.

You blink at him. “Did I… how did you—”

“You gave me the code to the building,” He shrugs. “You must’ve felt safe enough to tell me while you were texting me.”

He puts a hand on your lower back like it’s the most natural thing, like he hasn’t been a ghost for two years, and guides you to the couch. “You’re cold,” he murmurs, tugging a throw blanket over you. “Try to breathe.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I just—”

“I know.” And the thing is, he does.

He sits on the edge of the couch at first, but when you quietly inch closer, your fingers grazing his wrist, he shifts so you can curl into him. You’re trembling. He holds you anyway. Not tightly. Just there. You don’t talk. He doesn’t ask.

You wake up a few hours later in your bed. You didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have carried you. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand. Your phone is charging. The bedroom door is cracked open, and when you step out, Jay is still there—sitting on your living room floor, back against the couch, flipping through an old magazine.

“You stayed,” you murmur, voice scratchy.

He looks up slowly. “Yeah.”

“…Why?”

His eyes are steady. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

Your chest aches.

You don’t let yourself cry until he makes you tea without asking how you take it. The same way you did in college. Same mug, if you’re honest. You hadn’t realized he noticed.

“You didn’t have to come,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“I did.”

You curl your hands into your sleeves. “I’m sorry I left like that... while we were in college.”

“I figured you weren’t ready to be cared for,” he says. No accusation. Just truth. “But I never stopped hoping you’d let someone try.”

You blink. “Even after all this time?”

“Especially after all this time.”

You’re now lying side by side on your bed. Neither of you has moved to leave. You shift onto your side and you touch his face. The line of his jaw. The little scar near his temple from when he hit his head on your shelf sophomore year.

“I thought about you,” you say. “More than I wanted to.”

Jay exhales slowly, eyes on your lips. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

When he kisses you, it’s so painfully gentle you feel your chest split open. His lips brush yours like he’s memorizing them all over again. No urgency. No heat at first—just warmth. Familiarity. Longing.

You tug at his shirt and he lets you pull it off, lets you trace the defined lines of his chest, your touch shaky but curious.

“Yeah?” he whispers against your cheek.

You nod. “I want you to stay tonight. Please?”

There’s no rush, just the quiet drag of his hands over your skin, the soft hush of his breath against your collarbone, the way his body fits over yours like you were always meant to come back to this. To him. When he slides inside you, your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. You bury your face into his shoulder. He groans softly into your hair. You cling to him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, over and over. “I’ve always had you.”

He sleeps with his arms around you, your head tucked under his chin, one hand holding yours like he’s anchoring you.

When morning comes, you wake up before him. You stare at his face, your heart both full and aching. You don’t know what this is yet. But maybe you don’t have to label it. Maybe it’s enough that he came. Maybe it’s enough that when you finally let yourself reach out, it was him who answered. And it always would be.

The sun filters in faintly through the blinds, a warm, washed-out glow tracing the edges of Jay’s face. He’s still curled around you—his hand resting lightly at your waist, his breath steady and deep. You stay like that for a while, letting the silence hum around you, your heartbeat calm but full.

It’s a strange kind of safety—waking up like this. With him. You inch closer. Let your fingers glide along his chest, then down the flat of his stomach. His skin is warm, the kind of warmth you want to drown in. Jay stirs slightly, a little groan in his throat as your fingertips dip lower, teasing along the waistband of the sweats he borrowed last night.

“You awake?” you whisper.

A sleepy hum. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he tilts his head toward you. “Mmhmm… am now.”

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods softly, eyes still half-lidded. “More than okay.”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another one to his jaw. When you shift to straddle his hips, he lets you—hands falling to your thighs but not guiding you. Just holding.

Your lips brush over his throat. “Let me?”

That makes his eyes flutter open, dark and soft. “You don’t have to ask.”

You smile. “I know. I just want to hear it.”

His voice is barely a breath. “Yes. Please.”

You lean down and kiss him, slow and deep. He lets you take it—mouth opening under yours, fingers gripping your thighs tighter when your hips begin to roll.

He’s hard already, quietly, beneath you. The way he reacts to your touch, so easy to unravel—it makes your chest twist with something bittersweet. He still wants you. Completely. Without question.

You reach between you, dragging your fingers down his abdomen until you tug his sweats lower, enough to free him. His breath hitches when your hand wraps around him, thumb brushing over the head.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you tease, kissing down his neck. “Let me.”

He groans when you sink down on him, slow and steady, your walls clenching as you take him inch by inch. You’re wet, aching, but in control—and he’s helpless beneath you, hands still on your hips now like he’s trying not to squeeze too hard.

“Shit—you feel…” His eyes roll back slightly. “You feel so good.”

You rock your hips, deliberately slow. Watching him. Watching his mouth part, his brows furrow, his chest rise and fall like he’s unraveling with every breath.

“You like me like this?” you whisper, dragging your nails gently across his chest.

His jaw flexes. “I love you like this.”

You still. The words hang in the air like smoke, impossible to take back.

His eyes are wide now, lips parted in surprise at himself. “Sorry—shit—I didn’t mean to scare—”

You cut him off with your mouth, kissing him hard, deeper than before. The kiss is messy and open and full of too much feeling, too much time lost.

You ride him harder now, your hands braced on his chest, hips finding a rhythm that pulls curses from his lips and gasps from yours.

Jay grips your hips tighter, matching your movements now. “You’re perfect like this,” he breathes. “On top of me, taking what you want. You don’t even know what you do to me—fuck.”

You lean over, press your forehead to his. “You’re mine, right?”

His voice breaks. “Always.”

It’s not just physical anymore—it never was. It’s deeper than that, more intimate than skin. It’s the way he clings to you now, eyes locked on yours, like he’s never seen anything as beautiful as you breaking apart above him.

You cum first, a long, shaking moan pulled from your chest as you cry out his name, clenching tight around him. He follows moments later, spilling inside you with a low, wrecked groan, his arms curling around your back, body trembling under yours.

After, you stay there. Straddling his hips, your forehead resting on his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest calming your racing heart. Jay’s fingers trace slow circles on your back.

You whisper, “You’re still in love with me.”

He kisses the side of your head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You lift your head just enough to meet his eyes. “It’s not,” you say quietly. “Not at all.”

Jay’s still shirtless, towel slung lazily around his neck, when you start pulling things from the back of your half-empty fridge.

“Let me guess,” he says, padding into the kitchen, voice still hoarse from sleep. “Breakfast for dinner?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Only because I forgot to buy real groceries when I moved back.”

He chuckles, stepping up behind you and slipping his arms around your waist. “I missed this.”

“This?”

His lips brush your neck. “You in the kitchen, pretending not to need some help when you cook.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean back into him. He doesn’t ask for more. Doesn’t press you to define what this is. He just stays. And that alone makes your throat tighten.

You nudge his shoulder. “Want to go to the store with me?”

Jay raises a brow. “You’re voluntarily going out in public before 6 p.m.? Who are you and what have you done with the woman who used to hide from group projects?”

You snort. “I’m evolving.”

“Like a moody Pokémon?”

“Exactly.”

He smiles—wide, open, beautiful. “Lead the way, Eevee.”

You walk side by side through the store, your basket slowly filling with vegetables, rice, meat—enough for a real dinner.

Jay’s carrying the basket, casually commenting on random things: why cucumbers always look vaguely smug, how he once ate an entire packet of raw ramen in college, how the pasta aisle always smells faintly like cardboard.

You don’t say much. But you listen. And somewhere between the fresh garlic and the sesame oil, you quietly step away, down a different aisle. When you return, you silently slip something small into the basket.

Jay doesn’t say anything at first. Just glances down. It’s a toothbrush. A soft blue one. Still in the packaging. Still sitting on top of the bell peppers like it belongs there. He freezes for a moment, blinking. Then slowly lifts his gaze to meet yours.

You don’t look away. “Thought it’d be weird if you kept using mine.”

His lips part, a little breath caught in his throat. “…yeah?”

You nod. No speech. No monologue. Just you, letting him in. Bit by bit.

He smiles—gentle, reverent. Like you just gave him something sacred. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice warm and a little hoarse. “I’ll keep it next to yours.”

Back at your apartment you cook together. He chops the onions because you hate the way they sting your eyes. You stir the sauce because he always overdoes it. It’s quiet and chaotic in the way that feels easy.

He brushes past you at one point, hand on your lower back as he reaches for the salt. You turn around too quickly and bump into his chest. You both laugh. And then you kiss him. Because you can. Because he’s still here.

Because you put a toothbrush in the basket and didn’t need to explain it.

[big-ooof]

college heeseung au x f!reader

note: sexual content 18+

You never meant for this to turn into anything soft. Heeseung was just supposed to be a good time—a distraction in a pretty, cocky package with long fingers and bedroom eyes. He had that confident, casual swagger all the campus girls sighed over.

But you didn’t care about any of that. You liked how he looked at you like he wasn’t scared of your sharp mouth. How he leaned into the bite of your sarcasm and matched you— sometimes even topped your sarcasm.

It started one night at some half-assed party, he kissed you like he’d been waiting for it all semester. It felt like a game. Something to control. Something to burn through and walk away from. Except he wasn’t just fire. He was warmth.

The first time you sleep together, he ruins you. There’s no fumbling, no testing the waters. He’s everywhere—mouth on your throat, hand fisted in your hair, his weight pressing you into the mattress like he knows how to take you apart and wants to enjoy every moment of it. You’re breathless. Dripping.

He fucks you slow but deep, fingers laced with yours like he’s grounding you, and whispers things that make your whole chest tighten. “Can’t believe I finally get to touch you like this.” “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.” “Let go for me. Just like that. That’s it.”

You scratch at his back when you cum, feral and trembling, and he grins against your skin like he’s already addicted. You expect him to ghost you.

But he texts you the next morning: Heeseung: u looked too good naked for me to pretend last night didn’t happen. wanna come over again tmrw?

And you do. Again. And again. And again. He calls it “study breaks.” You call it “stress relief.” Neither of you call it what it’s becoming.

It’s still rough. Still dirty. He likes pushing your limits, likes you pinned under him with his hand around your throat or bent over his desk while he murmurs how fucking good you take him. But there’s softness laced through it, and it slips in so naturally you don’t notice it at first.

You start staying after. Sometimes just to shower. Sometimes to fall asleep on his chest with his hand tangled in your hair, his heartbeat steady against your cheek. One night, you wake up at 6 a.m. for an 8 a.m. class and he’s already stirring.

“You want coffee?” he mumbles sleepily, half of his face still in the pillow. “I’ll walk you to class.”

You call him annoying and throw your leg over him to trap him down. But you still drink the coffee.

It’s when the notes start that something shifts. You’re not a romantic. You don’t swoon. You don’t do cute. But sometimes you leave first—early classes, group meetings, exams. And the apartment’s too quiet. Too intimate. You feel like a trespasser.

So you start leaving notes on post-its:

one day it's: don’t forget the lab’s closed today the next: you left your charger in my bag again dumbass and today: i like your bedhead. don’t get cocky.

He saves every single one.

One morning, you wake up to find a note from him stuck on your forehead:

good luck on your quiz today, scary girl. don’t flunk or i’ll spank u (again). also i made eggs. eat. —❤️ H

You finally say it out loud after sex. You’re half on top of him, bare skin sticking to his chest, your legs tangled under the covers. Your voice is rough from moaning, but steady. “I think I like you.”

Heeseung pauses. Then he just smiles. Big, sleepy, genuine. “Good,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear. “’Cause I’ve been in love with you since the first time you threatened to break my fingers in lab.”

You scoff and hit his chest, but he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles like he means it.

From then on, nothing really changes. Except everything does. He still fucks you like he owns you—but now he brings you snacks when you’re studying and tugs you into his lap at parties with a hand on your thigh like he wants the whole room to know you’re his.

He still teases you—endlessly, shamelessly—but he also helps fold your laundry and keeps your favorite ramen stocked in his cabinet.

You leave notes. He leaves hoodies. You swap playlists and toothbrushes. You never needed a fairy tale. But you think this—sweaty, sleepy, soft-lipped and steady—might be even better.

The first thing you feel when you wake up is heat. Not sunlight—though that’s creeping in through the blinds, striping the sheets in gold. It’s him. Pressed behind you, bare chest flush to your back, thigh wedged between your legs, arm draped heavy and possessive around your waist like he’s still trying to keep you here.

Your hips are sore. Your thighs ache. There's a faint sting between your legs and bruises on your neck that make you smirk when you shift slightly and feel the reminder of what he did to you last night.

Heeseung hums against your shoulder, voice still thick with sleep. “Morning, girlfriend.”

You freeze. Then slowly you glance back over your shoulder. “What did you just call me?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh it off. He just presses a kiss to your spine and breathes it out again. “Girlfriend,” he murmurs. “Feels kinda hot.”

You roll your eyes. “Say it again and I’ll punch you.”

“Say what again, girlfriend?”

You whip around, intending to shove him, but he catches your wrists and flips you in one motion, pinning you to the mattress beneath him, his hips nudging yours. His grin is lazy. Dangerous. Boyfriend-core with menace.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re gonna be annoying about this, huh?”

“Oh, I was annoying way before we made it official.” His mouth dips to your neck, grazing where your pulse stutters. “Now I just have the right.”

You don’t get the chance to snap back. His tongue traces down your collarbone, over the curve of your chest, and you gasp as his mouth wraps around your nipple—sucking gently, then biting just hard enough to make your hips jump.

He groans when he feels how wet you already are. “God, you’re dripping,” he mutters against your skin, shifting down between your legs. “You gonna let your boyfriend taste you?”

Your hand smacks his shoulder. Heeseung only grins harder. “Shut up,” you hiss.

But when his tongue licks a long, slow stripe up your center, you forget every insult you’ve ever known.

He’s gentle with it this morning—focused, unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world to savor you. His fingers press into your thighs, spreading you wider, and when he starts circling your clit with the flat of his tongue, your head falls back with a broken moan.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Wanna feel you cum on my face. Think you can do that, baby?”

You nod—barely able to form words—and he eats you out like he’s starving, groaning against your folds as you start to tremble. His fingers slide inside you, slow and deep, curling just right. He strokes that spot over and over while sucking at your clit, eyes flicking up to watch you unravel.

It doesn’t take long. You cum hard, thighs closing around his head, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you remember. Heeseung moans into your pussy like it’s everything. When he pulls away, your slick glistens on his mouth, and he crawls back up your body, letting you taste yourself on his lips as he kisses you.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispers. “Can’t believe I get to fuck you like this and keep you.”

That earns him another slap to the shoulder, but your nails curl into him instead of pushing him off. “Conceited ass,” you mutter.

He just laughs and slides into you in one smooth, deep thrust. You both moan.

It’s different this time. No rush. No fight for control. Just slow, deep strokes and his hands tangled in yours as he rocks into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your body. His lips brush your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

You drag your nails down his back and squeeze around him, smirking when he shudders above you. “Feels like my boyfriend’s pussy now,” you tease, breathless.

He stills. Looks at you. Smirks. “Say that again.”

You lean up, lips brushing his ear. “Boyfriend.”

He fucks you harder after that.

You fall asleep on his chest again, both of you too lazy to get up and shower, bodies sticky and satisfied and tangled in each other like you’ve always belonged there.

And when you leave for class—his hoodie swallowed over your frame, your note on his desk—you don’t call yourself his girlfriend out loud. But you write it. Just once. At the bottom of the post-it, in small careful letters:

p.s. tell your girlfriend to stop stealing your cereal.

You don’t expect him to text you about it. But halfway through your lecture, your phone buzzes.

Heeseung: didn’t think i’d ever love a post-it note this much. i’ll pick up more cereal after gym. come back after class. need my girlfriend again.

[big-ooof]

The Quiet Ways You Ask For Love

Jake x f!reader

The kitchen is quiet except for the soft sizzle of butter in the pan. It’s morning, the light is dim and golden, filtering through the wooden blinds like honey, thick and warm. Jake stands at the stove with sleeves pushed to his elbows, humming softly, slicing a pile of strawberries for pancakes. He moves gently, the way he always does when he knows you’re not quite ready to talk yet.

You’re behind him, your arms wrapped around his middle. Your cheek is pressed between his shoulder blades. He hasn't asked any questions. Not yet.

Jake knows better than to push you when you’re like this—tender in ways you won’t admit, when the edges of your tough exterior fray like worn fabric. You never demand affection. You never beg. But when you need it, you come to him like this. Clinging. Quiet. Wordless.

And Jake? God, Jake melts for it. Every time.

“Baby,” he murmurs now, slicing the last berry. “You’re not even letting me cook. I can’t flip the pancakes with you glued to me like this.”

You don’t let go. Not right away. “Then don’t flip them yet,” you murmur into his back.

He freezes for half a second, then smiles. Okay. Something’s up. You’re never this soft before noon. Never this quiet. Usually, you’re the one dodging morning cuddles, muttering about “space” and “coffee first,” wriggling out of his hold while Jake pouts dramatically. You’re fierce in your independence, sharp-tongued and warm-hearted—but you don’t cling.

Jake turns the heat down low, reaches for the sink to rinse his hands, then gently unwraps your arms just enough to turn in your embrace. His own arms settle around your waist. You look up at him with eyes that give it away—something’s brewing. He sees it immediately.

“Hey,” he says softly, brushing hair from your face. “Everything okay?”

You nod too quickly. That’s how he knows it’s not. He tilts his head, gentle but unrelenting.

“I had a dream,” you say finally.

Jake’s brows knit together in concern, already moving to pull you closer. “A bad one?”

You nod, then shake your head. “It wasn’t scary. Just…” You chew your bottom lip. “You left.”

His heart aches.

“You left and I woke up and it felt so real. Like I could still feel the cold of the bed.” You bury your face in his chest now. “It was stupid. I know you’re not going anywhere.”

Jake pulls you fully into his arms now, resting his chin on top of your head. “It’s not stupid,” he says immediately. “Not at all.”

You’re silent again, but he feels the way you melt further into his hold. The soft cotton of his sweater smells like him—clean laundry and sleep—and you breathe in like you’re trying to memorize the moment.

Jake’s voice is a murmur against your hair. “What happened in the dream?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “It was fast. I think we fought. Or I pushed you away. And then you didn’t come back.”

He tightens his grip slightly. You’ve always been the one who needs to pull away sometimes. It’s never malicious—you just recharge in solitude. Jake has always understood that. You’re the black cat to his golden retriever, aloof but secretly full of warmth, affectionate on your terms. He loves that about you. But he realizes there’s something else. Something deeper.

“Is that what you’re scared of?” he asks. “That if you need space, I’ll think it means you don’t want me anymore?”

You go still. “…Maybe.”

Jake pulls back just enough to look at you, fingers still resting at your waist. “Baby,” he says, voice low and warm, “I know you love me. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re distant. Even when you need to disappear into a book or your playlist and not talk for hours. That’s not a threat to us.”

You blink.

“And if you ever push me away because you’re overwhelmed, I’ll be right here when you’re ready again. Always.”

You finally meet his eyes. “Why?”

“Because loving you means meeting you where you are. Not just when you’re soft and cuddly,” he says, booping your nose lightly, “but also when you’re a little prickly, or tired, or needing silence.”

Your throat tightens. You hate how easily he makes you cry. Jake sees it. Of course he does.

“No one ever taught you that you don’t have to earn love,” he says softly, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. “But I’m here to show you, every day, that you don’t have to ask for it, either.”

“I’m not asking,” you say, but your voice wobbles.

“No,” he smiles. “You’re just holding onto me like I’m gonna disappear.”

Your arms tighten slightly. “Jake.”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can we just stay like this for a while?”

His smile softens. “Yeah. Of course we can.”

And that’s how you end up pressed against the kitchen counter, wrapped in his arms, the half-sliced strawberries forgotten. The pancakes never get flipped. The butter burns a little. The morning light shifts slowly, golden becoming white.

But Jake just holds you, murmuring nothing words against your temple. And maybe he knows something you don’t: Sometimes the black cat just needs to be held. And he’s always going to be the one who does.

The sun has long since dipped below the windowsill, leaving the kitchen bathed in twilight. You’re barefoot on the cool tile, leaned lazily against the doorframe with a glass of water, watching Jake rinse the dishes from dinner. He hums as he works. Just the same as this morning. It’s funny how calm he makes you feel. How safe.

You hadn’t let go of him all day, trailing behind him like a shadow, curling into him on the couch, leaning your head against his shoulder while he read aloud from the article you didn’t even pretend to follow. And Jake never once pulled away. Not even when you got clingy in the way you swore you never were.

And now? Now you feel a little different. Still soft. Still grateful. But the ache in your chest has shifted lower, warmer. Hungrier. You set your water down quietly, padding barefoot across the kitchen.

Jake senses you before he hears you. “You okay, baby?”

You hum. Then wrap your arms around him again— this time from behind. But instead of your cheek to his back, you press your lips there. Just beneath his shoulder blade. He tenses slightly. Not in alarm, but surprise.

“…That felt different,” he says softly.

You smile against him. “Maybe it was.”

Jake turns. This time, it’s you who moves first. Hands sliding under the hem of his shirt, fingers grazing the skin at his waist. Jake’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t say anything. Just studies your face. You lean in slowly, brushing your lips against his. It’s not innocent. And he knows it.

He smiles against your mouth. “So, you’re back?”

You murmur, “I never left.”

His laugh is low and warm. “I was worried about you this morning.”

“I know.”

“I could tell something was off.”

“I know,” you repeat, nudging your nose against his jaw. “You didn’t make me explain it until I wanted to. You didn’t let go.” Jake’s breath catches when you kiss his neck—slowly, carefully, like a reward. “You were so patient with me,” you whisper. “Let me say thank you properly.”

“Baby,” he breathes, hands sliding instinctively to your hips. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to…”

That changes something in his expression. “Then,” he murmurs, suddenly pulling you flush against him, “I’m all yours.”

He lifts you onto the counter. You gasp softly as your back hits the cool tile backsplash, but Jake’s already there, covering your mouth with his, slow and deep. He kisses you like he missed you even though you never left. His hands settle on your thighs, fingers tracing upward, teasing the hem of the oversized tee you threw on earlier. His voice drops a note.

“No panties?”

You shrug, smug. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Mm.” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

“Maybe.”

Jake chuckles, then slides his hand up to cup your jaw. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, eyes soft. “I feel like myself again.”

“Good,” he says, and this time, his voice drops an octave. “Because I’ve been thinking about you all day. Wrapped around me like that. Whispering in my ear like I’d vanish if you let go.”

You shiver.

“You know,” he murmurs, dragging his hand slowly between your thighs, “I’m not going anywhere, right?”

You nod again.

“Use your words, baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, arching into his touch. “You’re here. I know.”

Jake hums, kissing your throat, your collarbone, every inch of skin he can reach as you tangle your fingers in his hair. He makes his way down your body, slow and reverent, kneeling on the kitchen floor like he’s praying.

And maybe, in some way, he is. Because you’re the one who asks for love in silence. And Jake? Jake gives it in all the ways you never knew to expect. With patience. With hands. With mouth. With worship. Hours later you’re curled into him again, this time tangled in sheets instead of sweaters. Jake’s hand is resting low on your back, your face tucked into the curve of his neck. You feel warm. Safe. Seen.

“Jake?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I love you. Even when I’m weird.”

Jake lets out a soft, sleepy laugh. “You’re not weird,” he murmurs.

“I mean, when I get all… needy.”

He tilts your chin up with one finger, gazing down at you. “That’s not needy,” he says. “That’s honest.”

You kiss him, slow and full. And when you fall asleep, it’s with his arms around you, your name still on his lips, and your heart finally, finally quiet.

You wake up slow. Not because of a dream or the sun through the curtains—though there is a warm, golden stripe stretching across the bedsheets—but because of the steady rhythm of Jake’s hand dragging softly up and down your spine.

You blink. You’re on his chest, one leg thrown over his hip, his arm tucked securely under you, cradling your head like it belongs there. His heartbeat is a calm, steady thump beneath your ear, and you don’t want to move. Not yet. Not when everything feels this still. He must feel you stir because his voice breaks the quiet, low and raspy from sleep.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You hum, nuzzling into his neck. “Too early.”

He chuckles softly. “It’s ten.”

“Still too early.”

Jake tightens his arm around you just slightly. “I’ll allow it.”

You smile into his skin. This—whatever this is—it’s new. You don’t feel heavy anymore. Not in the way you did yesterday. No ache, no sharp need pressing in on your chest. Just… Warmth. A want to stay close, not because you’re afraid, but because you can. You press a soft kiss to Jake’s collarbone, then his jaw, then his cheek. And when you finally pull back enough to look at him, he’s already watching you. His hair is messy. His eyes are half-lidded. And he looks like home.

“You’re cuddly this morning,” he murmurs, lips quirking at the edges.

You shrug. “Maybe it’s a new phase.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe.”

Jake kisses your forehead, slow and deliberate. “I’ll take it.”

You shift slightly, wrapping your arms around his waist as you half-lie on top of him. He doesn’t complain. Just holds you like it’s second nature. “You were incredible last night,” you whisper.

Jake hums. “You needed it.”

You nod against his skin. “Not just the sex,” you add softly. “You.” His hand slows on your back. “You make me feel okay again. Like… I don’t have to hide the heavy stuff. Or explain every weird mood.”

Jake’s voice is gentle when he answers. “You don’t. I’ll always figure it out. Or wait with you while it passes.”

You go quiet. Then, in a sleepy, almost bashful voice, “I think this part of me—the clingy, messy, soft part—only ever shows up when I’m around you.”

Jake’s arms wrap tighter around you, pulling you fully into his chest. “Good,” he says simply. “That means I’m doing something right.”

You stay like that for a while. Tucked under the covers. Wrapped around each other like it’s instinct.

Eventually, you whisper, “What if this new phase sticks around?”

Jake presses his lips to the top of your head. “Then I guess I’m the luckiest guy alive.”

You smile. Maybe this version of you—the one who lets herself ask for love in smaller, quieter ways—isn’t so bad. Maybe, with Jake, you don’t have to be the strong one all the time. Maybe softness is something you’re allowed to keep.

It happens in the middle of the week. You think about that often, later. How it wasn’t a holiday, or a birthday, or a picture-perfect sunset on a beach. It was just… a Wednesday. Cloudy skies. Coffee on the windowsill. Your hair damp from a shower, his hoodie thrown over your frame, sleeves swallowing your hands.

Jake is in the kitchen humming to himself, flipping pancakes that you already know will be slightly burnt on one side because he always forgets the pan is too hot at first. He’s in his old sweatpants and the same navy blue shirt he wore on your first weekend trip.

You’ve always loved this version of him—the no-audience, no-performance version. Just Jake. Just yours.

“Baby,” he calls without turning around. “Where’s the syrup?”

“Back of the second cabinet. Behind the rice noodles.”

He finds it instantly. “You are weirdly good at knowing where everything is.”

You smirk as you sip your coffee. “You are weirdly bad at remembering.”

He walks over to kiss your cheek, sticky syrup bottle in one hand. “Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

You lean into him. “I know, baby.”

His voice is quieter when he speaks next. “You feel like home, you know that?”

You glance up at him—Jake, who used to look at you like you might bolt at any moment, now completely at ease, leaning his hip against the counter, gazing at you like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

“You are my home,” you say simply.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches into his pocket. Your brows knit. But then his hand comes back out. And there’s a ring in it. Simple. Beautiful. Elegant. Not flashy. Exactly your style. Exactly him.

The mug slips slightly in your hand. You catch it, set it down. “Jake,” you breathe.

He doesn’t drop to one knee. He doesn’t make a speech. He just takes your hand and presses the ring into your palm. “I’ve had this for a while,” he says, voice steady. “I was just waiting for the right moment.”

“And today is…?”

He smiles. Shrugs. “You looked so peaceful this morning. The way you reached for me in your sleep, tucked your cold feet under mine and didn’t even realize it. And I thought… this is it. This is what I want every day for the rest of my life. Nothing fancy. Just us.”

Tears prick at your eyes.

“And I know you used to be scared,” he adds. “Of letting someone in. Of needing too much. Of falling too hard. But baby—” he cradles your face, thumb brushing your cheek, “you’re not too much. You’re everything. And I want to keep choosing you. Over and over. If you’ll let me.”

You stare at the ring on your hand and your throat tightens. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“And you don’t want some big moment?”

He shakes his head. “I just want you.”

You stare at him—Jake, who met your walls with patience, your silence with presence, your fear with gentle hands and low-voiced reassurance. Jake, who never asked you to be soft until you were ready. Jake, who became the reason you could be.

Your voice shakes when you speak. “Yes.”

Jake freezes. “Yeah?”

You nod, laughing through tears. “Of course, yes.”

He pulls you into him, wrapping his arms around your waist as if anchoring himself to reality. And you whisper it again, just so he knows it’s true. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

When he slides the ring onto your finger, it fits perfectly. Like it’s always belonged there. Like you’ve always belonged to each other.

Later, as you're curled on the couch together—his hoodie still on you, your fingers playing with the ring—you whisper, “You know I used to be afraid of all this.”

Jake kisses your temple. “I know.”

“But now?”

“Now?”

You turn to look at him. “I just feel lucky.”

Jake smiles. “Me too, baby.”

And you stay like that—no audience, no grand reveal. Just the two of you. The quiet kind of love that never had to scream to be real.

[big-ooof]

Come Closer

avoidant!jungwon x secure!reader

note: I felt good about Tuesday Night Confession (I still do!) but I got a comment about avoidant attachment and how they (@xoenhalover) related to Jungwon and if the reader was stable there wouldn't be any angst. They loved the drama but I still felt bad LOL so I had to get this off my chest. If you have thoughts or comments about any post, please share them with me. I don't bite... I'll just write about it hehe. sexual content 18+

The office is quiet, long past the time people usually go home. Most of the building’s fluorescent lights have gone dark. You don’t expect him to linger. Jungwon never does. But your shared project deadline is tomorrow, and neither of you have left the conference room since 7 PM. He sits across from you, shirt sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed as he reads through a report—but you can tell. He’s already halfway out the door in his mind. Again.

“You always do that,” you say, voice soft, not accusatory.

Jungwon looks up slowly. “Do what?”

“That thing where you look like you’re about to leave before anyone can ask you to stay.”

His pen stalls in his hand. There’s a pause—then a shrug. “It’s easier that way.”

You smile, just a little. “For who?”

He doesn’t answer.

This is the pattern. He flirts, but never long enough for it to mean something. He lingers, brushes past you a little too closely—but pulls away if you look his way too long.

Once, you touched his wrist in the breakroom and he stiffened like you hit a nerve. Not in disgust just like it made him feel something, and that was the problem. You’re interested in him but he’s avoidant. You know it and you’re not playing that game. But the thing is…he keeps coming back.

It’s not until a week later, after the project is done and the pressure is off, that it finally breaks. You're staying late again, this time for your own work, but he finds you in the empty office.

“Thought you went home,” you say, glancing up from your desk.

Jungwon shrugs, then closes the door behind him. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You nod, eyes returning to your screen.

And then he asks quietly: “Do you ever get tired of trying with people?”

The question catches you off guard. You turn to face him fully. He’s standing near your desk, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable—but there’s something behind his eyes. Something raw.

“Not really,” you say honestly. “Trying is easy. Leaving is harder.”

Jungwon exhales slowly. “You’re not afraid?”

“Of what?”

“Getting hurt.”

You pause, then stand. “No. I’ve been hurt before. It’s not the end of the world.”

He flinches like it’s too much. Like it’s too real. And that’s when you realize—you’re going to have to show him. You close the space between you slowly. He doesn’t move, just watches you like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

“I’m not going to chase you,” you say quietly. “But if you want to stay… you can.”

He swallows hard. His breath catches. You don’t touch him—yet. You wait. And finally—finally—he leans in. Not a kiss, not yet, but his hands hover like he wants to reach for you and doesn’t know how.

So you make the first move. Your mouths meet softly at first, tentative. His lips are warm, but there’s tension in his shoulders, in his breath. Like he’s not used to being wanted like this. Not without a cost.

You don’t rush. You pull him gently to you, lead him to your desk, sit him down and straddle him. His hands find your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“You’re allowed to want me,” you whisper against his neck.

That’s when he breaks. The kiss turns desperate. His mouth is hungry, tongue slick against yours, fingers fumbling to push your shirt up. When you guide his hand under your bra, he gasps like it’s the first time he’s ever been allowed to touch someone and mean it.

Clothes fall away piece by piece—your skirt hiked up, his pants unzipped. The desk creaks beneath you.

“You feel so good,” he groans, pushing into you slow, deep, like he wants to memorize the way you wrap around him.

Your nails drag across his shoulders. “You don’t have to run anymore.”

“I’m not—” he chokes on the words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Later, when you’re curled together on the office couch—his head buried in your neck, his breath warm against your collarbone—he murmurs, “I never thought I would do this.”

You stroke his hair, gently. “Did you want this? You can be honest.”

His voice cracks. “God, yes. I just needed someone who wouldn’t let me hide.”

You press your lips to his temple. “I see you. Even when you pull away. I’ll still be here.”

He clutches you tighter. No words. Just trembling arms and quiet breaths. You both sit in silence for a moment. Your legs still draped over his, skin flushed, blouse halfway buttoned, his tie dangling uselessly off your wrist.

Jungwon’s thumb brushes lightly over your knee. “You… don’t have to go home alone,” he says quietly, without meeting your eyes.

You tilt your head. “Is that you asking me to come over?”

His gaze flickers to yours—nervous, soft. “It’s me trying.”

The ride to his apartment is quiet, but not tense. The kind of silence that feels like something’s been opened between you. Like he’s still processing that you saw him—really saw him—and didn’t run.

You watch him from the passenger seat. His hand rests on the gear shift. He doesn’t say much, but his pinky brushes yours occasionally. You feel it. That slight tremble under his skin—like he's scared you'll change your mind.

His place is minimalist. Clean. A little too clean. There are no personal photos. No clutter. No warmth. “I don’t really bring people here,” he mutters, locking the door behind you.

“I figured.” You toe off your shoes, walk inside slowly— like he’s letting you into more than just his apartment. Because he is.

You turn to face him. “Jungwon.” He looks at you like he’s bracing for rejection. But you just smile, gentle. “Thanks for trusting me.” He exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.

You don’t rush. You move slowly. Help him out of his coat. Let your fingers linger on his shoulders, just long enough for him to lean into it. “Come here,” you murmur.

He kisses you softer this time. Not desperate—just present. When you make it to the bed, he’s already trembling under your touch. Not from nerves—from want. You ease him onto the mattress, straddle him again, and guide him in with a slow grind of your hips. His hands clutch your waist like you’re grounding him.

“This okay?” you whisper, brushing hair from his eyes.

He nods. “I just… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m allowed to want this... and someone still wants me.”

Your heart squeezes. “You’re not hard to love, Jungwon. You just never believed it.”

His hips stutter beneath you. He cums with a soft groan and a trembling kiss to your shoulder, clutching you to his chest like he’ll fall apart if you move.

Aftercare is quiet. Intimate. Real. He brings you water. An oversized shirt to sleep in. He kisses your forehead without realizing it. And when you finally crawl under the covers together, he doesn't turn his back. He stays facing you. Eyes open, hand resting on your waist.

“You’re still here,” he says softly.

“So are you,” you smile.

In the morning, you wake up first. It’s still dim—the kind of early morning haze where time doesn’t feel real—and the only sound in the room is Jungwon’s slow, even breathing. He’s curled into your side, one arm draped around your waist, his cheek pressed against your shoulder like it belongs there.

It’s the calmest you’ve ever seen him. But when his breath stutters and his lashes flutter open a few minutes later, you feel the shift immediately.

His arm tightens around your waist, then abruptly releases. His body stiffens. His eyes scan the room like he doesn’t recognize it.

“Hey,” you whisper, hand smoothing down his back.

He flinches—barely, but you feel it. “Sorry,” he says too quickly. “I didn’t mean to—uh—hold on to you like that.”

You stay still. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Jungwon swallows hard, then pulls back. Not all the way—just enough to sit up on the edge of the bed, feet touching the floor, hands in his lap like a nervous schoolboy.

“This is…a lot,” he mutters, staring at the carpet.

You sit up slowly. “I know.”

He glances over his shoulder. “Do you?”

You nod. “I know what it’s like to wake up and not know if you’re still safe. If it was a mistake. If you’re too close.”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. That.”

You wait a beat—then add softly: “But it wasn’t a mistake. And you’re not too close. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

He breathes in sharply, like that hurts more than if you’d pushed him away. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice low. “I don’t know how to be… held.”

You rise to your knees behind him, arms looping gently around his waist. He tenses. Then breathes. “You don’t have to know,” you murmur against his back. “You just have to try. I’ll meet you halfway.” You feel the way his spine slowly relaxes into your chest. A pause.

Then, in the smallest voice: “Can you stay a little longer?”

You smile, nose brushing his shoulder. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

As the morning progresses, he’s still quiet—but different now. Not distant. Just… learning.

You brush your teeth together in silence. He lets you wear his hoodie and you catch him watching you as you pull it over your head. When you ask what he’s thinking, he just says: “You look like you belong here.”

You look at him over the rim of your mug. “I do.”

And he believes you… maybe for the first time.

[big-ooof]

Jake x f!reader; strangers to lovers/parents

note: sexual content 18+

The hum of the fan was the loudest thing in the studio that afternoon, spinning lazily overhead as sun filtered through the tall windows, painting long golden strokes across your unfinished canvas. You didn’t hear the door open until Ni-Ki called your name.

“Yo, we brought iced coffee,” he grinned, stepping in with his usual loud energy, dragging in someone behind him. Jake.

He smiled shyly, a little caught off guard by the scent of paint, turpentine, and lemon scented soap that clung to the space. He wasn’t supposed to come today. He wasn’t even supposed to stay long. But the moment his eyes found you—your smudged hands, tank top clinging to your skin from the heat, a pencil behind your ear—he kind of wanted to. Wanted to see what this quiet world of yours felt like. Away from everyone else.

Two weeks later, Jake came back again. This time without Ni-Ki. Just said he was “in the area”— but he wasn’t. You both knew it. And you didn’t question it. You handed him a brush, your fingers brushing his, and something about the way he didn’t flinch, didn’t overthink it… made something shift.

“It’s peaceful here,” he murmured one day, lying on your old couch, watching you sketch with charcoal under the open window.

You smirked softly. “Most people get bored.”

“Most people aren’t watching you.”

His words lingered in the hot air, and for a long beat, neither of you said anything. He didn’t take it back, and you didn’t push him away.

The intimacy came slow and not necessarily in a sexual way. But in the way Jake would silently bring you extra brushes without asking. In how he learned to read your moods by the pressure of your strokes on canvas. In the way you didn’t need music or filler words when he was there.

He started showing you his own sketches. Messy, unsure ones. He’d sit beside you, close enough that your knees would touch, and you’d both draw the same still life. A shared rhythm in silence.

One night, when the sky turned violet and the summer heat gave way to a cool breeze, you both stayed in the studio too long. You had paint on your neck. Jake reached out and wiped it off with his thumb. But he didn’t pull back. Just kept looking.

You whispered, “You always look at me like I’m something you don’t want to ruin.”

Jake’s voice was low. “Because you are.” He leaned in and kissed you. Slow, reverent. Like a breath between thoughts.

One day your phone buzzed nonstop. You didn’t pick up or respond. It was your ex.

He eventually showed up in person—outside your building. Uninvited, hovering like a shadow, all apologies and veiled threats. You didn’t even know Jake was nearby when it happened. You just heard his voice, calm but firm, stepping between you and the unwanted memory of someone you once loved.

“She said no,” Jake said, jaw clenched. “You’re not welcome here.”

The guy scoffed. “Who are you to her?”

Jake didn’t even blink. “The guy who actually respects her.”

You didn’t cry that night. But Jake saw the fear behind your steady face. The way your hands trembled when you tried to keep painting. He didn’t ask questions. Just stood behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You leaned into him. For the first time in a long while, you believed it.

When you had sex, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, molten, and honest. You kissed on the paint-stained floor of your studio, sun-drenched and breathless. Jake’s hands skimmed under your tank top like he was learning you—mapping each inch with reverence.

“You okay?” he murmured, hovering over you, his fingers trailing along your ribs.

You nodded, lips parted. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He pressed inside you slowly, your legs around his waist, your breath caught between a gasp and a moan. You both moved together like it was instinctual—like you’d been waiting all summer for this exact moment.

Jake’s forehead touched yours, and he whispered your name like a secret only he was allowed to know. When you came, it wasn’t loud. It was quiet, full-body shivers and soft cries, your fingers gripping his back, your body melting into his like you belonged there. He held you after. Traced invisible lines on your bare shoulder. Pressed a kiss to your neck like a promise.

After that, things didn’t go back to normal. They got better. Jake still came to the studio, still brought you coffee, still kissed your shoulder while you painted. But now he stayed later. Sometimes, all night.

You started drawing him more. Jake, with sleepy eyes and messy hair, shirtless in the sheets of your makeshift bed. Jake, laughing with paint on his cheek. Jake, watching you with that same look—the one that said you were something he’d never take for granted.

A couple nights after your ex showed up, you thought you were fine but you couldn’t sleep. Even with Jake holding you close on the studio couch, your thoughts kept racing. You felt trapped inside your own world—colors you once found comfort in now felt claustrophobic. Your canvas stared back blank and cold.

Jake felt you shift, your chest tight against his as you tried to breathe through it. “Let’s go,” he whispered against your temple, voice sleep-rough.

You blinked. “Go where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can’t follow.”

By morning, your bag was packed with just the essentials—sketchbook, a few clothes, the playlist you always kept for late nights. Jake’s SUV hummed gently as you pulled out of the city. No destination. Just open road and summer stars.

He glanced over at you from the driver’s seat, hand reaching to squeeze your thigh. “We’ll find a place with no signal and too much sun.”

You smiled for the first time all day.

You ended up at a little lake town you’d never heard of—just green hills, wooden cabins, and a crooked sign that said Welcome. Jake found a tiny roadside motel with a single room, a soft bed, and nothing else but the sound of crickets outside.

You both collapsed onto the sheets, limbs tangled, bodies warm from the drive and the silence.

“I feel like I can breathe again,” you whispered, looking up at the wooden ceiling.

Jake turned toward you, eyes soft. “You never have to let anything unwanted into your head. Not ever.”

Your breath caught. “You make it easy to forget everything else.”

He kissed you slow, as if it was a question. His fingers brushed your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“I want you,” you whispered, voice small but sure.

Jake nodded, climbing over you, his weight grounding you into the mattress. His lips moved gently at first—soft, reassuring. But as your hands slipped under his shirt, dragging it off his body, he exhaled a shaky breath. His mouth found your neck, kissing and tasting, fingers dragging down the hem of your top.

“Off,” you murmured, already lifting it, revealing your bare chest.

Jake swore under his breath, eyes devouring you. “God, you’re beautiful.”

His mouth wrapped around your nipple, warm and slow, while his hand palmed your breast. He sucked softly, switching sides, tongue teasing until your back arched beneath him.

Then he kissed down your belly, tugging your shorts off in one smooth pull. His mouth hovered over your center, breath warm against your core.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh. “You sure?”

“I want to feel something that’s real,” you whispered.

His eyes met yours. “I got you.”

Jake’s mouth was devastating in the best way possible. Soft licks between your folds, then slow, focused pressure against your clit. You whimpered, fingers threading into his hair. He moaned into you—loudly—when you tugged.

He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open as his tongue circled and flicked with maddening patience. He didn’t rush—just learned you with every passing second, pausing only to say: “Fuck, baby, you taste so good.”

When you came, your hips bucked up into his mouth, thighs squeezing around his head. Jake didn’t stop until your body trembled, aftershocks fluttering through you like waves. He climbed back up slowly, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips—his face wet with you.

“Condom?” he asked breathlessly.

You nodded, barely able to speak, reaching into your bag.

Moments later, he was pushing into you, slow and thick, his mouth open in a gasp. “God,” he groaned, hips sinking deep, “you feel like you were made for me.”

You couldn’t speak—only moan his name as he started to move, hips grinding into yours with a rhythm that made the headboard thump against the wall. Jake wasn’t rough. He was deep. Deliberate. Every thrust felt like a promise, his hand gripping yours against the pillow.

“So good for me,” he breathed, panting. “So fucking perfect.”

You kissed him hard, nails digging into his back. When your second orgasm hit, it pulled him with you. He spilled into the condom with a guttural groan, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving.

Later, you lay tangled in the sheets, your head on his bare chest. He played with your hair absentmindedly, still catching his breath.

“Let’s stay one more night,” you said quietly.

Jake smiled. “Let’s stay all week.”

The next morning, he was watching you like you were the only painting he’d ever want to study. You woke to his fingers tracing circles on your spine, the sound of lake birds outside, and a croaky, “You drooled on me.”

You groaned into the pillow. “Shut up.”

He laughed, kissed your shoulder. “Still hot though.”

You smacked his chest. He caught your wrist and kissed your knuckles like he meant it.

When you returned home, your ex was long gone. And Jake? He stayed… in your studio. In your bed. In the quiet hours when you finally felt safe again. Your studio smelled like citrus and stretched canvas again.

The trauma, the dread—it had faded. Or at least, Jake helped dilute it. He was always there, folding himself into your quiet like he belonged.

“You should paint me,” Jake said one afternoon, shirt off, sprawled lazily across the couch. “Y’know. For inspiration.”

You raised an eyebrow over your sketchpad. “Oh? You suddenly think you’re muse material?”

He stretched, arms behind his head, torso flexing as if he knew what he was doing. “Come on, babe. I’ve been good. I deserve to be immortalized.”

You smirked, biting your pencil. “Fine. Take your shirt off.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “…wait, are you serious?”

Ten minutes later, Jake sat on a stool in front of you, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips and the cockiest smirk you’d ever seen. Sunlight cast warm shadows across his golden skin, hair still damp from a quick shower.

You stood with a brush in hand, eyeing him like prey. “You’re fidgeting,” you muttered, trying to keep your cool.

“Sorry,” he said, resting a hand over his thigh. “I just—your staring is kinda turning me on.”

You snorted. “That’s literally the point, Jake.”

But even you weren’t immune. The soft curve of his lips. The definition of his collarbones. The way he kept flexing his abs just enough to make you stare too long.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he murmured.

Your gaze lingered on the curve of his hip, the V-line dipping below the waistband. “I’m thinking,” you said, voice low, “about what it would feel like if I left brushstrokes all over you. In places no one else gets to see.”

Jake’s breath hitched—just a little.

Soon, you were no longer painting. Jake had pulled you into his lap, your hands still streaked with paint. His fingers gripped your waist as you ground against him, your lips swollen from messy kisses, your tank top pushed up over your chest.

“I want you right here,” you whispered against his ear, rocking your hips. “Right in the middle of this fucking studio.”

Jake’s head fell back with a groan. “You’re killing me.”

You palmed him over his sweatpants, then slipped your hand inside, finding him already hard and leaking. “You said you wanted to be immortalized. And I want to paint a specific version of you.”

He let out a broken laugh, but it ended in a moan as you sank to your knees in front of him. You took him in your mouth slowly.

“Fuck—baby,” he choked out, watching you from above, one hand gripping the stool, the other tangled in your hair.

You took him deeper in your mouth, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed— his pretty lips parted, abs tightening each time your tongue flicked under the head.

“You’re unreal,” he panted. “You’re so fucking perfect—look at you on your knees like that.”

You pulled back, lips slick, stroking him lazily. “You look even better when you’re falling apart for me.”

He lifted you onto the table, pushing aside the palette with one hand while the other shoved your shorts down your thighs.

“I need to be inside you,” he growled. “Right now.”

“Condom—” you gasped.

“Already in my pocket.” He grinned, tearing it open, eyes still locked on you. He rolled it on with practiced ease, then dragged the head of his cock through your folds. “You ready for me, baby?” he murmured against your jaw, his fingers teasing your clit.

“Always,” you whispered.

He sank into you in one long, slow thrust, both of you gasping as he bottomed out.

“Jesus—tight,” he groaned.

You clung to his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist as he started to move—deep and fluid, pushing you back against the table with every thrust. Paint smudges ended up on your thighs, your hip, his back. Neither of you cared.

“You feel so good,” he panted. “So fucking perfect wrapped around me.”

You kissed him hard, moaning into his mouth as his rhythm picked up—harder now, filthier. You bit his lip and he grinned, breathless.

“Claim me,” you whispered. “Like I belong to you.”

Jake growled low in his throat, pushing you flat against the table. “You do. Ever since the first day I walked into this studio.”

You came with your name on his lips, his hand tight on your throat—not choking, just holding. Grounding. Possessive. He followed soon after, shuddering above you, panting, forehead pressed to yours. “I wish we could fuckin’ frame this moment,” he muttered, smiling against your mouth.

Later, you painted a fresh canvas. Jake laid across the couch, now completely bare, lazy and drowsy in the golden hour light. This time, you didn’t rush the brushstrokes. You traced his body slowly. Carefully. As if you already knew you’d never need another muse again.

You participated in an art show the following Saturday. The gallery buzzed softly, the murmur of voices blending with the clink of glasses and the muted shuffle of expensive shoes on hardwood. Framed canvases lined the whitewashed walls, and under the amber glow of track lighting—your name hung proudly on a title card near the entrance.

And somewhere, just near the back wall, Jake was staring at your self-portrait of him—the one you swore you’d never actually display. You knew he recognized it instantly: the tilt of his neck, the soft light across his bare chest, the way his eyes were captured in half-shadow. His ears were red. You smirked from across the room.

“Subtle,” Ni-Ki whispered beside you, sipping champagne with an infuriating grin. “You really hung the ‘Jake-fucks-me-good’ painting dead center?”

You elbowed him, but you were laughing. “It’s art. You wouldn’t understand.”

Ni-Ki hummed. “No, I do. I introduced you two, remember? I facilitated this sexual renaissance. Honestly, I should get a finder’s fee.”

You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t wrong. If Ni-Ki hadn’t dragged Jake into your studio that first day… Well. You probably wouldn’t be wearing Jake’s shirt under your spaghetti strap slip dress right now.

Jake found you after ten minutes of mingling, wine in hand, gaze locked on yours like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

“You’re glowing,” he said, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “And I can’t stop staring at that painting.”

“I thought you might,” you teased, sipping from his glass. “I considered naming it Muse With a God Complex.”

He huffed out a laugh. “That’s rude.”

“I thought it was accurate.”

Jake leaned closer, mouth brushing your ear. “You do realize every guy here is staring at you, right?”

You arched a brow. “And you don’t like that?”

“No,” he said easily, hand sliding to your lower back. “I really don’t.”

Later, while people continued to drift through the gallery and Ni-Ki made himself far too comfortable charming a group of art students, a tall man you vaguely remembered from undergrad approached—smug smile, hands buried in his blazer pockets.

“I knew it,” he said. “That self-portrait piece? It’s…god, it’s intimate. That guy your model or your boyfriend?”

Jake appeared at your side fast—hand immediately settling on your waist.

“Painting just any model isn’t really her thing,” Jake said, voice casual, eyes sharp. “She’s quite selective when it comes to people she paints naked.”

You smothered a laugh behind your wine glass. The guy blinked, flushed, and muttered something about champagne before disappearing.

Jake turned to you, smirking. “Sorry. Was that too much?”

You shook your head, wrapping your arm around his waist. “No. I loved it.”

Back at home, you didn’t even make it past the kitchen. Jake had you pressed up against the counter, dress rucked up to your hips, his mouth locked to your neck. “You wore my shirt to the show,” he murmured, dragging his fingers under the hem of your dress. “You like letting people know you’re mine?”

“Mm, I just like reminding you,” you gasped.

Jake dropped to his knees, tugging your underwear down with practiced ease. “I’ve never needed a reminder, baby. But I’ll return the favor.”

He ate you out like it was a reward for good behavior. His tongue was slow, reverent, almost teasing at first. Then—firm strokes, lips sealed over your clit, two fingers curling up inside you. You were unraveling in seconds, gripping the counter with white knuckles, trying not to scream.

“You looked so fucking hot tonight,” he muttered between licks. “Letting everyone see you in your element. Proud of you, babe. So fucking proud.”

You came hard—legs shaking, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan. Jake stood, caught your lips in a filthy kiss, and lifted you onto the counter.

You pulled him in by the collar, eyes still dazed. “Need you inside me.”

He didn’t hesitate. He slid in with one slow thrust, both of you groaning at the stretch. “Fuck,” he panted, “I’ll never get used to how perfect you feel.”

You wrapped your legs around him, dragging him deeper. “Then don’t. Just keep proving it.”

And he did. Hard thrusts, your moans echoing off the kitchen walls, the sound of skin on skin drowned only by the words he poured into your neck: “My girl.” “My fucking girl.” “Mine, always.”

After, you both collapsed on the living room floor, breathless and tangled, his hand tracing lazy patterns over your thigh.

It had been a year and some change since that first kiss in your studio. You were still painting—now with gallery reps asking for exclusives, features, even a coffee table book. Jake was always there, quietly moving things behind the scenes, like a shadow of support you didn’t realize you needed until you had it.

You had a rhythm now. Shared groceries, mixed playlists, a spare key he never used because he knew the door would be unlocked for him. He helped stretch your canvases. You let him put his cold feet on you in bed. This was home.

So when your period was late—by almost a week—it didn’t initially freak you out. You were stressed. Painting nonstop. Probably dehydrated. It was nothing. Until it wasn’t.

You sat on the bathroom floor, the test box torn open beside you. The stick balanced on the edge of the tub, ticking down from three minutes. You didn’t even hear Jake come in until he crouched beside you, sleepy in sweats, rubbing his eyes.

“Babe?” he asked gently, gaze flicking to the test, then to your face. “What’s going on?”

Your throat tightened. “I—I might be pregnant.”

Silence. Then Jake blinked slowly. “Okay.”

“…Okay?”

He smiled, soft and a little dazed. “Yeah. I mean… do you want to be?”

Tears pricked your eyes. “I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on this. We’re not exactly—prepared.”

He nodded, pressing his forehead to yours. “We weren’t exactly prepared to fall in love, either. But we handled that pretty fucking well.”

The test was negative. You both stared at it for a long moment before exhaling at the same time. You didn’t know what you were feeling. Relieved? Confused? Disappointed? Jake read it all on your face.

“Come here,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms. You curled into his lap, letting yourself feel whatever wanted to come up.

“I think I panicked,” you said softly. “But now… I’m kind of… sad?”

Jake kissed your temple. “That’s not crazy. We’re happy. And happy people think about forever.”

Your voice cracked. “Would you have been scared?”

He smiled, thumb brushing your cheek. “Yes. And I still would’ve been all in.”

That night, he touched you like you were already something he wanted to protect. Like maybe the test was wrong. Like maybe something had already changed. You laid back against the pillows, naked under him, his lips moving down your chest, whispering praises with every inch of skin he worshiped.

“You’d be such a good mom,” he murmured, kissing your belly. “Smart. Kind. So fucking strong.”

You swallowed a moan. “Don’t say that unless you’re ready to start trying.”

Jake’s eyes locked on yours. “I’m not saying we have to. But I’d never run from that with you.”

You pulled him up to kiss you, needy and aching now. “Then show me how it would feel.”

Jake made love to you slow. Not the playful kind, not the rough kind either—but the kind where he kept whispering your name, where he kissed you when you came, where he held your hand as he pushed in deep and didn’t let go until you were both wrecked and glowing.

When he came, he stayed inside you for a moment, forehead to yours, both of you sweaty and full of something bigger than lust.

“You’re it for me,” he whispered. “Test or no test. This is real.”

You nodded, chest tight, tears prickling again. “I know.”

A week later, you caught him staring at you again—this time from across the kitchen, while you made coffee in one of his oversized T-shirts. He came up behind you, arms around your waist.

“You ever think about it?” he murmured. “Us. A little kid running around. One who paints on the walls and wears my shoes.”

You turned in his arms, eyes wide. “Jake…”

He smiled. “I’m not rushing. Just saying… if it ever does happen, I’d be the happiest guy in the world.”

You kissed him. Soft. Certain. “Maybe we should stop being careful,” you said quietly. “You know, eventually.”

Jake smirked, already lifting you onto the counter. “You say ‘eventually’ like I’m not about to make it happen right now.”

You finally accept Jake’s mom’s offer to visit them. His childhood home was warm in a way that made your chest ache. Not because it was perfect—it wasn’t. There were the slightly squeaky floorboards, the mismatched mugs in the cupboard, the framed school photos in the hallway that hadn’t been straightened in years.

But it was full. With love. With memory. With the kind of softness you realized you’d spent most of your life craving and never quite got. His mom greeted you with the tightest hug and a tray of fresh fruit. His dad gave you a wide smile and a handshake that turned into a warm pat on the back. Even the dog curled up at your feet like you’d always belonged.

“You okay?” Jake murmured that first night, as you sat on the edge of his childhood bed, slowly taking in the posters, the faded desk, the string lights he swore his mom had put up “without asking.”

You nodded. But your voice was quiet. “It’s just… this house. It feels like home.”

Jake studied you for a second, then pulled you into his arms, pressing his lips to your temple. “You are home, babe. Wherever we go, wherever we land—you’ll always have this.”

You bit your lip. “You don’t know what that means to me.”

“I do,” he whispered. “I feel it every time you look at me like that.”

That night, you lay awake beside him, tangled in old sheets and newer dreams. His room was small. The mattress was barely a double. But his hand was splayed across your lower belly, warm and firm, holding you there like an anchor.

“I want this,” you whispered into the dark. “One day. A home like this. A family. With you.”

Jake stirred, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Yeah?”

You turned to face him. “I didn’t always think I’d have it. But now… it’s all I want.”

He smiled, slow and soft, brushing a hand along your jaw. “Then we’ll build it. From the ground up. Just us.”

You made love to him quietly, under his old ceiling fan, under layers of whispered promises and faded linens. Jake moved slow, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing your body like it was holy.

“I love you,” he murmured. “Love you so fucking much.”

You arched into him, breath catching. “Want to feel you. All of you.”

He understood. No rush. No noise. Just the way he filled you, steady and deep, your bodies fitting like they’d done this in a thousand lifetimes before.

Your legs wrapped around his waist. His forehead pressed to yours. You whispered his name when you came, and he let go right after, shaking with it, like the truth had shattered something open inside him.

The next morning, Jake made breakfast in the kitchen while his mom offered to pull out old photo albums. You laughed at pictures of tiny Jake in swim goggles, at the missing front teeth, the crooked tie at his first school dance.

He leaned over your shoulder, grinning. “You think our kid’s gonna get my hair or yours?”

Your heart flipped. You just smiled and whispered, “I don’t know, but our kid is gonna be so loved.” You didn’t say “hopefully.” You didn’t say “if.”

Jake kissed you in front of his mom and held you after. Neither of you let go.

Ni-Ki was on emergency uncle duty when he got a call for an audition. You and Jake agreed to cover for him. He swung open the door of your apartment with a diaper bag in one hand and a squirming toddler balanced precariously on his hip.

“She’s teething,” he announced, exasperated, “and has only eaten banana puffs and rage for two days straight. I’m not kidding. She threw a sippy cup at me and called me ‘duh-duh’. I’m not even a dad.”

You bit back a smile as the toddler—chubby-cheeked, curly-haired, and sticky-fingered—perked up when she saw you.

“Hi, little bean,” you cooed, reaching out as Ni-Ki handed her over with zero hesitation.

Jake, standing just behind you, looked slightly terrified and completely smitten. “She’s… adorable.”

“Liar,” Ni-Ki muttered, fishing out a stuffed giraffe from the diaper bag. “Anyway, have fun. I’ll be back in three hours. Or maybe tomorrow. Depends on if she bites me again.”

Two hours later, your living room looked like a war zone. Plushies everywhere. A blanket fort half-collapsed over the coffee table. Jake’s shirt had a smear of banana puree near the hem, and your hair was slightly wet from an impromptu bath in the kitchen sink.

But when you looked over at Jake—on the floor with the baby in his lap, gently showing her how to stack wooden blocks—you felt it. Sharp and warm. Baby fever. Full-blown. No recovery.

You sat beside him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. “She loves you,” you murmured.

Jake smiled, distracted by the giggling toddler now using his chest as a trampoline. “I think she just likes my hair.”

You turned to him, watching the way he held her, so naturally, so easily. “Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d have a hundred of them with you.”

He blinked. Then—slow grin, a soft pink brushing his cheeks. “Just a hundred?”

You smacked his thigh. “I’m being serious.”

Jake shifted the baby to his lap and met your eyes fully. “So am I.”

When Ni-Ki returned, you were curled up on the couch, the baby fast asleep on Jake’s chest, your hand tucked in his. Ni-Ki paused. “Okay, weirdly emotional. Gross.”

You didn’t even glare—just smiled. “She’s so lucky,” you whispered, helping gently lift her to her carrier.

Ni-Ki arched a brow. “You’re crying over a two-year-old covered in applesauce. You need help.”

Jake just laughed and rubbed your back. “She’s got it bad.”

Later that night, after you’d cleaned the last of the mushed crackers off your floor, Jake cornered you in the hallway, his voice low, his hands warm on your hips. “You weren’t kidding earlier, right?”

You looked up at him, heart thudding. “About what?”

He kissed you once. Soft. “The baby thing.”

You swallowed, heat curling in your stomach. “No. I meant it.”

Jake’s hands slid under your shirt, fingers gentle, reverent. “Then maybe,” he said, pressing you to the wall, “we should try again. No condom, just to see.”

He took you slow, like it meant something more than just sex. Like it was the beginning of a promise. A future. A home with more laughter, more love, more tiny banana-sticky hands.

When he came, deep inside you, he held you close and whispered: “We’re gonna be so good at this.”

It started with a Sunday trip to the flea market. You had no reason to be there, really. Not until Jake stopped in front of a hand-painted wooden cradle and smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“That looks like something you'd paint,” he said, running his hand across the smooth edge. “If we had a nursery.”

You tried not to make it obvious that your ovaries had just exploded. “…Nursery, huh?” you said carefully, pretending to browse.

Jake looked up at you, smiling shyly. “I mean… it doesn’t hurt to start planning.”

You blinked. “Planning?”

He stepped closer. “We said eventually, didn’t we? Maybe we should start looking at houses that aren’t one-bedroom with paint stains in the kitchen.”

You elbowed him lightly. “That’s your fault. You dropped a whole pizza face-down while I was varnishing.”

He grinned. “Domestic disaster. But you still love me.”

You bit your lip. “Yeah… you’re not wrong.”

Nausea knows no mercy. It came out of nowhere. Sharp, sudden. You barely made it to the bathroom, dropping your phone on the hallway rug as you bolted. Jake followed instantly.

“Baby?” he called softly, voice getting closer. “Hey—what’s going on?”

You groaned from your place kneeling by the toilet, flushed and clammy. Jake knelt behind you, sweeping your hair back and rubbing small, slow circles into your back. “That came on fast. What did we eat?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just let your forehead rest on your arm, breathing through the wave.

“…You okay?”

You turned slowly to look at him, and the words left your mouth before you could stop them. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Jake stilled. The only sound in the room was the fan humming gently above. Then, without missing a beat, he nodded. “Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

Jake leaned in, thumb brushing your cheek. “I mean, it makes sense. You’ve been emotional over every baby commercial this week. And we haven’t exactly been… careful.”

“…Jake.”

He smiled, just a little breathless. “Say it again.”

Your heart fluttered. “I think I’m pregnant.”

He exhaled like the air had left his lungs in the best way. “God, I hope you are.”

That night, he touched you like the words still hadn’t worn off. He carried you to bed after you showered, curled you in his lap like something soft and precious, and held your hips steady as he sank into you slow and deep.

“You’re glowing already,” he whispered into your neck. “Even when you’re sick.”

You gasped his name, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders.

“If you are,” he murmured, rocking his hips in that way that always made your legs tremble, “then I’m gonna spend every day proving how lucky I am.”

You cried out softly, pleasure building. “Jake—”

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “Of both of you. Every single day.”

When you came, he didn’t stop—just chased his own release with breathless devotion, finishing inside you with a groan and a kiss pressed against your heart.

Afterward, you curled into his chest, his hand already stroking gently over your stomach. “You know,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut, “I think I want that little cradle.”

Jake smiled into your hair. “Yeah? Let’s go get it next weekend.”

The sun was pouring through the open studio windows, the scent of citrus candles and turpentine in the air. You were barefoot in one of Jake’s old college t-shirts, brush between your fingers, a streak of pale yellow across your cheek.

The canvas in front of you wasn’t a commission, not even an abstract. It was just something warm. Hopeful. Something you could hang above a crib, maybe.

You heard the front door shut, then keys drop into the dish by the counter. Jake’s footsteps padded softly into the kitchen, then stilled. “Babe?” he called. “Why’s there a literal pile of lemons on the counter?”

You smiled, still painting. “They made me feel better.”

He stepped into the doorway and blinked at you—hair damp from a morning shower, in sweats and a hoodie, like the man of your dreams accidentally wandered out of a Pinterest board.

Jake crossed the room slowly, eyes soft. “You okay? Still nauseous?”

You set your brush down and turned to face him. Your heart beat faster as you reached into the pocket of his hoodie you’d been wearing earlier. The test. Tucked neatly into your hand. “I took another one,” you said quietly. “Just to be sure.”

Jake froze. You held it out. He looked down at the little white stick. Then at you. Then back at the test. Two pink lines. Clear. Bold. Unmistakable.

Jake’s eyes went wide. His hands trembled a little as he reached for you. “You’re…?” His voice cracked.

You nodded, smiling even as your eyes brimmed. “I’m really pregnant.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t say anything. Then— Jake dropped to his knees. Right there in the studio, surrounded by open paint tubes and your lemon pile and all the love you’d built in this little shared space, he pressed both hands to your hips and kissed your belly. Over and over.

You ran your fingers through his hair, laughing through your tears. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

You cupped his face. “You’re gonna be the best one.”

He stood slowly, hands trembling, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your forehead like he couldn’t get enough. Then he pulled back just slightly. “I have to tell the guys. Immediately.”

The guy’s group chat: Jake: Emergency FaceTime. I’m not dying, I swear. Ni-Ki: If you made another painting and claiming it a masterpiece I’m blocking you Sunoo: He’s gonna propose. I’m calling it. Heeseung: Better not be another dog adoption Jay: Can this be something discussed via text Jake: Just answer the call.

The screen lit up with faces. Jake turned the camera so it caught both your faces—his arm around you, the glow in your smile unmistakable.

Then he held up the test. And said, through the biggest grin you’d ever seen: “I’m gonna be a dad.”

The scream that followed nearly broke the speaker. “WHAT—” “YOU—” “JAKE—” “No f*cking way—” “HYUNG I’M CRYING—”

Ni-Ki dropped his snack. “Y/N, I knew you were nesting.”

Jungwon looked at the screen, jaw dropped. “You’re actually glowing. Both of you. Is that normal?”

Sunghoon covered his face. “I can’t—Jake as a dad??”

Heeseung shook his head but he was grinning, eyes a little red. “Dude… I’m so proud of you.”

Jake leaned into the camera, hand still on your belly. “I just wanted you guys to know first,” he said softly. “You guys are family. And now… we’re gonna be adding one more.”

Ni-Ki sniffled and covered it with a cough. “You better let me buy all their clothes.”

The bump wasn’t even that big yet—just a curve, low and soft under your sweatshirt. Barely noticeable. But to you, it might as well have been neon-lit. You stood in the mirror of your shared bedroom, bare legs and stretched tee, fingers hesitating at the hem.

You’d outgrown half your clothes this week. Your bras dug in where they hadn’t before. Your hips ached by mid-afternoon. And even though Jake told you every single day how beautiful you were— You didn’t feel it tonight.

You didn’t notice him come in until his arms were around you from behind, his voice low and warm in your ear. “Hey. You okay?”

You blinked at your reflection, trying to smile. “Yeah. Just… feeling weird.”

Jake looked at you through the mirror, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Talk to me.”

You hesitated. “I just… don’t feel sexy right now.”

His brows lifted—concerned, not surprised. “Baby,” he murmured, turning you slowly to face him. “You’re literally carrying our child. You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You laughed weakly. “You have to say that, you’re my boyfriend.”

“No,” he said, stepping close, eyes soft and steady. “I get to say that. Every day. For the rest of our lives.”

Then, without asking, he knelt. Right there in front of you. And pressed the gentlest kiss to the swell of your belly. “Thank you,” he whispered to your skin. “For doing this. For giving us this.”

Your throat went tight. “Jake—”

His hands slid up your thighs, under your oversized shirt, slowly, reverently. “I want to take care of you,” he murmured. “All of you.” He lay you back on the bed like something precious, easing your shirt off inch by inch, his eyes never leaving your face. “You’re changing,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your stomach. “And I love every version of you.” His kisses trailed upward, over your chest—his hands cupping your fuller breasts, thumbs gentle where you were sore. “You’re so sensitive here now, huh?”

You nodded, breath hitching. Jake smiled against your skin, then moved slowly, taking one nipple into his mouth—soft, patient, sucking just enough to make you gasp. “Jake,” you whimpered, hips arching.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, moving lower. His mouth between your thighs was worship. Not frantic, not rough—just soft licks and slow circles, his hands keeping your legs spread as you trembled beneath him.

You moaned, fingers tangling in his hair. “Please—Jake—”

He pulled back just enough to say: “You’re doing so much. Let me do this for you.”

You cried out when he pushed two fingers into you—slow, perfect, curling just right as his tongue kept its rhythm. When you came, it hit hard—waves of it, pulsing through your core as he held you down and made you take every last second.

He moved over you after, eyes blown wide, cock pressing hot against your slick folds. “You want me inside?” he asked, voice thick. “Want me to remind you what you are to me?”

You reached for him, desperate. “Yes. Please.”

Jake slid in slow—deep and stretching—and you both groaned at the feeling. He rocked into you gently, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll always see you,” he whispered. “Always want you. Nothing about that changes.”

You cupped his cheek, tears pricking. “I love you so much.”

When you came again, his name left your lips like a prayer. He followed after, moaning into your mouth, his hips stuttering as he spilled into you. Afterward, he lay behind you, hand cradling your belly, lips at your shoulder.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, sleepily but certain.

You smiled into the pillow. For the first time that day, you believed it.

The house was quiet in that sacred, golden-hour kind of way. Just the clink of dishes drying, the rustle of a blanket being pulled up, and the sound of your feet padding down the hall in fuzzy socks Jake had bought you last month when your ankles started to swell. (“Therapeutic toe cloud socks,” the packaging had said. He’d bought three pairs.)

When you stepped into the living room, he was already there—laid out on the couch with one of the baby books Ni-Ki gifted you, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose, and his free hand resting absentmindedly on the bump you were growing together.

You paused in the doorway. Because it was still surreal sometimes. How right this all felt. Like the version of home you never realized you’d been missing until he helped you build it.

Jake looked up and smiled, slow and soft. “Hey, mama.”

Your heart flipped. “Hey, bookworm.”

He patted the space beside him, and you curled up instantly, your back to his chest, his legs on either side of yours. His arms came around you like instinct, warm and sure.

“What are we learning tonight?” you asked.

He flipped a page, squinting. “That the baby is the size of a mango this week, and their ears can hear everything now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So… they’ve been listening to you narrate weird animal facts for three nights?”

Jake beamed. “Exactly. Our baby’s gonna be the coolest science fair winner ever.”

You snorted. “Or really confused when they think all wombs echo with trivia.”

Jake leaned in, kissed your neck. “Don’t worry. I’m working on a bedtime story that has plot.”

That night, you were propped up in bed, warm under three blankets, feet on a pillow, while Jake sat cross-legged beside you with a children’s book in hand.

He cleared his throat dramatically. “Okay, little mango. Storytime.”

You tried not to laugh.

“In a faraway land, there was a very tiny baby growing in the most beautiful, smart, brave woman in the entire universe—”

“Jake.”

“—who just so happened to be in love with the hottest narrator alive,” he added, winking.

You rolled your eyes, grinning as you stroked your bump absently. He read anyway, gentle and animated, pausing every so often to whisper something soft against your belly, like “you’re safe” or “we’re so ready for you”.

You closed your eyes. And in the quiet of that moment—with Jake’s voice, the steady weight of his hand on you, and the faint kicks fluttering just beneath your skin—you realized something: You’d never felt so completely loved. So known. So sure of everything ahead.

The next morning, you woke up to the smell of bacon and Jake singing quietly in the kitchen, his voice cracking adorably as he substituted words in a lullaby for your name. You padded in, wrapped in his hoodie, and found him cooking shirtless—apron tied loose around his waist, hair a mess, beaming at your bump like it told a joke.

You leaned in the doorway, dazed with affection. “You’re gonna be so annoying as a dad,” you whispered.

Jake turned around and kissed your temple. “You love it.”

You did. You really, really did.

You hadn’t realized how loud the world had been—until it wasn’t anymore. Just you, Jake, the ocean breeze, and a tiny coastal cottage with sun-warmed sheets and lemon trees outside the window. He booked the babymoon without even blinking.

“You’re carrying a human,” he said as he packed your softest sweaters and prenatal vitamins like a dad-on-duty. “You deserve a vacation with zero alarms, back rubs on demand, and no emails.”

You were five and a half months along. Tired more often than not. But with Jake? You felt weightless.

The beach was private, quiet, almost too beautiful to feel real. Jake held your hand the whole walk, careful with the sand, his other arm supporting your lower back when your steps slowed.

“You okay, baby?”

You nodded. “I just feel… full. But not in a bad way.”

He smiled, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re glowing.”

You laughed. “That’s the sweat and SPF 50.”

“No,” he said softly, touching your bump. “It’s you. You’re… growing a human inside of you.”

You leaned into his chest and let the waves speak for both of you.

The cottage turned golden with candlelight at night, warm honey tones against wood floors and your slow-breathing bodies under linen sheets.

Jake rubbed your feet without needing to be asked, then traced lazy circles over your belly as he whispered to the baby: “You’re gonna love the nursery. Your mom picked the softest green paint. I mean, I tried to suggest space-themed wallpaper, but she said ‘absolutely not.’”

You giggled.

He glanced at you. “I’m not bitter. Just saying. Your dad is cool.”

You grinned, sleepily. “Your kid’s first word is gonna be ‘Jake’ from all this shameless self-promotion.”

Jake leaned down to kiss the curve of your belly. “And then ‘genius.’ Followed by ‘botanical green paint.’”

The real nesting kicked in when you got home. You stood barefoot in the nursery with a roller brush, sleeves stained pale sage, hair tied up, and a playlist humming from the speaker.

Jake came in holding snacks and gasped dramatically. “You started without me?”

You grinned over your shoulder. “Someone was too busy color-coding baby books by aesthetic.”

He held up a pack of mango gummies like a peace offering. “Okay but that was very important.”

He painted next to you in quiet focus, occasionally sneaking kisses to your shoulder and writing little messages on the wall with invisible ink (just white crayon under the paint). At one point, you caught him crouched in front of the crib, just staring at it.

You touched his back. “What are you thinking?”

He looked up, eyes shining in that way he got when he was overwhelmed with everything good. “That I can’t wait to meet them.”

You crouched beside him, your hand finding his. “That makes two of us.”

That night, after your second mango popsicle and a warm bath where Jake washed your hair like it was holy work, you lay in bed, listening to him whisper a list of things he wanted to teach the baby: How to swim. How to hold a pencil properly. How to spot the best dogs at the park. How to ask for help without feeling weak.

You turned, touched his cheek. “Do you think they’ll be like you?”

Jake smiled faintly. “I hope they’re like you.”

You kissed him slowly. “Maybe they’ll be lucky enough to be a little of both.”

The due date was two weeks away. And Jake… was losing his mind. Quietly. Lovingly. Beautifully. He didn’t say it aloud—not exactly. But the signs were there.

Like the way he’d repacked the hospital bag four times. Labeled everything in the freezer. Timed your breathing when you so much as sighed. Installed the car seat twice, just to be sure.

You watched him now, standing in the nursery at 11:47 PM, adjusting the mobile above the crib by millimeters. Again.

“Jake,” you said gently from the doorway, hands resting on your belly.

He jumped, like you’d caught him committing a crime. “I—I thought it looked crooked. Did it look crooked?”

You tilted your head. “It’s the third time you’ve fixed it tonight.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I know. I just…” He paused, the words caught in his chest. Then he sat down heavily in the rocker, face in his hands. You crossed the room slowly, lowering yourself into his lap. The curve of your belly slotted warm between you. Jake exhaled shakily, arms wrapping around your waist.

“I’m scared,” he said quietly. “I know I shouldn’t be, I know I’ve read every book, I’ve done the classes and the prep and—hell, I’ve got a spreadsheet for contractions—”

You smiled softly. “I’ve seen it.”

“But none of that’s gonna matter when it happens,” he said. “Not if I can’t help you. Or if something goes wrong. Or if you’re in pain and I can’t fix it.”

You threaded your fingers into his hair. “Jake.” He looked up at you, wide-eyed, boyish, vulnerable in a way only you ever got to see. You cupped his cheeks gently. “Do you want to know the truth?”

He nodded.

“You’ve already helped me. Every single day.” You kissed his forehead. “When I was nauseous for a month and couldn’t get out of bed—you were there.” You kissed his nose. “When I was scared about my body changing—you made me feel more beautiful than ever.” You kissed his lips. “And when I forgot what I was even capable of, you reminded me. Over and over.”

He was tearing up now, blinking rapidly. You pressed your forehead to his. “Jake… you’ve already been showing up as a dad. Even before they got here.”

He swallowed hard. “You really think I’m ready?”

You took his hand and placed it on your belly—right where a small kick greeted him. You both froze. Then Jake smiled through his tears, leaning forward to kiss your bump. “God, I’m so ready,” he whispered to them. “I’ve been ready since the first time I saw that test.”

You curled into him, his arms wrapping tightly around you. The crib was built. The hospital bag packed. The freezer full.

But more than anything— This. This was the real preparation. The love that steadied you both, no matter what came next.

[big-ooof]

Sunghoon x f!reader

You and Sunghoon grew up in the same neighborhood, always orbiting each other, never colliding. But when you’re both home for the summer—older, freer, a little lonelier—your paths finally intertwine in a haze of chlorine and late-night touches.

note: sexual content 18+

The summer felt floaty. Everything shimmered with that lazy, golden heat—the kind that blurred the edges of reality. The kind that made old feelings resurface like sweat beneath your bikini strap. Suburbia hadn't changed. The lawns were still perfectly trimmed. The sky still a mix of pink and blue at 8 PM. But he was different.

Sunghoon had always been the pretty boy two doors down, the one your friends whispered about during sleepovers. Ice-skater-turned-dancer-turned-somewhat-cryptic-heartthrob. You’d crossed paths a dozen times growing up—your parents were friends, you’d shared barbecues, Fourth of July fireworks, casual hellos. But he always felt out of reach.

Until now.

Now, he’s stretched out on a lawn chair by the pool, shirtless, damp hair curling slightly at his nape, tongue licking cherry Popsicle from his fingers. “You gonna keep staring or get in?” he asks lazily, not looking up.

“I’m not trying to melt,” you shoot back, but your voice wavers—because he is melting, heat pooling in your stomach just from looking at him.

“You could always cool off with me,” he offers, finally lifting his eyes. They’re unreadable behind his sunglasses, but there’s a grin twitching at the corner of his lips.

You slide your dress off slowly, standing in just your bathing suit. You don’t miss the way his gaze drops. Or the way he lets out a low breath.

The water is warm, the tension warmer. You float beside him under the fading sun, fingers brushing “accidentally” every few seconds.

“So, you’re back for the whole summer?” he murmurs, voice honey-slow.

“Maybe longer,” you say. ��Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how fun it gets.”

He smirks. “You know, I always wondered…”

You tilt your head. “Hm?”

He swims closer, chest almost brushing yours. “What you tasted like.”

Your breath catches. “Wanna find out?”

His hand finds your waist under the water, skin electric on skin. “I think I might,” he whispers… then he kisses you. It's slow, exploratory, then hungrier. He presses you against the edge of the pool, mouth trailing to your jaw, down your neck. His hand slides beneath your swimsuit bottom, fingers brushing you just right, making your head fall back against the pool tiles.

“You always this sweet?” he murmurs against your throat.

“Are you going to keep asking or do something about it?”

He does something about it. You end up in the pool house, barely making it inside before clothes are gone and mouths find each other again.

Sunghoon is all soft grunts and rough fingertips, spreading your thighs open on the old lounge chair, licking you like a man starved. He eats you slow at first, then faster, holding your hips down when you start to buck. Your moans echo in the humid air, blending with the buzz of cicadas and a faint Dayglow track playing somewhere in the background.

When he finally slides into you, it’s skin on skin, sweat and sun and moaning into each other’s mouths. He fucks you slow, like he’s savoring it. Whispering things like “You feel like a dream,” and “Been wanting this since I was seventeen.”

You cum with your fingers tangled in his damp hair, thighs trembling, his name slipping from your lips like a secret.

Later, you're tangled together, his hand drawing lazy circles on your thigh. “You still wanna leave at the end of summer?” he asks, voice low.

You grin, eyes closed. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how many more pool days like this we have.”

The pool house air is thick. Not just with heat, but want. Time doesn’t move the way it should. Or maybe it just doesn’t matter. Not when Sunghoon is kissing down your body like he’s been thinking about it for years. Because maybe he has.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs as he kneels between your legs again, hair messy, skin glowing under the dim porch light filtering through the blinds. “You know that?”

You lift your hips to meet his mouth, breath stuttering. “Show me.”

He kisses you like he’s got all night—and he does. Like the summer was made for this. For you. For the slow drag of his tongue over your nipple. For the press of his fingers inside you while his mouth claims yours in deep, hot kisses. For the way he keeps making you cum, over and over, like he’s desperate to memorize every sound you make.

You don’t even realize you're trembling until he’s cradling you against his chest, murmuring something soft that sounds like “always wanted you like this” as he rolls you over and slides into you again.

This time it’s slower. More intense. His hips rock into yours like he’s trying to match your rhythm, sync your breathing. Skin against skin, sticky. You moan into his mouth when he kisses you, when he whispers your name like it’s a promise.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, hand wrapped around your thigh, pulling you closer, “I can’t believe we waited this long.”

“Then don’t stop,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Make up for it.”

The sun’s rising by the time you wake up, tangled in damp sheets and the scent of him. Sunghoon’s bare chest is warm beneath your cheek, one arm lazily wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“You awake?” you murmur.

“Mmm,” he grunts, pulling you closer. “No. Go back to sleep.”

You smile. “We’re literally sweating through the sheets.”

“Don’t care. You smell good.”

“You’re disgusting.”

He cracks one eye open, smirking. “And you like it.”

You roll your eyes but let him tug you on top of him, your bare legs tangling. His morning voice is raspy, and his hair’s a mess, but he looks unfairly good. Like this could be normal. Like summer could stretch forever.

You run your fingers along his collarbone. “We’re gonna have to talk about fall eventually.”

“Not yet,” he says, thumb brushing your hip. “Let’s just stay in this bubble.”

“Are you gonna feed me breakfast in this bubble?”

“Oh, I’ll feed you something,” he says, and his hand slips lower.

“Sunghoon—”

He flips you gently onto your back, eyes already dark again. “Still got time to make up for, babe.”

It never crossed your mind to step foot in his childhood bedroom, nor were you dying to do so but Sunghoon had other plans.

“My mom’s out for the day,” Sunghoon says, keys already dangling in his hand, a teasing grin playing on his lips. “Figured you should see where I had my first wet dream.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips at the thought. “Why are you trying to traumatize me?”

“Trying to relive it. Maybe with a better ending this time.”

His room still smells like him, somehow. Faintly like laundry, spearmint, and old wood. The posters are faded, but you can still make out the ice skating medals lined up across the shelves, a worn tour hoodie hanging from a chair, and a slightly crooked photo strip of him and his younger sister stuck to the mirror.

You run a finger along the spines of his old DVDs—Spirited Away, The Fast and the Furious, Step Up 2—while he closes the door behind you.

“You were a soft boy and a fuckboy,” you muse, looking over your shoulder.

“Still am, baby,” he says, stepping behind you, arms circling your waist. “Wanna see what I used to jerk off to?”

You laugh—then stop when you feel him hard against your lower back.

“Or…” his voice drops, lips brushing your ear. “You could give me something better to remember.”

You’re on his childhood bed two minutes later, knees spread and breathless, moaning his name into a pillow with your hand wrapped in his sheets. He fucks you from behind, slow and deep, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back.

“You ever think about me back then?” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Ever sneak into your room and wish it was me between your legs?”

You whimper, nodding.

“Fuck,” he groans, slamming into you harder. “You should’ve come over. I would’ve ruined you.”

And now, he is—his hips slamming into you, your thighs trembling as your orgasm builds, raw and unstoppable. When you fall apart around him, crying his name into the pillow, he groans and spills into you seconds later, collapsing onto your back with a kiss to your shoulder.

The room’s quiet again. Just your breathing and the hum of the old fan overhead. “You’ve really had this twin bed since middle school?” you whisper.

“Don’t judge me. It’s got more history now.”

You drive out to the lake the next afternoon, windows down, thighs bare, his hand resting on your knee like it belongs there. The water’s still and blue, cicadas humming in the trees. You set up a blanket in the shade, and Sunghoon strips to his swim trunks, jumping in without hesitation. His laughter echoes across the water.

“Come in, baby,” he calls, grinning.

You shake your head, sipping lemonade and letting the sun warm your skin. “Too lazy. Come here.”

He swims to the edge and pulls himself up, water dripping from his chest, hair slicked back. He eyes you from head to toe and kneels beside you, brushing damp fingers along your thigh. Then he kisses you—slow, unhurried, soft as the breeze rustling the trees.

The day stretches out. He lies back on the blanket, arm tucked under his head, watching the clouds. You curl into his side, tracing shapes on his stomach with your fingertip.

“You ever think about just… not going back?” he asks quietly.

You pause. “To school?”

“To real life.”

You rest your head on his chest. “All the time.”

He hums, fingers in your hair. “I want this. Every day.”

You don’t say anything. You just close your eyes and press your lips to his ribs—like a yes you don’t need to say out loud.

Your old friend Hana is throwing a backyard party—just like high school, only now everyone’s hotter, drunker, and pretending they’ve got life figured out. String lights hang overhead like constellations, and you’re nursing a spiked lemonade when you feel Sunghoon’s arm wrap around your waist from behind.

“Hey, pretty,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek.

You lean into him instinctively, but your eyes are on the guy across the lawn who’s been talking to you all night—too friendly, too flirty. You weren’t even entertaining it… not really.

Sunghoon pulls back, just slightly. You can feel the shift. “You know him?” he asks, casual—too casual.

You shrug. “From class. He’s nice.”

“Sure,” he says, smile tight. “Real nice.”

You catch the way his jaw ticks when the guy glances over and winks at you. “Are you… jealous?” you ask, turning to face him.

He scoffs. “Should I not be? You’re here looking like that, talking to some finance major who probably thinks Radiohead is ‘indie’.”

You laugh, but there’s a beat of silence. “You never said we were exclusive,” you say quietly.

Sunghoon's eyes darken. “Yeah, well… I didn’t think I had to,” he says, voice low. “Didn’t think I’d have to claim you to keep you.”

Your stomach twists. It’s not just about the party. Not just the guy. It's all of it—summer ending, the fall creeping up, the fact that neither of you said it out loud but both of you feel it. That you're more than a fling.

You’re still staring at each other when Hana calls for everyone to come watch fireworks out front.

Sunghoon just walks past you, muttering, “I need air.”

You find him later in the quiet of the side yard, sitting on the hood of his car, beer bottle sweating in his hand. The party’s still going, distant laughter mixing with the dull thud of music and fireworks. You don’t say anything. Just sit beside him.

“I was an idiot,” he says after a minute.

“You weren’t.”

“I should’ve told you what I wanted.”

You turn to look at him. “Then tell me now.”

He’s quiet, looking up at the stars. Then: “I want you.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it—just lets it float in the humid air between you. “I don’t care if it’s summer. Or fall. Or some random Tuesday five years from now. I want you in my bed, in my house, at my worst and my best. I want all your late-night thoughts and morning hair and bad habits.”

You bite your lip, heart thudding like a firework. “I thought this was just… for fun.”

“It was,” he says. “And then it wasn’t.”

You let the silence sit for a moment before leaning your head on his shoulder. “I want you too.” He lets out a breath—one he’d been holding. “But what happens when I go back?” you whisper.

He shrugs, voice softer. “We make it work. I visit. You come back on breaks. Or maybe you stay.”

You look up at him. “I thought this was a summer bubble,” you say, clinging onto anything that distracts you from making this feel like real life. “What if it pops?”

He cups your face and let out a laugh. Brushing your cheek with his thumb, “then I’ll build you a new one.” When he kisses you this time it’s not lust or fun or fireworks. It’s a promise.

You wake up on his couch, tangled in a throw blanket, bare legs hooked over his. The TV’s still playing some late-night cartoon, volume low. The sunrise creeps through the blinds, painting his skin gold.

He’s already awake, you feel his fingers lazily tracing circles on your back, his other hand curled behind his head.

“You snore,” he murmurs.

You smirk sleepily against his chest. “You love it.”

“I really do,” he says, and for once, there’s no teasing in his voice.

He makes coffee while you sit on the counter in his oversized tee, sipping from his chipped mug, legs swinging. There’s a comfortable stillness in the air. No pressure to fill the silence. Just the low hum of the fridge, the birds outside, and the way he keeps glancing over at you like he’s afraid to blink and miss you.

You speak first. “So… we’re doing this?”

He turns toward you, still shirtless, hair sticking up like he’d been tossing all night. “If you’re in, I’m in,” he says simply. “Distance, phone calls, late night visits, all of it.”

You chew your lip. “It won’t be easy.”

“Anything worth it usually isn’t.”

You let that sink in. Let yourself believe it. Then: “Can I still steal all your hoodies when I leave?”

He chuckles and walks over, pulling you in between his arms. “Babe, I’m about to mail you snacks, send you sweaty selfies from the gym, and probably cry the first time we FaceTime and your Wi-Fi lags.”

You blink up at him. “You’re gonna cry?”

“I might, alright? Don’t shame me.”

You laugh. Then lean up and kiss him soft—like a yes, like a we can do this together.

He drives you to the train station later, fingers tightly laced in yours the whole time. Neither of you says much. The radio’s playing softly. The windows are down. You both look out the windshield like you’re afraid eye contact will make this harder.

At the platform, he gets out, opens your door, helps with your bag like you’re fragile. “Don’t go falling in love with anyone at college,” he says, voice half-playful, half-cracked.

“You’re everything to me and I hate that I don’t get to wake up to you,” you whisper.

He cups your face, brushes a thumb across your cheek. “We’ll figure it out.”

You nod. “I think we already are.”

You kiss him one last time. Then you turn to go. You don’t look back. But he’s watching you, and he’s smiling. Already thinking about the late-night texts. Polaroids in your dorm room. Surprise visits. Weekend train rides. Growing pains. And two people trying—for real, for keeps. Because some summers don't end. They just turn into something more.

[big-ooof]

When the World is Loud

Jake x f!reader

note: sorry, suddenly I'm in a sad mood (cue Jake's cover of "I don't think I'm okay"). this one might hit a soft spot for the sad girlies.

I'm working on other stories— I know this won't get the same traction as the other filthy shit I like to write but it's a change of pace if you're up for it.

You didn't notice when things got worse—only that the quiet started feeling more comfortable than anything else. At first, it was skipping the call. Then not texting back right away. Then not showing up. You didn’t mean to isolate yourself. But between the draining conversations that went nowhere, the flings that fizzled out once your needs weren’t cute anymore, and the gnawing guilt of feeling too much and not enough all at once, you stopped trying.

You stopped hoping anyone would stay when it got hard. So when Jake texted: You disappeared on me. Still thinking about you. You stared at it for hours. He didn’t follow it with a sad-face emoji or a guilt trip or a passive-aggressive jab. He didn’t double-text. Just… a gentle reminder that you were still someone to him.

You didn’t reply that day. Or the next.

But he still sent a photo of Layla sitting like a loaf on the couch, eyes sleepy, tongue peeking out. “She misses you. I told her you’re just recharging.”

That made your chest ache a little. In a good way. Or maybe a bad one. It was hard to tell anymore.

You met Jake through friends, back when your spark still reached the surface. He noticed you the way others didn’t— not just when you laughed or lit up, but when you checked out mid-conversation, when your gaze flickered to the floor, when you nodded instead of saying how you really felt.

He listened to what you didn’t say. And now, months later, he was still listening.

The third week you went quiet, you expected him to stop checking in. But one night, he sent a voice note. Just thirty seconds. His voice, a little tired but warm. “No pressure to reply. Just figured I’d talk to you anyway. I passed that noodle place you love. Made me think about the time you said dumplings fix 70% of emotional crises. You were wrong, by the way. It’s more like 62%. Maybe 63. I’m running tests.”

You listened to it three times. You didn’t reply. But you cried.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you woke up to knocking. Gentle. A little hesitant. You sat up in bed, heart crawling up your throat. You weren’t ready to see anyone. But something in you knew it was him. You dragged yourself to the door. Slowly. Cautiously.

And there he was. Baseball cap pulled low. Hoodie zipped to his chin. Two iced coffees in hand. He looked at you like you were sunlight after a storm he was willing to stand in.

“Hi,” he said, soft. “Didn’t want to call in case you were sleeping. Or hibernating.”

You blinked at him. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t make words come out. So you stepped aside. And he walked in like he already knew how to make space without taking it.

You didn’t talk much that first hour. You curled into the corner of the couch while he sat beside you, close enough to reach but not touching unless you did. The TV played quietly. Layla sniffed at your leg before curling up between you like she knew this was a sacred, fragile moment.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said eventually, passing you the coffee. “I just didn’t want you to be alone today.”

You stared into the drink. “I’m always alone on days like this.”

Jake’s voice stayed steady. “You don’t have to be.”

You shook your head, throat thick. “Most people leave when it gets like this. When I get like this.”

His jaw ticked. But his voice was still warm when he answered. “I’m not most people.”

And it wasn’t said with a smirk or some rehearsed line. It wasn’t followed by promises he wouldn’t keep. It was a quiet truth. A commitment, not a performance.

You fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, sometime past midnight. You don’t remember how the blanket ended up over you both, or how your hand ended up loosely holding his. But in the morning, you woke up to sunlight sneaking through the blinds. Layla was snoring. The room was still. Safe. Jake was still there.

His eyes met yours before you could pretend you were asleep again. “Hey,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “You okay?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t fully true.

He nodded anyway. “Wanna go sit outside? Get some air?”

You shrugged. “Maybe in a bit.”

“Okay. No rush. I’ll be here.” And that was the difference. Others wanted to pull you out of the dark so you’d be easier to love. Jake just sat with you until you felt safe enough to stand.

Weeks passed. You didn’t get better overnight. But on the hard days, he brought food and let you eat in silence. On the numbing ones, he took you on walks and made terrible puns until you smiled. And on the good ones—those rare, golden hours where everything didn’t feel so heavy—he let you shine and never tried to claim it.

He never asked for more than you could give.But you found yourself wanting to give it anyway.

One night, as he handed you his hoodie before you even asked, you looked at him and said: “I don’t know why you stayed.”

Jake tilted his head, his expression soft but certain. “Because you’re not just worth the easy parts.”

And when you reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his for the first time, you realized— Love wasn’t always loud. It wasn’t declarations or fireworks or grand, sweeping moments. Sometimes, it was showing up. Sitting beside someone while the world roared outside. And staying.

Bonus: Jake’s POV

He knew you were pulling away before you did. It started with the shorter texts. Then none at all. The way your laugh got quieter over the phone, like you didn’t have the energy to mean it anymore. The way you said “I’m okay” like you were apologizing for lying.

Jake didn’t push. Didn’t ask where you went.

Because you hadn’t gone anywhere. You were just sinking again. Quietly. The same way you always did when life turned heavy and no one stayed to help carry it.

He hated how familiar it looked on you. Like you were already used to being left behind. So he made a choice. Not to save you. Not to fix you. Just… to stay.

He sent things. Little things. Photos of Layla looking like a sleepy worm under the blanket. A clip of a new song with no caption. Voice notes where he told dumb stories and let you hear what his days sounded like, even if you couldn’t respond.

He never expected a reply. He just didn’t want you to think the world forgot you.

When two weeks passed and nothing came back, he drove to the 24-hour mart, bought your favorite iced coffee and a bag of dumplings, and stood outside your building, staring at your door like it might open on its own.

He knocked. Once. Then again. You opened it slowly. Eyes puffy. Hoodie swallowing you whole. You looked like you hadn’t slept. Like maybe you’d been floating through the past few days, and this was the first time you stood still.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t need you to.

“Hi,” he said, gently. “Didn’t want to text in case you were sleeping.” He offered the coffee. “Figured you might want this.”

You blinked, like you couldn’t figure out why he was still there. Why he wasn’t already walking away like the others had. Jake’s heart broke in a small, quiet way. Because you still didn’t expect someone to stay.

Inside you apartment, it was dim. Lived-in. Quiet. He didn’t fill the silence. You both sat on the couch. Layla immediately hopped up and wedged herself between you, tail wagging like she understood how heavy the room felt. Jake rested his coffee on his knee and watched the TV flicker wordlessly across the screen.

He could feel how far you’d retreated inside yourself. Like you were trying not to take up space even in your own home.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he said after a while, voice soft. “I didn’t come here for answers. I just didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

Your voice cracked when you finally answered. “I usually am.”

His heart ached. Not with pity, but with something more dangerous. A kind of helpless love. “You don’t have to be,” he said.

You didn’t believe him. He could tell. You didn’t say it, but it was in the way you looked down. The way your shoulders curled in, like you were bracing for the moment he’d realize you weren’t worth the effort.

So he stayed. For hours. Talking about nothing. Watching a movie neither of you cared about. Sitting so still, the world outside felt like it was in a different universe.

At some point, your head dipped onto his shoulder. Tentative. Like you were waiting to see if he’d flinch. Jake didn’t move. Except to angle himself closer. Like gravity pulled him into you.

You fell asleep before midnight. Curled into him like a breath you didn’t mean to take. Jake stared at the soft line of your face for too long, afraid to blink and miss the moment you let yourself rest. He pulled the blanket over both of you, slow and quiet. Let your fingers slip into his like they belonged there. It hit him all at once—how much he loved you. Not in a way that demanded anything. Not with urgency or hunger. But with peace.

Because being with you, even on the hard days, even when you had nothing to give… never felt like a burden. It felt like choosing the truth.

The next morning, when your eyes met his, something in you had changed. Not fully. Not yet. But you let him stay a little longer. And when you whispered, “I don’t know why you stayed,” Jake had to bite the inside of his cheek not to answer with because I love you.

Instead, he said: “Because you’re not just worth the easy parts.”

And it was true. You were not a project. Not something to fix. You were someone you sat beside in the quiet. Someone you waited for, without hurrying them. Someone you chose. Every single day.

[big-ooof]

Down The Hall

uncle!Jake x f!reader; neighbors to lovers

note: sexual content 18+

You hear the chaos before you see it: A loud thud. A child’s wail. A string of breathless apologies.

You set your coffee down on the side table and crack open your apartment door just as your neighbor from 4B stumbles into the hallway. Jake Sim: tousled hair, white t-shirt wrinkled to hell, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and a sobbing little girl clinging to his leg.

Your stomach tightens. Jake’s always been… friendly in passing. Cute, definitely. One of those guys with a voice that’s somehow always warm, even when it’s 8am and he’s still blinking sleep out of his lashes. You’ve had a few short conversations in the elevator, but nothing more than polite nods and a shared laugh about broken laundry machines.

This, though? This is new.

“Oh no—Yuna, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he’s murmuring, crouching awkwardly while balancing what looks like a dolphin plushie the size of a small canoe. “We’ll find another dolphin, I promise. Uncle Jake’s got it all under control.”

He does not, in fact, look like he has anything under control. You open the door a little wider. “Do you need a hand?”

Jake’s head snaps up. His expression flickers — recognition, relief, then embarrassment, all in the space of a second. “Hi,” he says, breathless. “Uh… I didn’t think we were being that loud.”

You smile gently. “You’re not. I just figured you could use a third arm.”

Yuna looks up at you with tear-streaked cheeks and suspicious eyes. Her fists are clenched tightly around Jake’s jeans, her tiny chest still heaving in the aftermath of a meltdown.

Jake straightens. “This is my niece, Yuna. She’s… staying with me for a little bit.” He swallows. “Emergency uncle duty.”

“I see.” You crouch slowly, your tone lowering to that soft, deliberate rhythm you’ve used a thousand times before — in your old classroom, on the floor with tiny shoes and big emotions.

“Hi, Yuna. I’m your Uncle Jake’s neighbor. My name’s Y/N.”

Her grip loosens slightly.

“Do you like dolphins?” you ask.

She nods mutely, eyes wide.

“I like them too. Did something happen to yours?”

“Taxi took him,” she sniffles, her voice small.

You frown, just slightly. “That’s really hard. I’d be sad too.”

Jake blinks at you, visibly stunned at how fast the tears stop. You know that look— the wild-eyed stare of someone realizing that you know what you’re doing.

“Would you two like to come in for a minute?” you offer. “I’ve got juice boxes and a cat.”

Jake exhales like you’ve just handed him a life vest. “I will literally name my firstborn after you.”

“Let’s see how you feel after the cat throws up on your shoes.”

Yuna ends up curled on your couch, sipping an apple juice box and petting a very resigned tabby who is too old to care about sticky fingers.

Jake sits across from you at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, dolphin plushie hanging out of the tote bag like it’s seen war.

“You’re really good with her,” he says, watching you with something like awe. “Seriously. That was… I don’t even know what that was.”

“Montessori background,” you explain, opening a container of cut fruit. “I used to teach before I moved into creative work.”

“Creative work?”

“Creative director for a startup now. Less tears, more deadlines.”

Jake laughs — a warm, rich sound that settles in your chest like honey. “Honestly, you could’ve told me you were a magician and I’d believe it. She’s been crying since we left the airport.”

“She’s probably overwhelmed. Routine’s gone. Stuffed animal vanished. New adult. New space.” You hand him the fruit and lean your chin in your palm. “She’s not the only one out of her element, I’m guessing.”

Jake sighs and nods, raking a hand through his already-messy hair. “My brother’s in Tokyo for work and his wife’s with him. They were supposed to bring Yuna, but her passport renewal got delayed. So… here I am.”

“Thrown in headfirst.”

“More like face-first.”

You laugh quietly. He watches you again — longer this time. You notice the sharpness in his jaw, the curve of his smile. His collar is stretched from where Yuna probably grabbed him earlier, and you don’t mean to notice the bare hint of collarbone beneath the cotton. You definitely don’t mean to notice the way his hand dwarfs the juice box when he picks one up to sip from it, too tired to care about pride.

“Thanks again for the save,” he says, his voice softer now. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t,” you say simply. “But I wanted to.”

Something flickers in his expression. Not surprise — just something warm. Gentle. And then Yuna yawns, long and loud and kitten-like.

Jake looks at her and panics again. “Is it bad if she naps now? Will she be up all night?”

You smile, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a small box of crayons. “Here,” you say, handing them to him. “Try having her draw something instead. Might settle her down without letting her fall asleep.”

Jake stares at the box like you just gave him gold. Then he looks at you — really looks at you — and his voice drops into something a little lower, something a little more personal.

“Are you sure you're just a creative director?”

You smile, letting your eyes linger just a second too long. “Positive.”

Later, after they leave, you watch your cat bat at a crayon Yuna forgot under the coffee table. You tuck it away in a drawer without thinking. You don’t expect to see Jake again for a while. But you do find a thank-you note taped to your door the next morning.

Inside the envelope: One new pack of crayons. A coupon for a local café. And a smiley face drawn in pink marker with the name “YUNA” in big block letters.

You try not to think too hard about how your heart reacts to it. Or how you wouldn’t mind hearing him knock again.

You’re halfway through your first cup of coffee when it happens. Three knocks. Rapid. Hesitant. Like the person on the other side wants help, but isn’t entirely sure they deserve it.

You don’t even bother to check the peephole. You already know. When you open the door, Jake is standing there with his hair a mess, his sweatshirt on inside-out, and a look of sheer defeat on his face. Behind him, Yuna is sitting cross-legged in the hallway, trying to open a bag of pretzels with her teeth.

“…Help,” Jake says.

You blink. “Pretzel emergency?”

“She’s been up since six. I gave her toast, she didn’t want it. I gave her cartoons, she cried because I picked the wrong penguin show. And then she locked herself in the bathroom and I had to bribe her out with gummy worms. Which I don’t even have — I just said that hoping I’d figure it out on the fly.” He exhales like it hurts. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

You step aside. “Come in. Both of you.”

Within ten minutes, Yuna is parked on your living room floor with a coloring book and a bowl of Cheerios. She’s calm. Maybe even happy. Your cat has once again been conscripted into cuddle duty, though he now has a look of long-suffering acceptance in his narrowed eyes.

Jake’s on your couch. He looks like a man who’s just been saved from drowning. “You ever consider becoming a superhero?” he murmurs, rubbing a hand over his face.

You hand him a mug of coffee, amused. “I think that’s your job.”

Jake laughs, though it’s a little thin around the edges. He’s trying. That much is clear. But you can see it in the way his shoulders slump — he’s overwhelmed, under-rested, and just barely keeping it together.

“You know,” you say gently, sitting beside him. “You’re allowed to say it’s hard. Doesn’t mean you’re bad at it.”

Jake stares into his mug. “Feels like I’m failing. Like… if I don’t do it perfectly, I’m screwing her up.”

You shift closer, your voice soft. “She’s six. She’s already got glitter in her socks and a favorite dolphin. She’ll be fine. What she needs is someone who’s showing up. And that’s what you’re doing.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be understood. Your legs are touching now, just barely — your knees brushing his through worn denim.

“…Do you ever miss it?” he asks.

“Teaching?”

He nods.

You consider your answer carefully. “Sometimes. The honesty. The tiny victories. There’s nothing like seeing a little person figure something out for the first time. But I don’t miss the exhaustion. The chaos. The parents who think Montessori means ‘no rules’.”

Jake huffs a soft laugh. “I would’ve been one of those parents.”

“Oh, I can tell.”

He turns to you with a slow smile, and for the first time this morning, it’s genuine. “You know you’re scary, right?”

You arch a brow. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it as a compliment. You’re calm, but you’re also kind of intense. Like… nothing throws you.”

You sip your coffee. “You haven’t seen me parallel park.”

Jake chuckles, warm and quiet, and you feel it more than you hear it — the soft shift in the room, the lightness blooming between you.

Then Yuna calls from the other room, waving a yellow crayon in triumph. “Look! I made Uncle Jake’s face!”

Jake squints. “Why do I have three eyes?”

“Because you see everything,” she says, with utmost confidence.

You stifle a laugh. “Flattering.”

“She’s… kind of obsessed with you,” Jake says, and you don’t miss the faint note of something in his voice. Not quite jealousy. Maybe just awe.

You glance at him, curious. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” he says quickly. Then softer: “I think I’m just used to being the favorite.”

You hum. “Well. Maybe she just has excellent taste.”

Jake looks at you again — a long, slow glance that lingers just a second too long to be polite. You don’t look away. Neither does he. The air shifts. It’s quiet. Warm. Charged.

But then Yuna runs in and flings herself at Jake, and the moment breaks. He catches her effortlessly, laughing as she demands he wear the coloring book as a hat. You rise, heading to the kitchen.

You don’t see him watching you as you walk away — his eyes on the curve of your back, the soft sway of your hips beneath your oversized sweater. But you feel it. And that’s enough to send heat curling low in your stomach.

By the time they leave, Yuna is fed, Jake re-caffeinated and it’s almost noon.

“Seriously,” Jake says at the door, “I owe you more than coffee.”

“Dinner,” you say, before you can think better of it.

Jake blinks.

You clarify quickly, “I mean — if you need another safe zone. It doesn’t have to be—”

“I want to,” he says, and his voice is suddenly quieter. “Dinner. I want to.”

You smile, slow and genuine. “Then come by tomorrow. I’ll cook.”

Jake hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Then he just nods, gently tugging Yuna down the hall.

But not before she turns, waves at you, and says, “You’re prettier than Elsa.”

Jake groans.

You laugh. “That’s high praise.”

“She made a ranking list,” Jake calls over his shoulder. “I’m number five. Right after the talking snowman.”

You grin. And when you close the door, your heart is still racing — not from what was said, but from what wasn’t.

Jake arrives at your door with Yuna on his hip and flowers in his hand. The flowers are wilted, clearly a last-minute corner store purchase, but the look in his eyes is something else entirely. Grateful. Nervous. Maybe a little dangerous.

You open the door, barefoot and in a soft sweater dress that rides just a little high on your thigh. You hadn’t planned on dressing up. Not really. But something about tonight had you shaving your legs in the shower and spritzing perfume behind your knees anyway. Jake notices.

You see it in the subtle flare of his nostrils, the way his eyes trail down your body before snapping back to your face. “Wow,” he says, breath catching just a little. “You look…”

You tilt your head. “Tired? Frazzled? Ready to pull crayon out of a cat’s fur?”

He grins. “I was going to say beautiful, but yeah. That too.”

You don’t blush— not exactly. But you do take the flowers with a murmur of thanks, careful not to let your fingers brush his. He follows you in, Yuna bouncing at his side, already calling for your cat like they’re old friends.

Dinner is simple: pasta, garlic bread, something warm and comforting. You eat at the table, Yuna narrating her day like you’re both on a talk show. Jake watches her, then watches you... like he still can’t believe you’re real.

Later, after dessert, after cartoons, after bath time (you guide him through it from a distance while he fumbles with pink shampoo like it’s nuclear equipment), Yuna falls asleep in your bed to the soft lull of your voice reading “The Paper Bag Princess.”

Jake stands in the hallway outside your room, frozen. “She’s asleep?”

You nod, stepping out and gently closing the door behind you. “Out cold.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Is it weird that I feel like I just climbed a mountain?”

You smile. “Welcome to bedtime.”

Jake looks at you for a moment. Then, quieter now, “You’re really good with her.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

You lean against the wall, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “You’re not bad yourself.”

Jake lets out a breathless laugh. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you say, and there’s something firmer in your voice now. “You’re figuring it out. And you care. That’s more than a lot of people give.”

He swallows. His eyes drop to your mouth. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

You raise a brow. “Something else?”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer. “Like… I keep waiting for you to tell me you’re not real.”

You meet his gaze, and something pulls — slow and deep and humming with tension. “Do I feel real right now?” you ask, voice low.

Jake’s breath hitches. His hand moves tentatively until his fingers just barely brush your wrist. “Yeah,” he says. “Too real.”

You could stop it here. But you don’t. You let him step into your space. You let him press a hand to your waist, warm and firm. You let his breath fan against your cheek — close, so close. And when his lips finally touch yours you let yourself fall.

You kiss him slow. Lazy. Like you’ve got all the time in the world. Like you want to savor this— the way his mouth moves against yours, sweet at first, then hungrier when you don’t pull away. His hand finds the small of your back. Pulls you in. Your fingers tangle in the collar of his hoodie, tugging him closer. His other hand slips lower, settling against your hip... then dipping down, just barely skimming the top of your thigh.

You feel it — the hesitation. The restraint. He wants you. But he’s holding back. You pull away just slightly, lips brushing his when you speak. “Jake.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath. You glance toward your bedroom, where Yuna sleeps soundly in your bed. Then you look back at him. “You can have me,” you whisper. “Just not... not tonight.”

Jake groans under his breath, like the sound is being torn out of him. His grip tightens — not rough, but possessive, like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

“I’ve been trying not to think about you like this,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw, your throat. “Trying to be… I don’t know. Good.”

“You are good,” you whisper. “But you’re allowed to want something too.”

You feel him everywhere — his hands on your waist, his lips on your neck, the hard line of his body pressing into yours. He kisses you again — deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours, slow and filthy, and the groan he lets out nearly undoes you.

You break apart only when your breathing becomes uneven. Jake’s forehead rests against yours. His voice is rough, wrecked. “I’m not sure how long I can keep pretending I don’t want you.”

You smile against his mouth. “Then don’t.”

You offer him the couch, while you share your bed with Yuna. But he admits that he won't be able to control himself. Before he leaves, he kisses you again in the doorway — slow and warm and aching.

You get the text mid-morning. Jake picked up Yuna only 3 hours ago.

Jake [10:12 AM] Emergency. Yuna got into that one-day junior science program downtown. It starts in two hours. I have no idea what she’s supposed to wear. Or bring. Or do. Please, for the love of god, help me.

You pause mid-email and let out a soft laugh. This man is unraveling via text message. It’s… weirdly endearing. You grab your phone and reply:

You [10:14 AM] On it. I’ll come by. Tell her to get dressed. Pants optional (just kidding. mostly). You’re doing great.

Jake responds with a single heart emoji and then “marry me”, but deletes it and follows up with “lol” like it’s going to erase the crack in the floor he just made. The “lol” does not help... your stomach still flips.

When you arrive at his apartment, the scene is pure chaos. Yuna is sitting in the middle of the living room floor with two socks on her hands, chanting “SCIENCE! SCIENCE!” like she’s summoning a lab ghost.

Jake is holding a wrinkled pamphlet and looking genuinely distressed. “She needs a lunch box. And goggles? Where does one even buy kid goggles?”

You hold out your hand.

He blinks. “What?”

“Give me the paper. I’ve got this.”

Jake surrenders it instantly. You scan the checklist, nod, and start giving orders like a general.

“Backpack. Sneakers. Tie her hair if you want her to actually see things. I’ll pack her a lunch from what you’ve got. I saw turkey slices in the fridge.”

Jake mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Jesus Christ you’re hot.”

You ignore it. Barely.

Twenty minutes later, Yuna is ready, grinning, backpack on, goggles perched sideways on her forehead. Jake looks like he’s been hit by a truck made of glitter and juice boxes. You walk them to the elevator.

Yuna hugs you tight, yelling, “You’re my SCIENCE LADY!” like that’s your new title. Jake’s hand brushes yours as he thanks you — and that single touch sets your nerves on fire.

Your apartment feels quiet. Too quiet. You pour yourself a coffee and try to return to work, but your mind keeps drifting. To Jake’s voice. Jake’s hands. Jake’s mouth. The way he looked at you last night like he was starving. The way he kissed you like he was afraid he’d never get another chance.

You don’t know what’s happening between you — only that it’s getting harder to pretend this is casual.

He comes by that night, long after Yuna’s asleep. You’re in a tank top and boxers, curled up with a book on the couch. You open the door with a raised brow. “She asleep?” you ask.

Jake nods. “Out cold. But she wanted me to give you this.”

He hands you a piece of construction paper. It’s a drawing. You, Jake, and Yuna all holding hands. There are sparkles. You’ve been drawn with a crown. “She said you’re the queen of helping,” he murmurs.

Your heart pulls so hard it hurts. You stare at the paper like it’s made of glass. “That’s… really sweet.”

Jake doesn’t respond right away. You glance up and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room. Like he’s trying not to want you. Like it’s already a lost cause. “She loves you,” he says quietly. “And I get why.”

You say nothing... just take a slow step back, leaving the door open behind you. He follows.

You don’t speak as he walks inside. You don’t speak as he takes the book from your hands and places it on the coffee table. You don’t speak as he leans down and kisses you, slow and heavy. But when his hand slides beneath your shirt — when his palm spreads over the skin of your waist — you breathe his name like it’s a confession. “Jake.”

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough. “Please tell me to stop.”

But you don’t. You tug him down to the couch instead, his body fitting against yours like it was always meant to. Your legs part, and he slips between them — groaning when your hips grind up instinctively.

His mouth moves down, kissing your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. “You smell like heaven,” he mutters. “You taste like it.”

His fingers push beneath your waistband — but don’t slip inside. He’s just holding you, palm pressed between your thighs like he’s worshiping, not taking.

You gasp, and Jake freezes. “I—” he swallows. “You okay?”

You nod, breathless. “Yes. Just… don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t. His lips trace the shell of your ear as he whispers, “You make me crazy.”

You buck your hips, searching for more, and he finally — finally — presses his fingers against your soaked underwear. His moan is broken.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re—oh my god.”

“Jake,” you gasp. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” he says, a bit smug.

You glare. He grins. Then he slides your underwear to the side and finally drags two fingers through your slick heat.

You bite your lip to keep quiet but he leans in, mouth at your throat. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t hide it from me. I want to hear it. Want to know how bad you need it.”

You shudder. He works you slow, deep strokes that leave you trembling. His mouth finds your lips again, and when he kisses you this time, it’s needy.

You come undone beneath him— mouth open, breath caught, body shaking. He presses his fingers in deeper, working you through it, whispering your name like a litany. You cling to him when it’s over, chest rising and falling like you’ve just run miles.

He doesn’t ask for anything in return. Just holds you while you come back to yourself. And when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you like you’re breaking him.

“I can’t stay,” he says.

You let out laugh. “That's a given...”

Your smile suddenly fades when your eyes meet his. You swallow. You both know what he means. And it’s not just sex. It’s everything else. Every wall breaking. Every emotion rising. Every part of him threatening to spill over and fill the space you’ve unknowingly made for him in your life.

You kiss him once more — softer this time. “Okay,” you whisper. “Go.” But your voice cracks when you say it. His hand lingers on the door a long time before he finally leaves.

You hear a scream. You’re barefoot in your apartment, halfway through your first bite of dinner, when Yuna’s wail echoes down the hall. That high-pitched, wet kind of cry that tells you it’s not just a tantrum. Something’s wrong. You don’t hesitate.

By the time you knock on Jake’s door, you can hear the frustration in his voice too. “Yuna, baby, I’m trying, I don’t know what you want! Please just—can you talk to me?”

She sobs harder. You slip inside. Jake spins toward you, wild-eyed and exhausted. “I—I don’t know what happened. One second she was watching TV, the next—”

But Yuna sees you and launches forward like a missile. “You!” she cries, throwing herself into your arms. You catch her just before she falls apart entirely. She’s feverish, snotty, clinging like she might float away.

“I got scared,” she hiccups. “It thundered and I thought you were gone forever.”

You blink. It hadn’t even rained yet. “Oh, sweetheart,” you whisper, cradling her against your chest. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jake leans against the wall, hands on his knees like he just ran a marathon.

You glance at him. “She okay?”

He nods once. “Now that you’re here.” His voice is so wrecked, so low and full of everything he’s not saying, it nearly undoes you.

It takes an hour to calm her down. You clean her up. Get her into pajamas. Settle her in Jake’s bed with a book and some soft lullabies from your phone. She falls asleep with her head in your lap. Jake stands in the doorway, watching silently. You stroke Yuna’s hair, not daring to speak. Something about the moment feels… fragile. Sacred, even.

When you finally rise, easing her head onto a pillow, you follow Jake into the living room. He doesn’t turn around.

“She wouldn’t let me touch her,” he says softly. “Was screaming for you. Like she didn’t trust me to keep her safe.”

Your heart cracks clean in half. “Jake—”

He turns, eyes shining. “I know she’s not mine, but—fuck—I want to be good at this. I want to be the one she needs.”

“You are.”

“No,” he growls, stepping toward you. “I wasn’t. Not tonight.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he closes the space between you so fast it knocks the breath from your chest.

“You were,” he says, voice low. “You are good at this. You make everything okay.”

You stand still while Jake looks at you like Yuna wasn’t the only one who needed you tonight.

Two minutes later, you were in the guest room — formerly his home office — the door shut. His mouth was back on yours.

“Tell me if you need me to slow down,” he whispered, hands ghosting over your waist.

You answered by tugging your panties down and kicking them away. He growled when he saw how wet you were. You moaned as he touched you, his fingers slow but precise, his mouth against your throat murmuring filth like he was unraveling just from the feel of you.

“Been thinking about this,” he confessed, hips grinding into yours as he kissed you deeper. “Thinking about how you’d sound when I finally got inside you.” You whined when he slipped a finger in. Then another. He smiled. “Just like that.” You came once with his hand pressed between your thighs and his mouth catching every moan. Then he stripped fast, frantic, pushing into you so slowly, so deep you choked on a sob.

“Baby,” he gasped, holding your hips still as you squirmed. “You’re—fuck, you’re tight.”

You clenched around him just to hear him swear again. He fucked you deep. Steady. Over and over until the bedsheets were wrecked and you were babbling his name.

“Again,” he whispered. “One more, yeah? Let me make you cum one more time.”

And you did. Beneath him, around him, with him. His release was frantic. Quiet. He pressed his mouth to your shoulder and came with a shudder that made you ache.

After, he pulled you into his arms and buried his face in your neck. And you realized he wasn’t just catching his breath. He was hiding. It was only after a few silent minutes that he whispered: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Your whole body went still.

He didn’t look at you. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. Just—don’t leave yet.”

You didn’t. You stayed. The next morning you woke to the sound of humming and the smell of something burning. You found Jake in the kitchen with no shirt, bed hair, and Yuna on his hip.

“She woke up early and asked for dinosaur pancakes,” he explained sheepishly.

Yuna beamed. “I told him to draw you a T-rex but it looks like a fart cloud.”

You laughed so hard you nearly cried. Then she leaned her cheek on Jake’s shoulder and said, very seriously: “Can you be my auntie?”

Jake nearly dropped the spatula. You turned away to hide your face, flushed and smiling.

“Let’s eat first,” you managed. “Then we can talk about flower girl duties.”

Yuna squealed. Jake stared at you, wide-eyed and a little panicked. You just winked and passed him the syrup.

[big-ooof]

Talk to Dad About It

dad!Sunghoon x f!reader; established couple

Saturdays meant sticky fingers and strawberry-stained cheeks. The early sun filtered through the curtains as your three-year-old daughter climbed onto your bed with her usual greeting—a giggle and a cold foot pressed to your side.

You groaned dramatically. “How do you have this much energy already?”

“I had strawberries,” she declared proudly, cheeks pink, a dot of red still at the corner of her mouth.

“I just washed those sheets, baby,” you sighed, already reaching to wipe her face with the corner of the blanket.

That’s when Sunghoon walked in, holding the plastic pint of strawberries and a guilty smile. “She caught me in the kitchen. I folded.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You bribed her so you wouldn’t have to get back in bed and watch Bluey for the fifth time.”

He walked around the bed and leaned down to kiss your forehead. “It’s called strategic delegation.”

Your daughter reached over and patted your cheek. “Daddy’s funny.”

“He thinks so,” you said dryly, sitting up and brushing her hair back. “Farmer’s market?”

Sunghoon grinned. “Always.”

There was something ritualistic about the way the three of you moved through the local stalls. Your daughter sat perched on Sunghoon’s shoulders, legs swinging and eyes wide, while he narrated everything they passed like a dad-joke-infused tour guide.

“That,” he pointed, “is kale. Mommy only buys that when she’s mad at me.”

“Daddy,” you hissed, laughing.

“Is that true, Mama?” your daughter asked with absolute seriousness.

“No, baby,” you answered, biting back a grin. “Daddy just doesn’t know how to cook it.”

Sunghoon reached over to squeeze your hand, thumb brushing your wedding ring, and gave you the soft, crooked smile that always made your chest ache in that warm, familiar way.

You bought homemade jam, two sunflowers, and your daughter begged for a honey stick that stained her lips and hands by the time you got back to the car. She promptly passed out in her car seat, her face sticky, hair messy, and her head tilted just so against the window.

At home, you took turns cleaning up the kitchen while the other unpacked the groceries. Sunghoon made you coffee while humming something vaguely familiar under his breath—something sweet, probably from a lullaby.

You were rinsing fruit when you felt small arms circle your leg.

“Hey, baby,” you murmured, reaching down to smooth your daughter's hair. “You’re up?”

She nodded sleepily, blinking up at you. “Mama…”

“Hm?”

She rocked a little on her heels before looking up with wide, hopeful eyes. “Can I have a baby sister?”

You froze. Completely off guard. Soap bubbles still clinging to your wrist. “A baby…?”

She nodded again, like this was a casual post-nap conversation.

“W-Why do you want a baby sister?” you asked gently, crouching down to meet her eyes.

“So she can have you and daddy too.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “I already talked to daddy about it.”

Your brain short-circuited. “You what?”

Sunghoon’s voice floated in from the hallway, where he was folding dish towels. “She caught me off guard yesterday during snack time. Told me she wants someone to share blueberries with.”

You turned your head to look at him, stunned. “And what did you say?”

He leaned against the doorway, smirking, arms crossed. “I said it sounded like a good idea.”

“You did not—”

“Why not?” he shrugged, grinning wider now. “She made a compelling case.”

You turned back to your daughter, who was now hugging your waist and resting her cheek against your belly like she already knew something you didn’t.

“You can talk to Daddy about it,” she whispered, like it was a little secret. “I think he wants one too.”

You looked up at Sunghoon, who was still watching you with that same soft, amused affection. And you couldn’t even argue with him. Not when he looked like that—soft sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair messy from the wind, face glowing from the sunlight still filtering in through the window.

You sighed. “Guess we’re talking about it,” you said, brushing your daughter’s hair back with a smile you couldn’t suppress.

“Tonight,” Sunghoon offered, walking over to kiss your cheek from behind. “After she’s asleep.”

Your daughter blinked up at you again. “Do I get to name her?”

You choked on a laugh. “One step at a time, sweetheart.”

But Sunghoon just whispered in your ear: “She already picked three names. Hope you like ‘Princess Berry Snowflake.’”

You turned and lightly smacked his chest.And he laughed like it was the best joke he’d told all day.

It was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happened after bath time, three bedtime stories, and a soft but firm “No, baby, you already had water—no, this is not an emergency.”

You leaned against the kitchen counter, wearing one of Sunghoon’s old t-shirts and cotton shorts, sipping the last of your wine and letting the day roll off your shoulders in layers. Behind you, the dishwasher hummed. From down the hall, silence finally meant sleep.

You heard Sunghoon’s footsteps before you saw him. Slow. Barefoot. Comfortable in his element—sweatpants slung low on his hips and a clean tee that still smelled faintly like your fabric softener and him. He slipped behind you, arms circling your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“She’s out cold,” he murmured against your skin.

“Thank God,” you breathed, leaning back into him. “She’s getting stronger. I think she could take us if we teamed up.”

Sunghoon laughed into your neck. “I think she already has. One strawberry at a time.”

You hummed, quiet for a beat, before nudging him gently with your elbow. “So…”

“So,” he echoed, playing with the edge of your shirt.

“You really said yes to her? When she asked about a sibling?”

“I said it was a good idea,” he replied, voice low and warm. “Didn’t say when.”

You twisted a little to face him, his hands still on your waist, now sliding up the small of your back with that familiar ease. “She said you already had a whole talk about it.”

“Oh, we did,” he nodded, mock-serious. “Very thorough. She thinks it should be a girl. So she can wear bows and help her fight invisible dragons.”

You snorted. “And you just agreed?”

“She used her please voice.” He gave you a look. “You know I’m weak for that.”

You tilted your head, heart softening despite yourself. “Would you really want another?”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicked across your face like he was memorizing something. “I’d want anything with you,” he said simply. “Another baby. Another decade of bedtime stories. Another Saturday at the market. I’d do it all over again.”

Your breath caught for a second. He said it so casually, but it hit somewhere deep. He didn’t just love being a dad. He loved being one with you.

“But only if you want it,” he added, gently now, thumb stroking the curve of your waist. “You’re the one who carried her. Who nursed and woke up and rocked her through all those nights I slept through like an idiot.”

“You changed every diaper for six weeks straight,” you reminded him, voice quiet.

“That was a small price to pay for not birthing an entire human,” he said, grinning now. “Also, I’m pretty sure she liked me more after that.”

“She likes you more because you give her strawberries at 7 AM,” you teased.

“She likes you more because you’re her safe place,” he said without missing a beat. “She runs to me for fun. But she runs to you when she’s scared.”

You blinked. The wine, the warmth, the words—you weren’t sure which made your chest ache more.

“Sunghoon…”

His hands found your hips again. “You’re already the best mom I’ve ever seen. If we do this again, it’s not because anything’s missing. It’s because I want more of this. Of us.”

You slid your arms around his neck and pulled him in, kissing him softly—long, grateful, full of quiet emotion. And then he kissed you back with something deeper.

“Baby,” he murmured against your lips, “I love this shirt on you, but I’d love it more on the floor.”

You broke into a laugh, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re impossible.”

He walked you backward toward the bedroom, smile pressed to your jaw. “She asked if we’d start tonight.”

“She what?!”

“She most definitely does not know how babies are made but I still said you’d probably need convincing.”

You were breathless now, caught between laughter and heat. “And how do you plan to do that, exactly?”

Sunghoon’s voice dropped, his hands skimming under your shirt. “Thought I’d remind you how good we are at this.”

“Mm. You mean parenting?”

He grinned. “Sure. That too.”

Afterwards, you were curled into his chest, blanket tangled around your legs, your fingers drawing lazy circles on his bare stomach. Sunghoon was half-asleep, lips near your temple.

“She’s gonna be so smug when we tell her we tried,” you whispered.

“Let her be. She’s not wrong,” he said sleepily. “Princess Berry Snowflake is a powerful negotiator.”

You laughed again, heart full. And maybe it wouldn’t happen tonight. Maybe not next month. But the idea of growing your family—of choosing more love, more chaos, more you and him—suddenly felt less like a maybe. And more like a promise.

It happened on a Tuesday. A completely average, boring, leftover-for-lunch kind of Tuesday. You weren’t trying exactly. Not the way you had the first time, when you tracked every cycle and peed on more sticks than you cared to remember. But you’d been…open. To the idea. The possibility. The little voice of your daughter still echoing in your mind: “I already talked to Daddy about it.”

You thought you were just tired. Maybe hormonal. You cried at a commercial for baby lotion. You snapped at Sunghoon for leaving socks under the dining table (he hadn’t), and when your daughter spilled her juice and whispered, “I sorry, Mama,” you teared up instantly and held her for ten full minutes.

You found the last pregnancy test wedged in the back of the bathroom drawer, behind the heating pad and the mystery nail polish from 2022.

You didn’t think it would be positive. You were almost sure it wouldn’t be. You told yourself not to read into anything. Not to hope. But when you set it on the counter and turned back a minute later—Two lines. Two. You just…Stared.

For a long minute, your brain emptied out like a shaken Etch A Sketch. You sat on the edge of the tub in complete silence, holding the test in your lap like it might start speaking. Then a tiny knock at the bathroom door.

“Mama?” A small voice. Your daughter. “Can I come in?”

You blinked, remembered how to breathe, and cracked the door open. “Hi, baby,” you said, voice barely steady. “Where’s Daddy?”

She pointed down the hallway. “He’s folding socks. I told him to wait.”

You blinked again. “You told him to—?”

She slipped into the bathroom and stood in front of you, looking curiously at the white stick in your hand. “What’s that?”

You smiled softly, eyes burning. “It means… there’s a baby in Mama’s belly.”

Her eyes went round. Mouth open. She gasped like you’d just given her a unicorn. “Really?!”

You nodded.

Then she screamed. Not a frightened scream—a delighted, absolutely ecstatic shriek that echoed down the hallway like a fire alarm. You heard Sunghoon’s footsteps before you saw him.

He burst into the room, one sock in his hand, completely panicked. “What happened?! What’s wrong?!”

She turned and shouted: “It’s happening! The baby! She has it!”

You snorted a laugh, still teary, still holding the test.

Sunghoon looked at you. Then at the test. Then at you again. And he froze. He blinked, like he needed to reboot. Then slowly—slowly—a smile spread across his face. That full, boyish, starry smile that had always wrecked you a little.

He stepped forward. “Wait, for real?”

You nodded, barely getting the word out. “Yeah.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since you first mentioned it. Dropped the sock. Reached for you, hands framing your face so gently.

“Baby,” he whispered, awed. “We’re really doing this again?”

“Looks like it.”

Then he kissed you. Deep and warm and grateful. He pulled you into his arms like he could hold the whole moment in place.

Your daughter tugged at his shirt. “Can I name it Princess Berry Snowflake now?”

He crouched to her level, one hand still around your waist, the other ruffling her hair. “You can suggest it,” he said seriously. “But we’re gonna need a shortlist.”

She grinned and threw her arms around both of you, squished in the middle, her face against your growing belly like she already knew her little world had changed forever.

Later that night, you lay on your side in bed, tucked into Sunghoon’s chest, his hand resting over your stomach. You weren’t showing yet, but his thumb brushed there like something sacred was already growing beneath his palm.

“She knew,” you whispered.

“She always knows,” he murmured. “She’s definitely your kid.”

You laughed. “She’s absolutely your kid. The drama? The confidence? The full announcement before we even confirmed it?”

“Okay,” he said, grinning. “Maybe she’s equal parts.”

You turned your head to look up at him. “Are you scared?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “No. Just… overwhelmed. In a good way. Like I didn’t know I could love this much again. But I do. Already.”

Your heart swelled so fast you thought it might split open. “I’m glad it’s with you,” you said softly.

Sunghoon pulled you closer. “There’s no one else I’d want to do this life with.”

And in the quiet, warm dark, with your daughter sleeping down the hall and a future just beginning inside you— You knew: You were already a family...and somehow, impossibly, it was about to grow even more beautiful.

You and Sunghoon had decided to make it special for your daughter—something cute and lowkey for just the three of you. You bought vanilla cupcakes with white frosting from a local bakery and had them fill the center with either pink or blue cream. You let her hold the box the whole ride home. She carried it like it was a crown jewel.

Sunghoon set up the camera—“Just for us,” he said, even though you knew he’d end up watching it every night like a dork. The three of you sat on the couch with matching anticipation. Your daughter’s little fingers peeled back the wrapper like it was Christmas morning.

She bit into the cupcake. Blue. Bright, unmistakable, boy blue. Silence. Not even a blink. Just…staring at it like it personally offended her. You and Sunghoon exchanged a look, trying not to laugh.

Finally, she frowned. “Why is it blue?”

Sunghoon gently leaned in. “That means it’s a baby brother, sweet pea.”

Another beat of silence. Then she gasped, mouth full of frosting. “I ordered a sister.”

You broke. Sunghoon clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the laugh bursting out of him.

“I—baby, we can’t really order siblings,” you managed, kneeling beside her. “Sometimes you just get the surprise.”

She blinked slowly. “But he’s not gonna like princesses. Or sparkles. Or tea parties.”

“We don’t know that,” Sunghoon said, still grinning. “He might love tea parties.”

Your daughter narrowed her eyes. “Does he even know about unicorns?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to stay serious. “Probably not yet. But maybe you can teach him.”

She pouted and crossed her arms. “He better like glitter.”

The next few days… were rough. She started referring to your bump as “the boy problem.” She put her dolls in a “girls only” basket. She told the grocery store cashier, “We’re having a brother, but it’s not my fault.”

Sunghoon was beside himself. “I think I just got out-stubborned by a four-year-old.”

“Congratulations,” you replied. “You met your match.”

Everything changed the night she felt him kick. You were reading in bed while she lay curled up beside you, hand on your belly like always. This time, your baby rolled—a slow, strong nudge right beneath her palm.

She gasped. Eyes wide. “Was that him?”

You smiled softly. “Yeah, that was him saying hi.”

Her hand stayed there. Still. In awe. Then: “Hi, baby,” she whispered. “It’s me. Your big sister.”

Your heart cracked clean open.

She looked up at you. “Can I still teach him about rainbows?”

You kissed the top of her head. “He would be so lucky to learn from you.”

She rested her cheek on your belly, little fingers petting it gently. “I guess he can come,” she said, already half-asleep. “But only if he shares his snacks.”

And when he finally arrived… She wore her fanciest dress to the hospital. Brought a handmade card. Demanded to be the first to hold him “because I’m the boss of siblings now.”

She held him like a sacred treasure—like something she didn’t know she needed until he looked up at her with wide, blinking eyes and wrinkled fingers.

Sunghoon watched you both from across the room, hair messy, eyes soft, daughter in one arm and son in the other, as if his whole heart had just doubled overnight.

“She’s got him,” you whispered.

“She always will,” he whispered back.

Later that night at home, you tucked her into bed and she clutched her stuffed unicorn close, eyes heavy.

“Mama?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I think he’s okay. The boy problem.”

You smiled. “I think he’s more like a boy miracle.”

She yawned. “Mmm… okay. I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

And as she drifted to sleep, Sunghoon leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching the whole scene with a quiet kind of awe.

“You realize,” he whispered, slipping his hand into yours, “we’re completely outnumbered now.”

You nodded. “Yes. Yes we are.”

You blinked awake to the soft patter of water on the roof and Sunghoon’s arm already slung around your waist, his breath warm on your neck. The baby was still snoozing in the bassinet beside the bed, soft sighs and tiny baby grunts filling the quiet.

And then, at exactly 6:12 AM, came the tiny thump-thump-thump of feet down the hallway. Your daughter climbed into bed with the urgency of someone who just remembered she had parents to cuddle.

“Good morning,” you whispered sleepily.

She wriggled between you and Sunghoon like a kitten, hugging your pillow and mumbling, “It’s raining. That means it’s a snuggle day.”

Sunghoon groaned softly but smiled into your shoulder. “She’s not wrong.”

By 9 AM, no one had moved far from bed. The baby had joined the pile after his morning feed, curled against Sunghoon’s chest, making soft content sounds as Sunghoon hummed gently and rubbed his back in little circles.

Your daughter insisted on reading The Bear Who Forgot It Was Rainy aloud, even though she mostly made up the words and occasionally paused to whisper, “Did you hear that? That was a really good narrator voice.”

You and Sunghoon shared soft looks over the top of her head.

Later, the rain got heavier. No cartoons. No rush. Just warm blankets, warm skin, and your husband shifting everyone closer like he wanted to keep you all safe from the outside world.

“Remember when rain meant we had to cancel plans?” you murmured.

Sunghoon smiled against your temple. “Now it just means pajamas and babies and crumbs in the bed.”

“Oh—so many crumbs,” you said, catching your daughter sneak a cracker. She grinned with no remorse.

The baby babbled something halfway between a gurgle and a coo, reaching for his sister’s hair with grabby hands.

“Careful, little man,” Sunghoon said softly. “That’s sacred territory.”

She leaned in, letting her baby brother grab a chunk of her ponytail with delight. “He’s trying to say hi with his fists.”

“Just like you used to,” you teased.

Around midday, the four of you had migrated to the couch. Sunghoon had one arm around you, the baby dozing across his chest again, and your daughter curled into the crook of your side with a fuzzy blanket over her lap.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low and a little husky from the slow day, “I used to think rest days were boring.” You turned to look at him. He smiled. “But now I think they’re my favorite.”

Later, when the storm softened into a drizzle, you all stayed put anyway. The living room a mess of baby socks, storybooks, crumbs, and love. Sunghoon ran his fingers through your daughter’s hair as she drifted to sleep on your lap. The baby sighed in his arms like he belonged there forever. You leaned into him, heart heavy in the best way.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is the dream.”

You nodded. “No reservations. No shoes. Just rain and us.”

And from under his breath, sleepy and soft: “Let’s do nothing again tomorrow.”

[big-ooof]

You Stayed

Jake x f!reader

note: sexual content 18+

You’re not even on the dance floor yet. You’re at the bar, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass when he walks in. Black tee, leather jacket, hair messier than it should be. Looking like someone who doesn’t wait around.

When Jake sees you, he doesn't hesitate. Eyes lock. No smile. Just a look that pins you down like he already knows how you sound falling apart. He doesn’t come over right away. He watches until you can't ignore it anymore. When he finally approaches, he doesn’t ask for your name.

“My bet is you’re wasting time with people who won’t make you scream,” he says low, like a secret, like a dare.

Your breath catches in your throat. “And you think you will?” you shoot back, cocking your head.

He steps closer, mouth brushing your ear. “I know I will.”

One minute you're dancing against him, hands buried in his shirt like you’re starving for friction. The next, you're in a cab, and his hand makes itself home between your thighs. He barely touches you, but you’re already wet.

Jake’s apartment is on the top floor of an old building, warm lights flickering as he shoves open the door. You barely get your shoes off before he pushes you against the wall and kisses you like he’s pissed off about wanting you so much.

Your back hits plaster, and his mouth is on yours—hot, fast, unrelenting. His tongue parts your lips, one hand tangled in your hair, the other slipping under your dress like he's been waiting all night. He moans low in your throat when he feels how soaked you are.

“Fuck. That’s for me?” he pants, fingers teasing up and down your slick folds through lace. “Didn’t even have to try.”

“Stop talking,” you breathe, yanking his belt open with one hand, “...do something.”

He doesn’t fuck you on the bed. Jake grabs your hand and pulls you through a side door that leads to the rooftop, one that only he has access to. The city is still alive in the nighttime, sky crackling above.

“Up here?” you gasp, dress fluttering in the night breeze.

His grin is feral. “Tell me you don’t want to, and we can stop.”

You do want this.

He pushes you back against the rooftop ledge, mouth on your collarbone, then your chest, yanking the top of your dress down like it offended him. His teeth graze your nipple and you cry out, gripping the brick behind you.

“Gotta be quiet,” he whispers, voice dark with amusement. “Or don’t. Let everyone hear.”

Then he’s dropping to his knees on the gravel, tugging your panties down, pushing your leg over his shoulder like it’s nothing. The night air licks at your thighs. You feel his tongue before you even realize what he’s doing—hot, slow, devastating.

You cum fast. Too fast. And Jake doesn’t stop.

“Don’t pull away,” he murmurs, fingers gripping your thighs as you tremble, overstimulated and begging. “Wanna see how many times I can make you cum for me.”

Later, after he’s fucked you against the ledge, after he’s bent you over the air conditioning unit with your hands scrambling for anything to hold—he finally brings you inside. You’re still shaking when he lowers you onto his couch. He kneels between your legs, still hard, still wild.

“You good?” he asks, brushing hair from your face. His voice softens. Almost gentle. Like he’s remembering you’re real now.

You nod, breath ragged. “…want you again,” you whisper, pulling him down.

This time, it’s slower but no less intense. He pushes his cock into you with a groan, forehead pressed to yours, hips snapping just rough enough to make you arch. His hand slides to your throat—not choking, just there. Enough to remind you that you gave him control and he’s not wasting it.

“I should hate how good this feels,” you whisper.

Jake kisses you hard, all teeth and hunger. “Then hate it in the morning, just enjoy it right now.”

“You do this a lot?” you ask, nudging his knee under the covers. “Pick up strangers and bring them to rooftops?”

Jake smirks, but his eyes flick to your mouth like he’s not done with you. “God no, but you do something to me.”

You glance at him. “Am I supposed to fall for that?”

His voice is quiet, but confident. “Only you can answer that, babe, but I got my answer when you let me worship your body all night.”

Jake’s POV You’re still in his bed in the morning. Jake wakes up with the weight of your leg over his, his arm around your waist, and your scent all over his sheets.

Sunlight’s bleeding into the room through slats in the blinds, cutting gold lines across your bare back. You are completely naked. Your dress is next to his shirt’s on the floor. Your panties are missing—somewhere between the rooftop and the living room, probably.

His mouth is dry. His body aches. And he can’t stop looking at you. He remembers how you looked last night—back arched against the brick, legs shaking, moaning into his shoulder like you hated needing him that much. You clawed at his scalp when he went down on you. Hadn’t held back, hadn’t pretended. Every gasp, every curse, every “fuck, Jake, right there”—you gave him everything without blinking.

And when he finally slid into you on the rooftop, wind in your hair, skin flushed from orgasm, your eyes locked on his like he was the only thing holding you together? He swore he could’ve died right then.

He gently shifts, careful not to wake you yet, and slips out from under you. Grabs a hoodie, tugs it on. Pads into the kitchen barefoot. There’s barely any food. Just eggs, toast, and some sad strawberries. He doesn’t cook for girls he brings home. Because usually... they don’t stay.

He’s cracking eggs into a pan when he hears your voice behind him—low, rough, sleepy. “You’re cooking?”

Jake turns. You’re standing there in his hoodie, bare legs on full display, eyes still half-lidded with exhaustion and the aftermath of too many orgasms.

“Trying to,” he says, voice hoarse. “You like scrambled?”

You blink, then nods. “Yeah.” Jake stares at you a second too long. Your lips curve into a smirk. “You always feed the girls you rail on rooftops?”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “First time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Liar.”

“I swear,” he says, setting the spatula down and crossing to you. He rests a hand on the counter behind you, trapping you gently. “No one else stayed.”

Your smile fades a little. “So why did I?”

Jake’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t have a clean answer. So instead, he says: “Because I didn’t want you to leave.”

You both eat on the couch. You’re curled into his side, his arm around you, the TV on but muted. The city’s waking up outside. Jake doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to break whatever this is. It was supposed to be a one-night thing. A wild rush, a release.

And now he doesn’t want you to go.

[big-ooof]

Still Yours, Somewhere

dad!Jay x f!reader; co-parents/exes to lovers

The knock comes exactly two minutes later than you expected. You know because you’ve been checking the clock like you’re waiting for a delivery, not for the man who broke your heart quietly. It wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that came with slamming doors or screaming matches. No. Jay left like smoke—soft and invisible. One day he was there, cooking ramen at midnight, whispering in your ear when the baby was finally asleep. And the next, he wasn’t.

You pull the door open before he knocks again. Jay’s standing there in a black hoodie, duffel bag over his shoulder, baseball cap pulled low. It’s casual, like he could be any neighbor in the building. But your heart doesn’t buy it. Not when it recognizes him before your eyes even finish the scan. He looks tired. And sorry. And thinner than the last time.

Before you can say anything, there’s a squeal behind you. “Appa!!”

Tiny feet thud across the floor as your daughter charges past you, curls bouncing, her socked feet sliding slightly on the hardwood. Jay drops the bag and crouches instinctively, catching her with open arms like his body knew before his mind caught up.

“Hey, baby,” he breathes. It’s the softest thing you’ve heard in weeks. She clings to him like he’s never been gone. Like he didn’t miss her third birthday party or the week she had the flu and refused to sleep anywhere but curled on your chest. You swallow that memory back.

“Come in,” you say, stepping aside. Jay doesn���t look at you as he walks past. You don’t blame him. He’s not the one holding grudges—but he knows you might be. And he’s not wrong.

She leads him to the corner of the living room where her pink plastic kitchen set waits like a shrine. You head into the actual kitchen, the one with sharp knives and dishes that need to be washed. He doesn’t follow right away. He’s too busy being Appa.

You listen to the distant sounds of make-believe: her bossy little voice instructing him on how to pour invisible tea. His quiet chuckles. A clink as he knocks over a toy cup. Your chest feels too tight.

By the time he steps into the kitchen, you’ve already cut fruit, poured juice, and stacked mail that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

“Thanks for letting me come,” he says. Voice low. No stage voice, no idol voice. Just Jay.

You set the knife down carefully. “You’re her father,” you say. “She wants you here.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And you?”

You look up slowly. “I want what she wants.”

It’s not cruel. It’s honest. Jay flinches like he expected it but hoped otherwise.

“You’re doing amazing with her,” he says after a beat, nodding toward the playroom. “She’s happy. She’s… her own person. That’s all you.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t let it show. “I know.”

He laughs, bitter and self-aware. “You always did.”

There’s another beat of silence, the kind that feels louder than noise. Then you say, “I didn’t let you back into our lives for me, Jay.”

His eyes finally meet yours.

You continue, “I let you back in because she loves you. Because she deserves the chance to have that—to feel like her dad didn’t disappear.”

Jay doesn’t speak. But the emotion in his eyes says it all. You could’ve closed the door. You didn’t. You could’ve erased him from the bedtime stories and the framed photos. You didn’t. Not because you couldn’t. Because you knew what it would take from her. And Jay realizes it now—that this is grace. That this isn’t forgiveness yet, not even close. But it’s something. A bridge. Maybe the first step toward becoming someone worth being chosen again.

He clears his throat. “I brought her that book she liked. The one with the frogs and the paper umbrellas.”

“She still reads it,” you say. “Sometimes, she sleeps with it in her bed.”

He looks like that hurts more than it should.

“She talks about you all the time,” you add. “Even when you weren’t around. She made up stories about where you were—said you were helping stars fall into the sky.”

Jay chokes out a breath. Not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. “She really said that?”

You nod. “She missed you so hard she made magic out of it.”

He sinks into one of the stools at the counter, suddenly too exhausted to pretend anymore. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking. “For all of it. I wanted to be better than this.”

You lean on the opposite side of the counter. Not close. Not yet. “You still can be.”

And that’s where you leave it. Not a promise. Not a punishment. Just truth. A place to start.

You let Jay stay on the couch. Offered it without ceremony, just tossed him a folded blanket from the linen closet and pointed at the cushions. Neither of you pretended it was more than it was. A neutral zone. A seat on the sidelines.

Your daughter was thrilled, of course. “Appa’s having a sleepover!” she giggled, curling against him like the time apart hadn’t even dented her instinct to cling. She made you pull out the spare toothbrush and left her bunny next to his pillow like a peace offering. You went to bed alone as usual that night. And every sound from the living room felt louder than usual.

In the morning, he’s already up. You pause in the doorway, surprised to find him half-dressed—sweatpants, a loose t-shirt you hadn’t seen since before the split—and standing in your kitchen like muscle memory brought him there.

He doesn’t hear you right away. He’s focused, pouring juice into a pink cup, crouching slightly to meet your daughter’s sleepy gaze where she sits at the table in her oversized Spider-Man pajamas.

“Like this?” he asks, holding up a slice of apple with cinnamon sprinkled on top.

She nods emphatically. “That’s how Mommy does it,” she says.

Jay glances up then, sees you leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. You don’t speak at first. Neither does he.

But your daughter breaks the silence. “Appa, can you pick me up from ballet today?”

You freeze.

Jay hesitates. “I… have a meeting. But maybe next time.”

“Oh.” Her face dims just enough to punch air from your lungs.

You move to grab your coffee mug, shielding your emotions behind routine. “It’s okay,” you say evenly, directing your words to your daughter. “We’ll go together like usual.”

Jay watches you a second longer than necessary. Like he wants to say something but knows it’ll come out wrong.

He doesn’t leave right away. Instead, he lingers after breakfast, helping her zip her coat, tying her shoes without you needing to ask. It’s jarring how naturally he steps back into it. Like the gap in time is something only you felt.

She hugs him goodbye, arms tight around his neck.

You’re halfway out the door when he calls after you. “Hey.”

You pause, turning slightly.

He looks unsure. But he says it anyway. “You always made it look easy. Raising her.”

Your throat tightens. “It wasn’t.”

“I know that now.”

You nod, jaw tense. “Good.”

Jay steps closer, voice lower now. “You know… you didn’t have to let me back in.”

You meet his eyes. “I just let our daughter see her father again.”

Something shifts in his expression. Before he can say more, your daughter tugs your hand impatiently. The moment passes.

That night, he texts you: Thank you. Again.

You almost don’t reply. But then you do: She deserves you. Just don’t make me regret it.

A typing bubble appears. Disappears. Comes back: I won’t.

The next few weeks fall into a fragile rhythm. He picks her up once a week. You watch from the window sometimes as she runs to him, trusting. You don’t invite him back inside again. But sometimes he lingers at the doorway longer than he needs to, eyes flickering over you like he’s memorizing the new edges.

He asks questions. “Does she still hate broccoli?” “Is she still scared of the vacuum?” “What songs does she fall asleep to now?”

It’s slow, careful. Like walking barefoot through a house you used to live in, afraid of stepping on the broken things you left behind.

One Friday night, she asks if he can stay for dinner. You hesitate. Jay stands in the doorway, silent, waiting for your answer.

Finally, you nod. “Sure. If you can handle mac and cheese with a side of chaos.”

He grins, relief etched into every line of his face. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

That night, you all eat together. For the first time in over a year. Jay sits across from you, helping your daughter scoop peas into her mouth with exaggerated praise. The air feels weird—nostalgic, sharp-edged. Too much like before. You catch him watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. You ignore the way it makes your stomach twist.

Later, after she’s tucked in and snoring lightly under her blanket, you find Jay standing in the kitchen. He’s holding that same frog-and-umbrella book. “She wanted me to read it,” he murmurs.

You nod, leaning against the counter. “She used to fall asleep in your arms with that one,” you say. “Wouldn’t let me read it after you left.”

Jay swallows. “I didn’t think she’d even remember me.”

You glance at him. “She remembers everything.”

He nods slowly. His voice lowers. “Do you?”

The question hangs in the air like a blade.

You meet his gaze, guarded. “I try not to.”

But it’s a lie. Because some nights, you still dream of soft laughter in shared bedsheets. Of lullabies sung together. Of Jay's warm hand on your back when the baby cried at 3 a.m. Of what it felt like to be a family.

He nods, like he knew the answer anyway.

For the first time in a year you leave your apartment without a diaper bag or a mental checklist. Jay insisted—offered, actually. Said he wanted time alone with her. That he could handle bedtime. You didn’t argue. Not because you needed the break (you always need the break), but because something in his eyes made you say yes before your pride could interrupt.

Now you’re standing outside a dimly lit lounge, wrapped in a long black coat, dress peeking beneath the hem, a little mascara smudged in the corner of your eye. You hadn’t expected anyone you knew. But the universe has its timing.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice says over the music. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You turn, startled. Jake. His hair is slicked back a little, glass of whiskey in hand. No cameras. No entourage. Just him.

You blink. “Jake?”

He laughs. “Hey. I thought I was hallucinating for a second.”

You smile, a little sheepish.

Jake tilts his head. “So… you’re out, and Jay’s on dad duty?”

You nod. “He offered. I figured, why not?”

Jake leans against the bar, eyes thoughtful. “That’s good. It’s really good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

He hesitates, then gestures to the empty seat next to him. “Wanna sit for a minute?”

You do. There’s something soft about Jake—always has been. The easy charm, the warmth. He’s the type who remembers birthdays and makes sure everyone eats on time during rehearsals. He sips his drink, eyes scanning you carefully. Not judgmental. Just aware.

“Jay talks about her all the time,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “He does?”

Jake nods. “Every chance he got. Even when he didn’t realize he was doing it.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“He always said he didn’t deserve to be in her life,” Jake continues. “That he missed too much. That he screwed it up.”

You stay quiet.

Jake glances at you. “We didn’t push him. But I think we all knew… he wanted to come back. Just didn’t know if you’d ever let him.”

You look down, voice quiet. “I didn’t do it for him.”

“I know,” Jake says gently. “But I’m glad you did it anyway.”

You feel your throat tighten. The music hums around you, too loud and too distant all at once.

Jake softens. “He’s different now. I’m not saying he’s fixed or perfect. But I’ve known Jay a long time. I’ve never seen him hurt over anything like this before.”

You swallow. “I didn’t want to break him.”

“I don’t think you did,” Jake says. “I think he broke himself. You just stopped trying to hold the pieces together.”

The silence between you stretches. A respectful pause.

Then Jake grins, lighter now. “Also… for what it’s worth? She looks just like him. It’s scary.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and it feels strange on your tongue. “She acts like him too,” you murmur. “Stubborn as hell. Walks into a room like she owns it.”

Jake smirks. “Yup. That’s Jay.”

You check your phone after a while. No missed calls. No texts. Just a photo Jay sent an hour ago: your daughter curled into his chest, bunny squished between them, both asleep on the couch. You stare at it longer than you should.

When you get home, the apartment is quiet. You slip your shoes off, letting the familiar hush wrap around you. Then you see them. Jay, asleep on the couch, her small form tucked beneath his arm like she belongs nowhere else. The bunny is squished between them. His hand is still resting protectively on her back, even in sleep. He looks younger like this. Softer. Less burdened.

Your heart aches. Not with anger. Not even with regret. But with something more dangerous—hope. You should wake him. Tell him to get up, go home, not make this more complicated than it already is. But you don’t.

Instead, you pull the blanket off the recliner and drape it over both of them. Gently. Carefully. Your fingers hover over his cheek for a second too long. Then you turn away. Because you’re not ready. But maybe you’re not as far from it as you thought.

You don’t realize he’s been staying longer until you start hearing his laugh in the quiet parts of your day. Not echoes. Not memory. But real.

He drops her off on Wednesdays now. Brings her back from school on Fridays. Shows up with bubble tea and new coloring books like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t spend a year behind a wall you couldn’t knock down. And somehow, you let it happen. Because she’s thriving. And you are… softening. Against your will, against your better judgment.

You still sleep in separate rooms. You still keep a safe distance. But he’s in the kitchen more. Sitting across from you at the table. Making coffee the way you like it even when he’s not staying over.

One night, she’s already asleep when the sky cracks open. Rain slams against the windows. The kind of storm that steals power without warning. The lights go out while you’re rinsing dishes. You mutter a curse under your breath. Somewhere in the hallway, your daughter stirs but doesn’t wake. You’re about to reach for your phone when Jay appears beside you, flashlight in hand.

“I found it in the junk drawer,” he says. “Pretty sure it’s been there since we moved in.”

You exhale a laugh. “Figures you’d be the one to remember that.”

You light a candle from the counter. It flickers softly, casting his face in gold. The silence settles warm and close.

“Feels like that night we stayed in the countryside,” he says after a beat. “The power went out and we just sat in the dark, eating instant noodles and playing 20 Questions.”

Your chest aches. You remember it too. You look at him over the candlelight. “You played dirty. You asked me what my favorite Jay was.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming. “And I believe you said bedhead Jay who makes pancakes shirtless.”

You try not to smile. You fail. There’s a beat. He shifts closer.

“I miss this,” he says quietly.

You freeze. “The candlelight?”

“No,” he murmurs. “You. This. Us. I miss us.”

You turn away, hands braced on the sink. “Jay…”

“I know. I don’t get to ask for anything. I lost that right. But I see you now. Every day. And I don’t know how I ever let this go.”

The air between you pulses. “Don’t do this,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fair. You left. You let me carry all of it.”

“I know,” he says. “And I hate myself for it.” He steps behind you…close, but not touching. “You didn’t need me. But you still let me be her dad. You chose what was best for her. Even if it hurt.”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know.” His voice cracks then. “But I want to do something for you now. I want to earn this. If I ever have a shot at it again.”

You turn to face him, candlelight flickering between you. There’s something raw in his eyes. Something you remember loving once. Something you’re terrified to reach for again.

“I don’t trust you yet,” you say.

“I don’t expect you to,” he answers. “But I’ll show up. Every day. Until maybe you can.”

There’s a silence, heavy with history and hope. You nod, just once. “Okay.”

That night, he sleeps on the couch again. You linger a little longer after tucking your daughter in her room. When you pass him curled under the blanket, eyes still open in the dark, you whisper: “Goodnight, Jay.”

And he whispers back: “Still yours, somewhere.”

You don’t know when it starts happening. Maybe it’s the way he starts remembering which side of the coffee maker your favorite mug goes on. Or how he folds your daughter’s socks the exact way you like them — tiny, neat rolls instead of mismatched clumps. Maybe it’s when he buys your brand of coffee creamer without asking. Just slips it into the fridge like he belongs there.

The truth is… it’s all of it. Jay is showing up. Consistently. Quietly. Without the grand gestures or dramatic apologies. And it’s fucking terrifying. Because for the first time since everything fell apart, you’re starting to want him again. Not the idea of him. Not the memory of who he used to be. This version of Jay is soft, present, and utterly unrushed in how he’s returning to you.

It’s a Tuesday when it happens. He comes by after work with groceries and insists on cooking because you “look tired,” and he’s still annoyingly good at reading your face. Your daughter squeals when she sees the box of star-shaped pasta and grape juice.

“You’re spoiling her,” you tease, watching him in the kitchen.

Jay shrugs. “She deserves it.”

You don’t argue.

Later, while she watches a cartoon in the next room, you sit on the couch folding laundry. Your laundry. You don’t even realize you’ve accepted his help until you see him across from you, quietly folding one of your t-shirts.

He hums softly under his breath a familiar tune. One you used to hear in the mornings, back when his voice was the first thing you woke to. Your fingers freeze mid-fold. He doesn’t notice at first. Just keeps moving, steady and gentle. Until he glances up and sees your face. You’re staring at the shirt in your hands. Your lips pressed tight.

Jay sets down the pair of socks he’s holding. “What?” he asks softly.

Your voice is smaller than you mean it to be. “You used to do that. After we put her to sleep. You’d hum while folding laundry. Like it made the silence less lonely.”

Jay swallows. “I remember.”

You meet his gaze. There’s something breaking in your chest, and you can’t name it. “I used to sit here… after you left. And fold the same shirts. Same socks. Alone. And it felt so loud.”

His eyes are wide now. Still and raw. “I didn’t realize how loud I was until you were gone,” he says quietly. “How much space I took up… without giving anything back.”

You exhale shakily. “You were good at being a father. But you forgot how to be my partner.”

“I know,” he whispers. “And I think about it every night.”

You shake your head, blinking fast. “You’re doing everything right now. I see it. She’s happier. She sleeps better. She laughs louder. And I’m—” You pause. Heart thudding. “I’m starting to remember what it felt like to need you.”

Jay leans forward. His voice is reverent. “I don’t want you to need me. I just want to be someone you’d choose again.”

You look at him, mouth parted slightly. There’s too much in that moment. So you do the only thing you can. You nod. Press your hand against your chest. Breathe through the ache. And whisper, “We’ll see.”

That night, after he leaves, you find one of his hoodies in the laundry basket. It smells like his cologne. You don’t wash it. You just hold it. And for the first time in months, you let yourself cry — not out of anger or exhaustion, but because hope is starting to live here again. Quiet. Steady. Just like him.

You wake up to the sound of coughing. Then a whimper. You don’t think. You just move—half asleep, feet bare against the floor as you rush to her room. She’s warm. Too warm. Her forehead is burning under your palm, her cheeks flushed and eyes watery. You cradle her carefully, whispering soft reassurances as you grab the thermometer from the drawer. 102.7.

Shit.

You don’t want to panic, but the fear hits low in your stomach. You try giving her water, then medicine. She cries. Too weak to protest, too tired to keep her eyes open. You need help. And you know exactly who to call.

Even though it’s almost 2:00 a.m., he picks up after one ring. “I’m on my way.” No hesitation. No questions.

Fifteen minutes later, Jay is at your front door, hair messy, sweatshirt inside out, worry carved into every inch of him. “She okay?” he breathes, stepping inside like muscle memory.

“She’s burning up,” you whisper. “She won’t really eat or drink.”

Jay’s already moving—kneeling by her bed, brushing the damp hair off her forehead with trembling fingers. His eyes are glossy. Terrified.

“Hey, baby girl,” he whispers. “Appa’s here, okay? Just rest.”

You sit beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Silence pressing down hard and heavy. Every now and then she whines softly in her sleep, and Jay flinches like he’s been shot.

You rest your head back against the wall. “She gets sick maybe twice a year. Always hits her like a truck.”

He nods, jaw clenched. “I hate that I wasn’t here the last time. Or the time before that.”

You say nothing.

He turns toward you. Voice low. “Thank you for calling me.”

Your eyes sting. “She asked for you.”

His lips part, like that breaks him a little more.

You glance down at your hands. “You came so fast. I didn’t expect—”

Jay swallows. “I’ve been waiting for you to need me.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. “I didn’t call because I needed you,” you whisper. “I called because I knew you’d come.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “Is that not the same thing?”

You finally look at him. And there it is again—that ache. That sharp, familiar pull toward him that never really left.

“She’s going to be okay,” he says gently, watching you instead of her now.

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. But I don’t know if I am.”

You feel his hand brush over yours—light, tentative, but there. When you don’t pull away, he threads his fingers through yours. It’s stupid, how something so simple can feel so huge.

“You’ve done everything right,” he murmurs. “I see that now. You were everything. I was the one who disappeared.”

You clench your jaw to keep the tears at bay. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

“And I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for that.”

You look at him, heart raw and cracked open. “I want to,” you whisper. “God, Jay. I really want to.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth. And for a moment, neither of you move. Until you both do—at the same time. The kiss is soft. Not desperate. Not messy. Just real. Like memory. Like grief. Like relief.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, reverent and trembling. Your lips move together like they were always supposed to, like this was always the ending waiting to happen. It doesn’t fix everything. But it changes it.

When you finally pull back, breath shallow and heart racing, he leans his forehead against yours.

“I’ve loved you this whole time,” he whispers. “I just forgot how to show it. But I feel like I know how now.”

Your voice breaks. “Don’t make me remember just to lose you again.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “I swear I won’t.”

And for the first time since everything fell apart, you almost believe him.

You wake up on the couch. Your daughter is asleep between you, curled against Jay’s chest like she always used to be. His arm is draped around her back, careful and protective. And his other hand… is holding yours.

You must’ve dozed off after she settled. You remember the medicine kicking in, her little body cooling under a fresh set of pajamas, and Jay—watching both of you like you were made of porcelain.

Now the morning light is beginning to stretch through the blinds, and everything feels too quiet. Too still. You slip your hand away first. Jay stirs. His eyes blink open, still heavy with sleep, but he looks at you instantly. Like he was already halfway awake, waiting for you to move.

“Hey,” he says, voice gravel-soft.

“Morning.”

You both whisper. Like anything louder would shatter whatever this is.

He glances down at your daughter, then back up at you. “She feel cooler?”

You nod. “I think the fever broke sometime around 4. Her breathing’s calmer now.”

He smiles. Soft. Relieved. You smile back instinctively. And it hits you how dangerous that feels.Smiling like this. Soft like this. Easy like this. Like the kiss didn’t happen. Like everything didn’t just change.

Jay makes breakfast. Like he used to. Like it never stopped. Your daughter pads out in her socks and oversized T-shirt, still groggy, but hungry enough to ask for toast with strawberry jam and cut-up bananas on the side. Jay doesn’t even ask how she wants it. He just knows. You watch him from the doorway.

And it hits you all at once: this is what he would’ve looked like if he never left. Hair messy, standing at the stove in a hoodie, humming under his breath while flipping pancakes. Your chest aches. It’s so normal. So close. It makes you want to run and hold on all at the same time.

He catches your gaze when he turns. And something in his expression changes. “I didn’t dream it, did I?” he asks softly, like he already knows the answer.

You don’t play dumb. You shake your head once. “No.”

A beat. He nods slowly. Then says: “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You swallow. “Neither do I.”

There’s silence. The pan sizzles between you.

“But?” he asks.

You meet his eyes, finally. “But if we do this again, I need you to show up every day. Not just for her. For me.”

Jay walks toward you slow and careful. Like he knows you might bolt. He stops just close enough for you to feel his warmth. “Then let me show you.”

You blink up at him. “Jay…”

“I don’t want the easy parts,” he says. “I want the hard ones. I want the mornings where you’re mad at me and don’t want to talk. I want the late nights where we both forget the laundry and fall asleep on the couch. I want you. All of it. Again.”

You inhale shakily. “Then you’ll have to earn it. Day by day.”

“I will.”

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

After breakfast, he kisses the top of your daughter’s head, tells her he’ll be back tomorrow to take her to the aquarium like he promised. Then he turns to you. Doesn’t try to kiss you again. Doesn’t linger too long. Just touches your arm. Just once.

And says, “Thank you. For yesterday. For last night.”

You nod. “Thank you for showing up.”

And then he’s gone. The house is quiet again. But this time, it doesn’t feel like something’s missing. It feels like someone’s coming home.

Jay hasn’t been sleeping much. Not in the way that matters. He closes his eyes. Sure. Lies still. Tries not to look at his phone when the hours slip past midnight. But rest? That settled, bone-deep kind of quiet? He hasn’t had that in years. Not since the night he packed his duffel bag and closed the door behind him without looking back. Not since he heard his daughter cry from the other side of it and still didn’t turn around. Not since he told himself he’d be a better father if he left. That maybe she’d grow up stronger if she didn’t see him fail her mother every day. That was the lie he told himself, anyway.

“Jay” a voice says, knocking him out of the spiral. Jay looks up to see Jake, standing in the doorway of the studio, holding two takeaway cups and a familiar look of concern. “Thought you might want coffee. You look like you haven’t blinked in an hour.”

Jay offers a tired smile. “Thanks.”

Jake walks in, settles beside him, and hands him the cup. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches Jay scroll absently through his notes app: blank entries, half-written reminders, an unsent message sitting at the top: “You looked at me like I’d never left, and I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

Jake finally breaks the silence. “You’ve been different lately.”

Jay sighs. “Is that a nice way of saying I look like shit?”

Jake laughs, but it fades quickly. “No. You look like someone who’s trying not to hope too hard.”

Jay doesn’t answer.

Jake softens. “She let you in again, didn’t she?”

Jay nods once.

“She called me,” he says quietly. “When our daughter got sick. Middle of the night. No hesitation.”

Jake blinks. “That’s… big.”

“I didn’t even put my hoodie on properly,” Jay murmurs. “I just ran.”

Jake doesn’t interrupt.

Jay looks down at the rim of his cup. “I kissed her.”

There’s silence. Then: “Yeah,” Jake says gently. “I figured. You’ve had that look on your face lately.”

Jay lets out a shaky breath. “It didn’t feel like a regular kiss. It felt like falling off a roof. And realizing she’s the ground.”

Jake leans back. “You still love her.”

“I never stopped.”

“But you left. Essentially prioritized the team over your family.”

“I thought it was the only decision. Less likely to hurt her with all my stress and pressure and—” he breaks off, voice tight. “I thought walking away would protect her. Protect them.”

“And?”

Jay swallows. “It just proved I was the one who needed protecting. From myself. I didn't even discuss it with her, I just left.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She made a life without me. Raised our daughter like she was built for it. And now… I’m watching her do it all, and I can’t stop thinking about how I don’t deserve a second chance.”

Jake is quiet for a while before saying, “Jay… You never had to earn her.”

Jay’s head lifts.

“You loved her—you still do. You chose her. She had your daughter. She waited for you longer than most people ever would. You didn’t lose her because you were bad. You lost her because you didn’t trust yourself to be enough.”

Jay blinks hard.

Jake goes on. “Between the two of us, you know her better. But I don’t think you realize that she doesn’t want the perfect version of you. She just wants the version that stays.”

That line hits something deep. Because for years, Jay thought he had to be exceptional to be loved. To deserve a family. A home. But maybe what she needed was never a savior. Just a man who didn’t flinch when things got heavy.

Jay doesn’t say much after that. Just thanks Jake for the coffee. And when he gets home that night, he pulls out the hoodie you gave back last winter — the one you returned, folded, silent, after the breakup — and he wears it again. Not because he wants you to see it. But because he wants to believe he still fits in it.

Your daughter is finally asleep. Her fever’s gone, but she clung to you all day. Fussy, needy, small in that way only sick kids can be. And Jay… he came by with soup. You told him it wasn’t necessary. He showed up anyway.

“Bone broth,” he said when you opened the door. “With garlic, ginger, seaweed. My mom used to make it whenever I got sick.”

You took it from him wordlessly. Still warm in your hands. Homemade.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “She’s sleeping. But she’ll want it when she wakes up.”

He nodded, lips twitching into a quiet smile. “I figured. I didn’t come to stay...”

And yet— he’s still here. You’re both on the couch. Some movie is playing in the background, but neither of you is really watching it. He’s sitting on the opposite end, elbow propped, body angled toward you. You’ve curled into the corner with your knees up, hoodie sleeves pulled past your palms.

And for the first time in a long time, you’re not talking like exes. You're just talking. You don’t even realize you’re laughing until he says something about your daughter’s tiny dramatic tantrums, and you choke on your tea.

“She gets that from you,” you say.

Jay grins. “No way. That is pure you energy. The hands? The fake crying? I’ve seen you throw a pillow at my head for less.”

You laugh again — this time, genuinely — and it makes your chest ache. He looks at you a second longer than he should. You feel it. That pause. That old gravity.

“I missed this,” he says suddenly.

You freeze. “This?” you repeat. “Sick-day soup and accidental couch therapy?”

Jay smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You laughing. With me. Like it used to be.”

Your fingers tighten around your cup. “It wasn’t always like this,” you whisper.

He nods. “I know.”

“Some nights, you wouldn’t even come home.”

“I hated myself more for that than you’ll ever know.”

Silence. Then softly, you ask: “Why’d you leave for real, Jay? Not the version you told everyone. Not the version you told me.”

He hesitates. And then, quietly: “Because I thought you'd be better without me. And I hated that I might’ve been right.”

You close your eyes. When you open them again, he's staring at the floor, knuckles white against his knees. “I wasn’t better,” you say. “I was just surviving.”

“I’m tired of watching you survive without me,” he murmurs.

You look at him—really look. At the way he’s leaning forward now. Elbows to thighs. Eyes full of regret and something achingly familiar. There’s something about the way he looks tonight. Like he’s been trying to come home for years and didn’t know where to knock. You shift a little on the couch.

The silence stretches.

He moves to stand. “I should—”

“You can stay,” you say quickly, voice small. He freezes. “If you want.”

His eyes lift to yours. Something breaks in his face. Something he’s been holding in for years. “I do,” he says.

So he stays. Not in your bed. Not with any expectations. Just on the couch. Shoes off, hoodie pulled over his head, hand falling asleep somewhere between you both. You wake up later to find his hand just barely brushing yours again. And you don’t move it. Not this time.

You wake up to soft breathing and the faint rustle of blankets. The sun is barely up, gold bleeding gently through the curtains. You blink against it and register two things at once: Jay is still here. And so is your daughter, tucked against his side, tiny hand wrapped around his hoodie drawstring like she knew he’d protect her in her sleep.

Your heart clenches. You sit up slowly, blanket falling from your lap, and take them in. Jay’s head is tilted toward her, one arm around her back. Protective. Loose. Natural. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, mouth slightly parted, lashes thick against his cheeks. He looks peaceful. He looks like someone you used to know. And in this moment — in your living room, on your couch, holding your daughter — he also looks like someone you could know again. Someone you want to.

You don’t wake them. Instead, you slip quietly into the kitchen and start making breakfast. You’re halfway through whisking eggs when you hear the soft creak of the floorboards.

Jay steps in, carrying your daughter on his hip, her cheek still red from sleep. “She woke up and asked for you,” he says softly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do this part, the normal part.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Thanks,” you murmur, watching as he gently lowers her into her booster seat.

He helps without asking: sets the table, fills her little cup with apple juice, grabs napkins. It’s not choreographed. It’s not even discussed. It’s muscle memory. You make plates. He finds the right spoon for her. She babbles about a dream she had where a duck stole her blanket, and Jay listens like it’s the most important thing in the world. And for the first time in a long time, your kitchen feels full.

Later, he helps you fold clothes that no longer fit your daughter in the living room. He doesn’t say much. Just folds the baby clothes carefully, the way you used to show him. You’re about to thank him when he holds up a tiny pair of leggings and smirks.

“Why does everything this small make me want to cry?” he jokes gently.

You glance over. “Because you missed this part.” Jay flinches. You soften your tone. “I mean… you missed it. Not your fault. Just… time passed. And you weren’t here for all of it.”

Jay looks down at the leggings again. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches. You finish folding a shirt, placing it in the pile.

Then he says quietly: “You made it look easy. But I know it wasn’t.” You glance at him again. “I should’ve been here.”

You don’t answer. Because it’s not a question. He puts the folded pants aside and shifts to face you more directly.

“I don’t want to be the guy who just drops in for soup and a bedtime story.”

You blink. “Then what do you want to be?”

Jay holds your gaze. “Someone who stays. Someone you look forward to seeing in the morning and who comes home at night.”

Your throat tightens. You fold another shirt slowly, buying yourself time. Then—softly: “You don’t feel like a guest anymore.”

He swallows. “Yeah?”

You nod. And in the silence that follows, something like a promise begins to grow between you... unspoken, still fragile, but real this time.

That night, after your daughter’s asleep and the house is quiet, you sit on the edge of the couch with a glass of water and whisper: “Staying isn’t about never leaving the house. It’s about not leaving us.”

Jay nods, eyes locked to yours. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and you believe him. You really do.

Your daughter’s staying the night at your parents’ place. A last-minute offer. “You need a break,” your mom said over the phone. “We haven’t had her overnight in weeks.”

You almost said no. You almost felt guilty. But Jay, sitting across the room, gave you a quiet nod when he overheard the offer. A subtle, hopeful smile. And for some reason, you wanted to see what the night might feel like without the space between you constantly being filled by someone else.

So here you are. Just the two of you. Again.

The faucet is leaking in the kitchen. A rhythmic, hollow drip you’ve been ignoring for a week now. But Jay doesn’t. He grabs your small toolbox after dinner and crouches under the sink like it’s second nature.

You watch him work: sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing, a smudge of dust across his wrist. He mutters something under his breath when a bolt slips, and you smile without realizing.

“How do you still know where everything is in my house?” you ask gently.

He doesn’t look up. “It was mine too. For a long time.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. It was. When he finally emerges from under the sink, flushed and slightly damp from the spray, you hand him a towel without thinking. Jay takes it — your fingers brushing — and he pauses.

Looks up at you. Lingers. You both stand there for a moment too long.

Your voice is quiet. “You want tea or something?”

He hesitates. “Sure.”

The tea never gets made. Because somewhere between boiling the water and finding the honey, he walks around the kitchen island and stands behind you — not too close, just there. Warm. Quiet. Waiting. You feel his presence before you turn. “Jay—” you start, barely a breath.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, voice low. You nod. “If I kissed you right now… would you stop me?” You freeze.

His voice is careful, reverent. “I’m not asking because I want to complicate things. I’m asking because… I haven’t stopped thinking about it since that night.”

You swallow hard. “I haven’t either.”

He moves just a little closer. You can smell the clean scent of his hoodie. Feel the heat radiating from his chest. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach for you, but won’t until you give him permission.

So you turn—slowly—and meet his eyes. There’s something heavy in your chest. Hope, maybe. Fear. Longing. All tangled.

You whisper, “Jay…”

And he leans in, just enough that his nose brushes yours. “You can stop me,” he murmurs, breath warm against your lips. “Say the word and I’ll pull away.”

You don’t say it. Instead, you reach up, trembling and cautious, and press your palm to his cheek. His eyes flutter shut. Then you kiss him. Soft at first. Tentative.

But when his hand finds your waist, when you breathe his name into his mouth like it still belongs there, it deepens. Grows urgent. Familiar. He kisses like he’s still memorizing you. Like this moment matters. Like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he rushes it.

And for a long, quiet second, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The forgiveness. The ache. The still-burning truth that somewhere in you, you never stopped loving him. When you finally pull away, you're both breathless. Foreheads pressed together. Eyes shut.

Jay speaks first. “I’ve waited years for that.”

You don’t move. “Was it what you expected?” you whisper.

He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “No. It was better.”

You could say something sarcastic. Deflect. Joke. But you don’t. Instead, you whisper, “Stay. Just… stay tonight.”

Jay meets your eyes. “I will.”

And this time, when you curl into him on the couch, it’s not out of convenience or exhaustion or obligation. It’s because being close to him finally feels right again.